Falling Needles and Family Fest Day.

 Falling Needles and Family Fest Day.

Goodness me! What a mess! It is a scene of utter chaos and festive detritus. Your home looks like a veritable rubbish tip. Christmas has come and gone, some of your family are still sitting or lying on your sofa, the kids are still running around your golden palace and the living room looks unrecognisable. It feels as though you've allowed several marauding armies to wreck the furniture, empty your fridge of every conceivable tin of food, the entire contents of every box of chocolates and sweets before depositing yet more wrapping paper around the mantelpiece and the TV. The telly of course is hiding away in the corner feeling sorry for itself. 

Today, as you may well have guessed by now, is Falling Needles and Family Fest Day. There can be no more appropriate description. It is one enormous fall out from Christmas Day, Boxing Day and the now intervening days before the New Year. So you've cleaned the kitchen, put the dishwasher on for the 85th time and that's just before breakfast time. The washing machine has been spinning around frenetically as if it's forgotten what day it is. It is the morning after the nights before. Christmas has well and truly gone.

Today is all about repercussions, reverberations, questions, inquiries, the almost stunned aftermath of Christmas 2025. This is the interim period when Christmas has passed into history for another year and you're wondering why you invited so many nieces, cousins, aunties and friends around for the yearly gastronomic bash, where huge towers of turkey, roast potatoes and Brussel sprouts have been excitedly eating and don't forget the Christmas pudding while never forgetting that lovely slice of cake or perhaps a goose or duck if you're in the mood. 

Some simply dread the whole concept of Christmas because it's far too much like hard work and all you want to do is slouch around the house and do nothing at all because that suits you down to the ground. It's all that preparation for the big day, the seating arrangements and the counting of the Christmas crackers next to the crockery and cutlery. It's all very well making the effort to get all of this stuff ready for a celebration. But do they have to leave your humble abode in a state of complete disarray?

So it is that we call today the Falling Needles and Family Fest Day. Need you say any more. That Christmas Day tree certainly looks as if it's consumed far too much booze because it's wobbling and staggering around piteously and if you listen closely, it's slurring its words. There is a drunken sore head that is spreading around the room quite metaphorically of course.  The tree has been gripped with a chronic bout of hiccups, the tinsel and glitter almost pleading for a return for normality. But you're helpless. This could take ages to mop up and sweep up so it's time to get the vacuum cleaner out and then the broom again. 

Now the extended family is just exhausted, fast asleep for the third time in three days, sliding hilariously off the settee and then sheepishly flicking away a torn party hat before abandoning yourself to another bout of snoring, sniffling, coughing and general slovenliness. How on earth did we allow this to happen? Was this really necessary and couldn't we have chucked everybody out ruthlessly on Boxing Day? The fact is Christmas is officially over but the remnants are still here, staring at you accusingly, grinning at you relentlessly and then refusing to give you a hand with the dirty dishes. 

But there is something of  a wonderful relief and a sense of gratification about Christmas. Of course, you've all had a great time over the festive period and there's much to be said for the family just being there for you. But the carpet looks as if it need to be steam cleaned a thousand times, there's gravy dripping from the radio and the TV and Radio Times are crying out for a thorough recycling. There are a thousand coffee stains on yesterday's paper, there are the kids toys and games scattered higgledy piggledly all over your home and all you want to do is scream in desperation. Stop this madness but didn't we enjoy ourselves?

On the coffee table Christmas has reasserted itself and it's not going anywhere soon. The angel from the Christmas table has been officially snapped off and there are a thousand packets of figs and dates which look as though they haven't been touched since last Christmas. So you climb over slumbering bodies and pick your way through a minefield of sweet and crisp packets carefully and then sigh with exhaustion. 

Essentially though grandma and grandpa have had a jolly good Christmas although the whisky and sherry bottles are now perhaps a shameful reminder of excess. Grandma and grandpa always exercised moderation and restraint but then again it was Christmas. We're all entitled to let off steam and indulge ourselves so go on and have some fun. The cousins are wearing yet another of their festive red pullovers emblazoned with Santa Claus, sleighs and reindeers. If Christmas had been banned for ever, you'd probably have a riot on your hands.

Now its time for another karaoke session. You can't beat a good, old fashioned sing song by the piano, a Knees Up Mother Brown. Dad just wants to go out and renew acquaintance with his car in the garage. Mum just wants everybody to go home and the kids are creating merry havoc. But hey, it really has been good to see the family even though you support the worst football team in the country and there's no sympathy whatsoever. We keep vowing to keep to our New Years resolutions because we always do before realising the futility of this exercise. 

And we now sit in the corner of the dining room, munching soggy cheese sandwiches because we just feel obliged to do so. The roast chestnuts, salty peanuts, After Eight mints and those final, gristly turkey and onion sarnies are just slowly decaying and disintegrating into a kind of mush, ready for the bin. But you're not going to stop now. You're determined to watch as many Netflix, Amazon Prime and Disney films as you possibly can, binge watching the kind of programmes you'd never see on the terrestrial channels. We'll all slump back into our armchairs, shaking off yet more baubles, tinsel, struggling to make head or tail of the last week or two. There can be no rationalising of what has just taken place. But it has.

So that's it for another Santa Claus revelry. All of those giddy expectations of Christmas have now been left in the dusty archives of time, the sheer silliness of it all, at times, has just been exhilarating, the festive frivolity has been a blast, the brief extravagance of it all has been worth it, and finally the endless noshing, piling on the pounds and stones around your waistline and not giving a damn my dear. You are now fit to burst, stomach heaving with embarrassing cholesterol and yet that was the finest and most emotional family reunion. Now here's the plan. Why don't we do the same thing at exactly the same time next year. It's an excellent idea and of course we look forward to it. Happy, Healthy and Peaceful New Year to everybody. Have a good one folks.     

Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin and the New Year

Donald Trump and Vladimir Putin and the New Year.

This was always the time of the year when most of us looked forward to the New Year rather than looking back to those far off days from yesteryear. Then we discover or become aware of those passing years which seem to fly past us without ever pausing for breath and just expressing our eternal gratitude for every single day, month, week and year. Our mental and physical health assumes a huge significance and although we take things for granted, we can never be quite sure where life might take us. 

So where are we now? At long last we can also feel the first tentative signs of peace in both the Israel Hamas war and yesterday the Ukraine- Russia conflict. There is a sense here of gentle progress and the first flickering candles of world peace. The idealist in you and for those who cling onto Utopian thinking as a means of  peaceful relations with each other, this could be the right time to get out the party clothes. 

Yesterday, USA president Donald Trump was at his grandstanding best, forever the showman, exhibiting such narcissistic behaviour that you were half inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. So what if Trump believes that he's the best thing sliced bread because the vanity and vaingloriousness remain a fundamental part of his character. He appeared at an event where he knew his ego would be suitably massaged and he loves to have his tummy tickled.

Whatever you may think of Trump he just gets on with the business in an honest, serious thinking way, not so much  a distinguished statesman more a hilarious comedian who just adores the applause, the adulation, the back slapping and invariably thinks of himself as the saviour of the universe. He walked onto the stage convinced that world domination had been achieved and smiled at his audience rather like some saintly figure who can never do anything wrong. 

The discussion yesterday revolved around our friends in Ukraine although not so much President Putin of the stern, disciplined, every so slightly military Russia. We are now approaching that critical turning point where everything that could go wrong may just go right. Putin is still digging in his heels with the most unrepentant words and insisting that only Russia have won this pointless war and that's final. So we're moving in the right direction and perhaps even Putin can see light at the end of this very dark tunnel. 

But Trump stood next to President Zelensky of Ukraine like a man who suddenly realises that this is his greatest achievement since becoming President for the second time. Not only does he think he deserves the Nobel Peace prize but he believes it should come into his possession as soon as possible. So there can be an argument on that point. And yet it still feels as though Donald Trump cuts a farcical figure, a man of  many grandiose statements about everything we may think are obvious. He still looks the most smartly dressed man in the building but you do worry when the words and sentences start tumbling out quite rapidly. 

For the first time since that ill fated encounter earlier on this year, Trump looked Zelensky in the eye and, as if completely oblivious of that verbal bloodbath, thanked Zelensky for his co-operation and sense of fair play and promised to be friends for ever. It was time to be buddies, mutual acquaintances and forget the poison and vitriol that might have passed between them and get on with the future. There is no time to waste and, admittedly, it does look hunky dory and harmonious or half way there.  

And so the day proceeded with just a hint of agreement and compromise in the air. You can never be entirely sure what any  blustering leader of their country might have in store for us. Putin has, up until his point, kept his diplomatic counsel, a man who looks threatening every so often but in real time is probably a pussycat. The domineering and dictatorial in him  flares up like a firework and we all seem to panic when he informs us of his evil intentions. But then Putin denies emphatically the charge that he just wants to start a Third World War because Europe doesn't bother him.

What seems to be Putin's problem is the rest of the world. In Putin's estimation, Donald Trump is a big old softie, tolerable, harmless and inoffensive. Putin can live with Trump without necessarily agreeing with him. So then Trump gets all hot and bothered with Putin and then they make up within the next week. Trump then does his regular round of aeroplane driven interviews before returning back to the White House for a gentle swig of Bourbon, another awkward looking signature and some earnest and well intentioned sessions of soundbites. 

The trouble is that Trump occasionally drifts off into some incomprehensible land of well meaning comments on the events of the day and then complains that he's been totally misquoted. It's fake, the most horrendous fallacy, completely untrue and grossly exaggerated. So he then lashes out at investigative journalists who happened to be female and wonders why everybody keeps turning against him.  Mr President can never seem to get it right because the tactless side of his personality just detests anybody who questions his pearls of wisdom.  

And so as we head into a brand New Year and we're all poised to gather on the final day of 2025. In front of you is the London Eye which turns a whole spectrum of colours . The River Thames, which has been there since the year dot, awaits its yearly revellers, in a jolly mood, happily tipsy and drunk on life. It used to be Trafalgar Square years ago but health and safety soon saw that idea scuppered. Now the Thames, that vast stretch of water that takes thousands of tourists on pleasure cruises along the river, will become overwhelmed with Auld Lang Syne choristers.

They will huddle by the Embankment, squeezed together somewhat claustrophobically it has to be said before belting out those rousing New Year songs. And then we'll all link hands wherever we may be and you'll be heartily congratulated on that new coat you've just bought in John Lewis in London's West End. And then that iconic moment of the year resounds almost timelessly across London. Big Ben, arguably the most impressive clock in the world, chimes twelve times in a way which may have been customary but has still been observed and anticipated since time immemorial.

So if you're at 10 Downing Street, the White House and Kremlin or any corner of the globe, it's time to wish you the happiest, healthiest and most peaceful New Year. There is a sense that the more traditional moments in our lives are somehow a given and perhaps lost in a fog of obscurity. But our fondest wish is for a permanent world peace. There has to be a complete cessation of warfare, hatred and hostility towards our fellow human being. We have to be kinder, gentler and more understanding with just an enormous helping of compassion. This is our life and it'll always be sweet and precious. Have a brilliant 2026 everybody. 

Goodbye June and Christmas Day TV

 Goodbye June and Christmas Day TV.

There was a point during Goodbye June when you simply didn't want the film to end. What we had here was a movie, so smoothly polished, so beautifully moving and touching and utterly compulsive watching from beginning to the end, that you were transported to some special place where your heart and soul melts and swoons and never stops believing in the warm feelgood factor. 

Goodbye June marked the debut directorial role of Kate Winslet and her son Joe Anders for whom this had to be the most thrilling project he would ever complete. But Goodbye June was just a masterpiece, an exceptional piece of story telling and a masterclass. It restored your faith in humanity although you knew your family would always be with you, loyally and faithfully. Then you were suffused with a blanket of warmth, a duvet of snug satisfaction and ready to greet Christmas Day like a good old friend who would never desert you. 

Sometimes movies just get you right there, an emotional journey that seems to carry and sustain you from the first scene, the first words uttered on the screen and remain unstoppable because you really can't bottle these feelings. They are there on the silver screen next to your tub of  popcorn or hot dog, a delicious concoction of the sublime and ridiculous. Goodbye June was sublime in the extreme, an exquisite jewel, a sparkling diamond and the largest bowl of exotic fruits you could ever set eyes on. 

Of course in the old days, the traditional TV Christmas film would usually consist of a fifteenth showing of another James Bond film on Christmas Day, action and virile masculinity all the way. But if that wasn't in the TV listings then you would breathlessly anticipate the timelessly classical Wizard of Oz which seemed to be shown on Christmas Day every year since the the Battle of Hastings. We almost began to think that Judy Garland was some kind of Christmas angel at the top of our tree so familiar had she become. 

If memory serves you correctly, there was also the spectacular show that was Billy Smart's Circus at tea time on Christmas Day. In the years before political correctness, lions and elephants would be paraded around a circus ring as ringleaders kept cracking up a whip u to rouse an audience of parents and children who could hardly keep it all in, excitement unconfined.  

After the circus, the BBC had to be the essential choice of channel to watch. By now mum and dad, auntie and uncle would be deep in the middle of snoozeland, sleeping off the remnants of a lavish Christmas banquet of food, turkey, roast potatoes and Brussel sprouts still washing around their stomachs. And the kids were still racing in and out of the kitchen, back into the garden, sliding back onto their knees in a dining room that was now reminiscent of a toy and game battlefield and wrapping paper everywhere. 

And then there was Morecambe and Wise followed by The Two Ronnies, those inimitable comedic geniuses who were and remain your all time favourite comedy duos of all time. Morecambe and Wise were masterful funny men, capable of the most physical comedy and then resorting to that face to face opening where Eric would playfully slap Ernie on the face because both just loved each other's company. There was the Andre Previn playing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order sketch as Eric, smartly dressed, would play a piano in a way that was totally unconventional. 

But yesterday my lovely wife Bev and I settled down to watch Goodbye June on Netflix with the most open of minds. The King's Speech had been delivered with a perfect weight and authority. We must hope that King Charles the Third is slowly making a full recovery from the debilitating effects of cancer and now the King stood most royally in the august setting of  Westminster Abbey. 

We now searched for Goodbye June, a film so cosy, heart warming, heartfelt and sentimentally gushing that somebody should have extended its duration on the screen for at least the rest of Christmas Day. We now absorbed a story that tugged so many heartstrings that somebody should have supplied a box of handkerchiefs to wipe away the tears. In the end you were almost watching the film with the quietest reverence, empathising and sympathising at the same time. You were won over instantly. 

Kate Winslet, first came to our attention in the Hollywood blockbuster Titanic. Winslet is the girl who fell deeply in love with Jack on board a luxury ship doomed to sink. In one of several iconic moments during the film, Winslet hung onto Leonardo DiCaprio with the tighest embrace and then looked on helplessly as Jack drowned and most of the audience were sobbing uncontrollably.

Now Winslet, as Julia, is the permanently stressed out but industrious daughter of Dame Helen Mirren whose character June is dying of cancer. There is an electrifying chemistry between Mirren and Winslet that is utterly compatible. Winslet is constantly at the end of her tether, juggling a thousand plates together as the hard pressed, downtrodden daughter who finds himself frantically multi tasking. Winslet rushes around, dropping kids off at school while overwhelmed with the presence of angst ridden sisters who just keep swearing and accusing each other of a complete lack of co-operation. 

Meanwhile, there is Dame Helen Mirren, a magisterial matriarch who now spends the entire film lying in a hospital bed, delaying the inevitable but cheerfully philosophical, resigned to her fate. Now Mirren does what Mirren does best, face gaunt and haggard and chatting amiably to her grandchildren and children as if determined to die with dignity. Mirren is almost as regal as the Queen she once acted so nobly, tenderly stroking the foreheads of her grandchildren and refusing to allow her family to just fall apart.

There was one scene in particular that tickled the funniest of bones. Sitting in the oncologist's room, Toni Collette, Helen in the film, confronts the medical surgeon with a machine gun of fruity four letter F words and expletives that simply highlighted her frustrations. Every time the doctor kept fiddling with his watch, Helen flew off the handle and poured out her anger. It was one of many innumerable amusing moments that made the film complete. 

There were cameo moments from comedian Stephen Merchant. But the one man who stole the show and once again re-asserted his legendary status was, of course, Timothy Spall who remains one of our most treasured of British actors. Spall, who is just magnificent in everything he turns his hand to, is Bernie, the awkward, slovenly and helpless husband of Dame Helen Mirren's June. By the end of the film, Bernie is at his wits end, wrestling helplessly with the realisation that his wife would die.

There is yet another memorable moment when, as Christmas dawns in the Hospice that Mirren was occupying for those final weeks, we saw the real beauty and immense versatility of Dame Helen Mirren.  A nativity play including the Baby Jesus is performed with much skilful aplomb and the whole family gather around the bed of their dying mother. And then Mirren peacefully passes away. Nana had lost her battle against cancer but most of us were just revelling in the splendour and majesty of Goodbye June. You have to reserve a festive afternoon for this Christmas cracker of a film and don't forget the hankies.      

The day before Christmas Day

 The day before Christmas Day.

So here we are once again, the day before the world brings down its collective shutters and locks up its doors before the yearly festivities, a time for cheerful conviviality, much feasting and drinking, several sore heads by the end of the day and a real sense of perspective. Now, as we count down the hours before the big day, Britain finds itself in that customary state of sheer exhaustion, last minute shopping fatigue and ready to slump on their sofas for the next week without moving a muscle.

Christmas Eve may feel like the lull before the storm but it's time to tie up those loose ends, complete tomorrow's lavish luncheon preparations and seize the chance to wear those frivolous party hats that only seem to come out properly at this time of the year. Christmas was never a time for laziness and inactivity for some households because for the families who take it seriously there can never be enough time. Still, the kids are waiting with that gleeful sense of anticipation and Santa has just popped into a motorway service station on the M1 and just devoured a tasty sandwich from Subways or a latte coffee at Nero's.

Of course Christmas will always hold a wondrous fascination for the children of the world because they'll never lose that innocence and that cheerful disregard for all the bad news around them. And that's somehow admirable because you never quite know whether to laugh or cry at the prevailing news agenda of the day. Some of us are heartily sick of war and anger, death and pain, destruction and carnage. We're almost at the point where breakthroughs are about to be made but then again the cynics have probably heard it all before. 

This year, my wonderfully loving and supportive wife Bev and I became grandparents for the second time and of course we're delighted and thrilled and that goes without saying. If somebody had told you 50 years ago that you would be a grandparent, you would have laughed with a full blooded derision and an air of stupefied dismissiveness. You would have been rolling around on the floor with all the mirth and merriment of this festive season and told them not to be so silly and barely believing that anything like that could ever happen.

But now another year has passed under the bridge and what have you done? Well, nothing out of the ordinary as such but in a way this has been the year of experimentation and turning your hand to something that you would never thought possible and imaginable. It was my Open Mic year, an opportunity to venture out into the pubs and community centres of North London. Here you would stand next to a microphone, pouring out the words from your book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence which is available at Amazon. And here you were delivering your poetry to a captive audience.

So, after conquering some local pubs with my profound verse and lyricism, you struck out for Hampstead Heath where you were reliably informed that another Open Mic season was taking place. It was one of the hottest days of the year and a Saturday afternoon that just felt immensely rewarding and the perfect summer's afternoon. You stepped onto the platform at Hampstead Tube station little knowing it at the time that this would be a goose chase, a fruitless waste of time because you couldn't find the place you were looking for. Fear not, though. This afternoon was simply joyous. 

Besides, it didn't really matter because the sun was shining beautifully and brightly and, quite frankly, who cared if you could find the place or not? There are days in our lives when, even the most frustrating moments can seem privately stunning. So here you went, plunging into the heart of dark green and thick forest land, sometimes going deep into the foliage and then wandering around like a fascinated orienteer. All you needed was a map, some simple directions and all would be well. 

You were looking for a stage called the Gazebo and fully expected to find your venue and destination in no time at all. And yet, as the minutes ticked away and one hour followed another, you began to tear your hair out with total exasperation. You suddenly met a friendly family who were celebrating with an impressive looking picnic. You discovered that they came from Dubai and one member of the family was heading back home the following week. And that was when the fun began. 

You were told that, unfortunately, the Gazebo was well over an hour away from where you were and that you'd have to be  prepared for a stamina sapping walk through sun dappled glades and vast acres of trees and bushes. It was now that you were told that the family would  happily accommodate you with an impromptu poetry reading. You thanked them for their kind offer but would continue your journey undaunted. It felt like a good idea at the time but you were now thirsty and looked at your bottle of water with utter relief. 

In hindsight, your trip to Hampstead Heath somehow features prominently in your memory. What could have been a very anti climactic experience had now turned into something truly wonderful. As somebody who now commits himself to rigorous exercise in an effort to keep body and soul together, this actually felt quite good. But all in all, it's been an excellent year because you were indulging in a new kind of hobby if you like and this felt quite the most beneficial of experiences.

Anyway, we are now a week away before the end of the year. Every year contains its fair share of contrasting emotions, light and darkness, successes and unfortunate failures, the rich tapestry of life. Towards the end of 2025 my beautiful family lost loved ones and an air of sorrow and sadness has fallen over us that is utterly tangible. You can almost reach out and touch it.

On October 8th my delightful and wonderful father in law passed away at the venerable age of 93. Stan Myers was a most caring, compassionate and understanding man. He lived for Arsenal football club, loved the horse racing from Ascot, Epsom, Fontwell, Sandown and Thirsk, the thrill of a financial gain if one of his horses presented him with a small or large sum of money. Stan, as well as the rest of my family, had an intimate knowledge of my Autism diagnosis because football excited and galvanised both of us. 

And so you look back on these important events in your life and try to put them into some indefinable category because it's hard to know how to rationalise them. Both Bev and I have now lost the greatest parents in the world, a mum and dad who never stopped loving us, doting on us, making a fuss of us, coaxing and cajoling us, encouraging us all the way, listening to our childhood and teenage problems, suggesting new projects and always believing in the impossible. We can never thankyou enough.  

So as we settle down to eat our turkey, roast potatoes and vegetables with cranberry sauce while pulling a Christmas cracker, it is time to look ahead positively rather than being dragged back to the complicated years of your adolescence. Of course there were good times, the family holidays, your dad sunbathing in the family garden while drifting into a world of paradise surrounded by the dulcet tones of Frank Sinatra. But you'd rather forget the darker shades of your early years because those were years of unbearable struggle and horrific sights. Now though life is just the sweetest of all emotions, a gift from the heavens. You're so grateful, humble and blessed.  

Next August, our beautiful daughter and her boyfriend are getting married and once again your focus turns to rejoicing and celebration, a feeling of exultation and ecstasy that will be the best of them all. So wherever you are and who ever you are, have the happiest of all holidays. And if Santa does bring you anything may it come with fabulous mental and physical health for 2026. Have a good Christmas folks.     

Christmas time and the music industry.

 Christmas time and the music industry- Chris Rea.

There was a time when Christmas and the music industry spoke or sung with the same voice, so to speak. Christmas singles and albums by the latest or most popular bands, singers and musicians were certainly worth their weight in gold. Some of these glittering luminaries from the world of pop, rock, heavy rock, prog rock, soul or just very cheesy ditties joined us in a harmonious sing song. It was, after all, Christmas and the festive season was upon us so it was now time to loosen those inhibitions and throw off  those exhausting demands placed on you such as work, paying the bills, bringing up children and cooking the turkey. 

They loved to surround themselves in the traditional Christmas tropes such as carpets of snow, mountain scenery with gallons of the white stuff coating the summits, skiing slopes and people celebrating, cavorting and carousing with unashamed delight. It was a time devoted to family life, emotional reunions with family we hadn't seen for at least a year and then sleeping off Christmas lunch with a huge bout of snoring, snoozing or just slouching around the home looking for another glass of brandy and whisky. 

But for some of us it is a time for recalling the Christmas music that will now announce its presence on Thursday morning when toil and drudgery in shops, offices and warehouses grind to a standstill. Christmas though will not seem the same without Chris Rea though and yesterday the world of music lost one of its great maestros. This morning we'll be grieving the loss of one of its many giants, a titan of the blues, one of the chief exponents of easy listening and pleasant song lyrics, a reassuring, soothing voice tinged with nostalgia. 

Chris Rea, who yesterday died at the age of 74, was one of music's most refined of all practitioners, a modest, often underrated, quiet, reflective, humble and unassuming man. Rea, who never sought publicity or demanded any kind of validation or approval from his peers, passed away amid a flurry of warm tributes and flattering comments. Rea's career though never came with sleazy tales of outrageous behaviour or embarrassing notoriety.

But no one did Christmas better than Chris Rea because one of the most familiar sounds of Christmas came from his back catalogue and everybody could hum it, chant it and remember where they were when it was released. It was around Christmas time in 1986 when Rea and family were on the way back from a gig and found themselves trapped in heavy, almost stationary traffic in Nottingham. Desperately trying to keep warm on a wintry evening, Rea noticed a spare cigarette butt at the back of the vehicle and lit up the cigarette when, suddenly, there was the light bulb moment. Let's write a song about Driving Home for Christmas. The rest, as they say, is history. 

Yesterday reminded us of why the world always came together at this time of the year. We recalled this same period of time with wholesome affection because we always have and always will. Music had its songsheets in abundance from some of the most recognisable and instantly identifiable sources. They were eternally cheerful, endearing, witty, humorous and always smiling. Everybody smiled and grinned at Chris Rea's Driving Home for Christmas since it was something we always did because we were always travelling back from some distant location. And we were just delighted to be back in the place we called home. 

Of course Christmas wouldn't be Christmas without its yearly confection of Sir Cliff Richard. Sir Cliff Richard always presented us with festive compositions. Mistletoe and Wine typified his approach to this time of this year, Christians sitting by roaring log fires with delicious glasses of mulled wine. As a devout Christian himself, Richard knew the meaning of Christmas much more clearly than would otherwise have been the case because he would be in perennial attendance at the yearly Mass service on Christmas Eve. Cliff Richard embraced Christmas with an almost Messianic fervour, a lifelong church goer and full of seasons greetings and bountiful benevolence to the human race.

But Chris Rea's Driving Home for Christmas was a delightful illustration of just what it's all about. A car windscreen would be seen cruising along wondrous pine forests and snow caked trees. Every so often, the wiper would gently brush away the snow flakes before continuing its journey. Up ahead of the car would be a procession of car headlights, flashing away reassuringly before turning around twisting country lanes. 

At the end of this special journey, Rea would finally pull into what looks like a warehouse or depot where, presumably, the Christmas presents would end up. And this was the beginning of Christmas, the time and moment to crack open the alcoholic bottles, a cheeky Prosecco or the sweetest bottle of champagne. The car was now in a happy place, situated in a place of perfect contentment. We moved on and stared out of our windows because the family would be just in time for the turkey and tinsel. 

In contrast, Rea also gave us On The Beach, a gorgeous summer song that was so characteristic of our favourite childhood memories that Chris Rea had just written the most accurate summary of the season. Rea, complete with T- shirt, guitar around his neck, strolled around the shore of a beach without a care in the world. Every so often a girl in a swimsuit would tip toe along the top of a wall before Rea settled on the ground strumming away on his guitar with yet another burst of warm, gravelly, heartfelt and splendidly thoughtful lyrics that painted their own picture. 

Of course there was the Road to Hell which was both angry and passionate but nobody seemed to mind because most of us had experienced many of the same emotions. Sadly, though Rea had some of the most debilitating health problems which hampered him quite distressingly. Most of know about all of these tragic ailments now but you can't help but think how much more prodigious and creative he could have been without these problems. 

Essentially though Rea was on easy going terms with his contemporaries. There was the timeless Christmas classic produced by Noddy Holder's Slade, released in 1973 but recorded in the sweltering summer heat of an American recording studio. At roughly the same time, there was Mud's Elvis Presley tinged It'll be Lonely This Christmas, Roy Wood's I Wish it Could be Christmas and Jona Lewie's anti War contribution Stop the Cavalry featuring battle hardened soldiers climbing out of First World War trenches, rifles in their hands and a multitude of the dead. It was just a compulsory soundtrack to our lives.

Sir Elton John, of course is our most beloved, treasured and rightly honoured of pop stars. John's illustrious career now spans five decades if not more. But Step Into Christmas is a jolly, upbeat piano pounding festive favourite that has never lost its lustre or message. Here John sits by his piano with, at the time, rather respectable glasses but clomping platform shoes. In a plain white boiler suit and nimble fingers, he slides across the keyboard of the said piano with lovely and apposite Christmas words. Then, with a mischievous grin, John, at the end of one chorus, produces his Watford football club season ticket wallet. Then his manager John Reid and the rest of the band, all join in with one last hearty arm in arm, high kicking routine.

Lest we forget of course there was Wham's Last Christmas and Paul McCartney's Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time followed closely by the unforgettably resonant Pipes of Peace. Wham, fronted by the handsome heart throb who went by the name of George Michael, appeared angelic and fresh faced. Michael was a female bedroom poster boy, adored and idolised, worshipped and wishing they were their boyfriend forever more. Now this is a classical Christmas song. 

Now, on a winter holiday with friends, boyfriends and girlfriends, everybody gathers together on some picture postcard skiing resort possibly in the Alps. They all board a cable car before loading their skis on board. At once the scene is reminiscent of the perfect collection of boys and girls declaring their love for each other. It is the essence of a holiday of a lifetime. Nothing could go wrong and didn't. 

So both George Michael, Shirley and Pepsi would all hurriedly rush towards a comforting chalet next to idyllic mountains. Huddling around the dinner table, Wham proceed to whip off their gloves and scarves before snapping Christmas crackers, tucking into the yearly helping of turkey and smiling constantly, now besotted with each other and deeply in love. Shirley, of course, would marry Martin Kemp from Spandau Ballet and, sadly, George Michael would pass away on Christmas Day. What an extraordinary talent and voice. 

But now the world of music has lost another of its favourite sons. Chris Rea never fell out of hedonistic nightclubs in a drunken stupor. He was honest, confessional, private, never loud or controversial, boastful or bombastic, self righteous or obsessed with image. He was married to his wife for 57 years, remained faithfully to his Middlesbrough roots and always kept his family out of the limelight. Rea was a wonderful lyricist, a musician of the highest order, car enthusiast and will always be remembered at Christmas time. We'll miss you deeply Chris.  

It's deja vu for West Ham

 It's deja vu for West Ham.

If you're a lifelong football supporter you'll know how it feels. There is an impending sense of doom and gloom. This is the worst case scenario. Familiarity may even breed contempt but then again it may not and you've nothing to be concerned about. Besides, if it's destined to happen then it probably will. At which point it then becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. So here we go, here we go, here we go to quote that now traditional football chant from the terraces. Maybe you should be positive, almost arrogantly confident. 

This Saturday afternoon, West Ham United, the team who you've followed, endured and tolerated since you were a wee nipper in shorts, travel to Manchester to play Manchester City, former Premier League champions for four consecutive seasons and surely there can be only one result. Besides, City have a winning mentality, an impeccable pedigree and that overwhelming aura of champions. If City do lose though on Saturday at the Etihad Stadium, we could begin to laugh off our cynicism, our defeatist outlook and that inherent belief that only occasionally do miracles happen. 

After all, 55 years ago, a West Ham team, including the finest goal scoring striker in the country in the history of the game, headed towards Manchester perhaps fearing the worst. Results for West Ham were occasionally favourable at Maine Road but not as regularly as they would have liked. So it was that Jimmy Greaves, now in the twilight of his career, made his debut for West Ham and once again scored on his debut- this time for West Ham. This had not been entirely unprecedented because the Tottenham legend had done it before and he was more than capable of doing so again. 

So it was that Maine Road welcomed the East Londoners. And here the fun and games began. Maine Road now bore an uncanny resemblance to a mud heap, a mud bath, a gluepot of a pitch, a ground more suitable for the cultivation of beetroot, turnips, radishes, celeries perhaps if you were really hungry and just fancied eating the lot. It would have been no understatement to say that the ground was a boggy marshland, a perfect home for pigs, hippos and animals who just love to wallow in acres of mud. 

If anybody had spotted even the remotest hint of green grass, they might have required the use of several microscopes. But the match went ahead and, at the time, it almost felt acceptable, normal, with no questions asked and given the immediate go ahead by both groundsmen and referees. What ensued was a music hall act, a farce, an apology for a football match, a blatant mockery of the game and, quite possibly, sport. 

You now have to go to You Tube to find detailed information of the match between Manchester City and West Ham. There was the now late and sadly missed Billy Bonds, Trevor Brooking, Frank Lampard, Peter Brabrook, Ronnie Boyce, Sir Geoff Hurst and Jimmy Greaves. On the day, West Ham crushed Manchester City with a magnificent 5-1 win and, in all honesty, it may never happen again. As somebody of a claret and blue persuasion, Saturday's encounter with City may see a complete reversal of that remarkable score line. 

Let's though concentrate on one particular goal that illuminated that 1970 old First Division match. Joe Corrigan, perhaps one of the safest and greatest and most flexible of all goalkeepers, picked up the ball in his penalty area, shirt caked with treacly mud and dirt. Corrigan rolled the ball along the ground before picking it up and fly kicking towards the half way line. Waiting for the dropping ball was one Ronnie Boyce 'Ticker' as he was affectionately called by the West Ham fans. The rampaging centre forward - cum attacking midfielder, seemed to catch the ball perfectly on the volley and the ball sailed into the City net from what looked like the half way line. West Ham ran out comfortable 5-1 winners. 

It was also the day when Jimmy Greaves scored on his West Ham debut, a feat totally in keeping with character of the great man. Now of course West Ham are in the kind of desperate plight where even one goal itself against Manchester City would represent a major achievement given their wretched run of form recently. After disastrously and carelessly giving away a two goal lead twice during their Premier League encounter with Aston Villa, their London Stadium must feel like a haunted castle to them. 

We are now rapidly approaching the half way point of the Premier League season and West Ham look like a team of downhill skiers who keep slaloming around poles without quite knowing where their journey might take them. They could negotiate their obstacles quite easily but, at the moment, it all looks like an experience that could only end in tears. Relegation would seem to be inevitable for the East London club and unless there is a dramatic upturn after the City game, then they may be Championship bound.

But some of us, although too young to appreciate the sizeable margin of the Hammers victory, can only hope for damage limitation at the Etihad Stadium. City will almost certainly win decisively against their London opponents. So the trio of Fulham, Wolves and Brighton will now assume a critical importance for West Ham in forthcoming matches. Lose against all three would spell the end of West Ham's 12 year tenure in the Premier League. Win at least two and an altogether rosier complexion begins to appear on all West Ham faces. 

For some of us though relegation seems to be a standard procedure for West Ham. We have encountered all the calamities and setbacks, the backward steps rather than the forward type. West Ham manager Nuno Espirito Santo has his work cut out striving arduously for survival rather than consolidating the progress the club thought they'd made under now Everton manager David Moyes. What goes around comes around as they say. Under the inspirational guidance of both John Lyall and Ron Greenwood there was always a frisson of excitement in the air. Lyall and Greenwood created the most exemplary template for the club. Who would be in Nuno Espirito Santo's shoes? Will ever see its like again? We must hope so.    

It was the second night of Chanukah

 It was the second night of Chanukah

It was the second night of Chanukah and once again we were united, defiant and harmonious, one big happy family, a religion undaunted by yet another tragedy and convinced that with constructive dialogue, amicable negotiation and just a large helpful of understanding we can get through this one. It doesn't matter how long it takes but we will stop this madness, mayhem, bedlam, this downward spiral into multiple murders, traumatic and unnecessary deaths and, above all, we will achieve peace in our times.

On Sunday morning we awoke to discover that terrorism had reared its ugly head for what seem likes the umpteenth time. In fact it felt as if yet another violent violation of our civil liberties had been snatched away, a crime perpetrated for a figure that is now dangerously close to the hundreds of thousands in recent years. These are undeniable facts.  It could have been happened in any corner of the universe, some random location in any country or state, town, city or village but this time it was Australia. Why Australia. It's inexplicable and unforgivable.  

The setting was Bondi Beach in Australia, the other side of the world if you happen to live in the UK but so close to home for the beautiful Jews of both Europe, Asia, Africa or anywhere on the map of the globe. Once again the despicable scum who tread this Earth are determined to eliminate all Jews and they have failed miserably because we're stronger, prouder, fitter and, above all louder in our condemnation of what took place on an Australian beach as far away from London and Britain as it could possibly be. 

But here we were huddling together next to Parliament Square in the heart of London's political discussion rooms and this was Westminster at its most impassioned, fervent, angry, almost revolutionary. We could hardly have done anything more to express our most innermost emotions. This was the place to remind those who walk the hallowed corridors and lobbies of the House of Commons that the Jews will never go away because we are here to protest against their complete indifference, their pathetic passivity. 

Politicians it would seem can never seem to get it right. If there had been even been the remotest hint of compassion and a genuine commitment to eradicating the horrible cancer of hatred and antisemitism then surely we would have heard about it by now. And yet we were still waiting last night, flying Israeli flags, even the Union Jack and fighting back against the evil and malicious forces of relentless terrorism. We are now slowly recovering from the catastrophic events in the Middle East and we are back where we belong.  

There is though, a deeply uncomfortable silence in the heart of Westminster and all of the mainstream political parties are either world weary, tired or just being plain heartless. Their admittedly sympathetic responses are all well and good but you begin to think that all of these talking heads are just sycophantic outbursts simply designed just to make us believe that they do care. Last night demonstrated an obvious unease, a fury and exasperation aimed at the very people who should be doing a lot more than has hitherto been the case. 

All three parties including Labour, Conservative and Lib Dem, stand on their respective soapboxes and immediately send out their heartfelt condolences, those endless commiserations about the outrageous losses of life, their unyielding support of all Jews across the world. They are more than ready to wrap warm arms around the people of Israel and the Jewish religion and just hug them deeply, resonantly and affectionately because they must know what they're going through. However, it all seems very dutiful and respectful, a touching gesture of course but, after all, we were here to celebrate Chanukah. 

Instead, we had Chief Rabbi Mirvis, a solitary but noble figure desperately appealing for a line to be drawn under the sand, no more war, anguish, bloodied clothes, dying children or broken families. The Chief Rabbi is head of a community crying out for no more incidents like the one in Australia and he must be heartily sick of this mass slaughter. We all want this to end now and never ever happen again. And, if any killing machine is ready to take up arms, this humble little writer would like to remind you that he is the grandson of a Holocaust survivor and we never ever want to see a repetition of what happened during the Second World War. 

Here are moral, ethical and spiritual boundaries that are just being trampled into the ground. We detest violence, we are revolted by the spite, the almost medieval brutality of it all. What unfolded in Australia was symptomatic of a much deeper disease that refuses to go away. We know we can do nothing as such but we were in Westminster and we were livid, incensed, incandescent, fuming, storming the barricades, shouting purposefully to be heard. 

We were surrounded by dogs, the massive presence of the CST, the Jewish security organisation who have always kept us safe. People were wandering around the solemn introspection of a Monday evening in Westminster, searching for answers and not getting the ones they so richly deserved. They listened to the dignitaries but then turned their wrath and disgust on the so called politicians, those angels of good or allegedly so. They roared over and over again almost incessantly when the name of London mayor Sir Sadiq Khan was mentioned. Here was a man who deliberately polarises opinion and now, in the eyes of some maybe emerges as the most wicked man in the world. But this may be too extreme. To all intents and purposes, this does seem to be the case but you couldn't possibly comment. Mr Khan, you're being held to account. 

Khan has made no secret of the fact of his disapproval of last night's events in Westminster. Khan went on record as saying that he didn't want last night's gathering to take place. It hardly seems possible that one man could be so rigidly opposed to not only a meeting place for peace but the celebration of  Chanukah. So we sighed with righteous indignation yet again and demanded the immediate dismissal of Khan as Mayor of London. The man, we believe, is insufferable.

But can we really place in our implicit trust in a body of men and women who burn the midnight oil, passing legislation during the day and then reassuring the Jewish community that they have them onside when it comes to much more serious issues? There is an almost reluctant and grudging acknowledgement of the gunfire at Bondi Beach, the shrieking bullets that so cruelly took the lives of a Holocaust survivor and then are yet more victims of circumstances. We must all take to the streets over and again and say no more please. It has to end now because this now very powerful campaigner on behalf of peace has said enough is enough because we cherish the gift of life. No more and never again.