Rod Stewart is 80.

 Rod Stewart is 80.

When Sir Rod Stewart left the Small Faces many moons ago, flares were just a fashion concept and glam rock was about to explode onto the pop music consciousness. Most of us though assumed that life would never be the same for the then Rod Stewart. Would Stewart be able to rock on his own? Nobody knew though, that today he would still be entertaining the global public, his devoted fans still packing the open air stadiums, the big concert venues and embracing TV celebrity. 

Today, Celtic and Scotland's most famous supporter will be celebrating his 80th birthday and he still performs with all the uninhibited exuberance of a teenager swinging his microphone around a stage as if he'd just passed his driving test or added yet another girlfriend to his growing number of admirers. The long hair and leopard print shirt and trousers may have gone but the love of showbusiness and music may never fade. Rod or Sir Rod Stewart has still, undoubtedly got it and isn't afraid to flaunt it. 

There must have been a time during the last decade or two when Stewart would have been forgiven for slowing down, for taking time out from his busy, punishing schedule and just chilling out. But not Sir Rodney, certainly not. It takes a lot to hold back this irresistible force of nature, since the man defies description. The energy is boundless, the desire to please has never been doubted and there is a frightening commitment to give his best every time he bounds onto the centre of a stage, body and soul in perfect harmony.

Just a couple of Christmases ago, Stewart suddenly arrived at St Pancras station with a whole entourage of musicians including a superb set of trumpeters and a small female trio as backing group. We were simply stunned and surprised since none of us had seen anything like it before. Then, Stewart grabbed his microphone and was accompanied by the ever stylish Jools Holland on piano. The rest is etched into music folklore. Both Stewart and Holland launched into a smooth old American songbook ballad and now the secret was out. 

At the beginning of last year Stewart and Holland collaborated brilliantly on an album which included many of the songs that Rod Stewart's father had sung and then collected the album from which those great lyrics had been written. It was now that both of these consummate musicians declared a passion for model railways and now we were lost for words, an accusation that could never have been levelled at both men. 

Throughout his colourful career and private life, Rod Stewart has always been at the heart of music's evolution from the hippiedom of the 1960s, through the commercial fame and fortune of the 1970s, well into  the the prolific 1980's and 90s when music just became a toy and vehicle for even greater expression. There was always a vaudeville impudence and jack the lad outrageousness about Stewart that has never left him. Stewart has always delivered with a straightforward sincerity. There are no airs or graces about Stewart, just a powerhouse vitality that threatens the longevity of Sir Mick Jagger and the Rolling Stones. 

His back catalogue with his old mucker Ronnie Wood and the Faces now seems just a yellowing page from history. But when Sir Rod went solo during the 1970s, it was privately feared that few would take to the gravelly voice that sounded as though it had been rubbed down with sandpaper. Those croaky tonsils and growling delivery was unmistakable. And then in the early 1970s, there came the memorable Maggie May, a song so heartfelt, personal, poignant but full bloodedly rocky that you could tell that Stewart meant it from the heart. 

Then in the mid 1970s there was the single that came to define and guarantee him Hall of Fame immortality. From the iconic album Atlantic Crossing which sold in phenomenal millions, there emerged the classical 'Sailing'. For what seemed the whole summer of 1975, 'Sailing' just dominated the number one spot in the BBC pop charts. Once again, Rod Stewart had nailed national popularity across the whole of Britain. 'Sailing' was emotional, lyrical, beautifully crafted and polished, another ballad that had a lovely, lilting feel that could never be forgotten. It was a record that would become a compulsive listen at any party, wedding or barmitzvah. 

The First Cut is the Deepest, Do You Think I'm Sexy, This Old Heart of Mine and countless other  gorgeous standards continued to sell in prodigious quantities. The 1990s marked a less consistent presence in the music charts. But Rod Stewart keeps coming back and showboating. He keeps announcing and promoting himself as a performer and remains peerless as one of Britain's finest all rounders. 

At his palatial home in Chigwell, Essex, Stewart remains mine host at a giant five a side football pitch. Here some of Sir Rod's closest friends and celebrity acquaintances lark around joyously as if Celtic were locked in a permanent match with Rangers. Last year, Stewart led the campaign to get rid of the pot holes that were suddenly appearing in his local roads. It was somehow typical of a man who has never shirked controversy when necessary. He is now happily married to former policewoman Penny Lancaster and is surrounded by doting children and grandchildren. We love Sir Rod Stewart because he's never pretended to be anything other than Sir Rod Stewart. Happy Birthday Sir Rod.

West Ham manager in danger of sack.

West Ham manager in danger of sack. 

Last night West Ham manager Julen Lopetegui was on the verge of being sacked. Now where have we heard that one before? The precarious nature of football management is such that you have to worry for their welfare and livelihood. It can be a lonely business, traipsing up and down the touchlines, hands in pockets, grinning, despairing, grimacing, pacing up and down, lowering your head and then burying it in despair when their team are playing awfully and nobody cares about them. 

For much of the first half of the season, Lopetegui has carried the air of a condemned man, resigned to the worst of all fates and questioning his own experience and prowess. In short, Lopetegui's first encounter with the team from East London has been nothing short of horrendous. The genial Spaniard is, of course, a decent and honourable man and he has been moderately successful with both Sevilla and Real Madrid in a coaching capacity but even after a brief spell with Wolves, this has not gone well for Lopetegui. 

At the end of the last season, West Ham bid farewell to David Moyes after the Scotsman had left the indelible legacy of a UEFA Conference trophy and a notable European achievement. Moyes also oversaw top half Premier League finishes in three consecutive seasons while not forgetting a Europa League campaign. So it was a case of parting with such sweet sorrow because, essentially, Moyes had been one of the most successful managers in West Ham's recent history. 

But when the air had cleared and Moyes was gone, West Ham eventually came across a man they thought they could trust, a foreign manager with an educated, cerebral footballing mind firmly committed to studious, possession based football and whose attacking principles were second to none. Sadly, after only half a season, West Ham have now discovered that the decision to appoint Lopetegui was both ill advised, rash and completely wrong. 

After only six wins thus far in the Premier League, West Ham are now looking up at the others around them in a lowly 14th place and wondering exactly whether a grenade might have gone off when least expected. Besides, West Ham are now, allegedly, a big time club with European aspirations, a club to be regarded as genuine contenders for beautiful trophies and global recognition. Now though, there are worried frowns around the London Stadium and the dormant fear that somebody will mention relegation to the Championship at some point, is never far from the debating chambers and discussion rooms of social media.  

But football is a cruel, heartless and unforgiving sport where only the survival of the fittest counts and even the greatest can fall from grace within a flicker of an eyelid. Manchester United, surely one of the wealthiest and most glamorous clubs in the world game for many a decade, are a classic example of what happens when you lose a much loved manager and find it impossible to replace him. Like West Ham, United are struggling under duress, fighting desperately to keep their battered morale and ego in one piece.

On Sunday, Manchester United went up to Anfield and gained a valuable point against Premier League leaders and pace setters Liverpool, when all the odds were stacked against them. Recently, their Dutch manager Erik Ten Hag was booted out of the club after failing to understand the fundamental values and ridiculously high standards that United have set over the years. United's new manager Ruben Amorim is the latest candidate at Old Trafford to face the firing squad. The Stretford End will not tolerate average performances and mediocrity. Only genius and consistent excellence will be the only stipulation at United. It's written in stone and the statements are carved into their archives. 

For West Ham though, a club that once prided itself on remaining loyal to their managers through thick and thin, are now hiring and firing on a fairly regular basis. In the last 25 years, the club have seen come and go the esteemed likes of Harry Redknapp, a coach and manager of the highest order. Then there was the late and much missed Glen Roeder preceded by Lou Macari, Billy Bonds, Avram Grant, Gianfranco Zola and Sam Allardyce. The gallery of the great, good and totally forgettable have passed through the hallowed corridors of Upton Park, West Ham's once adorable old ground and those in the know have sighed mournfully.

Yesterday, Julen Lopetegui faced up to the inevitable prospect of being fired for both his managerial incompetence and complete lack of any kind of leadership at the club. The Spaniard has simply misunderstood his role at West Ham, muddling through the early months of the season with players who just weren't responding to both his tactics and less than desirable approach to management. When the early home defeats to both Aston Villa, Chelsea and Manchester City punctured a massive hole in their ambitious plans for the season, everything just fell apart at the seams for the Hammers. 

Another heavy thrashing at home to Liverpool in a 5-0 defeat at the London Stadium led to yet more rumblings of discontent in the East End. There was the 5-2 home defeat to Arsenal, the even more humiliating 3-0 defeat at Leicester City and on Saturday, another demolition at the Etihad. Their 4-1 defeat to Premier League champions Manchester City may be the final door to be slammed in Lopetegui's face. Nine goals have been conceded in two consecutive games and slowly patience is wearing thin behind the scenes at West Ham. 

For those who grew up with the stability and continuity of Ron Greenwood, who spent 20 years at West Ham and then the much under rated John Lyall, the more up to date developments at the club have been truly disturbing. Managers can never be seen to do the right thing whoever they are but at least Greenwood gave the club a real sense of direction, a steadying rudder to keep West Ham afloat. Regrettably, Greenwood spent too much of his time, extinguishing potential fires, wrestling with a relegation haunted team and permanently fending off accusations of inadequacy and unfulfilled potential. 

True, Greenwood did taste FA Cup winning success in 1964 when West Ham beat Preston North End in the FA Cup Final. Ronny Boyce's last gasp winning goal clinched the Cup for West Ham. The following year Greenwood enjoyed perhaps his finest hour. West Ham had conquered most of Europe in the European Cup Winners Cup and their 2-0 victory against German side TSV Munich 1860 in that famous Final at Wembley in 1965 probably gave Greenwood much more pleasure than any of us could have imagined. But for the next 13 years he was just unable to take the club much further forward and, after a couple of seasons of hardship and unproductive toil and trouble, West Ham were relegated to the old Second Division.

The managerial qualities of John Lyall were, more or less, a surprising discovery, serendipity personified. Lyall was the local boy whose playing career had been unfortunately brought to an end by injury and was now installed as manager. For those of us who were just privileged to be there on the night, West Ham's final match of the season at home to Ipswich Town, will live long in the memory. In 1986, West Ham almost won the old League Championship and in hindsight, it still feels like some weird dream that almost came true. A 2-1 win to West Ham against the Tractor Boys was thoroughly deserved but then Liverpool and Everton intervened and West Ham finished the season third in the old First Division.

Now though after employing a number of foreign coaches including the inexplicably morose Israeli Avram Grant, West Ham are back at square one. The chances are that Lopetegui will leave West Ham under a cloud of disgrace after a series of embarrassingly heavy defeats. Nobody likes seeing a fair minded and respectable man suffer in this way because the Spaniard has probably made more friends than enemies at the club. 

But there's an internal dissent and disconnect between Tim Steiden, the club's technical director and go between and management, the smell a repulsive one. Nine players were bought during last summer and none have really hit the ground running apart from perhaps Aaron Wan Bissaka, the full back with a genuine turn of pace and a natural ability to deliver an accurate cross into the six yard box. The rest though are, more or less stuck in glutinous, gooey treacle, promising at times but about as useless as a chocolate tea pot in the important games. 

Brian Clough, that notable miracle worker, eloquent after dinner speaker and splendidly opinionated manager of Derby County and Nottingham Forest, was ruthlessly no nonsense and dogmatic. On the subject of chairmen and bossy know it alls, Clough once said, at Brighton, if memory serves you correctly, that he would gather around a table for a discussion with his chairman, and, after much deliberation, would decide he was always right and should never be contradicted. 

Nowadays loyalty is almost non existent to any new, incoming manager and the days of Ron Greenwood, Bill Nicholson, Bill Shankly and Dario Gradi at Crewe, are almost as antiquated as trams or horse drawn carriages even Victorian barouches. Contracts signed with good intentions are about as meaningless as the paper they're written on. Managers are marketable commodities with a fairly limited shelf life and it does seem possible that there are times when they'd be forgiven for seeing red. 

Julen Lopetegui will no doubt settle down, having left West Ham, with a late night cup of coffee and a classic recording from John Coltrane, reflective jazz oozing from his downloaded music collection. Or maybe he'll shake his head aggressively at both sides of an AC DC or Def Leppard heavy rock riff album. Managing a football club has always been an emotionally demanding ordeal and you have to get it out of your system somehow. Perhaps the truth is that Lopetegui has probably had enough of the Premier League for the time being. If that were the case then you could hardly blame him. 

Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow.

 Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it snow. 

Throughout the ages, snow has always comforted us, uplifted us, occasionally annoyed us but then left us stunned and glad it happened when it did because somehow we were always missing it particularly after a lengthy absence. Yesterday we knew it was going to snow in Britain because the weather forecasters had given us amber warnings, smoke signals, cautionary tales of snow falls from long ago and the profound, if temporary impact it would have on the rest of the United Kingdom.

By late Saturday night this should have been a self fulfilling prophecy, something we were convinced would happen eventually even though we hadn't a clue when and in how many quantities. The children of the world were jumping up and down with excitement, faces rosy and primed for action. Mum and dad were frantically searching for the conventional bobble hats, scarves and plenty of equipment for the building of snowmen. Then there were the sleds, affectionately known as tea trays. We were set.

In a huge swathe of Middle England, the heart of the countryside, Wales and then much of the Grampian highlands and lowlands in Scotland, the white stuff was poised to tumble down from leaden skies with a glorious profusion. The rest of the country had to watch and wait in breathless anticipation, hoping rather than expecting but privately wishing that they too could gingerly tread in vast mounds of snow before challenging each other to endless bouts of snowball throwing at each other. 

There is a picturesque purity about snow during the wintertime and something reminiscent of those dark Sunday evenings on BBC 2 during the 1970s. Then David Vine, a most knowledgeable sports commentator, introduced us to the delights of Ski Sunday. While most of Britain was experiencing the wind, rain and sleet of a British winter, the likes of Switzerland, Italy, Austria and France were inundated with snow that just fell incessantly, covering the whole of the Alps in a blanket of snow, curtains of snowflakes swaying softly and gently against those stunning backdrops of mountain ranges caked with yet more.

And then when the cable cars had offloaded the latest arrival of skiers with ambitious visions of completing their sessions with effortless ease, we sat at home, unsure, sceptical, deeply suspicious and wary. They may have made it look easy on the eye but we had no intention of copying their intrepid exploits on the slopes of Europe. This looked far too dangerous to even the most casual observer. It was perfectly appealing to those who fancied something that appeared far too challenging and potentially problematic. But we'd made up our minds. It was never for us. 

But it was the view from the top that did it for us. It was a long way down and you'd have to be mad to push those sticks into the bottom layer of snow and just hurtle at top speed, defying the laws of aerodynamics, pretending to be that famous Austrian skier Franz Klammer who won gold in the Winter Olympics of 1972. It must have been a real buzz, the loveliest of journeys, a major achievement if you liked that kind of thing but not your cup of tea. So you settled for tea and biscuits on a Sunday evening and finishing off the People or Mail on Sunday newspaper in a comfy chair. 

Then you thought about that magnificent cinematic masterpiece about Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards simply called Eddie the Eagle. Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards was a hopelessly delusional man who woke up one day in his parents home and decided that he simply wanted to win a gold medal at the Winter Olympics. The sniggering doubters and cynics thought he needed to have his head examined. But Eddie Edwards was never to be deterred and, in the end, got his way.

The hours, months and years of hard, intensive coaching and training would have led most of us to just give up after five minutes. And yet Edwards obsessive hard work, relentless dedication to duty and a steely determination to prove people wrong, brought their just desserts. The crusty, singularly dispassionate British Olympic committee had to wipe the egg off their faces. It was time to climb down from their traditional ivory tower. 

You were constantly reminded of the winter of 1962 which seemed to go on for ever metaphorically. Your adoring and loving mum and dad were living in a flat with only a paraffin heater to provide us with warmth. Outside it was freezing, the snow was driving across North London vigorously and unstoppably. The snow came down in huge lorry loads, slanting across rapidly emptying roads and streets and didn't stop until March 1963. But you were a baby and had no inkling of what was going on outside. 

When your mum tried admirably to get out and do some shopping she paused for a moment and must have wondered if she'd lost her senses. My mum was the most perfect parent and had resolved to ignore the doom and gloom scaremongers. Life had to continue for those who were just hellbent on feeding and watering their young children. But you can only imagine that it must have been the most terrifying period of our lives. You were almost stranded and confined to your home because the heavens had opened up and the snow just kept dropping onto the pavements, staying there seemingly indefinitely. 

In hindsight, the story that has been passed down the family on a number of occasions, now sounds beyond hilarious, a mixture of the barely believable and delightfully absent minded. A week after my birth, my lovely mum traipsed out to the local corner shop. You had to admire her guts and tenacity. After topping up her basket with the basic necessities, mum must have buttoned up her coat as quickly as possible, wrapped her scarf around her neck and then rushed out of the shop.

For a moment, the desire to just sprint home could only have been uppermost in her mind. Little did she know that her brand new first son was just kipping away in his pram, stirring tentatively and then opening up horrified eyes. Naturally, mum just wanted to rub her frozen hands together in front of a toasty heater before lifting her son out of the aforesaid pram and then cuddling her offspring with an understandable, loving tenderness. But her son was still at the corner shop, bawling and crying his eyes out, tears streaming down his cheeks with all the force of a reservoir pouring out water. 

So the snow had totally pre-occupied the thoughts of a suburban mother who just wanted to give her baby the best start in life. You may have been forgotten about for a while but in those far off days you could leave your babies anywhere for any length of time without worrying that the baby would be kidnapped, stolen or just abandoned for who knows how long. At the time, of course, my mum's lapse of memory must have frightened the lives out of both my mum and doting grandparents. But my brother and yours truly can only laugh about the incident without any sense of shame.

The last of the heaviest of snowfall was in the winter of 1981. Then the motorways and kerbsides were laden with gritters and tons of sand. You can still remember trudging home laboriously through thick acres of black ice and snow that had once again disturbed our normal daily work and school patterns. The buses were now few and far between and, in some cases, just not working at all because the wheels and tyres were still ground to a halt by heavy clumps of snow. 

This morning we awoke to rain this time, Saturday's brief snowfest now a distant memory.  The roads were just wet and saturated with the remnants of the snow that had melted almost indefinitely. For a while, you thought back to that first winter of your life and were delighted to know that you had no recollection of it whatsoever. But the kids love the snow and may return to school tomorrow morning disappointed, maybe crestfallen and wishing it could come back again almost immediately. Sorry kids that may be a long wait but for the first time we did see the white stuff and how exciting that felt.  

Happy New Year to the world.

 Happy New Year to the world.

My lovely family and I were minutes away from the beginning of a New Year. We were gearing ourselves up for the start of another year and the quarter of a century point had almost been reached. Our resident singer Steve Knight was belting out all of those grand, old classics and standards from yesteryear. The hotel was crackling with high spirits, laughter, happiness, bonhomie, mutual love and a fair sprinkling of optimistic folk who were grateful to be together again on this most auspicious occasion. 

The setting was the Daish Hotel in Blackpool and the weather was quintessentially British. We are now in the depths of winter and therefore you had to be prepared. In recent winters, a heartening mildness has made its presence felt over the skies of Britain. Of course we've had the usual assortment of breezy winds, gusty gales at times, rain in abundance but none of those freezing temperatures which normally accompany the beginning of January. 

Today though, we all woke up to a shivering coldness in the air, the kind of weather that would normally compel most of us to dig out as many layers of vests, thermal vests and pullovers that simply empty our wardrobes and chests of drawers. Some of us are sniffing and sniffling, sneezing and coughing as if it were going out of fashion. This January, somebody turned off the central heating and forgot to turn it back it on at the appropriate time. 

Yesterday, our wonderful son Sam, daughter in law Lucy and beautiful grandson Arthur, my wife Bev and I, dog Barney, took the calculated risk and went for a walk all the way from our hotel and up to the Golden Mile in Blackpool. It was supposed to be a pleasant and invigorating walk and it was to a large degree. But then we were buffeted and battered by icy winds and sleet that made the simple act of stepping out almost impossible. Still, we did negotiate the elements without being swept out into the North Sea and there was a giant sigh of relief when we got back to our hotel. 

But then we did our utmost to coax our delightful grandson Arthur on to some of the mini fairground rides that were open for business only to find that he wasn't that interested. We arrived at the amusement arcades with their traditional noisy cacophony of one arm bandits that bleeped, rang and tinkled, before resorting to some of the most enchanting jingles. There were action adventure machines and Formula 1 cars dressed up in animated, graphic form on a computer screen. There were those 2p coin contraptions where hundreds of coins slide backwards and forwards before either dropping off the edge or nudging thousands of others into your hands. 

Back at the hotel the less adventurous were more than content to play cards, board games, read papers and magazines or just take their leisure. On the table next to the guests were bowls of fruit with mouth watering chocolates and in a far corner of the lounge, tea, coffee and biscuit facilities that are somehow synonymous with snug hotels that just want to pander to the whims of those who prefer the simple things in life. My wife and I played Scrabble on one morning but did nothing more strenuous than admire the festive scenery. There was the colourful Christmas tree by the fireplace, tiny light bulbs draped across mantelpieces, Santas and reindeers and sleds wherever you looked. 

The lingering images we were left with were those of the Irish Sea literally next to our hotel. Now it was that this seaside resort left us with the most unforgettable impression. The seas in Northern England were at their wildest and heaviest, crashing, heaving, boiling, foaming white, erupting with passion and genuine anger. At times you almost felt you were witnessing one of those naval battles where the old warships would knock seven bells out of each other with cannon balls and gunfire. 

Meanwhile, back at the Daish Hotel we were readying themselves for the daily itinerary of afternoon bingo and general knowledge quizzes with a dartboard at the centrepiece of the entertainment room. A vast majority of the guests at the hotel were elderly but energetic, full of the joys of spring and good, old fashioned hospitality. A lovely lady by the name of Irene kept us entertained with bubbly good humour and a permanent smile on her face.

The quality of food and catering was impeccable, the staff welcoming and friendly, always willing to go the extra mile just to keep us in the best of moods. Sometimes bed and breakfast hotels in Britain at this time of the year can be both bleak and dreary places. Very little in the way of the tourist trade is functioning and the only sound you'll probably hear is that of shuffling paper at tables scattered around the reception area as local businessmen and women open and shut their suitcases with a business like diligence. 

Then there are the frequent stag and hen parties before joyful weddings and jovial pensioners thoroughly enjoying their retirement. Now is the quietest time of the year for the hotel trade, a time of deserted beach fronts and none of the jollity and levity to be heard so resonantly during the summer. Summer is when the seaside comes alive, families with children spinning around on those giant tea caps, soaring into the air and then dropping thrillingly towards the ground. The fairground is Blackpool's financial salvation, roller coasters and candy floss in one glorious childhood dream come true. 

But we would never forget the New Year's Eve party in Blackpool for many a year, a green glitter ball dancing in time with the rhythms of those who were doing the conga at midnight. Now we discovered the real meaning of a New Year, as the chimes of Big Ben ushered in 2025. Our friends from both sides of the Pennines joined in with the fun with unashamed energy, Lancashire and Yorkshire united for once although maybe they do this on a frequent basis. Now two large coaches awaited the departure of our charming veterans, memories of Auld Lang Syne and crossed hands still clinging onto the tinsel and glitter. Happy and Healthy New Year everybody. 

Boxing Day.

 Boxing Day.

Today, the streets of London's West End will become a merchandise paradise, a shopping heaven, millions of feet pounding the pavements of Oxford and Regent Street in their frantic hunt for an abundance of bargains, cheap and cheerful products that would normally have cost a small fortune at any other time of the year. It is the beginning of the sales season in most of those highly prestigious department stores, fashion and retail outlets gleaming with festive cheer and ready to greet those wonderfully excited adults and excitable children who just love this time of the year. 

It's Boxing Day folks which normally means that the whole of the world may still be nursing one massive hangover. Once again, excessive quantities of food and drink have been enthusiastically consumed by vast populations of hungry, turkey eating, mulled wine drinking folks across the globe. Heads will be sore and bewildered families will be surveying the wreckage and debris on the living room floor. The kids will still be lively, scurrying and scampering around their homes and wondering what to do next. 

So we'll wake up this morning, yawning and stretching, bleary eyed, trying desperately to focus on the rest of the human race and deciding there and then to just turn over on our sofas and go back to sleep. Once again, the kids Christmas presents will find themselves in a permanent state of disrepair, batteries no longer working, Smart phones rebelling for no apparent reason and high spirits now dampened because nobody understands them. This should be a day of perfect contentment for the young ones but, sadly, that balloon seems to have burst. 

As usual, there will be a full football fixture list and that 66 goal bonanza in the old First Division on Boxing Day 1963 now seems like some weird fantasy that came true because opposing defences were still on holiday and some mischief maker must have told the players that the matches had been postponed. The truth of course was that football had once again dominated the mainstream cultural agenda on the day after the holiest of days. Yet another gluttonous helping of football had made the back page headlines and how Blackburn Rovers must have wished they could play West Ham every week, having demolished your claret and blue heroes 8-2 at Upton Park. 

But Boxing Day can only mean one thing for those of a certain age. Since time immemorial, pantomimes have held children spellbound and mesmerised, that one day or time of the year when families gather together outside both provincial and city theatres for a good, old fashioned belly laugh, an immensely enjoyable experience that continues to pack them in, all ages included and nobody excluded. It is one of those memorable spectacles that always leave us with a warm glow in our hearts. Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, Jack in the Beanstalk and Dick Whittington are our perennial favourites. 

And yet Boxing Day, after all the organised chaos and preparation for the day before, may leave that familiar feeling of cold anti climax, a sense that perhaps we shouldn't have gone to all that trouble only to feel as though we might have let our uncles, aunties, cousins and nieces down. So what if we'd given them the same cardigan, pullover, bottle of perfume or after shave as we did last year? The gratitude was always fulsome and much appreciated. 

So we slump on our settees for the second day in succession. The supermarkets are open but the rest of the world is probably snoring away, conveniently forgetting that the shops should be on a state of high alert. This is a day though, for sober reflection or we hope it is. The boozy repercussions should have gone through our system and the jolly revelry is now yesterday's news. The roads were deserted and there wasn't a soul in sight apart from the occasional Deliveroo eating delivery service with several boxes of pizzas. 

During your childhood, it was the regular Boxing Day custom to venture out onto the local streets in the hope of finding some evidence of civilisation only to find a hollow emptiness. There was nothing, nobody or anything to prove that humanity had trodden these happy lands. But the buses and trains were in an advanced state of stagnation, stilled and silenced by those boisterous celebrations. There were no cars, lorries or vans not even a procession of cyclists who may have thought nobody had noticed them anyway. 

We returned to our homes distinctly underwhelmed and just content to watch the three TV channels that were available at the time. It is hard to imagine a time when Britain was so deprived of choice when there was so much entertainment on offer elsewhere. In fact, up until 1967, most of us only had BBC One and ITV or Thames TV since BBC Two had yet to arrive on our screens and Channel Four was just wishful thinking which became a scientific experiment and then just landed on our shores. 

But, essentially, Boxing Day was a day for gentle, good-humoured dwelling on the year now about to end. We could never be sure why this was the case because we never knew why one day of the year should be devoted to eating the leftovers, the turkey sandwiches, the rest of those huge tins of biscuits and chocolates. And then there were those mouth watering bottles of alcohol, the grape juice, orange juice, Red Bulls designed to rid ourselves of any residual headaches. 

Then we re-assembled our thought patterns and recovered from those endless karaoke sessions where the same old Christmas songs are repeatedly performed by tired looking souls who try to be funny and succeed emphatically. The kids rip open their reams of wrapping paper with bows and knots, jumping for joy because Apple and Amazon had been so good to them. There isn't a great deal of movement in the main dining room because the whole family have had it up to here with objects and products. 

In the great big, wide world of pampered materialism and hedonism, this is the disposable society, the place where we all spend far too much money during the holidays and then regretting it. Everything is now on our commercial shelves, instantly accessible and about to be sold by persuasive sales people at the drop of a hat. Money is, quite literally, no object and, by the beginning of the New Year, we stare at our bank balances and find ourselves broke, skint and impoverished. 

Traditionally though Boxing Day is all about wallowing in the good vibes and euphoria of Christmas Day and glad that we were all together and united when it all took place. The homeless at Christmas has become that painful reality and mantra from which there can be no escape. We watch the images of the sad and forlorn, the neglected and displaced, those who were just ignored and reluctantly acknowledged. They settle down under the bridges of nearby railway stations, huddling for warmth with moth eaten blankets wrapped around broken bodies, shabby tramps with filthy clothing. 

Still, we remain fortunate to have our families, our extended families in far off countries and locations, the ones we've always loved and respected. We now speak to them on our phones and screens, Skyping and Zooming to our hearts content. We communicate via social media with emojis of bizarre origin and then long to get together some time next year because we haven't seen each other for at least a decade or two. Naturally, we look to the future and crave optimism because that's our comfort blanket.

And then finally we look around at a sometimes fractured and fractious world, a world divided by petty differences of opinion, politicians posturing and pontificating, bickering and quarrelling, presidents and leaders who keep stating the obvious and expecting to be slapped on the back with more praise. Then there are those evil dictators, audacious autocrats, the power crazy figures who just want to take over the world and destroy it into the bargain. 

It's Boxing Day folks and time to slow down again. It's time to hit the pantomimes kids, time to warn each other that somebody is indeed behind you. Historically, it is a day for more window shopping, milling around souvenir kiosks in London's West End, giggling at red Santa hats with unashamed glee and then lugging around masses of bags and boxes, nibbling at roast chestnuts, wandering around Winter Wonderland and then joining in with all the fun of the fair. Oh Christmas and Chanukah. How we love them. 

Oleksander Usyk retains boxing heavyweight title.

 Oleksander Usyk retains boxing heavyweight title.

There was no other way of dressing this one up. The whole of  Ukraine has suffered so much death, loss and  grief, horrifically wasted moments in its history, that it only seemed fair that boxing should come to its rescue. This was redemption on a colossal scale. The sun does indeed shine on the righteous and deep in the sweltering heat of the desert of Riyadh, Saudi Arabia provided the perfect and exotic backdrop to this fascinating, intriguing, ultimately enthralling heavyweight contest between Oleksander Usyk of Ukraine and Tyson Fury of England. Oh to be a fly on the wall of Anthony Joshua, another British prizefighter par excellence. 

And yet for the second time Usyk of Ukraine had far the greater technical range in his pugilistic repertoire and Fury had no answer to the Ukranian's tactical superiority. This time around, Usyk underlined his professionalism in no uncertain terms with the boldest and most dangerous signature. Boxing has often produced champions from poverty stricken, humble backgrounds, boxing that provided the perfect escapism from a life of horrendous crime, the gangland culture, a troubled youth that never seemed to go away. 

Both Usyk and Fury though looked as though a healthy appetite for food had still left its obvious evidence on their well endowed waistlines. Not for a moment should there ever be a suggestion that both men were just paunchy, portly and desperately overweight boxers just out to line their pockets with  several million in their bank balances. But this was an important and critical night for heayweight boxing and money may seem incidental to a generation of boxers who have known nothing but a life of wealth and luxury.  

This was clearly a nice little earner for both men but there can only be one winner and Usyk once again confirmed his overall excellence and boxing virtuosity. For Fury, boxing can be grossly unfair and cruel although even he must have recognised that this is the one that got away from him. When the bell went for the final round, Fury, cheerfully confident of victory, then shook his head dejectedly as the announcement of his defeat boomed out across Saudi Arabia. Even the camels must have privately sympathised with Fury's plight. 

But this was a stirring, compulsive watch and, for lengthy periods of this heavyweight battle royale, you were reminded once again that boxing is not a pretty sight for those of a nervous disposition. Both Usyk and Fury are big units, formidable figures of mighty muscularity and just a couple of pounds of flesh around their respective stomachs. Their torsos may have been wobbling around their midriffs ever so slightly although a boxer's physique has little to do with his expertise in the ring. 

Here were two juggernauts locked together in conflict, crashing into each other's very personal territory and showing little signs of leniency or forgiveness. Both men were ruthless and uncompromising, silent assassins growling and snarling under their breaths, destructive knock outs on their minds and no room for sentiment whatsoever. Their childhood and backgrounds were consigned to some meaningless corner of this fight. You can always see sinister menace on their faces when boxers climb through the ropes of a major contest and this one was no different.

Fury, of course, has always been boastful and arrogant but quietly respectful of his opponent whoever they are. Yesterday, bearded and hirsute, Fury was all mouth and trousers or maybe shorts would be the more appropriate terminology. He talked a good fight, of course and he eye balled his Ukranian counterpart as if he were the devil incarnate. There was no love lost but there never is when boxing gets lost in hype and propaganda. 

Tyson Fury, the man from Styal in Cheshire, never disguises his love of his roots and there were sporadic moments when Fury seemed hell bent on proving his aggressive point. There was a brutal belligerence and hungry intent about the British heavyweight. Fury just charged out of his corner like a man possessed, hunching and crouching, then jabbing almost consistently, feeling out Usyk's emotional and physical resources like a man exploring a dripping cave in the middle of nowhere. 

And for the next 12 rounds the Englishman kept darting in and out of the darkness and then retreating when he could sense a grizzly bear on the horizon. Fury kept moving the Ukranian around the ring, probing for the decisive opening but just provoking Usyk into action and warfare. There were tentative Fury jabs, fleeting body shots that just seemed to scrape Usyk's chest and stomach and then a private acceptance that this wouldn't be his night. 

At first there was caution and calculating aggression from both men, holding each other at arms length with cunning and careful circumspection.  By round four, seven and eight, Fury was struggling under the weight of Usyk's stunning and staggering punches to head that rocked the Cheshire man as if a fatal bullet had just brushed his forehead. Fury was never out on his feet but, for all the world, it looked as though he'd been hit by a bulldozer. At times he looked dazed and horrified at the audacity of the Ukranian's shooting gallery of upper cuts and ferocious assaults. 

With Fury now running out of petrol and purpose and his tank in dire need of being filled, there was a  renewed style and conviction about Usyk that we may have privately feared. By the 12th round, Fury looked as if he was simply and desperately hanging on for survival. The valiant spirit was ebbing away and the Ukranian capitalised on Fury's increasing vulnerability, flinging out hurtful and painful blows that left the British fighter helpless.

To his credit though Fury took this fight all the way to the bitter end. In the end, this was the inevitable conclusion. The fight had to be resolved by the judges and referees and we all knew which way this one would go. It would not be in Fury's favour since fate was not on his side. Usyk was declared the outright winner and Fury could only reach out to his devoted fans and apologise to them. He'd given it his best but that was never going to be good enough. 

For a moment, you recalled the bullish defiance of Frank Bruno and Lennox Lewis, the bravery and endurance of Henry Cooper and even Joe Bugner. But, for the heavyweight powerhouses of Britain, some nights are somehow destined to end in failure. You thought now of Anthony Joshua who may be itching to get back into the ring if only to emphasise his enduring qualities. But Tyson Fury sadly slipped away into the Saudi winter heat and disappeared into the good night. Boxing hadn't betrayed him as such but form deserted him and that must have been a considerable disappointment for him.   

Four sleeps to Christmas and Chanukah.

 Four sleeps to Christmas and Chanukah. 

It may be hard to believe now but, on Christmas Day a long time ago, there was a full football fixture list in the old First Division, Second Division, Third Division, Third Division North and South and, finally the Fourth Division. Much to the amazement of those who witnessed it, the trains and buses were working and there was no let up in the great stampede towards the groaning festive table. It felt as if you were doing our utmost to retain some semblance of normality even though the rest of the country was just blase about it all. 

 And so you woke on Christmas Day, flung back the snow caked windows, threw on our clothes, football scarves, digging out rattles, klaxon horns and oiling our exhausted vocal chords. It was Christmas Day in the workhouse, time to clock on for another day of peeling potatoes, stuffing turkeys, shaking the brussel sprouts out of the bag and then dropping off to sleep after the heaviest of culinary blow outs. Then you stared at your families adoringly, abandoned yourselves to just a brief moment of sentimentality and knocked back several glasses of brandy and malt whisky. 

Then dad, uncle, son and cousin and, quite possibly daughter in those far off days, would jump into the back of the Ford Anglia or the celebrated Red Routemaster bus where the bulbs of light would shine radiantly, the bell chord would be rung several times by excitable kids and the bus conductor would demand that fares would be politely requested. Football was on the menu and the Christmas pudding would have to wait because Arsenal, Liverpool, Spurs, Chelsea, Manchester United and City, Blackburn Rovers, Everton and Fulham constituted the main meal.

So the London underground Tube station would patiently wait its first passengers just after breakfast on Christmas Day and football supporters in London would exchange silly crepe paper hats, laugh uncontrollably at the tinsel and glitter in each other's hair and then walk towards their respective grounds. The fans would tease each other mercilessly about their team's glaring defensive inadequacies and how their opponents would get stuffed and hammered because they'd had far too much to drink before the big day.

Then the trains rumbled and thundered their way out of those ghostly tunnels, football supporters now at full volume and dressed appropriately in Santa Claus red coats and white beards. It all seemed rather silly and pathetic because nobody took football seriously at Christmas time. The Christmas Day fixtures would normally be swiftly followed by a full Boxing Day programme and then another punishing slog a couple of days later. So we indulged ourselves on a hearty feast of high scoring extravaganzas and were rather pleased on Boxing Day 1963 when 66 goals bulged the net in the old First Division. 

Here we are though on the last weekend before football temporarily opens up festive presents, kicks off its shoes, plays endless games of charades and Ker Plunk with the family and then becomes deeply regretful and melancholy, wishing we hadn't quite eaten or drunk too much. Football will always remain subliminally on our minds and this season is no exception. The fierce rivalries will be at their most intense and the local derbies will invariably sort the men from the boys. 

At the top of the Premier League, both Liverpool, Chelsea and Arsenal are bossing proceedings and poor old Manchester City are probably feeling very sorry for themselves. For City, this must feel like a throwback to the days of the old Third Division when everything looked totally beyond repair. When City beat Gillingham in that famous play off Final at Wembley, it marked a significant turning point for City. The rest, as they say, is history with Premier League trophies in quartet succession and Champions League silverware to their name, as now historic reminders of who they were recently as opposed to way back when. 

But we are now approaching the second half of the season and nothing of course is decided on the eve of Slade's timeless festive anthem Merry Christmas Everybody. There are a number of daunting obstacles to be faced in the early months of early January. Some of the Premier League's filthy rich plutocrats will be easily distracted by the FA Cup and managers will be biting their fingernails, hoping that the precarious nature of their profession won't suddenly find them in the local Job Centre.

This morning football will be paying a rightful tribute to George Eastham, a fringe member of Sir Alf Ramsey's 1966 World Cup squad who died today. The England football team will be popping party crackers and blowing whistles before devouring turkeys and feasting on innumerable mince pies. Waiting in the wings will be a German gentleman by the name of Thomas Tuchel, the new England manager and most of us will be hoping for steady improvement, gentle progression and who knows perhaps a World Cup to show off in the USA, Mexico and Canada in two years time but that might be just a daydream at the moment. 

So it's four sleeps to Christmas Day and much jolly revelry. For the benefit of my wonderful Jewish family and friends, it's time to wish you all a happy Chanukah. Go easy on those mouth watering doughnuts and don't forget to enjoy your yearly helpings of salt beef and latkes(potato cakes). This year Chanukah, on its first day of menorah lighting, meets up with its religious friends and family on Christmas Day. It is indeed the most wonderful time of the year. But then every day is beautifully sweet.