Happy Mickey Mouse Day and Disney.

 Happy Mickey Mouse Day and Disney.

Oh come on surely not. You'd be forgiven for thinking that this one had been literally a cartoon with a speech bubble attached to it. So today is National Mickey Mouse Day and you're still in the land of dreams, safely cocooned in your own childhood and this is happening. It's surely a national day that belongs in the realms of the ridiculous and just preposterous? But it really is a good idea because everything seems possible in the best possible world. 

Some of us of course were the legend who is Mickey Mouse since he was the cartoon character who sent us into wild paroxysms of laughter, giggling, chuckling and then blowing out yet more expressions of happiness and delirium. Mickey Mouse belonged to the Walt Disney childhood factory, a place where all the conveyor belts and machinery seemed to be always working and never stopping. Everywhere, that now familiar back story of Walt Disney, controversial as it might have been, always remained faithful to the concept of childish fantasy, never let up for a minute in his quest to produce some of the greatest cartoons ever conceived and executed on the movie silver screen. 

Even now in hindsight whatever you may have thought of the man who was Disney, there can never be denying his phenomenal impact as a film maker, producer and director. When Disney settled down in front of his vast collections of drawing boards, pens and pencils, you knew that there was something pretty special on his feverishly fertile mind. Walt Disney was, of course, an artistic genius, unparalleled cartoonist of the highest quality and a man with a veritable stable of fun kids characters and a huge repertoire of animal sketches that suddenly turned into glorious technicolour on the cinema screen. 

But let's concentrate on Mickey Mouse. Now, as you may or may not know, Mickey Mouse, originally started out his life as a work in progress. Before he became Mickey, he was formerly known as Mortimer Mouse. The USA was still in the grip of the Great Depression and there were soup kitchens in the streets of New York, California, Los Angeles, Hollywood, Detroit and every American city trapped in a downward spiral of poverty and economic depression.  

So who do you think waved a wand and made America feel so much better about themselves. Al Jolson, who had just revolutionised the world of movies with the first talkies movie called the Jazz Singer, found himself up in fierce competition with a remarkable man with a wonderfully prophetic vision of the future. Walt Disney had now given us Steamboat Willie, then a black and white revelation that underwent an astonishing metamorphosis that changed us overnight from hard bitten scepticism into lifelong converts who had to believe in miracles.

From those heady and early days of Disney's development, Walt Disney knew he had something when Mickey Mouse started clowning around in that remarkable sequence of fun loving tomfoolery, knockabout antics that had kids rolling in the aisles. Mickey spoke with a distinctive high pitched voice, squeaky clean at all times and determined to play with the rest of Disney's lovable friends such as Donald Duck, Pluto, Daffy Duck and then there was epic movie era which underlined Disney's pre-eminence and cinema domination.

Before long we had Jumbo, the stunningly impressive Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, followed by yours truly was introduced to Rudyard Kipling's Jungle Book and that endearing deer known as Bambi. But the magnitude of Disney's achievements can never be truly measured because the man was so prolific and constant. 

During the 1960s author Pam Travers had already written the superlative Mary Poppins, the nanny who was entrusted with the welfare of two children who just happened to have an umbrella which took her flying over a thousand smoky rooftops. But a recent film about Travers cast a much darker shadow over Disney's now questionable reputation. Travers believed that the Mary Poppins character had been completely undermined and then destroyed by Disney's insistence on reducing Poppins to some comic pastiche of the one Travers had in mind. 

But we are still on the subject of Mickey Mouse because, it is, after all. His female counterpart Minny Mouse probably feels like a little hard done by, completely overlooked. Mickey Mouse may well be wandering around those flourishing and spectacular theme parks, walking around jauntily with that black and white suit and those big ears which can hear about the latest news in Mississippi, Colorado or Alabama. He'll be recalling those far off days when Mickey held our beautiful children in thrall when lining up for Mickey Mouse's autograph just before breakfast. Mickey was Florida and Florida was Mickey. 

So for those who still remember the TV kids programmes the Mickey Mouse club, this is your day. We may not know that much about Mickey Mouse but thanks to the marvels of cinematography, we are considerably more enlightened about this wondrous Disney creation. Mickey Mouse is the leader of his cartoon gang, a world exclusive to children, unreal of course but very much alive in the world of our children and their grandchildren in perpetuity. 

There he goes as jolly and upbeat as always, shaking the hands of Mickey sociably and never less than friendly. He'll wave at the crowds, dancing and moving with a rhythmic beat, constantly understanding kids because that friendship will never go away. Mickey Mouse has spanned a whole multitude of generations, a cult figure in both Florida and Paris. And that's the way it should always be.     

Harry Redknapp and the loveliest cruise

 Harry Redknapp

There are moments during our lives when the heroes we've idolised from a far seem to become distant with every day. Sometimes those same legendary names pass almost modestly and unobtrusively through our lives, always lifted onto the highest plateau and never really recognised for who they really are. It is quite often the case they suddenly appear on the front or back of our books, the finest print of our newspapers and then just plastered all over the front covers of your favourite magazine.

You never really think for a minute that you'll ever bump into the aforesaid idol or those you may have admired quite extensively whose image would suddenly turn into real life. And then you meet one man who ticks all of those boxes and then walks into your fondest dreams rather like Roy of the Rovers or Dan Dare. For a minute or two, you had to stop and wonder if indeed you were fantasising which of course you weren't. He was there in the flesh, never a cartoon or caricature because that would have been an insult to the man's reputation. Redknapp is the epitome of a statesmanlike figure, an exemplary ambassador for his sport. 

That man, of course, is Harry Redknapp. Harry Redknapp, undoubtedly one of the most charming, urbane, chattiest, most chipper of all footballing legends, had made it all seemed possible. From the moment my lovely wife Bev and I walked onto our cruise vessel the Sky Princess, Harry Redknapp was the most delightful company you'd ever hoped he would be. Redknapp always had the gift of the gab, a priceless story teller, the most outstanding bon viveur and the funniest raconteur of them all. It almost felt as though everything we'd heard and seen about the man was so completely true that of course he was a natural in the field of public relations. 

We were walking along our cabin corridor when suddenly the Prince of Poplar in London's East End appeared and immediately acknowledged your immediate overtures. Yes Harry, West Ham had indeed won their first home match of the Premier League season and Newcastle had been well and truly beaten. After a couple of friendly words of introduction you felt just blown away and just as overawed as you'd been when Sir Geoff Hurst had signed your book as part of a memorable wedding anniversary present from our daughter Rachel. 

Then the following day we once again crossed paths with this most eminent and distinguished of all footballing men, a man so modest and self effacing and self deprecating that you almost felt that even though he has now reached the pinnacle of his career, Redknapp remains grounded, firmly rooted. Here was a man without any airs or graces, cosmetic falsehoods, not even the remotest hint of arrogance. There are no signs of the pretentious posturing or showbiz affectations that you would normally associate with any major celebrity. 

He is singularly charming, excellent company, bubbly, always positive, never despondent and always extolling the virtues of the Beautiful Game. There is nothing of the prima donna about him, no pomposity whatsoever and a former manager and player who could probably talk about the game to anybody well into the wee small hours of the morning. My wife and even had a private audience with him and here was a man of genuine small talk, cheerful and witty badinage, admirable honesty and authenticity. 

After spending most of his playing career at his beloved hometown team West Ham, Redknapp moved into management almost seamlessly. Beside the salubrious seaside, Redknapp gave dedication to the cause at Bournemouth. His most significant achievement and high point at the Vitality Stadium was a standout FA Cup third round victory over Ron Atkinson's Manchester United. Giant killing had visited Bournemouth for one splendid afternoon over 40 years ago and Harry was carried shoulder high. 

Ten years later the club whose shirt he'd always graced came calling. When Billy Bonds needed an assistant at West Ham he didn't need to look any further than Harry Redknapp. After Bonds had left the club, West Ham turned to Redknapp to don the managerial track suit. Redknapp obliged with magnificent and triumphant days at the old Upton Park. He guided them into European football and guided the club to one of its highest positions in Europe. 

Sadly, after an unfortunate behind the scenes argument with club director Peter Storrie, Redknapp departed the club in what seemed like acrimonious circumstances. And yet, as we now know, the man with claret and blue running through his veins had always had the best and most vested interests of the club at heart and left almost reluctantly. 

In the early 2000s, Portsmouth inquired about the former West Ham legend and the rest is well documented history. In 2008 Portsmouth won the FA Cup in the most remarkable of circumstances. The Pompey chimes resounded around Wembley and opponents on the day Cardiff City could hardly have believed that they too were sharing a magical moment with Harry Redknapp. Fratton Park has since sadly encountered life in the lower divisions and are now trying to recapture those halcyon days once again. 

Then there were the Spurs years for our and your Harry Redknapp, an irresistible force. It was hard to imagine that Redknapp could even contemplate joining West Ham's so called London rivals Spurs but Redknapp arrived at the old White Hart Lane like a fire fighter called out while the flames were still licking and slowly demolishing Tottenham. At this time several years ago, Spurs were in a desperate state of disarray, languishing near the bottom of the Premier League with a miserly two points. By the end of an extraordinary season of evolution and revolution, Redknapp had waved the metaphorical magic wand and taken Spurs into Europe. It was a season that defied description and belief.

There followed the TV pundit days, of pulling up outside football grounds on transfer window day and then informing the rest of the captive Sky TV audience that Redknapp was about to do business, engaging in those classic headline making transactions, winding down his car window and neither denying nor admitting to speculation. Harry was and will always remain down to earth, amiable to anybody who just wanted to thank him and full of humbling humility, never fazed by setbacks and determined to achieve whatever challenge and objective may have come his way. 

And so for the rest of our relaxing cruise in both Portugal and the Canaries. For the first two days or so we were greeted by wild rain squalls on the main desk. Madeira had been a pleasant and easy going in the Botanical Gardens and the most gruelling of climbs up steep slopes that were reminiscent of a mini Mount Everest. By mid day, we were puffing and panting for breath and beginning to wonder whether it had been  worth it. But it had been because we were in this one together for this had been good exercise and ultimately rewarding. 

Onwards we moved out to three days out at sea. For the first couple of days, hardy and intrepid passengers on the main deck were tugging at blue blankets to keep out the wind and chill. Now there followed a collective determination to keep warm. At one point it looked as if everybody was competing to see who could lift up the said blankets to the top of their necks. But then the warm sunshine came out as we approached the Canaries, Lanzarote and Tenerife, all flying visits but nonetheless immensely enjoyable. 

In the distance there were the dormant volcanoes and conical shaped mountains that provided the most dramatic backdrop to these glistening islands in the sea. The combination of ash and grey concrete on the ground may have been slightly disconcerting to some but here was a landscape to be preserved for posterity on a million Smart Phones. We saw, came and conquered and were never disappointed. 

So it was that we headed for home, three more days at sea, at times unnerving and turbulent but somehow a joy to the soul. We will never forget those permanently majestic marble pillars inside the ship, floors and statues in marble, endless lines of five star restaurants, luxurious living, musicians tenderly manipulating delicate violins and double basses and cellos, tea dance music that still inhabit Park Lane hotels, pianos that are evocative of any era in modern times and the jazz vibe at the Take Five stage. Then there were the hilarious quizzes, huge bundles of fun wrapped up in frivolity. 

But just to make the whole cruising experience such a unique one we witnessed the most eye catching sight of them all. The art gallery was just a kaleidoscope of colour, paintings that caressed the eye and made you think of the most profound of thoughts. There were famous American artists as well as global practitioners who seem to use their canvas as one blissful release of creativity. And so my wife and I sailed back towards Southampton and home full of presents for our beautiful grandchildren, full of appreciation for the finer things in life and love for both our family and the world. Of course life is sweet.   

The FA Cup first round.

 The FA Cup first round.

It's that magical weekend of the football calendar. Yes folks. For all its critics and cynics in recent years the FA Cup always comes up smelling of roses, chocolate and the  most vintage wine. The FA Cup belongs in some far off ancestral corner of our sporting imagination but always bursts into life at this time of the year. At its formation in 1872, it was a game played predominantly in universities and public schools, recreation fields next to billowing industrial chimneys, guzzling gasworks, the Oval, Crystal Palace, Stamford Bridge and then, ultimately, the old Wembley Stadium. 

This weekend though the FA Cup returns in its current incarnation, today's iteration, the way it is now and was and always should be in the future. It rolls into town like those rooting tooting Wild West cowboys on horseback, reckless and adventurous, unblemished by time, hardly touched by the ravages of modernity and high tech, brazen sponsorship, millions of pounds of investment by a thousand TV and radio stations, every conceivable football magazine and, for the locals, a full page spread in the regional newspapers. 

The FA Cup used to be about traditional values, the highest moral standards, giant killing of the most monumental order, the flights of fantasy winging their way through the land of fairy tales and the shock, horror stories where the FA Cup's most romantic liaisons always melted our hearts. The back page headline makers would always strut their stuff and then jump into the communal bath after a game, swigging back innumerable bottles of milk and champagne. 

This weekend, the FA Cup first rounds unfurls its finest tapestry with some of the most decorative stitches still intact. Maybe the FA Cup should be engraved on a special shield for posterity and regularly celebrated by all those little teams who play their matches before three dogs and a cat. For that is essentially the FA Cup, its essence, the foundation stone from where the first cement and brick was first laid. It is the recreation ground next to sylvan parkland, where the Sunday pub eleven trot out of tiny huts and smaller dressing rooms. The FA Cup was all about level playing grounds, the shining light of amateurism. 

The FA Cup belongs to the working classes, the dedicated part time players who strike the right balance between the work and fun conundrum with such effortless ease. They start their working day schedule at the crack of dawn, filling up supermarket shelves or clocking on at those manufacturing factories where steel and iron can still be heard. They post letters or trundle past chocolate box terraced houses with rattling milk floats. They spend interminable hours hunched over office desks in front of flickering screens. And then they will play football because that represents a welcome relief from the toil and intensity of hard graft.

So who would care to step up to the plate first. In the fair city of Bristol, Weston - Super- Mare will meet Aldershot, a game that conjures up all of the symbolism and imagery of a typical Cup tie. There will be little fuss and commotion at the end of this one. Then there's Salford City for whom several Old Trafford alumni will have vested interests in this year's FA Cup. Salford City will meet Lincoln City, perhaps completely unnoticed by TV or radio but embraced by social media.  

There's Bedfordshire's finest Luton Town who will play green, environmentally friendly Forest Green Rovers, both of whom may have to content themselves to the bread and butter of the Football League pyramid. The lovely county of Essex will be preparing itself for the visit of Milton Keynes Dons who for their part, will probably have to negotiate several roundabouts. Colchester, home of those famous military barracks, will be hoping to down the Dons and what could be better than that. 

Meanwhile, Tranmere Rovers, not a million miles away from the allegedly superior Merseyside neighbours of both Liverpool and Everton, will meet Stockport County which is more or less a local case of bragging rights in that part of the Wirral. Wigan, who memorably won the FA Cup in 2013 against the all conquering and mighty Manchester City, will be up against Hemel Hempstead Town and that maybe the end for the gallant folk of Hemel Hempstead. 

And then the Welsh wizards of Newport County will face those fine and able representatives from the Garden of England in Kent where Gillingham will be hoping to adorn their day with the most fragrant bouquet of roses. Cheltenham, in deepest gymkhana and horse loving Gloucestershire, take on the ruthless but stylish Yorkshiremen of Bradford City while those other illustrious Yorkshire folk Barnsley engage in another local derby against York City. 

So let's wrap up this gentle synopsis of FA Cup goodies. There's the War of the Roses showdown between Bolton Wanderers against Huddersfield which has the ring and resonance of a 1920s Cup tie. Farnham, of  Surrey stockbroker belt territory, will meet eyeball to eyeball either Sutton United or Telford United. Back on the Essex Riviera, there sounds like a cracking, exhilarating local derby between Chelmsford City and Braintree Town. 

Wherever you may be over the weekend it would be advisable to carry around you a box of handkerchiefs, some nutritious beef and onion pies and a flask of tea or coffee because the FA Cup is bound to get emotional. Tomorrow marks the first day of November and some of us get very sentimental when those happy strugglers of the non League try to upstage their so called betters of the Football League pyramid. The FA Cup, by its very presence, is still good for the soul, unforgettable and a constant source of reassurance to those who may think football lost its soul ages ago. It's time to strap yourself in tightly for the great roller coaster that is the FA Cup. Of course it matters. 

Winter wonderland

 Winter wonderland.

It is normally the time of the year when most of us withdraw into deep reflection and contemplation of the year as it wends its way slowly towards its close. Then, for reasons that may seem obvious and not quite so understandable, we become withdrawn, reclusive, comfortable, warm and cosy. An overwhelming air of sad, sullen moroseness quite obviously hangs heavy on the homeless, neglected, the marginalised classes whose voices are never heard, the ones who sleep on street or park benches alone. We will never be able to know what may be going through their heads. 

And then we probably feel sorry for ourselves because it is indeed winter and all of those vibrant summer parties and family barbecues are nothing but yesterday's chip paper. We retreat into ourselves, switch the heating on, pull a blanket or two over ourselves in front of the TV and just feel tired, reflective, completely lacking in any desire or ambition. Of course we've got the perfect job or car, a family unit we'll always cherish. But then we'll look at the all enveloping darkness outside our windows at five o clock in the evening and wish summer had never even considered leaving us with its glorious warmth. 

Last Sunday morning we suddenly discovered that the clocks had gone back and we were not in the least surprised. It's something we've grown accustomed to for as long as we can remember, the transitional period of the year when summer makes way for autumn and then winter. Our body clocks should be used to this yearly occurrence and yet, as a kid, you took it for granted that when you woke up for school in the morning, it was both dark, foggy and misty, the milk floats were rattling and the postman or woman was up at the crack of dawn. 

But that failed to disguised the awkward realisation that seven o'clock in the morning still felt like midnight and you simply didn't abandon yourselves to the joys of academic life at roughly the time the owls make that familiar nocturnal hooting noise outside your bedroom window. And yet you went to school in the dark and invariably came home as the fading light of tea time made way for an early night. It almost felt as though daylight had somehow become rationed and you'd had no time to enjoy the remnants of the winter sunshine. 

It was always thus. And then we were regaled with that same old urban myths or maybe the truths. We may have been told repeatedly that the clocks only went back at the end of October because Scottish farmers insisted that the cows had to be milked at a certain time. Those self same cows were never consulted for their considered opinion on daylight and night time. Can you imagine a herd of Friesian cows debating the merits and demerits of waking up when they were told to?

Anyway here we are again and shortly the rampant cash tills of commercialism will be ringing fiercely and furiously as thousands of supermarket trolleys are taken for a paso doble around vast food and drink emporiums. In a couple of days it'll be Halloween, the season when energetic kids will be running around the roads and streets of Britain, knocking on doors quite enthusiastically and then expecting a wad of money for their sterling endeavours. 

Then we'll look up at the dark wintry sky and pretend we can see huge communities of witches on their broomsticks flying around at the rate of knots. Meanwhile, back at home, families across the country will be sipping warm bowls of pumpkin soup. Those same children will be carving eyes and ears out of the pumpkins and lighting candles inside them. It is all rather strange, pagan, mysterious, fun in a roundabout kind of way but baffling because it's hard to see the point of it all. Still, maybe you've reached an age where you don't really care anyway. 

And then next week another ritualistic event makes its yearly appearance. Guy Fawkes Night is almost as old as time, a night of loud, deafening, boisterous, noisy fireworks. We do this every year without questioning it. Then we're almost resigned to its perennial soundtrack of bang, crash, scream and laugh before intensifying its volume a million fold. Suddenly the sparklers will be whizzed around with much hilarity and dad will tell his children to stand well back before the Ferris wheels and rockets are launched to their highest altitude. 

The organised fireworks party was always a wheeze, the funniest of all revelations, confirmation of your childhood and never disappointing. But as a grandfather now, Guy Fawkes night is no longer the source of fascination it might have been when you were five or six. But you're grandson and grandchildren will shortly be introduced to the delights of fireworks, that riotous round of pyrotechnics that soar into the night sky before spinning cartwheels and then spluttering into a damp squib. 

Shortly, November will be with us again and November just seems to race away into the distance because by now most of us will be inundated with the Christmas spirit. Oh yes that festival. We mustn't forget Christmas because we've always remembered and never forgotten it. It just seems to creep insidiously into our imagination like a ghost that suddenly haunts a medieval castle. And yet here we are at the end of October and the weeks, months and the whole year has just gone far too quickly. 

Then we'll huddle around the TV and watch the always glamorous Strictly Come Dancing because that's a must, a necessity because the it's colourful, spectacular, glitzy and sparkly. It is that chandelier light in our living rooms when outside it looks as if a huge chunk of charcoal has arrived outside on our doorsteps. The street lights are on at full amber, the gorgeous reflections of rain water can be seen for miles and the atmosphere out there has radically changed for the better. 

Of course this may be debatable but you can't help but think that you're cosy and healthy, protected from the cascades of rain that pour in Biblical torrents for much of the season. Rain is soothing to the ear, comforting if sleep isn't immediately forthcoming. Rain is good for the crops for those in the agricultural industry, it was an outstanding short story written by Somerset Maugham many decades ago and yes folks it's time to embrace the beauties of the passing seasons and just smile for the camera. Enjoy, folks. 

The news agenda

 The news agenda

Sometimes the news agenda and the daily itinerary of our lives can get totally mixed up in our minds so much so that by the end of the day we can never be sure how certain events are connected and whether there's any logic, rhyme or reason to whatever may have been heard or seen. Horrendous wars in far off countries can often leave us with the impression that the world has gone to hell in a handcart but then you discover that our Royal Family are in the Vatican. And both news stories just seem the most ludicrous sequence of events that came from left field and bore no relation to each other whatsoever. 

On the one hand, thank goodness, the Middle East conflict between beautiful Israel and Hamas, the most evil of all terrorist networks, does seem to have stopped. A ceasefire has been declared and a peace agreement seems to be holding. But there remains an air of uneasy volatility which we can only pray will vanish immediately. Oh for peace in perpetuity and no more bloodshed, historical antagonism, death, pain and suffering. Some of us have just had enough because this is one war that seemed to go on indefinitely. 

Then, in another theatre of war not a million miles away from the Middle East, is the Russia- Ukraine war of words and the most bitter of confrontations. At the moment, President Trump has once again been called into action to bash heads together and looks like a man who thought peace negotiations were something people engaged in at a business conference where deals are made and hefty prices are quoted. Trump would probably give anything just to be in charge of a lucrative financial settlement where he gets at least another million added to his vast bank account. 

And so we park everything we know about Trump in one place and just observe the rest of the world and the stuff that smacks of sleazy gossip and unsavoury goings on.  For instance there is one other vitally important global concern that has to be addressed and even now we'll never quite know why. It could have been consigned to the dustbin of history in a rather shame faced fashion but it's been lingering like a bad smell and we can't get rid of it. It's the Prince Andrew scandal.    

Yesterday though, King Charles the Third, accompanied by his wife Queen Camilla, returned to the public spotlight. They are now in the Vatican city for an audience with the Pope. Now so rare is this meeting of royalty and religion that some of us thought we'd never see anything quite like it again. Charles and Camilla looked properly respectful and full of admiration for the first American Pope in many hundreds of years. There was the pomp and ceremony that we always take for granted on such holy and sacred occasions. 

But then we began to think of all those domestic news revelations that most of us have come to acknowledge as somehow peripheral in our field of vision. The Labour Party in government are still lurching from one catastrophe to another, still dropping one clanger after another, still looking ill equipped for the task in hand. If it isn't the handling of male grooming gangs committing all manner of egregious crimes, then it's the perilous state of the housing market or even youth employment and the lack of opportunities. Then we hear rumblings of discontent about the codes of morality that are never observed by government ministers. It's all very familiar and common so why are we surprised?

There's no point in worrying about apocalyptic wars raging around the world or dystopian scenes of bloodshed and destruction. Surely we should be far more pre-occupied with the repulsive behaviour of Prince Andrew. Much of the news agenda has been devoted to the one member of the Royal Family that her late and much beloved Queen Elizabeth simply adored as her favourite. But then it all came out in the wash, the totally inappropriate relationship with a nasty piece of work known as Jeffrey Epstein, a notorious paedophile, sex pest and revolting human being. 

And yet this story hardly seemed worthy of mention and would have comfortably slipped under the radar and vanished into obscurity had it not been Prince Andrew. Andrew and shady, salacious tittle tattle seem to be going hand in hand with each other. But for those with the highest regard for the Royal Family, this has left a filthy, dirty stain on a hitherto flawless, unblemished reputation. To an outside onlooker, the Royal Family have always endeavoured to present a favourable image to the outside world but not always with the right results. And you were always deeply impressed with that family togetherness, the unity in troubled times and the frequent appearances on the Buckingham Palace balcony.

But amid all the slanderous accusations, the family bust ups, the frosty stares and that sense of detachment from the real world, Prince Andrew is still a disgrace, the naughty maverick who chose to fraternise with the bad sort, the spivs, the chancers, the hardened criminals, the ones who always got away with it. We throw our hands up in horror because we were convinced that, finally, there were no rotten apples in the bag. 

Sadly we now discover that, apart from being ostracised from his immediate family, Prince Andrew may have nowhere to live shortly. The royal duties have been stripped from him and he may have to chase up some reputable estate agents for another desirable property. The lavish mansion in which he thought he could live in for the rest of his life, is now no longer his or so it would seem. It could though have turned out so differently for Andrew had he taken the advice of his wonderful mother. 

Still, we love the Royals or maybe we can't stand them. We still elevate them to the highest of plateaus because, for all the privilege and obscene wealth that follows them everywhere, they still uphold the loftiest of standards. The Prince of Wales William enjoys the most delightful of marriages with the Princess of Wales Catherine, her face always wreathed in radiant smiles and duty to country always uppermost on her mind. Personally the Royals can do no wrong in your eyes and that has to be a good thing.  

We must not forget of course the Duke of Edinburgh Prince Edward with Sophie the Duchess of Edinburgh. At times, it almost feels as if  Edward and Sophie have just retired to some exotic desert island. Modest and shy of any grand fanfare of publicity, they convey an image of both purity, integrity and marital devotion. It is a loyalty to each other that is utterly commendable and never truly appreciated. They go about their business with an unwavering industry and admirable commitment to any cause. 

But here we are again at the end of October on a Friday evening and wondering where the year has gone. Way back in the mists of history, Fridays were all about Crackerjack, that funny and frivolous TV children's programme on BBC One at five o'clock. You had to watch Crackerjack because this was the summit of the week, a delicious piece of childhood marzipan cake to finish off your tea. Crackerjack had crazy slapstick humour, kids balancing cabbages in their hands and a whole pile of random household products. Your reward for winning these games was a pencil and, in hindsight, it must have felt like an insult. But did anybody care or complain at the time? You suspect not. 

And next week it'll be Halloween, all witchcraft and pumpkins followed by Guy Fawkes fireworks night on November the fifth. Time quite possibly passes us by without so much a pause for breath and our perspectives on the year approaching its end will remain much the way they've always been. Before you know it, the Lord Mayor of London will be paraded around the streets of the City of London in a gold carriage and of course it'll be Chanukah and Christmas. We are now rapidly seeing out the concluding months of 2025. Hasn't life been wonderful and sweet as sugar? It has indeed and always will be. 

 

National Writing Day

 National Writing Day. 

For some of us, writing is the ultimate release, that opportune moment to express yourself on the written page. When the clouds of depression and anxiety threatened to overwhelm you, there was an irresistible compulsion to let yourself go, to hit the keyboard and just open up on who you are, your position in the grander scheme of things, the position you occupy in relation to the rest of the world. 

When life became too overwhelming for you in 2012, you found the most reliable outlet for your emotions, a way of dealing with the all consuming complications that had now threatened to leave you helpless and despairing. Writing became your answer to the seemingly insoluble problems, a potential remedy for your psychological difficulties, and the way forwards rather than backwards. 

You'd always written for as long as you could remember. You left school without any academic qualifications but knew that the love for writing was still as passionate as ever. You used to write rambling, discursive, long winded, wordy and verbose English essays that seemed to make sense to you but, in hindsight, may have been incomprehensible to the trained eye.

The chances were that you were trying to impress your teachers with your immaculate command of the English language but then realised that these verbal banalities were just surplus to requirements. So, after leaving school and heading rapidly down into a dark hole that just seemed to swallow you up, writing was still on your subconscious, on the surface of your feelings but never properly within your reach. There was a sense here that you just wanted to write for a living even though you were still only 16 and nobody would take you that seriously. 

So you immersed yourself in the reading of the classics such as Dickens, Orwell, the wondrous Thomas Hardy, Kafka, Thomas Mann, Conrad, Henry James, Proust and Tolstoy, quite an impressive literary line up. You found yourself challenging yourself to read as much as you could but you had no idea why. And then towards the end of the 1980s, you became a tentative scribbler, jotting down notes at first before going back to writing with pen the first paragraphs of football match reports. The bug had bitten you. 

For some inexplicable reason, you would watch the highlights of Match of the Day and the Big Match, two of the most informative football magazine TV programmes. During the 1970s, something prompted you to pick up the pen yet again after pouring out your thoughts onto the written paper during a family holiday in Spain. It was the morning after Scotland had beaten England in 1977 which had resulted in broken crossbars, posts and destructive pitch invasions at the old Wembley. Scotland beat England but that somehow seemed irrelevant.

But now was the time. From somewhere you grabbed a piece of paper and just wrote and wrote. It was all very ordered and structured. Without any knowledge of house style or journalistic flair, you simply painted a picture of what had happened in this notorious battle between the Tartans and Sassenachs. Memory may not serve you correctly but as a first attempt at sports journalism, it wasn't that bad. It was factually correct, thought provoking perhaps but probably quite amateurish.

So you reflected on the masterful works of George Orwell and remembered his reflections on writing both essays and novels. Orwell had captured the popular imagination with his experience as a down and out tramp traipsing the streets of the East End and then his influences. You began to think that here was a man who had something very plausible, serious and fascinating to say. He told us all about his political standpoints, the internal divisions between those who had and those who couldn't afford the basic necessities. He openly criticised the Tories and the Labour party and then spoke in front of a BBC microphone during the Second World War, the perfect medium for everything that was controversial and contentious about the man.  

You though had a completely different canvas to work from. You had never been to Eton or any public school and never had Orwell's aptitude for the written word. So you imagined the scenario of a man with forthright opinions, rousing rhetoric, and detailed descriptions of society, poverty and middle class poshness and affluence. In many ways, Orwell despised the stinking rich and detested pretentiousness, snobbery, outrageous condescension, noses in the air and admitted to a general disapproval of the bourgeoisie, the upper classes.

Now you discovered Thomas Hardy, a writer of such poetic prose and magical, lyrical descriptions of Hardy's countryside that you could hardly believe what you were reading. The whole landscape and topography of rural Wessex and Dorset was brought vividly to life. It was a colourful and vibrant canvas of colours, richly imaginative scene setting where the plot and characterisation took pride of place in Hardy's mind. 

In quick succession, you found Joseph Conrad, Polish- English writer whose sea faring epics were both exhilarating, rewarding to the eye and utterly compelling. There was Henry James, full of grandiose and monumental portrayals of American high society and the amusing gossip that underpinned most of James novels. There was Franz Kafka, full of graphic accounts of his own childhood and tales of court trials while always remaining a beacon of harsh truths and accurate observations. Marcel Proust gave us three volumes of Remembrance of Things Past, a 3,000 page novel that seemed to go on for ever but did eventually stop when presumably Proust was emotionally exhausted. 

But writing is something that you've always done for as long as you can remember. It may have been happened by accident rather than design. You were never quite sure where your writing style would take but then it didn't really matter. You found yourself deep in the heart of subjects that were always open to interpretation. In a sense you were creating your world as opposed to a one written by somebody else. 

And yet we've always written, whether it be in the days of hieroglyphics, poetry, romantic and science fiction. We can often go back to the days when cavemen started carving inscriptions until the 16th and 17th centuries when the writers of the age cultivated a highly stylistic and formal approach to the world of the written word. Samuel Richardson wrote huge quantities of love letters before Tobias Smollett and Sir Walter Scott combined both bawdy and racy language and, in the case of Scott, very lively accounts of people and relationships. 

So it's National Writing Day and it's time to blow your own personal trumpet about your very unique literary contributions. Firstly, in 2014, you wrote your personal life story, the development of your character and identity and your first experiences of life from a childhood perspective. You found yourself digging deep to find the reasons for your Autism and  some very reassuring answers because, although you didn't know it at the time, it was your way of coping with a condition that had remained so mysterious for such a long time. 

And then there was No Joe Bloggs, my story about me and there could hardly have been anything more appropriate or relevant to the way you were feeling at the time. You thought it was both moving, nostalgic and full of very honest description. Then there was Joe's Jolly Japes, my take on social commentary, your first children's book Ollie and His Friends and finally my current book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence. Here you waxed lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there was eulogy to my lovely dad, my grandpa Jack who cut the hair of those noble 1966 World Cup winning heroes Bobby Moore, Sir Martin Peters, Sir Geoff Hurst, Boris Johnson, Thomas Hardy, the World Cup, England, USA, Euro 2020, Europa League, the Carabao Cup, football grounds and Ilford FC, my local team growing up. 

It's National Writing Day folks so feel free to take out your laptop or even the good, old fashioned notebook and just tell us about whatever may be on your mind. Writers can be both private and reclusive, solitary or just busily diligent in their library researches or family archives. You never know in which direction those first words on the page will take you. So if you're thinking about it right now, just go for it. It could be a very special journey. 

England lose critical World Cup qualifier in 1973.

 England lose critical World Cup in qualifier in 1973.

It was one of those fatalistic moments in the history of English football team. The England football team have always been under the fiercest scrutiny, almost a laboratory experiment that could never be understood. But, on one night 52 years ago, England were about to experience that pivotal turning point which would condemn them to years in the football wilderness. English football fans would cry into the beer for the best part of a decade and nobody was there to pick us up from the floor. There was a mournful silence.

It was a gloomy, sullen and morose evening, a dark and melancholy night when the world of Sir Alf Ramsey came crashing around his ears. Ramsey would lose his job as England manager and 1966 would become just a distant memory consigned to the fading archives. All of those stereotypical perceptions of England and the Beautiful Game were shattered into a thousand pieces and poor Sir Alf Ramsey just pulled up the collar of his coat and shambled off the old Wembley pitch like a man who had just stolen a loaf of bread or pint of milk. 

For it was today in 1973 that England were deprived of the opportunity to participate in the following year of the World Cup in West Germany. 1974 was not the year English fans could take any comfort or consolation from. A 1-1 draw against Poland in a critical World Cup qualifier sent us all into a tailspin of disaster, disappointment and woeful frustration. England would not be going to the World Cup Finals hosted by West Germany in 1974 and Scotland would be our only British representatives in West Germany. 

And yet weeks before, in the opening friendly of the international season, England had comprehensively beaten Austria with a 7-0 victory that led us to believe, misguidedly, as events would prove, that England were very much the greatest international team in the world. Unquestionably so. But this was so much of a false dawn that many of us felt robbed, embarrassed and vaguely disenchanted with international football. It could all have been so different had things gone according to plan. Nobody thought this would ever happen. 

So there we were two years away from our teenage years, spellbound by the incredulity of  what had just happened. At the old Wembley Stadium there was a palpable air of stunned bewilderment and disbelief. And yet the year before, West Germany had arrived for a vital European Championship match at the old Wembley against England and then played them off the park with a stark reminder of English defensive vulnerabilities. The West Germans won convincingly with a 3-1 victory and England were gutted, punched in the ribs and speechless. Even Brian Clough called the Polish goalkeeper Jan Tomaszewski a clown but this was far from a circus act more of a minor catastrophe. 

For 90 minutes, England threw the kitchen sink at Poland, plates, cutlery and crockery flying through the night air as if their lives depended on it. In the years that followed, England could never come to terms with the absurd unexpectedness of the events that would unfold like the most dramatic play they would ever experience. At first it must have felt like a Greek tragedy, but then it occurred to you that Homer had nothing to do with international football. So we took defeat on the chin and just got on with the business in hand. The quest for World Cup winning glory would just have to continue and it all seemed so forlorn.

So as the likes of Roy Mcfarland Colin Bell, Tony Currie, Mick Channon, Martin Chivers and Alan Clarke and company all trooped wearily back towards the Wembley tunnel, the realisation had dawned on us. England just weren't up to the job, freezing on the big occasion and resigned to their fate. That air of tired resignation seeped damagingly into England's muddled mentality and mindset and it didn't bode well for the future. England were clueless, anodyne, flat and totally confused. 

Admittedly, England did manage a 1-1 draw which in the modern  narrative might have been good enough in today's game. But only one team were permitted to qualify for World Cups in those days and England had fallen short. Only a victory would ensure qualification for the World Cup and England never really looked like scoring the necessary goals that would rubber stamp our passport to West Germany. 

And so it all unravelled like a ghoulish, haunting, goth spectacle, rather like some sinister and macabre TV adaptation that would send a shiver down our spines. Deep into the second half of the game, England were still knocking on doors, stamping our feet, resorting to a crowbar, anything to blast open Polish resistance. The attacks came in waves, goal-line clearances and frantic urgency just followed persistently. How hard could it be but of course it was. We were making a mountain out of a molehill. This clearly was a formidable obstacle and the Poles refused to budge. In the end, nothing mattered and yet it felt like the end of the world for all English football fans. Life though is precious and, besides, the truth had to be told.

At one point, England looked so desperate and determined that you almost felt sorry for them. There are times when sport just gets to you, an unbearable spectacle that just degenerates into some sorry tale of what might have been. With the match now approaching its final chapters, Poland sensed that something was in the air, worrying and disturbing us all.  There was a nervous tension, anguished apprehension, something we thought would never happen. But it did. There were anxious frowns on the Wembley terraces, concerned faces and a suspicion that there were deficiencies within the English make up of the game, its faults, foibles and familiar failings.

So it was that the worst case scenario revealed itself. Norman Hunter, who was notorious for biting legs and tackling like a bull in a china shop, had hitherto become a Leeds United legend. But wearing the Three Lions England shirt had caught him unawares. On the half way line, Hunter casually took possession of the ball and then completely lost his bearings, fumbling and stumbling horrendously, a tackle that he was never likely to win. 

Within a whirlwind of seconds, Poland broke swiftly along the wing, the likes of Wlodzimierz Lubanski and Robert Gadocha flooding forward at breakneck speed. And then the body blow would be struck with severe wounds in the England defence. The ball would be laid back across the England penalty area and Grzegorz Lato went storming hungrily into space before drilling the ball low and hard past a perplexed Peter Shilton, the England goalkeeper. 

There was the scant consolation of an England equaliser. An Alan Clarke goal from the penalty spot did alleviate our immediate fears but this was never going to be good enough on the night. England left the building by the tradesman's entrance and were now exiting the World Cup. For the next decade, Scotland laughed up their sleeves and there was something of a sadistic giggle and chuckle under their Tartan breath that prevailed for the rest of the 1970s.

Now of course though England have reached another World Cup Finals and rendered that whole traumatic period for the national side as just a temporary blip. Thomas Tuchel is no Sir Alf Ramsey nor a treacherous Don Revie although he may have not been thinking clearly at the time. Tactics, formations, diamond formations and 4-4-2 may come and go. Now is the era of the low block, the pressing game, VAR, draught excluders at free kicks and who knows what else the game has to offer. 

To be sure though England will be in the USA, Mexico and Canada, grappling with yet another load of logistics, scientific data and analytics. We'll be analysing our club's fortunes, celebrating or commiserating depending on the results that have either promoted or relegated us. We will fly off to the promised land, crossing our fingers, sampling LA for a while perhaps, lapping up Florida then quite possibly rubbing shoulders with Hollywood. They will dance to the mariachi beat in Mexico before taking in the sweetest maple syrup of Canada. These are interesting times once again for England.