St George's Day

 St George's Day

Today was meant to be a day that was somehow quintessentially and properly, a celebration of Englishness, an unashamed homage to patriotism, expressing everything that is stereotypically English and perhaps a good enough reason to highlight all the good qualities and values that make being British or English so important to those who live in the United Kingdom.

And yet on the very day we should be high fiving the literary exploits of William Shakespeare whose birthday it is today as well, nothing of any real cultural significance happened anywhere. Instead this afternoon in London, the capital city, became altogether too controversial, heated, inflammatory and impassioned. Not for the first time in its illustrious history London became the centre of political demonstrations, powerful voices, vocal discord and pointless protests. There was also trouble so there was no change on that front.

It was supposed to be St George's Day, a day reserved for good, old fashioned English qualities such as reserve, restraint, dignity, modesty and reticence since England somehow refuses to get excited about the kind of things it has always excelled at. England loves its pomp and ceremony, its royal family, red pillar post boxes, vicars on bicycles, church services on a Sunday, jumble sales, large marrows at village fetes, strawberries and beetroots at the height of summer and its general jollity when somebody mentions tea and cake with just a biscuit or two.

But this afternoon Tommy Robinson, an alleged troublemaker and passionate campaigner on behalf of anything that defies the Establishment, got all busy and started shouting the odds. Soon his supporters were in confrontation mode with the police, loud mouthed and aggressive, posturing and threatening the peace before pushing, shoving, provoking, finger jabbing and then, to quote the popular vernacular, getting stuck in. Soon fists were flying, provocative banners were being held proudly and suddenly all hell seemed to be breaking loose.

And so it was that St George's Day, which should have been a day for dancing around maypoles and rolling cheeses down British hillsides, became a scene of ugly crime. It was no longer a day of peace and tranquillity, for flying the Union Jack and singing all the way down to Piccadilly Circus and gathering at Eros for another convivial knees up. It was now a day of sinister nationalism, vaguely racist overtones and something much more uncomfortable and disagreeable. 

So rather than extolling the virtues of British identity and everything we've come to cherish about Britain, its lovable eccentricity at times perhaps we should also wax lyrical about its expertise, its competence, the renowned skills it has never been afraid to boast about. Of course Britain loves its beer, alcohol, its arts and crafts, the artisans who make their vases, cups and bowls, the pottery that almost comes naturally to this fair island. Britain doffs its cap to village blacksmiths, its silk weavers and a manufacturing heritage that perhaps it should be doing much more to acknowledge but almost takes for granted.

Regrettably though the harsh reality is that St George's Day has now passed off without any event or incident, not so much as a whimper, murmur or commotion. What we had in its place was some pathetic individual with a Tannoy speaker, barking out political mumbo jumbo that sounded vaguely nonsensical. Robinson kept referring to the mainstream political parties as useless entities who simply weren't serving Britain effectively.

And so today St George's Day just lingers in isolation as one of those days that is just considered as another working day with no sense of  self congratulation and no recognition of its historic achievements. We will of course remember the great poet and playwright who radically changed the landscape of medieval theatre for ever with Macbeth, the Merchant of Venice, Hamlet, Othello, Romeo and Juliet and innumerable masterpieces that broke so many boundaries for centuries to follow.

So to William Shakespeare it's another happy birthday and anniversary and St George's Day. It may not feel like it but one day Britain may wake up and realise that it can remember what day it really is. It is April 23rd and we can still make a fuss about St George's Day so if the rest of the world can treat their days as those of rejoicing and celebration then so can we.    

Happy Pesach and Passover to the world and chag semach Pesach to everybody.

Happy Pesach and Passover to the world and chag semach Pesach to everybody.

At this point of the year the global Jewish community frantically sets about the business of spring cleaning, cleaning of Chametz, the traditional ceremony of burning and temporarily disposing of anything in the Jewish household of bread or unleavened bread. This is the important point since for just over a week, Jews across the world celebrate the festival of Pesach or Passover. It is the springtime gathering of kindred spirits, Jewish families with a common bond, singing from the same Haggadah, the book with moving passages from the story of Pesach, the blessings and prayers and the exodus of Jews from Egypt.

We have done this for thousands and thousands of years and do so with considerable pleasure because this is our time to share our favourite stories from the Haggadah, to reminisce on cups of wine from Elijah, the symbolic bitter herbs( the charosets) Maror, the salt water representing tears on the seder table and everything allegorical about Pesach. This is the time when Jewish families gather around our table and are just be grateful, blessed and healthy. Our kids love it and the adults are pretty impressed and euphoric. So we smile at each other and chuckle openly at the Afikomen as the children and grandchildren are kindly told to search for the elusive Afikomen, spreading good cheer and bonhomie.

But Pesach has always united us in both loss, grief and adversity because of the deeply set historical divisions that may have been left to just fester because we just assume that the rest of the Jewish calendar year will be filled with harmonious months, days and weeks of our lives. And yet how to explain the ten plagues of  boils and lice accompanied by all manner of diseases and abominations? So we wander through the pages of Haggadah with a well entrenched fascination, that sense of sheer astonishment at how dark and shocking some of those Biblical events must have been. 

And yet Pesach is all about families and children, the foundation stone of any society, the models of reliability that they've always provided for us, the stability they give us when things go horribly wrong, the balance that keeps us fully functional and the comfort they bring us in loss. Whatever the year may have brought thus far, will now be reinforced with essential love and guidance. You can now eat matza to your hearts content, that moreish and addictive Pesach food that can be eaten at any time throughout Passover without any feeling of guilt and shame. Matzas can be devoured with lashings of butter and anything savoury or sweet that takes your fancy.

So we place our kippot(skull cap) on our heads and listen to the richly detailed story of Pesach, the comprehensive explanations, answers to the apparently insoluble problems and the reasons why. This is the moment when the genuine puzzles and unfathomable become abundantly clear. Why indeed do we lean to one side when for the rest of the year you can lean wherever you like? We chant and sing the appropriate prayers because that's something that came almost naturally to us. We asked the same questions and then answered in the same breath. Pesach grounds us fully, roots us to the ground and maintains the easy flow of life. 

Now you find yourself drawn to Pesach celebrations when your wonderfully loving grandma and grandpa, mum and dad, sat eagerly and happily in glorious anticipation of the seder service. As a child you gazed up in wide eyed wonderment at your grandpa Jack, the most learned of Hebrew scholars because he was indeed the font of all human knowledge and wisdom. He was the one who absorbed everything there was to know about Judaism, the marvellous emphasis on certain Hebrew words that completely defied your understanding as a child.

Then the seder service and would be over in lightning speed. In a matter of quarter of an hour, the prayers were uttered reverentially, wine spilt over Haggadahs, matza crumbs liberally sprinkled across the seder table and that was that for another year. For a moment you were just stunned into silence, barely believing that something so precious and cherished should be regarded as a brief homage to Judaism. Surely Pesach should have been considered, measured, savoured and just listened to for much longer than you were led to believe.

But my lovely grandpa, in his smart grey suit, grey hair neatly cut and combed as was his wont because he had been one of the most accomplished barbers in the East End of London, knew everything. He spoke every word in a hectic rush that at times just sounded incomprehensible. In fact he muttered and mumbled Hebrew grammar with a complete recognition of every paragraph and sentence, every page. He would smile tenderly at me and repeatedly tell me that everything was absolutely right and how correct he was. There was never any cause for argument because grandpa knew best. Of course he was right.

Then my delightful grandma, lavishing tenderness and affection on their grandchildren Mark and Joe, would run in and out of the kitchen, industrious, beautifully affectionate and caring deeply for her grandchildren. And then there was the cup of wine which had of course been drunk by Elijah. Both mum and dad, grandma and grandma joked about the alleged arrival of Elijah since as a kid you were very impressionable and just agreed with them. You were told to look at the ripple of wind on the top of the cup of wine and the slight movement of the wine meant Elijah had undoubtedly visited their home for just a sip. 

It would be the most satisfying and joyful of evenings for both my mum and dad and grandparents. Springtime had well and truly arrived although that egg on the seder table looked completely unpalatable. The shell was burnt and was just inedible, while the matzas were readily available to my grandma and grandpa at any time of the year. Everything was both spiritual and communal.  In my grandparents home in Gants Hill, Essex matzas would dominate their big summer house at the back of their home, lined up in perfectly symmetrical fashion around the room.

In a sense Pesach is just as uplifting and heart warming as any other Jewish festival of the year. It is the beginning of spring, the blossoming of flora and fauna, those first buds on trees bulging with brightness and colour. It is the renewal of the seasons, that magnificent transition to spring from winter, the handing over of the baton to summer. 

Pesach has always meant different things to all of us. It reminds us of how appetising matzas are because they just happen to be there, rather like  jars of sweets or the bars of chocolate we couldn't possibly resist. We know that Pesach is very much a social gathering of the familiar and the traditional, the good and positive of our lives, happiness and laughter. How good is that, hey? Pesach is simply brilliant. Chag semach Pesach to all of my Jewish friends and family. You're all the best.  

Derek Underwood dies

 Derek Underwood dies

At the start of what promises to be yet another busy and eventful season, cricket today mourned the loss of one of its treasured legends. When Derek Underwood skipped jauntily down the pavilion steps at either Lords, Headingley, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford or the Oval you knew you were in the presence of greatness and artistry, cunning and duplicity, nimble fingered dexterity and enormous charm. Derek Underwood represented Englishness, reassurance and an innate ability to remain calm in a crisis and just committed to the cause whether it be a losing or winning one. 

Derek Underwood belongs to a period when men opened doors to ladies, when courtesy and politeness were somehow the only characteristics of the game that were essential to cricket's welfare, standing and livelihood. Underwood was a model of consistency, almost unobtrusively dependable and fiercely conscientious throughout a long and gruelling Test or county match. Underwood never let anybody down because you knew where you stood with him. He was honest as the day was light, quietly thoughtful at times with a cricketing brain that always seemed to be working overtime and never disappointing.

Whenever Australia or the West Indies were in England, Derek Underwood was always prepared, anticipating the big occasion, sensing the atmosphere, alert and responsive, rolling up his distinctive white shirt sleeves with vigour, purpose and a concentration focused solely on spinning a ball, achieving both flight and turn with all the precision of an engineer drilling holes into sheets of metal. But it was that bowling action that took the eye almost immediately, like a watercolour painter using just the right amount of red, blue and green.

Derek Underwood started his club career at Kent and remained there loyally and faithfully, shirt billowing in the wind like a yacht sail, tugging up the said shirt right up to the shoulder before going through the familiar routine of rubbing earnestly on already red trousers and then twirling, tweaking the ball covertly and secretively like a magician who never reveals his hand. Then he embarked on those ritualistic party pieces: the spitting, polishing, the clever trickery up his sleeve, the sneakily mischievous and teasingly clandestine. 

But you remember with much affection Underwood's extraordinary England career that stood out most to English cricket fans who were transfixed by his whippy leg spin and spin that veered sharply in all manner of directions before cutting back into the batsman's pads with deadly accuracy. He would invariably let the ball seam, allowing the ball to simply move and wobble all over the place before shattering the wicket and bails. The batsman would hang his head shamefully and dejectedly. Derek Underwood had struck again.

You suspected that one of Underwood's central influences was Ray Illingworth, captain supreme of England from another era and the man responsible for bringing the Ashes back to England on English soil in 1969 for the first time in ages. Illingworth was another toiler and industrious grafter, always wearing immaculately white trousers red as a tomato, picking up the ball for an over of a ball that once it had become new, would behave like a naughty child who simply refuses to go to bed when their parents tell them to do so.

Like Illingworth, Underwood would step back very deliberately and contemplatively, hips moving in perfect unison with the rest of his body. Both were poised and controlled, scheming and manipulative, trundling past respected umpires including David Shepherd and Dickie Bird. Then the red ball would fly out of the index fingers deceitfully, fluttering beautifully into the air before floating fiendishly towards a terrified batsman.

And yet Underwood played alongside the very best that English cricket could offer. His contemporaries included  the incomparable Geoff Boycott for whom cricket was a work of art to be crafted and designed no matter how long it took him. So what if half centuries and centuries were likes works of pottery and clay, building projects where labourers would spend months and years on the same house or flat? Boycott was patient, careful, sensible and judicious and Underwood was made of the same cloth.

There was Alan Knott, one of English cricket's finest wicketkeepers, always with handkerchief sticking out of his trousers pocket, constantly stretching, flexing his back, hat jauntily placed on his head, pretending to scoop up a red ball and then flinging it theatrically to nobody in particular. Then down on his haunches, he would engage his fellow Kentish man with the loveliest grin on his face. Underwood and Knott were in perfect synchronicity, reading from exactly the same book.

There were the rock solid opening batsmen who provided the strongest cement and backbone of an England innings. Dennis Amiss and John Edrich were wise and commanding batsman whose natural inclination was to just grow into their innings. Then they would start pulling on and off drives with majestic power, shots rippling across the ground poetically, through the covers and then square cutting with a flowing swish and flourish of the bat. Then they would secure themselves at the crease with neat forward prods, singles here, twos there, then clubbing mighty sixes and fours with increasing frequency and intensity, hooking purposefully, despatching the short ball with both cruelty and then ferocity.

But today we lament the passing of one of England's most celebrated of cricketers. Derek Underwood just got on with the business of his trade, white shirt pristine clean, before rolling his arms and unleashing an over of mesmeric magic. Today the Garden of England county known as Kent will quietly raise a glass for its native gentleman. He will be remembered wherever and whenever cricket is played because Derek Underwood was just the master of his craft and that's quite an achievement. We salute you sir.

The Grand National.

 The Grand National.

Tomorrow bookmakers throughout the land will be ready and waiting for those intrepid punters who feel that this year could be the one to land them the princely sum of money for their Grand National choice. It is now a perennial event almost as old as time itself although not quite in the same category. Every springtime, horses of impeccable breeding and character will line up at Aintree race course for that yearly cavalry charge across the invariably good to soft conditions with a lively turn of pace and hooves that pound across the turf almost hypnotically as if they'd been trained to do so from the day they were foals.

Britain loves the Grand National because it reminds them of who they are, their lifelong passion for horse racing and the reason they shell out their hard earned coppers on the world's greatest steeplechase by several country miles. For a brief period of time Aintree will abandon itself to the dramas, the melodramas, men and women in striking silks and permanently cheerful jockeys who make the ultimate sacrifice of near starvation just to line up at the starting tape for this year's Grand National at Aintree.

Aintree will once again be alive with the traditional sights and sounds that rightly elevate Grand National Day to its highest point  in the sporting consciousness. Today is Ladies Day which means feminine elegance and style while the men, trainers and whole generations of horse racing families will be assembled again for this stunning equine spectacle. Tomorrow though will mark that very specific point in the calendar year when the public will suddenly descend on their bookies convinced that this year will be theirs to claim their winnings on this most lucrative of days.

And yet the Grand National has been with us for so long now that it's hard to remember a time when it wasn't there. It began in the 19th century in 1829 and has never been away for as long as any of us can remember. Every year some of the most charismatic horses in the world will trot gingerly towards the starting tape at Aintree, blowing, puffing, neighing, shaking their tails from time to time and then weighing up the odds. They will nod and glance over to the crowd almost respectfully, heads sharply turning at times towards the winning enclosure or so they must hope.

Horse racing is sport at its most thrilling and authentic, sport at its earthy roots, something that leaves its devoted enthusiastic followers gripped and transfixed because, in a vast majority of cases if not all, there is the element of the unexpected, the sense that sport is connecting us to the heroic moments of our lives, a time when we may have defied the odds by achieving something that nobody else had thought possible. For a while the relationship between horse and humanity reaches its peak since this was the day when mutual appreciation becomes patently clear.

Tonight some of the most graceful animals in the world will settle down for the night in their well equipped stables and paddocks with their bags of carrots and hay, a suitable feast for some of the fittest horses in the land before just resting for the night. Privately you believe that they must know that something in the air is special, it's in their body language, their languid demeanour, those beautifully muscled bodies and legs that must have galloped across so many beaches and fields that you feel sure that somebody has already told them that this is their year to win the biggest prize of them all.

History of course will always warm the nostalgic hearts of Grand National aficionados and the unforgettable finishes will stay with us for a lifetime. We remember the 1973 Grand National when a horse called Crisp was so far out in front and destined to win that you'd have required a very good telescope to find the rest of the horses strung out across the field. But that day jockey Richard Pitman invited fate into his life and then discovered that what looked like a convincing victory on Crisp would be tragically snatched away from him at the final fences of the National.

Heading towards the final fences at the Grand National, Crisp was miles ahead of Red Rum, the horse that would become a national treasure in the years following that epic conclusion to the race. Crisp, now gradually slowing down quite alarmingly, simply ran out of steam, almost staggering and stumbling towards the finishing post. Meanwhile, behind Crisp there was Red Rum, a horse so assured and poised that it would only be a matter of time before Red Rum would charge forward before powering past Crisp and winning the Grand National.

Then there was the famous year of 1956 when Devon Loch, one of the finest horses of them all, comfortably negotiated Beechers Brook and the Chair after those gruelling circuits of Aintree race course. And then the race of that year entered its final hundred yards or so from completion and Devon Loch, now perhaps too presumptuous, stretched towards the winners line and then it all went wrong. The horse lost its footing, failed to make up on lost ground and was denied victory. And we all know what happened to rider Dick Francis who would go on to become a best selling and prolific author?

And so we reach the present day. Tomorrow some of the most lyrical names will all converge on this most auspicious day for steeplechase's most noble of horses. Favourite Corach Rambler will be joined by Meeting of the Waters, Mr Incredible, Mahler Mission, Coko Beach, the splendidly titled Chemical Energy, the poetic Noble Yeats and I am Maximus who will probably need no introduction. They will all casually make their way around Aintree as if it were just another day at the office.

Then the flag will go up once again and the Grand National which was once delayed because IRA terrorists had threatened to create havoc, will be back up and running. Some of us will spare a thought for those poor horses who may be risking life and limb. They will demand our sympathy because their courage is unquestioned, their bravery quite astonishing. And then on a late April afternoon, the winner of the Grand National will be acclaimed richly by the punters who backed their mount so faithfully.

The horse will be soaked by several buckets of water to wash off the sweat from their uplifting endeavours. Then they'll be patted and congratulated almost incessantly, trainers faces wreathed in smiles. This is sport at its most dramatic and traditional, sport at its most financially rewarding. It'll be sport sharing its stage with the gambling industry. Of course horse racing will forever be associated with its thriving betting industry but who could possibly deny us just a harmless flutter on just the Grand National. The good people of Liverpool will be cheering from the rafters and throwing their caps and hats into the air should their gamble pay off. This is sport at its best. 

General Election Year and new Mayor of London imminent

 General Election Year and new Mayor of London imminent.

Already we can hear the decisive foot stamping of politicians, the pavements of Britain about to be pounded quite seriously by the great and good of the House of Commons. We've yet to be told the precise date of this year's General Election but it can't be that far away now. Then there's the small matter of the election of a new Mayor for London who, barring a miracle or so it seems, will almost certainly be Sadiq Khan who is now poised to retain his position against a huge tidal wave of disapproval and hostile comments.

But this is General Election year and if you were to believe some media and social media outlets, the Labour party will simply casually wander into 10 Downing Street without so much as batting an eyelid. This has to be the most calamitous Tory government in recent political history and you'd be forgiven for thinking that the Tories have just been walking around with their eyes closed, totally oblivious to events around them and convinced that come General Election day, the keys to power will be handed to them almost automatically. And yet a vast majority will wake up on Election day and simply give the Conservative party the bloodiest of noses. Of  that there can be no doubt. But public opinion may be misleading.

For the last 14 years though Britain has been subjected to the most feckless, deceitful, shifty, conniving, scheming, pretentious and downright patronising Tory government in recent times. These, it would seem are just the Tories good qualities. We've always known about the Tories overriding obsession with capitalism, feathering their own nest, hoarding millions of pounds away in private accounts and just treading on the downtrodden and working class as if they simply weren't there. We knew what we were going to get with the Tories and it almost became a self fulfilling prophecy.

The questions are innumerable and the inquests after the event have been deeply probing and embarrassing at times. The Conservatives were supposed to represent financial prudence, safe housekeeping, complete investment in the young and injecting vast sums into ambitious projects that would not only benefit school leavers and university academics but the next generation and future generations. Margaret Thatcher, for she was the one, once guaranteed potential homeowners their own property and then boasted about this notable achievement when council homes were confirmed.

Fast forward four decades on and  Boris Johnson committed one of the most horrendous cock ups that would ever befall any political party worth its salt. When Johnson became Prime Minister at the end of 2019, he must have thought it would be the proverbial piece of cake with plenty of chocolate and cream. Sadly, the global virus known as Covid 19 would destroy Johnson's brief moment of euphoria. For the next two years, Johnson would fabricate, prevaricate, totally mislead, lie quite naturally, make it up on the spot and then bamboozle even himself with the kind of language or lack of coherent language that you simply couldn't have made up.

Then Johnson eventually fall on his own sword, driven out of Downing Street with a barrage of criticism and facing the kind of humiliation that used to be reserved for deposed queens and kings during medieval times. Johnson was replaced with Theresa May, only the second female Prime Minister, who braved the elements honourably but then discovered that nobody was on her side when it came to delivering action on Brexit.

So, with an emotional croak in her throat and a hint of tears, May fell by the wayside before Liz Truss took over and the third female Prime Minister was in office for roughly the same length of time as the legendary Brian Clough at Leeds United. It may have been slightly more than 44 days but Truss committed the cardinal sin of making a complete mess of the economy with one financial statement that rebounded on her fatally. Now we were in the land of gross incompetence and ineptitude. The voters of Britain didn't know whether to laugh or cry. It hardly seemed to make any difference.

Now though Britain faces what look like the dying embers of a Conservative government. Rishi Sunak has now been entrusted with the job of papering over cracks, disguising himself as Superman and remaining steadfastly delusional against all the odds. He may be Prime Minister but the vast majority of the nation may already have made up their minds. Sunak reminds you of one of those cartoon figures who tries to climb over a wall only to find electrical barbed wire barring his way. This may not be the way he thought things would pan out for his Conservative party but no amount of bluffing will seemingly save his job at 10, Downing Street.

At some point the date of the General Election and the great British public will be requested to stroll down to their local village hall, community centre or school and cast their vote. In the old days they used to be confronted with that now distinctive black metal box that was so scratched and rusty looking that you half suspected that we were supposed to be voting for either Gladstone or Disraeli. During the evenings every TV and radio station will extend saturation coverage to the General Election results in over 650 constituencies and in the small hours of Friday evening the new Prime Minister will take up residence in 10 Downing Street. It's a long, drawn out and laborious process but somebody's got to do it.

Meanwhile in London the new Mayor will also be occupying the hot seat in the early days of May. For those who regard this whole process as something of an amusing charade, it may be a waste of a lovely day. First there was Ken Livingstone, the former leader of the GLC, a man so vile and obnoxious in the eyes of those who knew what they were talking about that perhaps they simply imagined it. Livingstone became Mayor of London but, after a brief honeymoon period, became reviled and despised for his rabid anti Semitic outbursts.

Then of course there was Boris Johnson, who memorably presided over London's Olympic bid in 2005 and took great pride in admitting that he was the one who made it possible. After a  cheap but clever piece of patriotic chest bumping, Johnston accepted the Olympic flame and the rest as they say is history. Boris was our Mayor of London, our saviour, the Old Etonian comedy act who left most of his audience distinctly underwhelmed. We all know what happened next.

So there we are Ladies and Gentlemen. It's General Election year but then we may be bored silly with that same old jingle in our heads over the coming months and weeks. Whatever you do don't forget to smile warmly when somebody knocks on your door and promises to lead you into the land of Shangri La with roses around your cottage, substantial sums of money in your bank account and lots of exciting opportunities for self improvement. Babies will be kissed inevitably and soap boxes employed almost repeatedly for momentous announcements about either the Conservative or Labour party turning our lives upside down. The soundbites and pathetic platitudes will just begin to grate on us because we'll all have heard the same message over and over and over again. But hey, it'll be fun.

Pep Guardiola

 Pep Guardiola.

For much of the 90 minutes at Selhurst Park, Pep Guardiola seemed to be going through the whole gamut of emotions. Within roughly quarter of an hour against Crystal Palace, Manchester City's unashamedly demonstrative manager had told us everything we already knew about him. Guardiola was fuming, passionate, emotionally overcome at one point and staring at the sky in both anger and seething exasperation. Had something disastrous happened to him behind the scenes? Surely not.

Manchester City had gone a goal down to Crystal Palace and you'd have thought somebody had committed a heinous crime. For all the world Guardiola looked as though he'd lost everything on the horses or somebody had stolen his designer watch. But this was never the case so what was the matter? You see the point is that Pep Guardiola demands perfection from his teams and refuses to settle for below par, sub standard, inferior and certainly not the concession of early goals when clearly the opposition shouldn't have been that demanding. But this was a moment of temporary shock to Guardiola so this was hardly the most surprising reaction.

When Jean Phillipe Mateta opened the scoring for Palace with the match in its infancy, Guardiola thought his whole world had collapsed around him. He threw his hands into the air as if he'd been mortally offended by a personal joke about him, then fell forward on his seat almost resigned to his fate. The eyes were wild and staring, mortified, devastated, hurt, injured and utterly crestfallen. If somebody had given him a bottle of water at that point he'd have probably thrown it into the Sainsbury's supermarket next to Selhurst Park.

The fact of the matter is that Guardiola hates losing, despises the feeling you get when your team are either comprehensively beaten or narrowly defeated. He takes out his frustration on TV cameras or just grabs hold of one of his players and blames them quite openly. Comparisons with Sir Alex Ferguson and Manchester United are fairly obvious since Fergie resented everybody just for being in the wrong place at the wrong time, simply within earshot of him. Then he would look at his watch and if the referee hadn't added on at least three years for injury time and United could still win a game, then you'd have been well advised to keep out of his way.

For the early part of City's 4-2 victory over a competent and well equipped Crystal Palace side, Guardiola was privately wrestling with his innermost feelings, tormented by minor anxieties and then going bananas when Palace threatened to take a firm foothold on the Premier League game. He turned to his assistant, embarked on an animated conversation with him and probably felt that City may have got out of bed on the wrong side. City looked heavy footed, ponderous in their build up play and not entirely sure of their bearings. Palace were stealing their thunder, possession of the ball and unsettling City.

When John Stones started dilly dallying with the ball for City in one of the visitors first attacks, Palace snatched the ball on the half way line, shuffled the ball forward quickly and Mateta latched onto a precise through ball. Sprinting forward on his own, Mateta just kept running before wrapping his foot around the ball and steering home a firmly driven shot past the City keeper which hit the post and rolled over the line for Palace's opening goal.

Years ago Brian Clough, one of football's greatest and most iconoclastic managers, would always hold a major inquest into either a Derby County or Nottingham Forest defeat. He would dart out of his manager's dug out with bunched fists, ferociously accusing fingers and threatening to fine his players if they didn't meet up to Clough's always exacting standards. Clough wanted blood, sweat and tears, never content with being runners up or gallant losers, striving desperately to win every conceivable football trophy available to his teams.

And now the bug has bitten Pep Guardiola. Yesterday Guardiola, to quote another cliche, was climbing the wall with outrage, disgust and outright dissatisfaction. Of course the Spaniard reminds you of a dashing matador in a feverish bull ring. The cape is flourished almost repeatedly and the bull just responds in a way that comes naturally. In the technical area allotted to him at the Etihad, Guardiola takes advantage of  acting out his full repertoire of amateur dramatics. He throws any object onto the ground when City fall behind, rolling his eyes with evident displeasure before snarling and gesturing disapprovingly as if football is just terribly unfair and City should never lose.

The greying stubble on his face is symptomatic of what Premier League title chases can do to a man. His chin was bristling with grave miscarriages of injustice as if pleading with the jury protestations of innocence. He jumps up quite suddenly when the referee consults with VAR at the very thought that a stonewall penalty had been denied to City. Then the arms and fingers look tortured with pain as he rages, gesticulates, at times taking the law into his hands. City have now won three consecutive Premier League titles but now the scenario is markedly different. Suddenly Liverpool and Arsenal have encroached on his precious territory and nobody should ever do that to Pep and his City. 

After yesterday's top three Premier League battles, City eventually cantered home to victory against Palace while at the Amex Stadium, Brighton were almost brushed away dismissively by another rampant Arsenal victory with only three goals but goals that could prove crucial come the end of the season. This time City have very real challenges to their supremacy and Mikel Arteta is another Spaniard in bullish mood. It may be that this one Premier League end of season run in has got something entirely unexpected up its sleeve. It's time to loosen those collars and be prepared for a breathless last day of the season.

But Pep Guardiola is still a fascinating study in human behaviour. When Kevin De Bruyne, his immensely gifted midfield attacking machine, let fly with a sensational rocket shot which levelled the game, Guardiola was seen to be blowing kisses at the Belgian virtuoso. Then De Bruyne left his indelible imprint on yesterday's proceedings, controlling the ball comfortably, passing the ball accurately and judiciously, waltzing past defenders with a fox trot gait about him and then cutting back onto his feet with attractive changes of pace or neat lay offs that left defenders dumbfounded. Guardiola knows exactly how to treat his golden treasures and yesterday was no exception to the rule.

For a while Erling Haaland, his Norwegian striker and wonderfully shrewd acquisition, looked to be struggling to assert himself and missed a whole host of excellent goal scoring chances. But even Haaland emerged from his recent goal drought with another goal to add to his remarkable collection. Now Guardiola had shaken off those moody outbursts and just accepted the status quo. At the end of the game Guardiola had recovered his poise and just felt so much better about football.

Meanwhile Mikel Arteta, Guardiola's former coach at Manchester City, was knuckling down to the task of maintaining Arsenal's Premier League title charge. Arteta just runs up and down touchlines when Arsenal score and just high fives his loyal and hardcore supporters in the crowd or appearing to do so. We are now into the hard last yards of the Premier League season when managers almost certainly earn their corn. They invariably complain when things don't go according to plan, blaming the goldfish for their team's downfall or just being deprived of goals of the obvious. Oh to be a Jurgen Klopp of Liverpool, Mikel Arteta and of course Pep Guardiola. To quote the always articulate Sir Alex Ferguson, football hey! 

Cricket around the corner

 Cricket around the corner

In just under a month the summer game of cricket will return to the shire counties amid the stunning cathedrals which tower over the county grounds for the best part of three months. Then there are the quaint market towns which always burst into life after the sport's winter hibernation. Cricket breaks out like a stirring brass band that goes marching past its county grounds with perfect civility and grace. Everything that had been discreetly hidden behind dark streets, now reveals its most glorious display of light, rich colours at the height of summer.

Shortly, in Somerset, Worcestershire, Gloucestershire, Kent, the Garden of England, very rural Essex, Yorkshire, where the dales remain snugly beautiful throughout the year and Lancashire, provide the wondrous backdrop to the County Championship. From the end of April to those uplifting acoustics of the game in mid- June, July and August, nature is at its prettiest and most ornate. The pigeons who love to go into conference mode at the Oval, Lord's, Trent Bridge and Old Trafford, gather together privately at cover point or deep backward square leg and you know where the vast populations of cricket lovers will discuss the merits of the T-20 Blast, the familiarity of the County Championship and much more. Life is perfect and always will be.

Every summer, cricket dons its finest clothes, the white flannels and white trousers that have almost become synonymous with cricket at both county and country level. Cricket's sweetest and most dulcet tones can be heard murmuring good humouredly by its placid boundaries. They will sit on their most trustworthy deckchairs in the heart of the English countryside, open up their pristine copies of the Times and the Daily Telegraph before just allowing acres of print to fall gently over their faces. It is England at her most contented and settled but then this is the way it should always be since life is just perfect.

Then the huddles of devoted supporters will swallow their first pints of Taunton's cider, laughing uproariously, joking vigorously and then cheering like their footballing counterparts as if they were still at Old Trafford, the Etihad and Emirates, St James Park, Anfield, the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium and the London Stadium. Occasionally the salty vulgarities will bellow from throats of blue. But then you'd hardly expect anything else from football and yet cricket does occasionally blow its top. It does though express itself in a way that is somehow regarded as harmless and inoffensive. Football and cricket. They're like blood brothers at times, even joined at the hip.

And come May the first cricket pads will be tied securely to their athletic legs and the opening batsmen will come clattering down from the timeless  pavilions that once knew of Don Bradman, Geoff Boycott, Len Hutton, Colin Cowdrey, Ian Botham, Ted Dexter, Tom Graveney, Alan Lamb, Viv Richards and Clive Lloyd. These were the mighty bastions of cricket's greatest generations. They were cricket's noble characters, stylish exponents of the game, lethal big hitters, bowlers of hale and hearty hostility who were so fast that they once hit the most notorious headlines during the Bodyline Ashes tour during the 1930s. One Harold Larwood, England through and through, threatened to knock off the heads of Australia and then discovered a wave of controversy and anger that would overshadow that summer.

But first things first. The new cricket season will once open towards the end of April amid the scholarship and learning of England's most stately universities. Oxford and Cambridge will crack the first red ball of willow into the drinking taverns and fine, upstanding tents. This has now become stitched into the fabric of the regular cricket season. Besides the boundaries, England's most knowledgeable students will produce their score cards, compare notes about the opposition before retiring at the end of the day to a grudging appreciation of each team's qualities.

And then the County Championship, once dominated by Yorkshire and then won handsomely by most of the rest of the countries at various times, will shortly take its opening curtain and reveal audacious reverse sweeps, full blooded lofted drives over the rooftops, graceful cuts and pulls to the boundary, hooking, heaving, nudging, forward defensive prods to  mid wicket and the gigantic six that lands in the fruit and vegetable aisle of the local supermarket or the top of the vicar's church roof. It is cricket at its most sedate and decorous, cricket obeying its traditional protocols and always striving for improvement.

Come the end of the cricket season, the gulls and the pigeons will finally take their leave, autumn will dawn and the summertime cricketing pageant will make way for football. Amid the fading lights of early September and the final flourishes of brutality from beefy village batsmen, cricket will pack away its helmets, pads, its red cricket ball and then look forward to next April. Cricket always knew how to make its grandest entrance.