US Election just weeks away.

 US Election just weeks away

We are now just weeks away from what could be an era defining election in the United States of America. Next month the USA has to decide one way or the other. Their choices are unenviable because the options are so limited and you have to feel so sorry for them. Whenever we have dilemmas or dodgy patches throughout our lives we normally turn to people we feel we can trust and who love us. But in early November, one of the most powerful and influential countries in the world will be voting in the next President of the United States of America and that's a thankless task. 

Now the reality is that America is now faced with a straightforward decision. Do they pick as President a man with perhaps the most humiliating track record as former President or do they plump for the first woman to lead the country? In one corner, we have Donald Trump, whose very name is designed to send shivers down your spine, the feelings of dread and foreboding that young children normally get when mum and dad tell them that their long summer holiday is over and it's time to go back to school.

The very mention of Trump  is so offensive to the ear and deeply abhorrent to contemplate that you wonder if this is really happening to the country the United Kingdom continues to call its most enduring ally since the end of the Second World War. There is now a painful awkwardness about everything connected to American politics that has now been festering ever since Trump first held the reins of power in the White House as President. 

These are worrying times for the United States because both Donald Trump and Kamala Harris have now become such a toxic influence on their country that it's hard to believe that there could ever have been a worse time for those living in Washington, New York, Los Angeles, California, Ohio, Michigan, Chicago and Pennsylvania, Texas and Dallas. Throughout the 50 states and innumerable ghetto lands of the US and those cohesive communities in the deep South, there is an uncomfortable fear of the unknown, a terrible suspicion that life may never be the same after the Election and anything can happen or not as be it the case.

It is still hard to believe in hindsight how Donald Trump came so close to power and how anybody could attract such a hard core, dedicated following from such a vast majority of the American population. We all know about the potty mouthed nonsense that continues to pour from Trump's mouth, the ludicrously illiterate ravings and rantings, the totally indecipherable absurdities that continue to reverberate around the world.

Trump is an undoubtedly a political loose cannon, a dangerous liability to the whole of the globe and even now some of us are trembling in case he gives his consent to another Vietnam. Now of course that's an exaggeration but you never know because Trump looks like he's capable of inflicting so much damage with his mouth that even innocent civilians must be biting their fingernails. By his own admission, war does appear an appealing prospect to him but we must hope that even Trump will try and think through his more outrageous statements.

And yet you can't help but feel sorry for the Americans because Trump is so full of his own vaingloriousness and pumped up pomposity that if anybody dare puncture his monumental ego, he may threaten to take you to court and sue you for every dollar that he may have at his disposal. Trump is so ferociously opinionated and unapologetically tactless that if somebody had just suggested he join a charm school he may well have just dismissed them as village idiots.

In the case of Kamala Harris the jury is well and truly out since little is known of her as a potential president of the United States. She does have her fanatical supporters and, of course, the rational commonsense and exceptional intelligence that Trump will never be able to claim or perhaps we've got it all wrong about him. To his credit, Trump will always have their ear for all of those eccentrics who still think of him as the best thing sliced bread. Trump fires off all manner of mockery and vicious vitriol at Harris because he knows that she could yet beat him on the day of the election.

Yesterday Harris delivered from her pulpit, preaching to the converted and pontificating on all kinds of issues so close to America's heart. There were the traditional promises of a healthy economy, low levels of unemployment, the Constitution which enshrines the gun culture and a secure, prosperous America. Both Harris and Trump have the best interests of the United States at heart but only one can be right and we all think we know the answer to that conundrum.

Last week, former President of the USA Jimmy Carter, now so highly esteemed and most commendable of Presidents, celebrated his 100th birthday. Your mind travelled back to that now famous handshake between Anwar Al Sadat and Menachem Begin, the notable Prime Minister of Israel. It signalled a beautiful peace agreement between Egypt and Israel. Standing between Sadat and Begin was that admirable man who grew up as a peanut farmer and then became President of the United States. Carter was the face and voice of peace and reconciliation.

The thought occurs to you that now either Trump or Harris will have their work cut out in the ongoing war between Israel, Hamas and Hezbollah. Trump was the man who once dressed up as a chicken in some easily forgotten American variety TV show and this is the man who wants to take America to the promised land, this power crazed megalomaniac who aspires to rule with a rod of iron at the White House and the Oval Office.

Kamala Harris simply wants to be remembered as the first female President of the United States. There are rumours that some of her policies are less than palatable and a vote for Harris could be wantonly wasted. The other day, in a head to head TV debate on American TV, Harris just started giggling at Trump barely believing what she'd just heard. Trump, with that blond orange head of hair still playing games on Trump's head, kept blustering and bellowing away like one of those highly amusing characters at Speakers Corner at London's Hyde Park. 

Here in the UK, the USA will always have our unwavering admiration and support. But the truth is that come early November, decisions will be made and fates sealed. It's either Harris or Trump. Some of us believe that it may just as well be those other legendary American comedians who went by the name of Abbott and Costello. Rest assured America. Here in Britain we are thinking you.

Nova Memorial Day for October 7th

 Nova Memorial Day for October 7th

They came from all the world, those tightly knit and loving communities, the towns, cities and global villages, the vast continents, over land, ocean, sea and the expansive lands where Judaism is so richly celebrated, cherished, and treasured. They stood together in poignant unison and just reflected on the events that, a year ago to the day, so horrifically scarred the beautiful country that is Israel, damaging and then destroying humanity and leaving nothing behind it but the repulsive smell of death, heartache and suffering. 

Today, a year ago, hundreds of music concert lovers were leaving the Nova music festival in Israel just happy and euphoric, delighted to be among each other on the glorious festival of Simchat Torah. And then their world collapsed around them and the evil forces of murder and pathological hatred spread their tentacles around, poisoning the air with its deeply distressing aftermath. Over 1,500 innocent Israelis died in the most horrific outbreak of violence and terrorism ever seen in modern times. Even a year later, the rest of the world is still numb, still speechless, traumatised and still asking questions, still rationalising with senseless killing.

And yet amid the devastation, destruction, brutal barbarity and the relentless onslaught of gun fire, bullets, bombings and missiles that fell on that fatal and fateful day, we have yet to find answers to those crucial questions. We will know exactly why October 7th happened but will never discover how it was allowed to happen. The events are well chronicled and the depth of the personal loathing brazenly expressed by the despicable terrorist networks of Hamas and Hezbollah leave most of us cold, stunned, shocked beyond reason, appalled and just lost for words.

But on a grey and uplifting Sunday afternoon in Hyde Park in London, we held up our Israeli flags with the kind of immense pride that has almost become customary since last year on October 7th. We have marched defiantly along the Embankment, animated, angry and determined to let the rest of the world know that we were still here, passionately supportive and never going away. We were wholeheartedly committed to the cause, imploring that the Israeli hostages held in captivity be released immediately.

We knew we were probably wasting our time but we had to hold onto something, an indefinable optimism, a delusional belief that Hamas would just surrender and give back those innocent people who just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. What we didn't know was that Hamas had stubbornly dug their heels in, refusing to allow commonsense to prevail and intent on the complete annihilation of Israel, wiping the country off the map of the world.

In the distance there was a stage ready to host yet another rousing concert to the thousands down below them, the stoic ones who held the Israeli flags and innumerable photographs of the hostages. We looked around us and heard the voices that mattered most, both Jewish and Christian contingents with the same message, the same proclamation of freedom and liberation. They'd heard enough about torture and mutilation of babies and children, the inhumanity of it all, the dreadful conditions that the hostages had been undergoing for so long. There was, above all desperation, a plaintive plea to just be released from stinking hovels and then reintroduced to families, smiling mothers and fathers, grandparents, cousins, aunties and uncles. This, though, was one emotional reunion that would never take place.

For exactly a year we have seen nothing but burning buildings, charred ruins, flattened homes, supermarkets, post offices, chemists, government organisations and, above all rubble. We have seen plumes of black smoke soaring into the skies, fires and explosions, children buried in the ground being pulled out of broken girders, piles of bricks, twisted metal, the skeletal remains of once proud structures. They were now drenched in blood, faces caked with yet more blood, dripping blood from torn clothes, bodies now unrecognisable, all hope gone. Israel was now inconsolable and crestfallen, families were now murdered and never to see each other again. It looked like the worst of all Greek tragedies but this particular disaster had been situated in the Middle East.

The hardest pill to swallow was the one after October 7th when, after the  inevitable retaliation from Israel, Hamas and now Hezbollah were now claiming that there have been almost 40,000 fatalities when we all know that such figures have been grossly exaggerated. Of course the propaganda machine is functioning more efficiently than ever. It is one long, agonising nightmare where once again the law abiding civilians have suffered and died in the general madness and maelstrom.

And then we go back to the beginning of this human catastrophe. A recent BBC documentary highlighted the terrible magnitude of one continuous day of rabid terrorism. We saw young teenagers fleeing for their lives to some warm sanctuary where they could hide but were still petrified in case one of the bullets and bombs had fatally hit them. They concealed themselves in building skips and containers, in improvised trenches, behind the remnants of shops, anywhere that could provide them with a safe haven. But then we heard the crying, terrified youngsters, throwing themselves onto the ground and praying for their lives. 

We all know that at some point a ceasefire must be considered and peace will be declared. But that's not even on the imminent agenda soon because one side simply want to murder every Jew and Israeli on the planet. It's personal, a vile vendetta against the state of Israel, the extinction of the Jewish race and ruthless persecution of all Jews. We should shiver with revulsion at such vicious victimisation, a simple desire to rid the world of Jews from every Jewish population. Of course we should express our disgust and condemnation for all those 1,500 Jewish youngsters who lost their lives for no reason at all. 

Yesterday, Hyde Park echoed the sentiments of our private thoughts. They listened to Chief Rabbi Mervis, prominent Jewish poets and historians, hugely eloquent orators, dignitaries and dignified folk who delivered their sermons with heartfelt emotions. We were undoubtedly moved to tears but didn't really know how to articulate more and more grief because this is one conflict that can have no resolution without compromise and acceptance of the status quo. Hamas and Hezbollah insist that they will never stop until every Jew is blasted into oblivion, so that just seems like a forlorn hope. But we have to hope because hope means progress and finally, victory over Hamas and Hezbollah.

Across the whole of Hyde Park we saw a movement in a positive direction, thousands of Jews and non Jews, the old Iranian flags fluttering away gratifyingly on the side of Israel. We saw Friends of Israel stalls from all over Britain and our North London location. We saw all religious denominations backing Israel and Standing by Israel. They were wrapped in the blue and white of the Star of David and we felt secure and united, harmonious and, quite literally, singing from the same hymn sheet. 

 Occasionally there were gentle drizzles of rain and occasional flickers of late autumn sun but there was something very enriching and invigorating about the day that restored your faith in man and woman kind. Your family were there for you and of course they mean the world to you. By the end of the day it felt so good to be Jewish and so deeply proud of your Jewish identity that you simply wanted to chant Hava Negilla a million times with resounding certainty. Being Jewish is so wonderful.

World Teachers' Day.

 World Teachers' Day.

Teachers have always been models of respectability and the people we look up to for reassurance, a thorough education and the figures of authority who are simply there to offer wise guidance and experienced pearls of wisdom. Teachers should be our friends and confidants when childhood becomes both difficult and challenging. They're the ones who we can trust and believe in if we're just a couple of minutes late because the bus or train was late and mum had forgotten to pack our lunch. Teachers soothed feverish brows, alleviating anxiety at the drop of a hat and explaining everything carefully.

Today is World Teachers' Day and it's all about taking just a couple of hours for our young students and imparting the best possible advice. School is all about learning, developing those first friendships from a young age and telling your teacher that you may be struggling even though you may think you're not. From our first infant or primary school day, we are all bewildered children because none of us know exactly where we might be going. So who do you ask for help? You turn to the man or woman who rings the bell for playtime and you stop immediately. Teachers instinctively knew what may be going through a child's mind when that bell goes. They may be laughing and giggling but it's all a bit daunting.

Teachers are our first points of academic contact, the ones who point at what used to be blackboards with rubbers and chalks in their hands. Then, all manner of multi coloured chalks scratched out the multiplication table, the alphabet, grammar, new words, the first seeds of a burgeoning vocabulary. So you sit at your desk, waiting patiently and then looking at sir or miss with increasing levels of fascination. Your attention may be diverted by events taking place outside your classroom and the windows with long wooden poles.

As a young child it all felt like the most intimidating challenge of them all, that first week back in early September after an ecstatic summer holiday. Some of us genuinely cried into their bed pillows as kids because we were dreading this new environment or perhaps one we knew everything there was to know about but wished we couldn't be subjected to again and again. Besides, why on earth did we have to go to school because the kids were naughty and nasty, always disobedient and never well behaved? 

All the kids in the playground were just troublemakers, letting off stink bombs, a singularly disruptive influence and just a pain in the neck to all the teachers who were there to maintain law and order. So, as primary school children, we can all remember vividly those eternal playground days of chasing each other for no apparent reason, playing Tag by catching each other and then tapping each other on their shoulders. The girls were always playing Kiss Chase or skipping because gender stereotyping was years away.

But then teachers came into our lives and were always there for us, constantly available for a word after lessons. They'd sit us down in private when the rest of the kids had run out of the gates and were desperate to get home for games of football in the park with our classroom mates. Kids were always hungry for knowledge whereas others regarded school as a painful imposition that just had to be endured and tolerated. So teachers would be our confidants, the ones who would always listen to all of our childhood grievances and long term problems. 

Most of our primary school learning was conducted in either long corridors with classrooms inside or huge huts outside and although the memories may be totally unreliable, we can still visualise it all with a certain amount of accuracy. Within minutes and hours of our first lessons, you could still hear the incessant clattering and pounding of footsteps, five or six year old children running down the passageway while every so often the teachers yelled out severe reprimands to those kids who just continued to run and laugh. You had to stop because if you didn't, the punishment would be a hundred lines after school in an empty classroom.

Teachers were those individuals who set vitally important standards, morals, values and, above all discipline. They stood there in all weathers, whistling every so often in the playground and bawling out strict orders above all the pandemonium  around them. They shout at their pupils with ferocious conviction since they just want them to succeed in life and get on in adolescence. But we were just oblivious to the adult world because school was a meeting place for fun, sharing football Panini football stickers and swapping magazines called Jackie for the girls and Shoot magazine for the boys. 

Most of us tend to think of teachers as horrible and condescending individuals who just lecture you and humiliate kids because sir and miss simply don't understand us.  They make all manner of belittling and facetious comments about you because you were the one who kept flicking pieces of paper at the other kids or using an elastic band that would normally miss its intended target. Teachers are supposed to be instilling the groundwork for further education in later years but, at the time, kids have no boundaries.

Then there is the dawning realisation that teachers are the most patient and understanding of any person, apart from your loving parents who  love you and care for you. They have a very specific role in our lives, always influential, always compassionate and hoping that one day you'll be grateful for everything they've tried to give back to both you and the rest of society.

Long gone, of course teachers and headmasters would confidently march into your classroom, wearing a a black cloak with a mortar board, a university cap on their heads and the infamous stick. The old St Trinian's films from the archives of film history are still engraved on our minds.  St Trinian's of course was just slapstick comedy and nothing more really. The kids would always be up to mischief, plotting something unsavoury and then poking merciless fun at those they may see to  them as terribly threatening authoritarians.

Nowadays teachers are still underpaid, undervalued and almost dismissed as mean spirited, heartless members of their noble calling. The kids are the ones who leave behind them huge piles of books consisting of questions that have to be ticked as right or not as be it the case. Teachers are the ones who usually confronted with mountains of exercise books that never seem to come to an end. But teaching is, essentially a vocation, a natural calling, a profession to be acknowledged as something to be proud of.

Above all the madness and deafening noise, you can still hear a despairing voice in a chemistry lesson from way back when.  You can still see a helpless and struggling Asian gentleman who just wanted to be heard and not simply disregarded as some battering ram. Here was a man who was being mercilessly beaten over the head with loud jeering and sneering of the most cruel kind. But teachers are worth far more than relentless verbal punishment laced with insults and hurtful jibes.

But for some of us primary school was all about a certain husband and wife team who guided us to our first promised land of academic virtuosity, the first building blocks towards a bright sunset of an educational paradise, the foundation stone of our early lives. We still remember Mr and Mrs Cole because they were somehow inseparable and that was comforting to us at the time because we admired them for that reason alone. Mrs Cole used to take us for country dancing lessons on Friday afternoon. She was a maternal, a beacon of stability to us because our mums and dads had given us those first guiding hands and the world was a treacherous assault course. 

And then, finally there was our masterful primary school headmaster. Ken Aston had been a distinguished World Cup football referee at the 1962 World Cup in Chile and then was present at the 1966 World Cup in England as a pacifist. Aston, in the now infamous Battle of Santiago where the players of Chile and Italy quite clearly intended to kill each other given half a chance, raced over towards the scene of the crime and pointed towards the players tunnel. The match was immediately called off and before you could blink, feuding players from both sides sheepishly walked off the pitch. It had now degenerated into a playground scuffle, fists were flying, but Aston,  like a ruthless sergeant major, stood for no nonsense and the players were back in the dressing room in no time at all.  

So there you have it Ladies and Gentlemen. It's World Teachers Day and please try to pay attention when you're being spoken to. You don't have to do detention nor write 1,000 lines about firing pea shooters at each other when sir or miss are trying to teach you about phonetics, pronunciation, verbs, adverbs, pronouns, numbers, division and long division. It'll stand you in good stead later on in life and besides, we'll thank them profusely later on in life. Oh and my wonderful son Sam and lovely daughter in law Lucy are brilliant teachers and they love what they do. Enjoy World Teachers Day because you may learn something.

Happy Birthday Sir Trevor Brooking

 Happy Birthday Sir Trevor Brooking

When you first set eyes upon him, we knew that here was one of the most extravagant footballing talents you'd ever seen. At the time, you really didn't think you were watching the genuine article and yet you were and it wasn't an optical illusion, a figment of your imagination. He was, and would become one of West Ham and England's most creative midfielders of all time and you remain convinced that this is indeed the case. He is undoubtedly a peerless footballing genius, surely the most princely and educated of all footballers. 

Today, Sir Trevor Brooking celebrates his 76th birthday and, in your personal estimation, none have equalled, matched or surpassed his brilliance and superlative magnificence. They broke the mould with Trevor Brooking, the angels were singing beautifully and if Brooking had become a classically trained musician he would have been the greatest of violinists or pianists. We've heard all about those obvious football cliches. We're completely familiar with conductors of orchestras, midfield artists with divine brushes but Sir Trevor Brooking had it all on the pitch. 

Football of course came naturally and organically to Brooking. It endowed him with breathtaking ball skills from his Barking birthplace in London's East End.  Overnight he became one of England's classiest and purest players. It shaped him into a man of manners, politeness, civility and composure in every fibre of his being. West Ham and England were just hoping and wishing that one day a player of Brooking's like would come along to provide football's most impressive landscape with its prettiest watercolours.

And so at the tender age of 18, manager Ron Greenwood turned to the youngster in claret and blue and promised that one day Trevor Brooking would grace every football stage with poise and immaculate ball control. He had the kind of smooth balance and equilibrium on a football pitch that the once late and tragically missed Duncan Edwards of Manchester United might have given the Beautiful Game. But Brooking was the epitome of suave sophistication, a glorious playmaker, the catalyst and sparking plug that just electrified a match at every level.

It did take Brooking a while to adjust to the game's most exacting demands. He was twice the recipient of two FA Cup winning medals with West Ham. In 1975, now a reliable first team starter for the England team, Brooking was one of the principal figures in the Hammers 2-0 FA Cup Final winning victory at Wembley. Then, five years later, Brooking was a central protagonist in West Ham's shock 1-0 FA Cup Final triumph against overwhelming favourites Arsenal.

 He stooped to conquer with one of the most uncharacteristic headers Wembley and football had ever seen. Alan Devonshire's flighted cross to the far post resulted in a flurry of feet with a David Cross flick of the leg, a Stuart Pearson lunge of the ball and Brooking just heading the ball low past Pat Jennings in the Arsenal goal for the ultimate FA Cup Final winner. Then the white West Ham shirt shone brightly in the May sunshine, as Sir Trevor Brooking revelled in the rapturous acclaim of thousands of overjoyed West Ham fans.

England manager Don Revie awarded Brooking his first England cap against Czechoslovakia and the rest, as they say, is history. One of your fondest memories remains his perfect working relationship with Kevin Keegan, Liverpool's human dynamo and brilliant striker. In a 1979 Home International game against Scotland, Trevor Brooking wore an England shirt once again. Teaming up  and conspiring with Keegan in some almost confidential agreement, Brooking carved through the Scottish defence in a heavenly one two with Keegan. Keegan finished off the move with a stunningly executed goal. It was a work of art that belonged in a gallery.

Then, in a World Cup qualifier in 1981, a cat's cradle of passes outside a bemused Hungarian penalty area eventually ended up at Brooking's feet. Adjusting himself beautifully, Brooking lifted his foot and struck an incredible first time shot that arrowed towards the Hungary net. The ball soared towards the stanchion of the net and just stuck there. For a minute, most of us thought the ball had just hit the side netting but the game's purists knew it was just the most magnificent goal England had ever scored.

Brooking would be capped 47 times for England and scored some of West Ham's most memorable goals. Before joining West Ham, his parents had encouraged him to stay at school and pass all of his O Levels before securing his academic status. The England midfield maestro might have gone to university but instead pursued his footballing studies. He went on to become a director of a plastics company with a business like and studious mind and that would always be his fallback had football not worked for him.

And so today Trevor Brooking today blows out 76 candles and some of us are wishing him the happiest of birthdays. We received his autobiography in an Ilford supermarket during the 1980s and will never forget his sartorial elegance. And that's perhaps Brooking personified.  Happy Birthday Sir Trevor Brooking. You're the most exemplary role model. Jude Bellingham take note. You could be Sir Trevor's modern day successor. Happy Birthday Sir Trevor.

Radio 1's birthday

 Radio 1's birthday

Today Radio 1 celebrated their 57th anniversary, a notable landmark that the BBC must be enormously proud of since at the time Radio 1 were regarded as impostors by those who still stubbornly clung onto the progressive and rebellious voices of pirate radio. At the time, the likes of Radio Caroline, Radio London and Radio North Sea International remained at the cutting edge of music on the radio, playing the most diverse chart music of the time and an impressive fusion of heavy rock and, in the case of Radio Caroline, some of the most obscure album tracks from the contemporary sounds of the time.

It was Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, the Animals, Cream, Hawkwind, Fairport Convention and records most of us had never heard of during the 1960s. But although radically different from anything the British public had ever heard of before, Radio Caroline were anti Establishment and therefore dangerous. But then the Home Office intervened and the pirates days were numbered, enforcing the most draconian acts in the Broadcasting Act, forbidding any radio station from transmitting without a licence.

Frequently, these radio giants of the high seas were raided by the authorities and all turntables, aerials, huge stacks of singles and albums were repeatedly confiscated by large groups of law makers and bureaucratic officialdom. The BBC were intent though, on wiping out the illegal noises being made by these avid music lovers who just wanted to challenge the might of the Beeb. So Radio Caroline were driven out of the Essex waters in Frinton, equipment was stolen and then never seen for decades until fairly recently when they returned to the airwaves as a legitimate operation. Caroline are back on the air, their DAB digital status now well established.

But on 30th September 1967, when the dust had finally settled after all the turbulence out at sea, a young and fresh faced DJ by the name of Tony Blackburn sat in front of a microphone at BBC's now old Broadcasting headquarters in Portland Place, London and played the very first record on Radio 1. It was the Move's Flowers in the Rain, the first 45 rpm single that spun on a now obsolete and antiquated turntable that can only be recalled with a fond and nostalgic affection. Nobody had heard anything like it on British radio because the BBC had been trapped in something of an oppressive time warp, still besotted with its regular diet of old wartime dance band music and easy listening including the likes of Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Tony Bennett and Mario Lanza.

Suddenly, Tony Blackburn became one of the most listenable and recognisable voices on British radio. Blackburn had been signed up by otherwise wary and conservative figures such as the Director General who still believed that the ears of the public should always be caressed by those comforting crooners whose every word and lyric could be so easily heard. Besides, if it was good enough for the generation of Swinging London and dynamic Britain, then it was perfectly acceptable for the hipsters, beatniks and kaftan wearing Hippies who were now dominating the worlds of art and fashion.

Blackburn had been stolen from Radio Caroline along with a whole bunch of confident, enlightened, go ahead and wondrously enthusiastic disc jockeys such as the brilliantly talented John Peel. Peel would go on to introduce the late night slot on Radio 1 with his eclectic choice of  initially heavy rock music before embracing the punk revolution with his personal playlist of bands that were enormously grateful for  Peel's innovative approach to vinyl music.

Peel sadly died and, with him, went a knowledgeable audience who must have mourned his loss for ages. Then there was the late Terry Wogan and Jimmy Young, national treasures rightly and hugely admired, who started with Radio 1 but then moved over to a more sedate audience on Radio 2 who were accustomed to Slim Whitman, Jim Reeves, Andy Williams, Frank Ifield, Frankie Lane, Tom Jones and Lulu.

The contrast in styles could hardly have been more dramatic. Radio 1 were gearing themselves up to an entirely new kind of teenage audience who couldn't wait to hear the legendary Beatles, Sergeant Peppers, the Rolling Stones, Manfred Mann, the Who, the Troggs and the Monkees. Here was a breathtaking sea change in music radio, one that shook the cobwebs off the stuffy traditionalism of the old days.

There now followed by the jolly joviality of Ed Stewart, another recruit from pirate radio. Stewart, for many years, presented Junior Choice on a Saturday morning. Junior Choice was targeted predominantly at young kids who just wanted something light hearted and inoffensively enjoyable. Soon Sparky the Piano became Stewart's most popular vehicle and what followed were a succession of kids pop music singers and bands with requests for yet more children's favourites.

In later years, the equally as relaxed and laid back Simon Bates, the friendly Simon Mayo and Noel Edmonds would lead an impressive takeover at Radio 1, quite literally the changing of the guard. Edmonds was the epitome of cool and would be the perfect replacement for Tony Blackburn as Radio 1's pioneering breakfast show back in 1967. There was a now a real matiness between all of Radio 1's smooth operators. 

During the 1970s, Paul Burnett, David Hamilton and the inimitable Dave Lee Travis would be at the forefront of another breakthrough age for modern music. Travis was funny, irrepressible, anarchic at times quite possibly, passionate about his choice of music and then controversial at the end of his career with Radio 1. One Sunday morning Travis, disillusioned by the tempestuous politics he could quite clearly see behind the scenes, quit Radio 1 and left behind fans who were equally as incensed as Travis.

The tragic death of the great Steve Wright recently, left a vacuum on the radio. He had now left behind him a vast legion of fans and listeners who would never forget Wright's classical radio persona. Wright had the most infectious sense of humour and will always be remembered not only for the music he played but the characters who had joined him in the studio and that imaginative mix of showbiz gossip and glorious jingles.

For most of us though Radio 1 was the only station to listen to on a Sunday evening at tea time. After the warmly satisfying sound of Cliff Michelmore and Jean Challis at lunch time, Radio 2 handed over to Radio 1 on the family wireless airwaves. First there was the endearing Charlie Chester who always seemed to be permanently chirpy, chipper and upbeat on Radio 2 and then at tea time, the radio was switched to Radio 1.

Throughout most of the 1970s we delighted in the dulcet tones of Tom Browne, whose deep coffee scented voice, eased us into early evening. Now Radio 1 had found its station in life with a whole host of DJs who knew exactly what they were talking about and were never afraid to express their opinions. Briefly, the wildly inventive Kenny Everett simply tore up the rule book with his hilarious and extraordinary collection of crazy jingles. Everett was a force of nature and once made the comment that would lead to his high profile sacking. What seemed a perfectly innocent joke about a government Transport Minister's wife bribing her driving test examiner would send Everett packing.

And then there was the Radio 1 Roadshow during the 1970s. By now Radio 1 had gone well and truly alfresco, striking out onto the highways and byways and venturing out to some of Britain's most famous seaside resorts during the summer. Before long Dave Lee Travis, Noel Edmonds, Simon Bates, Paul Burnett and the marvellously magical Alan Freeman would be faced by massive crowds lining the throbbing promenades of Southend, Brighton, Blackpool, Bournemouth, Skegness, Great Yarmouth and a multitude of other seaside venues.

The late and much loved Alan Freeman would become installed as perhaps the finest and most accomplished DJ of them all. In Australia, Freeman had become a truly charismatic DJ and a presenter with a natural flair for the quickfire delivery, full of fast talking brilliance and superb charisma. For years Freeman occupied his very own Top 40 spot from both recent decades and many years gone by. It was the perfect chemistry, Freeman now a ball of energy, achieving just the right balance of accuracy and impeccable timing.

And so we move to the present day and Radio 1 in the here and now. Sadly, for some of us, this is the place where we leave behind every genre of music so beloved of those who were always around to cherish it. The golden age of glam rock was followed joyfully by Abba, the Bee Gees, Stevie Wonder, the Saturday Night Fever and Grease soundtrack, the Stylistics, the Carpenters, Tavares, George Benson, disco at its purest and most rewarding and the funky rhythms generated by the O Jays, the Detroit Spinners and the peerless jazz genius Herbie Hancock, a personal favourite and many more too numerous to mention.

By now, the conventional speeds of 33 and 45rpm were joined by an endless conveyor belt of 12 inch floor fillers in hundreds of clubs and nightclubs around the country. Radio 1 had captured the public's imagination in a way they could hardly have imagined possible in 1967. Now music has migrated to  Spotify and streaming territories, downloaded to our I Phones and instantly accessible. The Top 40 charts is still with us, much to our surprise, but no longer suitable or relevant to those of us who would prefer something that is immediately identifiable and relatable. We wanted something more restrained and, dare we say, more sophisticated in our estimation. But then we would say that, wouldn't we?

You remembered something your wonderful mum and dad used to remark on while we were listening to Radio 1. What a terrible racket they used to say, an unbearably raucous noise those singers were making. Why couldn't we understand the lyrics and how nonsensical it all was? But then of course we knew where our parents were coming from. Tony Blackburn represented a major change in our musical tastes when everything became groovy and much louder. Blackburn had all of the DJ blarney and banter, a far more energetic take on the craft of introducing records on the radio. Happy 57th anniversary Radio 1. You always knew how to entertain us during those formative years of school and  the BBC, always the last bastion of morality and the highest standards, always knew a good thing when they saw it.

The Jewish New Year- Rosh Hashanah

 The Jewish New Year - Rosh Hashanah

We are now days away from that great Jewish celebration of a brand New Year. This Thursday, the good and honourable people of the world will gather in their millions around innumerable synagogues or shuls for the yearly pilgrimage to the land of apple and honey, that joyous communion where Jews from around every Jewish diaspora will find the core of their being, identifying that precious moment when all should be peace and harmony, the beginning of a New Year, the resurrection of that vital period in our lives when everything looks new, pristine, fresh, unblemished, alive, redemptive and wonderfully promising.

On Thursday, the global population of the Jewish community will be chanting and worshipping, praying and loving life. They will look at the festival of Rosh Hashanah, that timeless reminder of epic Biblical stories when the Torah becomes the main centrepiece of our New Year homage to life, vitality, breathing, living, walking, talking, laughing and smiling. They will treasure the cherishable sanctity of our human existence. It is a feeling that can never be matched, valued or measured because it is the best emotion of them all.

For as long as you can remember now, Rosh Hashanah has been that crucial time frame when reflection and reminiscence can be easily summoned because this is our chance to look back on the year and just express our eternal gratitude. As a deeply proud Jew, this is my opportunity to be thankful and appreciative, to stand with family, staring thoughtfully at our Siddurim or Chumash and sing with enormous relish and gusto, from the diaphragm right up to our lips and mouths. We've been here before countless times and we have experienced both pleasure, poignancy at times but just pure elation at the same time.

This Thursday, my wonderfully loving and eternally supportive family will settle down at Saracens rugby union stadium in the players hospitality suite. It'll be the most bizarre and most improbable setting for any religious service and yet it will be appropriate and memorable because it is the most perfect backdrop to the day. For the congregation of Finchley Reform shul or synagogue, it will represent the warmest of sanctuaries, a place to collect our thoughts, to greet each other with perfect cordiality, the most heartfelt conviviality since it is Rosh Hashanah when a vast outpouring of our souls will culminate in effervescent joy.

Of course, for those who may be impartial observers looking on from the outside world, the beginning of a New Year still feels unusual, almost completely unconventional. Besides, the Christian calendar has always adhered to the same chronological routine. Christmas Day has always been on December 25th and the New Year has always fallen on the first day of January which marks the beginning of a New Year. So here we are on the concluding days of September and by Thursday it'll be the second day of October which, for the Jewish population, signals a New Year. Now that sounds and feels both odd and slightly confusing  

Still, at least we're all together, in complete unison, projecting our voices, delivering the sweetest prayers and blessings, listening to each other admiringly and trying to imagine anything that could surpass these holiest days of the year for the Jewish religion. We call it the chag, chag semach, l'shana tova, where beautifully enunciated Hebrew songs are sung from way back when Adam and Eve met up for that mouth watering bite of the apple in the Garden of Eden.

But mention of apples and honey has always had the most symbolic value for all Jews at Rosh Hashanah. It reminds us of sweetness and light, those delicious years of our childhood and, perhaps, awkward adolescence when the struggles to find our true identity may have been a hindrance at times. We would ask questions on Yom Kippur because we knew there was something not quite right at the time and we were young, inquisitive and terribly cynical. Yom Kippur meant a 25 hour starvation marathon, complete abstinence from all pleasures of the palate, no eating, drinking, going to football matches, no entertainment such as the TV, radio and now, more recently, engaging on I Phones, Smart Phones or the Internet.

And yet as a youngster, you were always told that going to shul on Rosh Hashanah meant that you had to dress up smartly and elegantly, suited and booted, shirts crisply laundered, tie immaculately knotted, shoes polished so brightly that you could probably see for miles. At the time it was all a bit too overwhelming, structured and regimented beyond reason and stiflingly formal with no room to relax and enjoy the day. But you knew what had to be done so you just conformed to the norm. It was the middle of September and it was Rosh Hashanah and the congregation was waiting and anticipating.

My late and lovely mum and dad would accompany my equally as delightful grandma and grandpa to our local synagogue in Beehive Lane in Gants Hill, Essex and you can still see it in your mind's eye. In the foyer outside the main prayer room, a plush red carpet was softly trodden by a multitude of feet. Then there were the photos of Israel, Eretz Israel, the cabinet trophies sitting next to impressive looking shields, teenagers and families mingling and constantly passing each other as if this had been a major fashion parade and they were all being marked on both technical and artistic merit. 

The kids would spend all the time wandering in and out almost incessantly, comparing suits, chatting and talking to each other as if Rosh Hashanah would be their only opportunity to share lively banter and giggle at this remarkable social rendezvous. You never quite knew why the female community, women and girls had to be driven upstairs to a gallery of seats in a strange act of gender discrimination, estranged by their husbands and boyfriends if only temporarily.

But for personal reasons you will always have a good reason to remember Beehive Lane shul. My cheder, Hebrew classes for the very young, once bestowed the ultimate honour on me for two consecutive years. You were awarded the top prize for being the star pupil. A vast Jewish encylopedia  published in America landed in my hands. Your reward for these sterling endeavours was a trip to that famous Jewish restaurant Blooms in Aldgate in the East End of London. 

The enduring memories of Rosh Hashanah will never fade into obscurity because they meant so much to me. During the afternoon, every Jewish family would invariably converge on the local Valentines Park. And it was, perennially, outside a cafe that remains to this day. Large groups of young children, teenagers, mums and dads, aunties, uncles and cousins would, en masse, abandon themselves to a hundred conversations and small talk in abundance before cracking jokes and talking about work or school.

Towards the end of the 1980s and, certainly 1990s, there was the most extraordinary of rituals over the High Holy Days. Because of the size of the congregation, there was what they called the overflow service. Suddenly, the now deeply lamented and much missed Gants Hill Odeon cinema became the only choice for an alternative Rosh Hashanah service. A venue that normally played host to popcorn outlets, chocolate bar stalls and hot dog kiosks, had now morphed into a Jewish prayer venue and, although there was only a brief acquaintance with the cinema, it still tickles a funny bone in hindsight.

And so there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. This forthcoming Thursday, the good Jewish folks of the globe will be rallying around together, delighted to be in the same company as each other. At the back of our minds and lovingly embedded in our subconscious, Rosh Hashanah is always there. You normally feel the heartwarming presence of the Jewish New Year when the first autumnal leaves have dropped to the ground in all their yellowing and brown splendour. You can sense it whenever the children go back to school after their yearly summer holidays and then you know that something is special is in the air when our rabbis quicken their step and look very excited. Their beards are now bristling, their kippot on their heads are now firmly placed and they all look fabulous. 

So on behalf of my family and friends may I be the first to wish the whole Jewish community a chag semach, l'shana tova, plenty of apples and honey, excellent and good health and happiness and don't forget to smile at your rabbis. They, too, will want to know the score when your Premier League football team are playing. Then the babies will cry, the kids will run in and out of your synagogue in a state of utter bliss and finally the shofar will blow mightily because this is the starting point for the Jewish New Year. L'shana tova to all my family and friends and yours too.  

Labour party political conference and British politics.

 Labour party political conference and British politics.

Of course we know that British politics is a mug's game. It always has been and always will. It is a profession for the hard skinned, masochistic individual who just loves to take stick on an incessant basis, who derives enormous pleasure from being viciously and verbally attacked and ridiculed, mocked and derided, made fun of and generally made to feel totally inadequate. There are those who have a democratic right to express their disapproval of politicians, humiliating them, demeaning them and then shooting them down in flames and that is their right.

At this week's first party political conference of the season, the Labour party, now the new incumbents at the very top of the political pyramid, face their critical and judgmental public as the government of the day and full time residents at 10 Downing Street. Allegedly, Larry the Cat is fascinated by all the latest goings on in this legendary corner of Westminster. He still goes wandering around the back streets in search of different types of haute cuisine, scraps of food and then bowls of milk that may have turned sour because Sir Keir Starmer may have forgotten about Larry in all the heady excitement of the last month or several. But, Starmer has been wowing the crowds in Liverpool for the Labour party political conference and it's time to get down to the nitty gritty of political discourse.

But this year marks his debut appearance at a major Labour party celebration. Now they're the governors, the leaders, the overall bosses and crucial decision makers, the men and women responsible for either making or breaking the United Kingdom. What we need now is, perhaps, a moment of sober perspective. The Labour party, who had hitherto completely lost their way on their route back to governing the country, have this week been back in the spotlight just when they must have thought everybody had assumed they no longer existed.

And yet after 14 years of bumbling incompetence, foolhardy behaviour, comical statements straight from the British music halls of the Second World War and general mismanagement, the Tories have now taken a back seat in some wild wilderness where only loneliness and grudging remorse may be the harshest of realities. Nobody wants to know what happened to Boris Johnson, fewer are interested in the stuffy pomposities of Jacob Rees Mogg or so it might be thought and as for Dominic Raab, Liz Truss and Nick Hancock, the less said the better for us all.

We survived those darkest days of Covid 19 because we could hardly believe the improvisation comedy act who was Boris Johnson, as Johnson simply went from one verbal disaster to another. Every time Johnson appeared at that now memorable Press conference lectern accompanied by his medical scientists Sir Chris Witty and Sir Patrick Vallance, we knew it would fall apart at the seams fairly rapidly. And it did so embarrassingly. In hindsight, no one political party of any persuasion could have stopped this calamitous tragedy, this horrible decline into confusion, complication, obfuscation, denial, counter denial and then, suffering on a monumental scale.

But now that the Conservative party are out of office, Britain can now look for its latest set of sitting targets, another set of buffoons, pranksters, tricksters, exploiters and ministers who are about as useless as chocolate tea pots. Hold on though. The Labour party have been in government for just over four months and there's still dust in the curtains of 10 Downing Street's windows, the furniture has only just been installed in the dining room and a certain portrait of a former Prime Minister had to come down.

This week though, the Labour party have been selling their wares in Liverpool, once the city of culture and now hosts to a new government for their annual shouting match. It will be a hotbed of fierce debate, a thousand private discussions, confidential whispers and a platform for profound statements and expressions of either delight or frustration.

It used to be the case that wherever the Labour party went, trade unions and militant voices would jump to the defence of Labour because they were the ones with those good, old fashioned Socialist ideals and the working class proletariat would come together over yet more beer and sandwiches. Labour represented the working man or woman, those who once plunged into dangerous mines and coal faces with dirty faces, clocked onto industrious factory floors and grafted for their living.

From the earliest days of Clement Atlee right through to the gruff and forthright Harold Wilson, the Labour party have arrived at the front door of 10 Downing Street and left it behind because something had gone terribly wrong with the machinery and the country was either flat broke or just an international joke.

When Wilson declared his White Heat of Technology speech a resounding success, there were still grumblings of discontent. The economy was still in a ropy, parlous state, our standing on the world stage was no longer secure and even Swinging London had become a hollow cliche. The Vietnam war had slowly degenerated into agonising death and grotesque bloodshed and all Wilson could claim as his major achievements were the Open University and the addition of BBC Two as Britain's third new TV channel.

Fast forward another 30 years and two men were conspiring to pick up the pieces of a Labour party who may have been accused of being stuck in a time warp. Both Michael Foot and Neil Kinnock were competent and conscientious politicians who knew all the wrinkles of political etiquette. But Foot seemed to drag the Labour party through a muddy quagmire of wrong turns and ill conceived legislation of dodgy policies. The final straw of course for Foot was that infamous appearance at a Remembrance Day service when he thought nothing of wearing a shabby coat and the kind of dishevelled look that seemed to bring disgrace, shame and disrepute upon the Labour party.

Neil Kinnock of course had been an admirable speaker, an orator of the highest quality and status, a fiery if hugely intelligent academic who knew exactly what to say and had no reason to apologise for any gaffe or indiscretion that might have passed his lips. But at the height of Margaret Thatcher's reign as Prime Minister, Kinnock stuck his shoes onto the most explosive minefield of them all. In the lead up to a General Election, Kinnock was deliberately photographed with his wife Glenys running along a beach before being swept away by a huge tidal wave and falling onto the sand without a care in the world, faces wreathed in smiles.

Little did he know it at the time but that would spell the end of Labour party until the now well respected tenure of Tony Blair as Labour Prime Minister. Labour went into hiding and hibernation after Kinnock and, after Blair had performed minor miracles in rescuing Britain from another meltdown, we are now back where it all began with Blair.  The political party with an authentic heart and soul, the party with compassion written all the way through them and the party who always cared for the downtrodden and neglected, were officially back in charge. Leave it to Labour. They'll know what to do. That's for sure.

And so it was that Sir Keir Starmer came to the microphone in Liverpool yesterday. He stood up at the microphone, composed himself, took a sharp intake of breath and just spoke rather like the bridegroom who just wants to say the right thing to family and friends. He looked down on his piece of paper and then swiftly looked up at his adoring audience because he knew just what this all meant to his party. They had come this far, toiling away furiously behind the scenes and then finally reaching the summit.

Starmer began to thank all of his colleagues for their unstinting, tireless contribution to the Election campaign trail, outlining his plans and promises in a steady, measured style. There were no grandiose five year projects, nothing to suggest that the country's woes and troubles would be remedied almost immediately. He spoke about sunny uplands but then we knew he would because new Prime Ministers have been expressing the same sentiments since time immemorial. He warned Britain again that this would be no picnic, no easy task and there was much to do. Of course things would never get better overnight and there were no medical or homeopathic treatments that would transform everything tomorrow or indeed this morning, afternoon or evening.

But he then got started on the controversial winter fuel allowance that had pre-occupied so many minds in recent days. Apparently the elderly would have to sit in cold dining rooms during the winter without any comforts apart from Strictly Come Dancing on Saturday night TV. Oh dear, first clanger dropped and suddenly the blustering voices were in full angry mode. How have we come to this juncture? Weren't the Labour party, the party with a benevolent heart of gold? Apparently not. Or have they simply been misunderstood?

And then there was the weekend fiasco of sleaze and scandal. Sir Keir Starmer is one of the now many Prime Ministers to swear their football allegiance to a leading Premier League club. Starmer is a fervent Arsenal supporter, a Gooner and therefore a man of the people. Starmer is the man who loves to share a pint with his fellow football supporters, leaping into the air when Arsenal score and slumping back into his seat in an inconsolable state of despondency when Arsenal lose, a feeling that's unfamiliar to them at the moment.

So what was all the fuss all about? We have now been reliably informed that Starmer wants his own seat in the directors box at the Emirates Stadium rather than mixing with the great and good in the crowd. Labour have been handing out free tickets to all and sundry and up to all kinds of deceit and skulduggery. The knives are out for Labour, sharpened and ready to be used when necessary. Suddenly, Starmer has become public enemy one, taxing  those who should never be taxed, upsetting everybody and then finding there are slight cracks in the structural integrity. Doubts are being uttered and all of the dizzy euphoria of General Election victory in May is  beginning to taste like flat lager.

It does seem though this may be a temporary blip in the proceedings, a minor setback, teething problems, a transitional period for the government. Patience has to be a virtue. Besides, Rome wasn't built in a day but the bricks and mortar used for this political project may be needed sooner rather than later. This is going to be one long and painstaking operation, laborious in the extreme but trust has to be placed in Starmer since there can be no plausible alternative.

The ghosts of Foot and Kinnock may come to haunt Starmer in due course. But now maybe now is the time to sit tight and hold onto our seats. Labour won this year's May General Election by a comprehensive landslide with a vast majority that almost feels unprecedented in modern times. They won because the UK wanted a refreshing change, shiny new innovations, more housing, an education system for our children that should rightly be considered the best in the world and an economy that thrives in no time at all.

Starmer re-assures us that the NHS will be his first and most important priority because our doctors and surgeons are just exemplary role models, outstanding in their very public roles. The health of the Britain has to be addressed almost immediately and no elderly member of society should have to be expected to languish in a hospital corridor for hours and hours, day after day. 

So there we are Great Britain, it's the party political conference for the Labour party in Liverpool. Be there and pay attention because Sir Keir Starmer is talking and talking positively. And then, much to the amusement and hilarity of the nation but not to me personally, Starmer, in a brief lapse of concentration, in an emotional moment in his Gaza - Israel dialogue with the fellow members of his party, referred to the 'sausages' as opposed to the hostages detained at the moment. It must have been the lights in the hall and the beads of sweat on his face. This was the most unfortunate of cock ups but then again Starmer is human after all. So much for Punch and Judy politics.