Meghan and Prince Harry, the misunderstood Royals

 Meghan Markle, Prince Harry and the Royal Family.

Yesterday Prince Harry stood up at the European parliament and talked about children. As George Benson once so unforgettably sung, children are our future. The marriage of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle has been so heavily scrutinised at times that it must feel as if their every breath and movement is a matter of vital importance. The microscope has fallen on both with such an intensity and consistent curiosity that they might have been forgiven for going straight back to the United States of America. 

For those who treasure the Royal Family and everything they represent on behalf of Britain's best vested interests, both Harry and Meghan still held in the highest esteem. And yet not so long ago they were the couple to either loathe, love or just grudgingly tolerate. For decades now the Royals have been perceived as both horribly dysfunctional, distant, aloof, reserved and totally out of touch with the common man, woman and child. Yesterday Harry and Meghan perfectly observed royal protocol, behaved impeccably and made all the right statements at the right time. 

Ever since that fairy tale wedding in May 2018, the eagle eyes have been everywhere. Then, quite suddenly both decided that they'd had more than they could take. Britain no longer felt like home for the married couple and both were hounded mercilessly, examined carefully and then driven away from the country that many of us might have been hoping would be their home forever. So both jumped onto a plane with their children Archie and Lilibet, ignored the critics and just settled back in America. 

To the outside world it looked like the ultimate betrayal, a time for radical change and then there was the eventual breakdown of communication within royal circles. The son of King Charles the Third had made up his mind. He had to leave Britain. His brother Prince William was furious and deeply ashamed of his brother's seemingly indecent behaviour. The whole family began to gang up on Harry and Meghan so much so that Harry probably felt he had no plausible alternative but just leave on a jet plane. The tempestuous events that were whirling around him had taken their toll. 

Then there was a rift, an ugly disagreement between both William and Harry, no longer brothers in perfect harmony with each other. It was all very fractured, bitter and resentful. A noticeable friction between the two brothers could hardly be concealed. King Charles probably felt his son had been a huge let down and for a while  Harry was seemingly ostracised, a terrible state of affairs that none of us could believe. So the bad blood became messier by the day and Harry was the villain of the piece, the pariah and overcast, the rebel who had to fight back with a vengeance and just allowed to live his life while protecting his wife and children. 

So Harry committed the cardinal sin. He sat down in a rare moment of privacy, dug out a laptop and started writing kiss and tell stories in his shocking, warts and all book. The book was called the Spare and the information inside is well documented. It was full of hurt, pain, a sense of deep rejection, a feeling that he was being unfairly victimised and, above all, Harry felt a complete lack of any belonging. To those in the know, Harry was just pouring out all of his frustrations. It was a book that was regarded as disgraceful, a book that was damning, derogatory, inflammatory and provocative. Harry and Meghan had become unloved and unwanted.

But yesterday both Meghan and Harry struck all the right notes and chords. They made it abundantly clear that Britain was their home and the past was history. Their children were the lights of their lives, vitally important members of the Royal Family and the next generation would be in good, capable hands. So the speeches were made yesterday and we began to think back to our childhood. It was an altogether less privileged and glamorous way of life but nonetheless a private one that suited us perfectly because our mum and dad, our parents were exemplary role models.  

It occurred to you that we were the fortunate ones. We were never subject to the relentless clicking and flashing of TV broadcasting cameras, that unwelcome intrusion into our private lives from newspapers and magazines. The great British public have never had to negotiate the incessant Press attention, that constant focus, nor that inexplicable obsession with the royals. We never hold lavish dinners for presidents, prime ministers or those kings and queens from around the world and Commonwealth. And we don't go hunting, fishing and shooting at various times of the year nor the Boxing Day hunt. 

We certainly don't have huge banqueting suites surrounded by ornately stunning chandeliers, vast mirrors or glorious paintings on the wall. There are no famous artists with their respective landscape and portraits, no sign of the extraordinary wealth and opulence that normally goes with the royal territory. The cutlery and crockery on the dinner tables may well have come from Harrods or Fortnum and Masons, some of the most well appointed and prestigious department stores you can possibly think of. The public do their shopping at Selfridges, John Lewis, Primark and Marks and Spencer. 

In fact their lifestyle is in direct contrast to ours because our soft furnishings have the finest textures and styles. Their knives and forks gleam with the most golden glow and although they do eat fish and chips and pizzas the royals have a very specific approach to fine dining and the company they keep. There is a sense that the royals and the good people of Great Britain are uniquely separate from each other and are rarely to be seen in the local cinema scoffing large quantities of pop corn or hot dogs.

And so we return to the issue of the day. Prince Harry and Meghan Markle remain perhaps the most misunderstood of the royals. Harry retains his commitment to the Invictus Games, a man who cares deeply about those disabled athletes who are now permanently and sadly confined to a wheelchair. He may no longer be the wild child of the Royal Family and, having returned to Britain with his wife Meghan, probably feels more secure and loved than ever before. But the connection and rapport are there for all to see.  

His devotion to the Invictus Games should never be underestimated. There is an obvious identification with the armed forces and that has to be commended. Meghan of course will always be regarded as that feisty American actress who knows exactly how to deal with celebrity and Hollywood glamour. The sordid details relating to Meghan's father are now common knowledge. But as somebody with a lifetime respect for  the royals, perhaps an ardent royalist perhaps, this is the right time to roll out the red carpet for both Meghan and Harry. They are fully deserving of our unwavering admiration. 

Some of us still believe in you and are convinced that the benefit of the doubt should be extended to Prince Harry. You suspect Harry's late and adored mother Diana and the late and magisterial Her Majesty the Queen would still have had nothing but unconditional love for Harry. So let's hear it for Prince Harry and Meghan Markle or the Duke and Duchess of Sussex. Welcome back to Britain your Royal Highnesses.    

Remembrance service.

 Remembrance service.

The red poppies fluttered down from the historic roof of the Royal Albert Hall, and, to quote that famous cliche, you could hardly hear a pin drop although that may be stating the obvious. But last night was never about cliches rather the genuine outpouring of painful reminiscence, harrowing grief and a ever present sense of grave introspection, rather like one long, sombre funeral service where the thoughts of those gathered together reminded you of the familiar, the harsh reality, mourning on a monumental scale. 

Last night we remembered and lest we could ever forget, we bowed our heads thoughtfully at the Remembrance service for those millions who lost their lives on the military battlegrounds and wartime killing fields of human conflict. Then there were the inevitable rivers of tears that none of us could hold back. And yet privately they were deep in sorrow, stern, phlegmatic faces who just wanted to be with their innermost feelings. The suffering in the aftermath of too many wars was there for all to see, thinking permanently about their loved ones, trying desperately to make sense of it all.  

The yearly Remembrance service at the Royal Albert Hall in London once again emphasised the unnecessary heartache, the barbaric savagery of war, the horrific repercussions of war and particularly the soldiers who sacrificed their lives, putting everything on the line because they had to whether they liked it or not. They were all there last night as is always the case, to shut their eyes, standing respectfully and then sitting down in a kind of religious obeisance, singing powerfully from the bottom of their hearts. 

We all know about the First and Second World War, the shocking abominations and cruelties inflicted on ex servicemen and women who fought bitterly on our behalf so that we could live our lives and be grateful for our blessings. We were never there to witness the excessive bloodshed, the apocalyptic deaths, the six million Jews who were tortured, tormented, pushed from pillar to post and then sent to the gas chambers because they were Jewish. The Jews represented a real threat to Nazi stormtroopers who shot down the Jews for reasons that none of us can ever quite comprehend even in hindsight. 

But last night was much more than a simple ceremony to acknowledge those who were callously beaten, shoved and kicked, provoked, beaten black and blue before being dragged towards the firing squads. They were all both young and old, children and adults, families from every corner of the universe, indiscriminately murdered because the Germans simply wanted to assert Aryan supremacy and then bring about the violent assassination and elimination of the Jews completely. 

Of course there were those in the audience at the Royal Albert Hall who just needed to be with themselves in quiet isolation, weeping copiously and trying to rationalise the events of over 80 years ago when the entire world went to hell and back before meeting a fate that none could have anticipated. Both the First and Second World Wars are still graphically, vividly and hideously engraved on our minds. For those of us who were born 17 years after the Second World War it still feels as if your late and lovely mum and dad could never quite come to terms with what happened and the recollections were far too bitter to relate. 

And so gradually, while growing up, you were told about the mass fatalities, the severities, the humiliations, the degradations, those who left on a train and never came back. You try to imagine the horrendous magnitude of the First and Second World War and the imagery conveyed in countless TV documentaries grows heavier with poignancy every time you see it. We discussed it as a family and you  were somehow dumbfounded because the present day generation can never give you an answer. 

But at the Royal Albert Hall, they were united in their collective thought patterns, applauding movingly and touchingly those whose grandma and grandpa, great grandma and great grandpa escaped from persecution, the guns, bombs, rifles, the explosions that psychologically scarred so many who followed them immediately. You can't deny that 80 years later, those memories are still branded in our heads, still stirring the wrong kind of history, hurting, still evident, crying out for a justice that may never be delivered. 

They came from every direction, the Royal Navy, the Royal Air Force, the Royal Marines, the Royal Military Police, the Paras, men and women in stiff grey uniforms with berets on their heads, thick black busbies on their heads, standard bearers, tartan kilts and all manner of military experience and knowledge. They marched into the main arena, heads held high, dignity personified, pride on their lapels and collars, swollen with pride and lumps in their throats. There was a righteousness about the people who deserve to be recognised and never ignored or simply taken for granted. 

Then as if determined to be heard in every conceivable corner of the world, the bands and orchestras struck up their rousing sounds, violins and pianos tuned to impeccable perfection, guitars, harps, trumpets and trombones, emphatic cymbals clashing dramatically at the right time. There was a nobility about last night, everybody in unison before, towards the end of the service, a wistful glance up at the Royal Family in the Royal box.  King Charles the Third was accompanied by Queen Camilla, the Prince and Princess Wales commendably and appropriately smart. 

You wondered what exactly must have been going through their minds and knew instinctively that Her late and much loved Majesty the Queen and husband Prince Philip would have stared across the Royal Albert Hall as if royalty had always been there for us. The Remembrance service is a sad and tragic yearly event that induces the same emotions, the same unspoken feelings. There is still an air of sensitivity about the whole occasion as if we should always be reminded of where we are in the moment. Lest we should ever forget and pray should never, ever happen again.     

FA Cup weekend

 FA Cup weekend.

You do know what's happening over the weekend. It's football's favourite weekend of them all or at least it will be for a vast majority of non League clubs or those who pursue their most passionate of all pastimes in the rarefied circles of football's big time city clubs. Then there are those who ply their trade amongst the Premier League aristocracy. This  weekend, football's little tiddlers and smallest fish find their ultimate level playing ground. It's the FA Cup first round and it'll probably feel like the most colourful street carnival these clubs will ever see at the bottom of their roads. It'll be fun all the way and quite a privilege. 

The FA Cup first round breaks out into that all singing, all dancing mode, a spectacular footballing extravaganza that all of those who have only known 200 fans inside their provincial theatre will be heaving with at least a thousand, perhaps two or three thousand in their grounds. The minnows of non League football, whose part time amateur status is so well established that it can't be denied, will be welcoming their wealthier brethren who bring in substantial millions of revenue at the drop of a hat. But this is the FA Cup and we can smell its old fashioned grandeur, its timeless charm and universal popularity.

Yes indeed the whole world has heard of the FA Cup and in millions of home across the continents, dominions, islands and vast communities of football's heartlands, the FA Cup will resonate beautifully. Suddenly, the working classes will meet the middle classes and those who can only dream of lifting the FA Cup in May will set out on that epic journey this weekend, undaunted, undeterred and fearless. 

This Saturday, Sunday and Monday, the poorest will meet the richest, the proletariat and bourgeoisie will roll up their sleeves, pulling on their shirts and shorts, praying for the impossible to bear fruit and then just laughing at the cynics who just think the little men are wasting their time. But the FA Cup, such as its egalitarian nature, always stretches out the hand of friendship to its so called social inferiors. Of course there is a snobbery about the FA Cup, a condescending snigger when the non Leaguers genuinely believe that they, too, can still mix it with the big boys and thoroughly deserve to be in the first round of the FA Cup.

Undoubtedly the FA Cup has never lost its inherent capacity to shock, amaze, and astonish, making fools of us, leaving in its wake a lingering romance that may be hugely exaggerated at times. But tomorrow those matchbox stadiums with fragile terraces will come alive, a thriving organism that quite literally makes the hair stand up on the back of our necks. But, essentially, the FA Cup is the competition that supporters from all over the country still revere and admire, praise to the skies and go crazy about. Everybody has heard of the FA Cup and the only tragedy is that only one team can win the trophy. 

Some of us can still remember vividly the leviathan giant killers, those huge footballing powerhouses, the legendary names who have brought nothing but pleasure, despair and disbelief to all and sundry. We can still see hear the excitable voice of the late and much loved John Motson, whose very first BBC TV football commentary was suitably oiled with incredulous gasps of excitement. It was January 1972 and Motson lived with the knowledge that had Hereford United lost to old First Division Newcastle United at Edgar Street, Hereford, he may have lost out on the biggest of all opportunities to shine at the BBC.

But the fact remains that Hereford, in the heart of the agricultural, dairy cattle industry, did beat high flying Newcastle. Ronnie Radford, shirt flying sympathetically over his shorts, picked up a ball outside the Newcastle penalty area and having indulged in the smartest one two with his colleague, thundered home an unstoppable shot into the Newcastle net. Newcastle, having led, were now pegged back and Hereford's  decisive winner sent shock waves through the Beautiful Game. 

A year later in the 1973 FA Cup Final old second division Sunderland, who had conquered the game's  loftiest heights as one of the game's most respected clubs in Post War Britain, were now the game's most triumphant again in the most improbable of all circumstances. Nobody gave Sunderland a hoot of a chance against Don Revie's Leeds United, a team who could have been accused of schizophrenia because the whole of football could never make up their minds about their prowess or lack of it. 

Leeds United had already won the old First Division championship shortly before their meeting with Sunderland but this time it all felt as if the fates were on their side. Sunderland were languishing in the old Second Division like a rusty old bicycle wheel. But the FA Cup always has something up its capacious sleeve and Second Division Sunderland stopped Leeds from playing and the rest, as they say, is history. 

A corner from Billy Hughes in the only Wembley FA Cup Final to be played with an orange ball, was invitingly swung into the heart of Leeds six yard box and penalty area. A cluster of red and white striped shirts including Vic Halom all jumped simultaneously for the ball. But it was the late and great Ian Porterfield who trapped the ball artistically on his knee before lashing the ball past a helpless David Harvey in the Leeds goal. 

It was at the end of that game that the FA Cup witnessed its most entertaining cabaret. Sunderland boss Bob Stokoe, a formidable player in his time, galloped onto the pitch like the most athletic gazelle complete in beige coat and a trilby hat that the 1960s comedian Harry Worth would have been proud of. And yet Stokoe never did raise his leg outside a shop window although just the sight of Stokoe charging onto the pitch towards Sunderland keeper Jim Montgomery will live in the memory forever.

In more recent times there was Wimbledon whose meteoric rise to the old First Division still sends goosebumps down your spine whenever you think about them. Wimbledon were utterly loathsome and objectionable, a repulsive sight who took football back to the Dark Ages. Their long ball, ugly and revolting game, had set the game back to a time when cavemen wrote hieroglyphics on a wall and electricity was just a pipedream. 

In the 1988 FA Cup Final, Wimbledon, who were making influential waves in the old First Division met Liverpool, multiple winners of the old First Division championship and hitherto European Cup holders on several occasions. Liverpool had monopolised the top flight honours for years while Wimbledon were, allegedly the playground bullies, the sinister gangsters who nobody liked or approved of. Their manager Bobby Gould was a competent coach alongside Don Howe but the likes of Vinny Jones, Terry Gibson and winning FA Cup Final goal-scorer Lawrie Sanchez had upset the Establishment too many times for anybody's comfort. 

Then in 2013, little Wigan Athletic who once shook hands with the old Fourth Division at Springfield Park, beat a Manchester City side who were then poised to conquer the Premier League on four consecutive occasions. City have since won the Premier League but at the moment shame and notoriety seem to be following them. But Wigan, in the last minute of the FA Cup Final that year, scored with a glancing header from Ben Watson and City were rocked back on their heels. 

Anyway, on Saturday the FA Cup rolls into the Wild West saloon town, horses sliding into view and cowboys with Hollywood guns. The competition still has a iconic, traditional and mythical feel to it. The giant killers do occasionally emerge from the muck and bullets and the unexpected does spring all manner of surprises. But on Saturday, football encounters its first magical experience. We've seen it before and the enchantment always leaves us breathless. The FA Cup, hey. It is surely one of the oldest of all competitions but it keeps delivering. 

  

Birthdays

 Birthdays.

Ah yes. That subject. Birthdays! You knew it would be there in the forefront of your memories. It happens every year without fail as sure as day is night and vice versa. In the weeks leading up to our birthday we all, quite possibly, recoil with the kind of horror and terror that somehow seems foolhardy and totally unnecessary because it does, after all,  mark another year in your lives, something of a notable milestone, the anniversary of the day you came into the world. 

And so it is that today is my darling, beautiful wife's birthday and all ages are strictly off limits and by the time you reach a certain point of your adolescence, it hardly seems to matter. This is for private consumption and nobody need ever know. Let's just say she is my wonderfully loving, supportive rock and inspiration and nobody does it better than my wife Bev. Birthdays though are not though our childhood narratives since neither of us eat jelly and ice cream, play Pass the Parcel or eat cakes full of wicked cholesterol.

Today is a day for thinking about our now adult children and our stunning grandchildren, the next generation, the people who will take over from us and inherit our mantle, breaking down more boundaries, setting new objectives for the future, carrying the whole high tech machinery victoriously into a new world. They will continue inventing and creating, being radically visionary and just guiding us through all those horribly nasty wars and revolutions with the minimum of effort. We know they'll get it right and we trust them implicitly. 

For the traditionalists though birthdays are something to be feared, almost dreaded because the advancing years may be flying past us too quickly. Recently, our gorgeous daughter Rachel got married to our equally as wonderful son in law Lior and you've never felt so blessed. But weddings will always be a cause for celebration, for eating and dancing the night away, drinking, if the mood takes you, prohibitively. Birthdays though also remain a permanent part of human existence, the raison d'etre for living life to the full. You still feel important, deeply loved and lavished with goodwill. 

Here my wife and I still think it's worth receiving a present or two, maybe a drop of the bubbly champagne but perhaps not, simply a day for shared rejoicing, a quiet meal with family and nothing but jovial humour. But generally speaking, you suspect, age becomes immaterial and totally irrelevant, just a number and nothing more. We have now mellowed with age and simply don't care how old we are. It is the passage of time and 12 months later, we still think nothing of showering everybody with birthday cards, e-cards, texted messages of congratulation and jubilation, wearing a silly crepe paper hat and blowing whistles because it just seems delightfully acceptable.

Then there are the landmark birthdays which always crop up with inevitable regularity. When we get to 21, most of us think that all bets should be off and it's just time to throw all our modest inhibitions into the nearest available dustbin. It's that first stage of our maturity, the transition into the business end of our lives when the sudden realisation of who we are may well be slightly unnerving and disconcerting but comforting at the same time. And yet what a great feeling. It's your birthday and you'll laugh if you want to. It's time to wake up and smell the coffee and get real. 21 today just feels like some outstanding day that  feels heavy with significance and an enduring sense of achievement. 

My lovely late day once said to me that, having reached 21, he woke up one morning and discovered that he was 50 with demanding bills to be paid off urgently and married to my wonderful mum. He now had onerous responsibilities as a married man and a mortgage to be paid off for the next 25 years. By the age of 21, we should be looking forward to a bibulous night in the pub, getting absolutely hammered and unashamedly drunk as a skunk but my dad was never like that. He was a man of moderation and common sense although surely a half a lager wouldn't have disturbed his poise and equilibrium.

Then we're faced with yet more daunting obstacles so much so that by the time we reach 40, slowing down becomes compulsory and the muscles in your body aren't quite as willing and responsive. You pretend you're young and vigorous, more than capable of running several marathons in one day before climbing up seemingly insurmountable mountains and bungee jumping from London Bridge. And then it hits you. Forget it. That's out of the question. You're 40 and not 14. You have to be joking. But you can and you will. 

By the time we get to 50, we are no longer  muscular, athletic, slim as a bamboo stick, no longer the Adonis types with stunning, well ripped and toned stomachs. But we still look good. The mirror in the bathroom told its own story. Well done everybody. We've got this one.  We've now made the valiant effort to keep fit in the gym, cycling ourselves into the ground on the pedal bike and then rowing the length of the River Thames only in our imagination. But at the age of 50 our wonderful son Sam took me to the National Museum of Football and that was the greatest surprise of all. 

But we are no longer possess suppleness in our fingers while massive feats of athleticism and agility are possibly beyond us.  We can no longer believe that one day that our country will come calling. Still, you never know. Maybe Thomas Tuchel will name us in his squad for England's forthcoming Nations League team or even the next Euros. Maybe the English cricket, rugby and tennis authorities will consider us for obvious inclusion in teams for the  big occasions. They may change their minds when they find out you were once a highly regarded, garlanded school or county champion in cross country running. 

Besides, the Aussies are on the way next summer, a cricketing summer and you're the fastest bowler and leg break spinner ever to appear at the age of 64. Historically, cricketers never seem to retire and birthdays should always be acknowledged. You are tireless, after all. You just keep going regardless of age. Cricketers, at every level, must wake up on their special day, always flexing their knees, legs and arms, tying on their batting pads, tugging on their helmets, swinging their bat enthusiastically before bounding down the pavilion steps for another mammoth innings. 

And now you're 60, and by now, not 21, that much has now become patently obvious. You're not fit, svelte, no longer the energetic one who used to leap out of bed in the morning, embracing the day like a loved one and then deciding that it's your birthday and you're doing nothing. But it's your birthday and life is exceptionally sweet. Go on have a glorious day and enjoy yourselves. But this is not the time for re-capturing your childhood because that ship sailed ages ago. 

But today is your birthday, my wife Bev's birthday. But the youth you so valued and treasured, is no longer waiting for you when you open up your presents and now they may resemble woolly gloves and socks.  So here we go everybody wherever you are. Happy Birthday and treat yourself. You deserve this day and nobody can take it away from you. Put on your glad rags, paint the town red, party the evening and night away in that fashionable nightclub, demand a conveyor belt of the most exotic cocktails and just have the most incredible evening. Have fun. It's your birthday and you deserve it. Life is fantastic of course it is.    

Sunday, Sunday.

Sunday, Sunday.

Ah Sunday folks! What a day indeed. There can be none like it. It's that final day of the weekend, the punctuation point of the week when everything, in theory, should stop or shut down since logic tells us that we've been running around frantically for most of the previous week getting all hot and bothered about nothing in particular. We've no time for reflection, considered thoughts on the following week or ambitious plans perhaps that rarely materialise in the way we'd like them to and nothing concrete to show for it. 

But Sundays of course should be designed for rest and relaxation, the Sabbath day when a vast majority of the religious population converge on their local church or cathedral for just a couple of hours of prayer, worship, deep rumination on the issues of the day, idolatry in some cases and simple contemplation of both the temporal and spiritual before taking the family out for a long walk in your local sprawling park. This should be a day for taking it easy, cherishing free and quality time, forgetting about the news for a while. You've earned this day so let's make the most of it. 

And yet 60 years ago it was all so different, quite obviously so, very noticeably and joyously. Back in the 1950s and 60s, there were no electronic gadgets and screens, whereas today is all about  instant gratification. In the old days we had plenty of time to get things right if they were wrong but now we reproach ourselves if we can't achieve immediate communication with our friends and families. There was, in the past, nothing rushed or hurried, urgent or serious that needed instant attention. We could kick off our shoes on a Sunday morning, eat breakfast in our garden at leisure. At no point did we think that the world would come to an end if we didn't fulfil all of those long held aspirations we might have harboured in one day.  

When you were a child, the pace of life was much slower, the traffic on the road  far less hectic and congested while my late and wonderful  dad would sit in the family garden listening to his idol Frank Sinatra crooning mellifluously to those famous standards such as I've Got You Under My Skin or My Way. Of course the male and female population still wash their cars with thorough attention to detail and the kids still play competitive football in the park or, on a much broader scale, Hackney Marshes. But Sunday was the day.  

And yet today we lament the passing of that era because nowadays there are a million cars on the road, weaving in and out of each other on long roads and motorways, fretting and fuming under our breaths and despising the car in front of us because they can't drive or so it would seem. Nowadays we honk our car horns constantly because that bloke next to us has jumped the lights and he should be prosecuted or lose their licence. But my family are brilliant drivers so you have not a bad word to say about them. 

When you went for a walk up to the shops and supermarkets, you were suddenly confronted with the closed sign and the shutters were up for the duration of that weekend. There was no trade, no money  changed hands because that seemed almost sacrosanct. Everything was shut and it probably felt like bliss because there were no raised voices about long and winding queues in supermarkets, no self help machines which meant that you could happily engage in pleasant small talk with the cashier or the person at the till and then pay for your goods.

You can hardly talk about Sunday without nostalgic memories from the past. A couple of years before you were born there was a grumpy and crotchety comedian by the name of Tony Hancock. Now Hancock was one of those 1950s comedians who never really found any kind of peace of mind because he was never satisfied or happy, a demanding perfectionist. So he drove himself to the limit, smoking like a chimney in a memorable TV interview and hoping that one day he'd become accepted as a mainstream, legitimate theatrical actor who performed Shakespeare to a captive audience. But we now know that Hancock was just being delusional since comedy was always his forte. 

Anyway, Hancock's Half Hour, his masterpiece, entertained BBC audiences for years and to those who only had two TV channels, this was a delicious treat, complete escapism for a public who were desperate for some light relief. This followed another hard week at the coalface, in the office, warehouse, shop floor or negotiating the nightmare that must have been the late and delayed train or bus to get to work. And then in one episode we were given another revealing insight into the frustrated mind of Tony Hancock.  

Picture the scene. Tony Hancock, an established national treasure, was accompanied by the equally as famous Sid James at their lunchtime table. Hancock, all moans, groans, grievances and heartfelt anguish, sat at the table with James. Sid James had yet to encounter the saucy but hilarious days of the Carry On era but was still recognised on the street. He'd played a number of gangsters or shady characters in films but now Hancock the comedian teamed up with Sid James the funny man as well. 

So cue action. Hancock's face starts crumpling with anxiety, the lines on his forehead becoming more and more pronounced and disturbing. Suddenly, Hancock goes off on an impassioned rant about boredom, Sunday lunchtime more specifically, which was like a desolate wasteland since what could you do? There was the Light Programme on the radio, Around the Horne, the Archers even but, essentially, it was tedious and mundane.

Meanwhile, Hancock's comedy partner Sid James was totally engrossed in the News of the World, that celebrated showbiz scandal sheet where everything was morally bankrupt and even vicar's daughters were indulging in debauched behaviour. But Sid James had his Sunday paper, the football results at the back of the paper and all was well in the world. He continued leafing through the paper casually and desultorily without a care. Our Sid was content with what he had while Hancock was agonising, questioning, complaining, rather like a bear with a sore head. 

This was the essence of a Sunday, a charming microcosm of what the world was like in those black and white days when the TV was your only company and even the Sunday roast provided only brief respite for those who wanted scintillating excitement all day long. And this was a perfect social commentary of 1950s Britain. You had to make your own entertainment and just look forward to the working week. You had to iron your shirts, ensuring without fail that your children's school satchel had been promptly packed with all the appropriate reference books, pens, pencils, rulers and rubbers. It all felt very methodical and well organised. 

There was an effortless simplicity about Sunday, nothing complex about it. It was all very straightforward, right and proper without any complications whatsoever. If the kids were bored, you could always enlist them with the scouts or a youth club where their minds had to be occupied. They could also run out into the neighbourhood roads and play football until dusk. They could gleefully throw their coats onto the ground because those trams or trolley buses, even cars and vans would not be coming any time soon. All vehicles were banned and forbidden. 

In those days kids could play for as long as they wanted and could be energetic, lively, moving their bodies with whole hearted enthusiasm. They could play hop scotch, chucking stones against walls, playing for princely shillings and then just go crazy in the healthiest manner. They could play football with footballs that must have felt like medicine balls, objects so hard and rocklike that you'd have ended up in Accident and Emergency if you kicked the ball with too much conviction. 

Sundays were a break from the toil and drudgery of cleaning, washing but not knitting or sewing because these were still activities that your mum or grandma would happily partake. Sundays were days devoted to listening to BBC Radio Two in the days of Family Favourites when Cliff Michelmore and Jean Challis would host a show involving the British armed forces in countries like Cyprus or West Germany where cousins and uncles were now based. It was time when wartime band music was very much the musical zeitgeist of the time. Your further music listening pleasure consisted of Glen Miller, Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Tommy Dorsey, jazz exponents of the most hugely talented order. 

This would be followed by Charlie Chester, a jovial uncle who always sounded as though he was the most cheerful DJ ever to grace the radio airwaves. Chester would continue to plunder the archives with requests for Tony Bennett, Sammy Davis Junior, the inimitable Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and 1950s titans such as Johnny Rae, Eddie Cochran, Pat Boone, Elvis Presley of course, Al Martino, Ella Fitzgerald, Paul Robeson, Bing Crosby and a thousand stellar acts who crackled at times on your radio but you were never incensed or upset because transistor radios were impressive looking and sounding.

And finally there was the Top 40, introduced by a DJ named Tom Browne. Now at the time you knew what most disc jockeys looked like. You'd seen the late and much loved Terry Wogan and both seen and heard of Jimmy Young, then two of the most consistent radio presenters on Radio Two but Tom Browne remained a mystery and, up until recently, unidentifiable. But Browne had that smooth, controlled delivery and he was very much the man who sounded like a DJ should but never over the top. 

During the 1970s some of us although certainly not yourself, would tape the Top 40 because you just loved that whole glam rock period where bands like Mud, Sweet, Queen, the Bay City Rollers, Sparks, the Electric Light Orchestra, Led Zeppelin, Tavares, the Detroit Spinners, the Stylistics, Roxy Music, Manfred Mann, David Cassidy and the Partridge Family, Wings and Black Sabbath were almost permanent residents at the top of the charts.

Meanwhile at home Sundays were reserved for seaside excursions during the summer when your lovely mum and dad would jump into the Ford Cortina with yours truly at the back, before racing up the Southend Road to either Westcliff or Southend. It all sounds idyllic and almost too hedonistic for words but families during the 1960s would think nothing of manoeuvring the car into action, dusting down the seats and packing huge quantities of egg sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, possibly smoked salmon but that may be a figment of your imagination. But what a day Sunday was. 

Your wonderful grandma and grandpa, my mum's parents, would also join in with the fun. We would sit along that seemingly interminable Westcliff esplanade, a gentle, benevolent wind blowing our hair and lunch was just a food paradise. Grandma would give me every encouragement to eat as many sandwiches as you could, while my now silvery haired but distinguished looking grandpa simply sat there in his grey suit heavy with formality. He would lie back in his deckchair, eyes shut and blinking in the sun while his grandson made tracks for the sandy beach and that commendable sandcastle building operation on his mind.

Sundays would end at tea time with a fleeting visit to Rossi's, still a thriving restaurant, a flourishing empire which was established and opened during the 1930s. Now the alternatives were both amusing and delightfully old fashioned. Next to the conventional tea, coffee and snacks signs over the counter was the cocoa Horlicks which almost feels as if it belongs to some late night drink you normally consume on a winters night in January at home but not the seaside. To this day you can still order a Horlicks but you wouldn't think there's a great deal of demand for it or perhaps a glass of milk for that matter. 

Then we would head home for another sandwich feast where my lovely mum used to make the most delectable egg and spring and onion sandwiches. These were eaten on the Rye seeded bread my wonderful dad had brought from the Jewish delicatessen five minutes away from home. My dad knew the owner of this deli from his Hebrew classes( cheder class) and often returned there with a regularity and frequency that  almost felt automatic. 

My dad of course dressed very smartly and properly for our Sunday seaside trips. There was something very elegant and courtly about the way people both looked and dressed during those days. My dad, complete in naval jacket with a shiny button, clean white shirt and tie, would think this to be the most appropriate attire during my childhood. On reflection he was absolutely right and yet now we prefer outlandish T- shirts with all manner of cheesy logos plastered all over them with beach shorts and crocs, flip flops and baseball caps more suited to the Boston Sox.

And so Sundays would approach its evening and night conclusion. In the morning, you had to be up with the birds and conditioned to school, the groves of academia, that place where education and enlightenment would go hand in hand. On Sunday night your mindset was still on a Southend beach with gulls descending from a great height and ice cream 99s with a flake dribbling deliriously down your shorts. Now you bid farewell to both the weekend and Sunday and the day felt like the realisation of every dream you'd ever had. Wearing your Sunday best does have a very traditional resonance to it. For this, we owe a deep and lasting gratitude to those we will always love.  

    

The Budget 2026

 The Budget 2026,

It almost felt like a storm in a tea cup and yet somehow Budget days in Britain must feel like the most unsettling of draughts, perhaps a disturbance in the night, something that goes bump on your floorboards before whistling past your front door and leaving a nasty shock in its aftermath. Somehow governments can never get it right on this financially impactful of all days. British Chancellors of the Exchequers always seem to get it in the neck whichever party holds the reins of power at the time. 

And yet yesterday's Budget still felt as though it should coincide with the first spring daffodils and daisies. Wasn't it that grand occasion when the country listened with terror and trepidation in case cigarettes and booze had gone up by an astronomical amount and you could no longer afford both? So an autumn budget seemed so out of character with the time of the year that you half expected a game of cricket to have broken out on a village green.

Sometimes everything catches you unawares and you're never really sure where you are in relation to the rest of the world. But it was all made abundantly clear yesterday. Britain is still socially divided, livid, furious, frustrated and needs an immediate answer to probing questions and ever present problems. It's all Andy Burnham's fault. It almost seemed inevitable that Burnham would be vilified and held to account by the great British public because he is, after all, the Prime Minister and you know what they're like. Just unreliable. 

One of these days Britain will elect a charismatic, engaging, personable and general good egg who will get hold of the country by the scruff of the neck and make the right decisions. That day seems so far in the distance, though, that maybe it'll never happen. Perhaps we should resign ourselves to the fact that all Prime Ministers are rotten to the core, clueless, indecisive and completely lacking in leadership qualities. Still, where there's hope there is indeed hope. Burnham looks, to all intents and purposes, a respectable politician with no skeletons in his cupboard and no chequered past so this may be time to give the Liverpool born Burnham the benefit of the doubt because nobody else is willing to do so. 

Yesterday Burnham sat patiently behind the Chancellor of the Exchequer John Healey and just smiled genuinely and agreeably. There were no sceptical gazes or bewildered glances in his direction because the Labour government are doing their utmost to steer the country out of the toxic turmoil the Tory driven government had so disastrously taken us or allegedly.  Poor Boris Johnson, Liz Truss and Rishi Sunak. They were rather like cartoon characters with funny faces, exaggerated caricatures from some old episode of Spitting Image.

Now though Ladies and Gentleman and wait for the drum roll. We give you one Andy Burnham, the former Mayor of Manchester and now Prime Minister. For those with a prophetic insight into these matters, you privately knew this appointment was in the offing. In fact so strong was the premonition that had you been a betting man you'd have put good odds on Burnham taking over at 10 Downing Street. But there he is in situ after that long, hot summer in Britain and already the disapproving and critical are ready to demonise, ridicule and tear him to shreds without a single moment of remorse. 

The Chancellor of the Exchequer John Healey stepped out of 11 Downing Street with that now famous red briefcase and just held onto it as if it were some treasured birthday present. In the old days, the briefcase used to be a battered black. Healey's namesake Denis once proudly displayed that very briefcase for the cameras almost exactly 50 years ago. Holding the purse strings to the country's financial resources is quite the most daunting task and John Healey smiled kindly and just hoped for the best. 

So here were the facts and figures. The standing charges on gas bills will be abolished, the cut on electricity bills will continue to be in place and there were so many other goodies. Chief among the more pressing concerns is a swingeing cut to the welfare bill which may well go down like a lead balloon to those who have to worry about heating their homes during the winter.  There will be a £100 one off payment to 20 million households throughout the country including favourable adjustments to the rate of your council tax. What do you think of that? You can never be sure just how well or badly Budgets go down in the eyes of the public because the reactions are so varied and contrasting. 

We are now in the middle of a post Brexit conversation and suddenly we've all become ecologically aware of our surroundings. There are discussions about fuel prices, net zero, global warming, energy rates and of course the cost of petrol at the pumps. A vast majority of motorists dream about the day when the price of petrol be it diesel or otherwise, will become so spellbindingly cheap that they may be tempted to take their car on a tour of the whole country. But petrol is now so exorbitantly expensive that for those who don't drive, you really do offer heartfelt sympathy. 

But the Budget is now out there in the public domain and for those young families who may be burdened down by a hellish mortgage to pay off, then the news may not have been good or pleasant. Taxes will always be taxing and the price of anything is so painfully high and beyond our understanding that we can only wince with disbelief.  Still, we can only assume that the country will be bombarding both social media networks and the BBC with some choice comments so be prepared. 

Now of course if you're a million pound dotcom entrepreneur with shares in oil, steel and uranium or some Bill Gates figure with so many billions in your bank account, then the Budget will never unduly bother you. Then again if you own some opulent country estate in Gloucestershire or you're some You Tube influencer, then once again you can rest easy in the knowledge that you may never have to worry about any bill of any description. 

It suddenly occurs to you that there were no tots of whisky next to John Healey as he delivered his Budget speech to you. Kenneth Clarke would never have lasted five seconds without his small glass of inoffensive alcohol to keep him company. But whether you liked it or not, the nation now knows exactly how to balance both shopping bills and the amount they may have left over for luxuries. Who would be Chancellor of the Exchequer? John Healey? He did put his name forward to the job and the next couple of weeks at Westminster could be both spicy and, quite possibly, problematic. Best wishes Andy Burnham. 

Harry Kane- winner of the Ballon d'or

 Harry Kane- winner of the Ballon D'or

So the lad from Walthamstow, East London finally stopped the rot for English football. As has been widely reported, the last time an English football won the world's best prize, the new Premiership, as it was known, was in its screaming infancy. The century was barely out of its nappies, the Internet was not about Inter Milan's closest neighbours and Harry Kane had launched out into the big, wide world with the kind of prolific goal scoring exploits that have now brought him immortality and a snug place in the history books.

Kane received his Ballon D'or with all the effusive gratitude that has always come naturally to him. There is nothing egotistical or self absorbed about Kane, none of those childish and petulant tantrums that used to be one of the unfortunate characteristics of certain England players we'd rather not mention. There is nothing false or contrived about Kane, none of those showy bursts of pretentiousness or pomposity that have so often led to his colleagues downfall at some point in their career. 

But last night in London's West End, it all felt as if everything had come together on the night and celebrations were very much the order of things. Nobody has questioned Kane's accomplishments because we know everything we need to know about Kane. He is one of England's greatest strikers of all time which, according to those in the know, may be one of the best accolades any footballer can ever receive. 

It is hard to believe now that this has taken so long to bear fruit. Besides, the first recipient of this blue riband trophy was a man who captured our hearts in 1956 at a time when post War Britain was still recovering from the catastrophic memories left behind during the Second World War. It was a time of ration books and make do and mend austerity. But Sir Stanley Matthews was renowned for being a pickpocket on the wing for both Blackpool and Stoke, a winger of beautiful balance, immaculate ball control and dashing duplicity, the most unstoppable of wingers. And Matthews was still playing at 50. 

And yet in the heart of the capital city in London, Harry Kane once again reminded us of his exceptional goal poacher's instincts and much more. Ever since he broke into Spurs first team as a young apprentice, all of the ingredients were prepared. As soon as Kane could kick a ball, an incessant routine consisting of endless garden kickabouts, we must have known that his greatness and remarkable goal scoring talents would be sealed in no time at all. 

But then there were the inevitable struggles, the desperate striving for form that he must have thought had deserted him. Things came to head eventually when the goals completely dried up and Kane was condemned to hours of intensive training well away from the Spurs first team. Kane was loaned out to Leyton Orient, a small and unfashionable club who had always languished in the lower Leagues and could only provide Kane with a significant opportunity to re-build his flagging career. 

The result was a complete change of fortunes and the resurrection would be played out to a Spurs fanbase who were so relieved to see their favourite son again they turned out in their excitable masses to greet home one of their own. For Kane, last night's presentation of the Ballon D'or represented the ultimate achievement, the zenith of his playing career thus far, an award totally befitting of that rarest  of England species, a striker who could probably score thousands of goals blindfolded. 

Suddenly there was a realisation though that in order to have been recognised as the most outstanding striker of all time, trophies and silverware had to be regarded as essential. Without the spoils of war, there was little hope that, certainly in Britain, Kane would be held in the highest esteem. After valiant if fruitless efforts to win any trophy at Spurs, the England striker sought greener pastures. By now of course Kane had established himself as a prolific striker for his country and England now dined out on Kane's spectacular output. 

In recent years of course that England career travelled into another dimension, goals flooding in from Kane's feet and head  on a frequent basis. We are all now familiar with the Kane goal scoring celebration, a twist of the body, the most triumphant of fist pump and that charming salute with one arm raised. Kane has now surpassed all records but the modesty is unfailing and the humility unmistakable. 

He is married to his childhood sweetheart and never ignores the multitude of children who idolise him. Yesterday night on a late October evening, he was in obliging mood once again. Moving swiftly over to a huddle of teenagers standing outside, Keane, all sartorial elegance in his smartest black dinner jacket, shirt and tie, walked over to those who continue to idolise him and scribbled a rapid turnover of autographs.

The lowest points in Kane's international career must remain the multiple attempts to win England's elusive Jules Rimet World Cup trophy again and two sadly unsuccessful defeats in consecutive Euros Finals against both Italy and Spain. But Kane is a goal machine par excellence and England can be so thankful for Kane's predatory presence in the penalty area. And yet it's never happened for him for either Spurs and England and nor is it ever likely to be because Kane has, undoubtedly, played his last World Cup for England or so it would seem. 

Those statistics will always be a hugely impressive. Kane racked up a phenomenal 89 goals for England, winning 124 caps for his country and a secure place in the Hall of Fame. He can still hold up a ball with considerable style, inviting his team mates for a special collaborative moment when the ball is brilliantly shielded before the ball is switched back to Kane, running heroically to meet  a first time cross from either right or left flank. 

There were goals headed in from corners with effortless aplomb, then there was the exploitation of space and then reading the thoughts of the players around him with a spontaneous dash for the far or near post. And then there were the goals, goals from every postcode, suburb, city, town or village. At Spurs, Kane scored an extraordinary 280 goals from 435 appearances but apart from one or two cameo moments, there would be no trophy, Cup or Premier League.  

So now Kane is gainfully employed by Bundesliga giants Bayern Munich who have won so prodigiously in German football at all levels, that the temptation for the former Spurs man became too great. Over 50 years ago Bayern produced one of the most lethal goal-scorers of all time. Gerd Muller scored vital goals which were instrumental in West Germany's ascension to glory. Muller dramatically changed a game that seemed to be ebbing away from his country. West Germany would win the 1974 World Cup in their own backyard. 

They say goal-scorers are born rather than any other particular reason. One of Kane's predecessors Jimmy Greaves scored goals for Spurs with wild abandon. Rather like Greaves, Kane's lightning turn of pace and frightening acceleration probably gave both men a head start. During one old First Division match against Manchester United during the 1960s, Greaves broke away from his Manchester United opponents as if they weren't there and from just inside the centre circle, Greaves would turn on the afterburners, driving towards the United goal, rounding two or three defenders and then slotting the ball past a helpless Alex Stepney in the United net. 

Kane though has similar attributes and how often has Kane been in the right place and the right time to score with a ruthless ferocity, a burning savagery, goals scored from every conceivable angle. Kane is deadly up front, a fierce striker of the ball from all distances. Rather like Wayne Rooney and Gary Lineker before him, Kane has never show any mercy or forgiveness at the first sight of goal. Everybody is aware of  Kane's capabilities and his no nonsense mood given half a chance.

So it was that Harry Kane won the Ballon d'or for England. He became the first Englishman for 25 years to win this golden, much coveted trophy. The last Englishman to win the Ballon D'or in recent times was one Michael Owen and he is now a much admired racehorse owner. It is hard to imagine Kane wandering around the paddocks and stables at Newmarket certainly for the time being. But there is something very grounded, realistic and genuine about Harry Kane. And we certainly wouldn't have it any other way.