Cheltenham

 Cheltenham.

Meanwhile, in one of the prettiest corners of Gloucestershire, there was heartbreak, yet another tragic fatality in the world of horse racing. We all know this is unavoidable, that the sport that so ultimately hinges so much on the financial investment of your hard earned money, can be so cruelly exposed to daunting fences and once again dominate the back pages of this morning's newspapers. But let's face it, you love a flutter on the horses, that frequent trip to the bookmakers and a bet on those seasoned thoroughbreds.

For centuries, horse racing has given us raw excitement, thrilling finishes in those final furlongs and then then the spectacle of the winning horse trotting around the paddock, jockey in colourful silks, horse breathing out  huge vapours of exhilaration and then the incessant patting on the back from delighted trainers and families of the owners who know they will rarely experience another day like this. 

Yesterday, though at Cheltenham, HMS Seahorse had to be put down so sadly that you wondered whether anybody within the horse racing world could ever live with their conscience. Why do we do this to our beautiful animals, subjected as they are to the brutal punishment of the relentless whip, the kind of barbaric treatment that if the roles were reversed, would leave us disgusted and shocked? And yet it happened again at Cheltenham and we bowed our heads in despair, failing to understand why or how.

And yet come every springtime, we gather at Cheltenham and the Irish community wax lyrical about the joys of the yearly meeting of those powerful looking horses with athletic bodies and supercharged enthusiasm. Shortly, the Grand National will be in our radar, fully equipped with the same hopes and expectations and our Irish friends will once again be hoping to see resounding victories at Aintree.

These should be halcyon days for the sport of horse racing and yet they come at a cost. Today the Cheltenham Gold Cup will become one of the most important and prestigious races on the equine calendar. Some of us are still slightly bewildered at the sheer fascination with a sport that always looks so frighteningly dangerous and yet it's a tradition, an old fashioned ritual that has to be observed. 

This afternoon, the experienced punters wearing their smart waistcoats and equally as fashionable hats will be standing next to the rails at Cheltenham, screaming and yelling their very vocal encouragement. They'll wave their betting slips, cheering on their horses to the finishing line with such animation and passion that you wonder if their lives are completely dependent on the outcome of one horse race. It does mean everything and could be the difference between another extension at the back of their houses or a holiday in the Seychelles. 

The truth is that the Cheltenham Cup represents the very pinnacle of sport at its most excitable, competitive, emotional and deeply poignant. For those who just can't keep away from William Hill and Paddy Power and have to win thousands of pounds every day, it is a drug, a disturbing addiction and obsession that just eats away into their bank balance and, at times, leaves them penniless.  But do the horses taking part at Cheltenham care? Of course they don't and that's why both the Cheltenham festival and the Grand National continues to leave us spellbound. 

But they would never have it any other way because they just adore those fleeting moments when their horse, their wager, sprints towards to the winning post and the jockey promptly flings his or her fists into the air as if the National Lottery has once again been achieved. They let go of the stirrups, stand up proudly and smile broadly at their hugely profitable afternoon. It is sport at, quite possibly, or so the critics might say, at its most mercenary, profound and meaningful. 

Then the winning steeds strut around like the proverbial peacock, puffing and panting and just relieved it's all over. And amid all the back slapping, vociferous congratulations and the promise of carrots and straw for the horses, the jockeys and trainers will slip away quietly into the background. They will all huddle together in some cosy, timber beamed pub in Gloucestershire and down a thousand pints of Guinness.  They will be feeling rightly pleased themselves because the fruits of their labours will seem like the ultimate reward and they really do deserve their day in the spring sunshine. 

The Cheltenham festival, while never attracting quite the snobbery and so called upper class elitism of either Glorious Goodwood or Royal Ascot, still holds an age old fascination that never loses its shine, sheen and lustre. Cheltenham is the curtain raiser to spring, heralding the arrival of those lovely tulips and daffodils and the precursor to Aintree, the Grand National and yet another sporting extravaganza. We do know why Cheltenham is so highly valued by its wealthy businessmen and those people who just want to rake in vast sums of money. And so we thoroughly check form and fancy in the Racing Post and we know who to look out for and those we should avoid. All the best to Cheltenham.     

Liverpool beat Wolves, moving into the quarter finals of the FA Cup.

 Liverpool move into the quarter finals of the FA Cup, beating Wolves.

We are now deep into the crucial stages of this year's FA Cup. The Non League brethren have made their traditional exit  and the competition is heading towards the back straight before hitting the front. Mansfield Town, who have spent most of their history bobbing up and down in the game's lower division backwaters, were promptly given their marching orders by an Arsenal side who fervently believe that this season will be fourth time lucky and the Premier League winning trophy will be theirs to hold aloft at the Emirates Stadium. 

There have been very few surprises and shocks in this season's FA Cup and all the contestants have boasted the most impeccable pedigree. The chances are that Wrexham will probably be feeling quite upbeat, positive and chipper since very few must have fancied their chances against a Chelsea side who have had more managers than hot dinners in recent times.

For a while there were one or too earth tremors at the Racecourse Ground yesterday but class is permanent and reality does have the final word. Chelsea eventually blew their victorious trumpets yesterday but not without a moment or two of Welsh defiance. Perhaps the stardust of Hollywood magic will be sprinkled all over the club. Ryan Reynolds seemed to think so and Wrexham are now poised for a quite remarkable achievement. Promotion to the Premier League may be fanciful thinking but who knows?

Meanwhile, at the Molineux on Friday evening, the locals will probably cry into their beer for quite a while. Wolves must have been feeling utterly overwhelmed and not just because they were beaten by Liverpool in the FA Cup fifth round. For most of the season they have been spinning into a disastrous downward spiral where relegation from the Premier League now seems only a matter of time. Wolves have been awful, shapeless, desperately poor, completely lacking in any kind of identity and tumbling headlong into a humiliating no man's land, the darkest of holes. 

But just for a while against Liverpool, Wolves must have felt just a little better about their dire predicament. Things can hardly get any worse so it may be as well to just accept their fate, resigned to an existence where only pride is the predominant emotion and who cares about the immediate future? So Wolves rolled up their sleeves and just got on with it, rather like one of those executioners during the French revolution. Poor old Wolves have been here before on innumerable occasions and it doesn't improve with age.  

Still, at least, Wolves can relax in the knowledge that the damage has already been done and, besides, the FA Cup was always likely to be a frivolous distraction. You remembered the Wolves of old, the Wolves of Derek Dougan, Kenny Hibbitt, John Richards, Mike Bailey, the Wolves of Steve Daley, and much further back, the inimitable Billy Wright who was married to one of the Beverley Sisters, a morally upright defender of towering authority and majesty. There was the Wolves of Bill Slater,  Jimmy Mullen and Johnny Hancocks, attackers of pace, power and proper, cutting penetration, incisive and decisive.

And then there was the Wolves that claimed the old First Division championship, the Wolves who were feared and revered throughout Europe. The last time Wolves won the FA Cup was now 66 years ago when they beat Blackburn Rovers at the old Wembley Stadium and there's been nothing since. They have gazed mournfully into the abyss, only briefly threatening to do the same all over again but finding that somebody had locked up the shop and never opened up again since.

Certainly on Friday there were no reminders of those unforgettable nights at Moulineux when the Russians of Dynamo Moscow came armed with flowers and the floodlights gleamed radiantly. But Wolves have never really been the same since the departure of the stern, ruthless disciplinarian who was Bill McGarry. McGarry never beat about the bush or minced his words because football was the most important livelihood and results took precedence to entertainment. 

True, Wolves did win the League Cup on a number of occasions but the FA Cup does have an overarching superiority about it that the now Carabao Cup perhaps lacks. The FA Cup has an animal magnetism about it, a sense of the mythical fairy tale that none of us can quite explain. Wolves were privately fantasising about a visit to Wembley in the FA Cup Final but priorities lay quite obviously elsewhere. But not this season because relegation seems to be Wolves only destination. 

And then there were the demoralising and devastating years when Wolves must have felt like a hot air balloon plummeting to the ground in the most dramatic slump. Wolves dropped through the divisions to their lowest point in the old Fourth Divsion only to make the most stirring of recoveries towards higher altitudes in the Premier League. Now though, Wolves have lost the plot again.

For a while the likes of Yerson Mouseka, Santiago Bueno, the lively and mercurial Toti Gomes, Jean Richner Bellegrade, Jao Gomes and Jackson Tchatchoua and Mane wove pretty triangles of passes before surging forward athletically with finesse and flair in equal measure. But this was the look of a doomed team, spirited and gallant in defeat but no more than admiring onlookers at Liverpool's artwork. 

Rob Edwards sprinted ecstatically the length of his managerial dug out when Wolves beat Liverpool in the Premier League fixture last week but now there was a grim and sullen stare into the middle distance. Edwards will of course provide his Wolves with a morale boosting spoon of medicine as they launch their promotion bid back to the Premier League. But Friday night in the Midlands simply felt like a temporary redemption. Wolves have nothing to play for and almost felt as if a weight had been taken off our shoulders, a sigh of palpable relief in their every pass, tackle and shot. 

Liverpool, for their part, will now look back on one of the most underwhelming Premier League seasons for a while After winning the Premier League last season, Liverpool have looked pale, troubled, careworn, lacklustre, their performances now a sad parody of last year. Mo Salah, who almost resembled Kevin Keegan and John Toshack on his own with goals of sensational brilliance, has barely registered up front and the lorryload of goals seemed to dry up. But the plaudits of praise from the devoted Kop at Anfield could be heard clearly at the other end of Stanley Park on Friday night. 

But in this fifth round FA Cup tie against Wolves, Liverpool were sleek, streamlined, gorgeously artistic on and off the ball, a harmonious unit, full of wit, touch and vision, a team with a compatibility about them that knew exactly what they were supposed to be doing.  The red shirts had an instinctive awareness of each other, passing of the most symmetrical kind and the type of finishing that eventually left Wolves desperate and forlorn in the second half.

Once again Dominic Szoboslai delivered the tastiest helping of Hungarian goulash with a typically consistent and hugely impressive display. Ryan Gravenberch, gave us a passing impersonation of Ian Callaghan or Brian Hall but you could never compare the two. Gravenberch was central to everything created and fashioned, darting in and out of spiders webs of passes between his colleagues. Alex McCallister, an Argentine diamond, oozed invention, forward thinking innovation and seemed to have an accurate compass in his feet.

And so to the goals themselves for Liverpool. Andrew Robertson, surely one of the finest full backs in the country, was both the sculptor and goal scoring hero. The ball was moved beautifully and precisely across the pitch from Gomes and then Salah. A carefully controlled movement at speed led to Roberston driving the ball into the Wolves net convincingly, unhesitatingly and handsomely. 

A minute later and Wolves had gone completely, flattened like a heavyweight boxer who simply topples  helplessly over the ropes when the punishment becomes too much. Another roulette wheel of passing from Liverpool's most expansive back catalogue, bore fruit. Robertson burst forward powerfully down the line before laying a peach of a low cut back cross to Salah. Salah came charging in from nowhere and simply passed the ball into the net. There was a sudden delay in the award of the goal because VAR, now reinstated into the FA Cup, had seen a toe that had strayed offside. But the goal was given and Liverpool made this tie look plain sailing. 

When Curtis Jones, one of Liverpool's own and now a polished academy product, cut back onto his favourite foot after yet more dazzling pearls of passing, you knew a goal would always materialise. And so Liverpool's third had put this FA Cup game to bed and the formalities were out of the way. Liverpool now give the impression of metal detectors searching for a valuable Roman coin. Surely the FA Cup may be their sweetest consolation prize. 

They are now in the last eight of the FA Cup and Wolves were left to commiserate with each other. For now Wolves are a team in turmoil and without a sympathetic voice from their most hardened critics. One day though, it'll all come up roses again and of course they'll smell the coffee again. But the FA Cup will completely forget about Wolves. You feel sure that their day will come and the status quo will be restored. Their place in the limelight will be theirs for the taking sooner rather than later.   

   

World Book Day.

 World Book Day.

It is one of those days some of us feel to be entirely relatable and identifiable. It just feels as if the subject under the microscope today may have been taken far too seriously and much more moderation should have been exercised. Reading could never have been regarded as an obsession but books were rather more than a simple pleasure because, to be honest, reading was my ultimate escapism, the mental salvation when there was nothing else to do. And maybe you shouldn't have read so much. But today folks, books should still be considered as one of the most important building blocks in any child's development. 

Today is World Book Day, as it always has been for as long as you can remember. During your childhood, you built a brick wall of rebellion against reading. Reading was always something adults did rather than you as you were growing up. It was boring, pointless, irrelevant, sadly lacking in any kind of stimulus and a complete waste of time when you could have been in the early stages of inventing, pioneering or creating something that would leave us breathless and dumbfounded, suited only for six o'clock news, the main story. 

Books represented something much more than a golden world of literature that had to be explored from a young age because mum and dad naturally assumed that if you continued to read as many books as possible you'd probably end up as a rocket scientist, professor, the Prime Minister or one of the world's greatest financiers. If you read sufficiently, your prospects of promotion to the highest echelons of society would be considerably better than if you'd decided that you just wanted to be a dustman, milkman, train driver or a cleaner. Or maybe this was just lazy stereotyping on your part. 

Then again if you did start taking books out of your local library and carefully compiled as much information as possible, the chances were you'd be on the right road to success, well paid affluence, a job in the City on the Stock Exchange, a mathematician of remarkable intellect, an economist who would grease the wheels of capitalism, a best selling writer of some renown or a celebrity par excellence. 

For many of us, books were the first foundation stone of your early development when the world perhaps seemed to be both frightening and bewildering. You were a reluctant reader for the very reasons mentioned above. You didn't have time to wander into a wood panelled library with rows of boxed tickets as you entered and shelves heaving with enlightenment, learning, scholarly erudition or maybe just adventure stories, reference books, encyclopaedias, brilliant books on science fiction, romance, horror or maybe the days newspapers.

And all those decades later you can still see the distinctive columns outside the entrance of Gants Hill library. These are indeed the chief characteristics of Gants Hill library in England's finest Essex suburb. You can still smell the scent of studious contemplation, reinforced by the gentle coughing and sneezing from local residents browsing the many shelves. But there was something special about Gants Hill library because inside there was a reverential silence almost belonging to some mystic religious order.

Then the magic happens. You enter the building and are faced with either the chief librarian or a member of staff standing there smiling dutifully at you behind the counter. Suddenly you're confronted with rows upon rows of boxes of tickets with your name, your address and the random set of numbers on each ticket. It may have been the equivalent of today's QR code but this was your passport to the fantasy world of books, hundreds of books sitting next to each other in disciplined formations like well drilled soldiers. 

Of course you were stubborn non reader as a kid although you did know your mum and dad were right because eventually you had to find about what exactly made the human and animal universe worked. Soon primary school furnished you with the knowledge of adding up and subtracting numbers, multiplication, division and long division, the rudiments of English grammar and vocabulary, the ABC followed by secondary school. 

Eventually you developed your passion for reading when it became a vital necessity. As a class we boys read William Golding's Lord of the Flies currently trending on BBC One on a Sunday evening. At the time there was a basic understanding of what the story was about. But there was no real idea of what we were supposed to be doing as a result of reading out loudly during English lessons. It was only in later years that you became aware of the book's premise, detail and concept. 

Personally, you stumbled on Redbridge library next to Ilford Town Hall during the early 1980s. A sense of guilt and embarrassment may follow you because you should have been in full gainful employment. Circumstances dictated otherwise and soon you were occupying every single waking hour after lunch eagerly grabbing and then embracing the great British classics. It was never an addiction but you somehow felt obliged to read as much as you could without bothering to wonder why you were doing this. 

First there was the eminent German author Thomas Mann who gave us the best in Teutonic language and mention of his dog Basha. There then followed the mighty colossus who was Charles Dickens, where you read most if not all of his repertoire including Hard Times, Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickelby, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, Barnaby Rudge, Dombey and Son, Little Dorrit, the fantastically amusing Martin Chuzzlewit, the lesser known and heralded Sketches By Boz and the Christmas stories. It was the most wondrous of discoveries. 

Then there was the masterful literary genius of Thomas Hardy, the one author who changed my whole opinion on the big, wide world. Subconsciously, you were living in Dorset and you too were farming in the agricultural heartlands of Wessex. You too were planting the seeds, harvesting the crops and then fraternising with Hardy's powerful and resonant characters. You too were living in the quaint timber thatched cottages and drinking gallons of mead, beer and cider if you were particularly thirsty.

You couldn't help but immerse yourself in the Mayor of Casterbridge, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, A Pair of Blue Eyes, The Trumpet Major, Return of the Native and the man's delightful short stories. Hardy was the man you were looking for when you needed to know everything there was to know about human emotions, the triumphs and positive narratives. Hardy was the finished article who started life as an architect but then established different narratives with suitably dramatic plotlines. 

There followed James A. Michener, Franz Kafka, Marcel Proust, Leo Tolstoy, Joseph Conrad, the elegant Henry James and the wonderfully eloquent George Eliot who embellished the English language with a descriptive flair and polish which took us effortlessly through Middlemarch, Mill on the Floss, Adam Bede and Felix the Radical which was equally as poetic as the rest of Eliot's masterpieces. You did read the Brontes, Jane Austin and have now completed most of the American back catalogue of William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald.

And so it's World Book Day and we should be celebrating the joys of reading to our children and grandchildren. It is the most fascinating of pastimes and hobbies, a genuine pleasure if you've a spare moment during your day. You become totally absorbed in the imagery and symbolism of books, the literary journeys that can transport you to exotic South Sea islands. You were now with W. Somerset Maugham, the man who took you inside the minds of eccentric colonels, spies, plantation officers in the middle of the Borneo forest, cunning card players, spivs or wealthy lords and dowagers living in ostentatious wealth. 

Today is World Book Day, a day for being reminded of what it was like to pick up your first book of nursery rhymes, fairy tales, lovable characters such as Thomas the Tank Engine, Postman Pat, Harry Potter, the Gruffalo before arriving in Disney where yet more childhood companions live. Literature on the written page is always to be valued and then heavily examined by its harshest critics. We all have our favourite authors such as James Patterson, Lee Child, Jo Jo Moyes and the Sophie Kinsellas of the literary canon.

Essentially books are all about acquiring the fundamental skills of reading, laughing at prose of stunning originality, word construction or just enjoying the word pictures painted by the mainstream writers of the modern day. So please curl up on your sofa, pick up your favoured choice of author, allowing yourself the luxury and freedom to experience the joys of the written word. Enjoy folks. It's World Book Day.       

  

Spring on the horizon.

 Spring on the horizon.

So here come the joyous moods and mannerisms of the passing seasons. The wintry stillness and sleepiness of those long gone days of November, December and January days are constant reminders of human hibernation, comfort foods and indoor activities, warming our hands by roaring, crackling log fires at the first breakfast of the day and then long, therapeutic walks along nostalgic country lanes, crunching purposefully through thick blankets of yellow and brown leaves and then slowly blooming, beautiful parklands. It is such a privilege. It is a scene we've always found ourselves in during so many days of leisure and relaxation through late Christmas hours. We do it this year and will always do again and again for eternity. 

But here we are at the end of February and yesterday it felt like spring and then we sensed its encouraging omens, felt its soothing rhythms, touched its magnificence, and then abandoned ourselves to its pretty patterns, its picturesque possibilities, the awareness of its stunning revelations, its revealing and tantalising insights, the subtle suggestions of  long, hot summers. It may be February but in June and July we could be back in the rarefied land of 1976 when the glorious heatwave seemed to go on indefinitely. 

At the back of our minds, we are reminded of our youthful solitude and painful shyness, the way it used to be but no longer is. But springtime is just under a month away now and soon we'll herald its arrival with rousing trumpets and bugles. We'll fling open those blinds and curtains and welcome its pristine splendour and glory through wistful windows, the way we always allowed in the honeyed rays of sunshine from early childhood to mature adolescence.

Then we know that something special and auspicious is in our midst. We can see that first carnival of spring's yearly parade, tulips and daisies dancing the bossa nova, the samba, the salsa, the stately waltz. Behind them lies the percussion and windwood section, winds gently blowing and then wafting through doorways, halls, school playgrounds, ageless village churches, rippling excitedly over placid, docile lakes and rivers. It's almost springtime and let's celebrate for the rest of the year and forever more. 

Across Britain, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world, we saw the first oil paintings and watercolours of spring at its most playful and flirtatious, sunlit mornings and afternoons teasing us and then laughing, giggling, acting out children's games of hide and seek. There it is, the sun, darting mischievously between thirsty hedgerows, bouncing off the branches from trees that may look neglected but look perfectly content to be where they are. It was always thus for the poets of the world and that's who you are. 

So why do you choose to be poetic at the moment? Yesterday it just felt so appropriate and totally correct. You forgot about political infighting, gang warfare in the House of Commons, the conflicts and confrontations, the bloodletting, the name calling, the blatantly insulting industrial language in the heated corridors of Westminster, the endlessly insoluble wars, disasters, man's inhumanity to man. Yesterday you walked along pavements bathed in the luxuriant yellow glow of sun kissed streets and roads, inhaling deeply the sweetness of life and then something even more rewarding. 

Soon the flora and fauna of nature's loveliest manifestations will be among us. We will see the flamboyant theatricality of the daffodils, red and yellow tulips, the dainty daisy chains delivering their first eloquent sentences. We will sing joyful rhapsodies at the sight of those majestic buds of roses, red blossoms of colour nodding amiably at each other rather like we do when we see that first combine harvester and tractor, acknowledging their existence with a cheerful wave and smile.  

And then we will look forward to those first exciting sounds and acoustics of springtime melodies, perhaps playing our first game of tennis of the year although that may have to wait a little longer. We will hear the delicate, whispering winds of springtime, soft breezes whistling musically, the first harmonious orchestras of the year, nature showing off its first choruses and verses, reminiscent of the classical pianos we played as children and the violins that were always thoughtful and peaceful. 

In a couple of days time, the global Jewish population will be taking to the streets with the festival of Purim and our faces will light up at the Charedi populations who love this time of the year. The children will dress up in fancy dress and the adults will imitate their off spring. Before you know it, thousands of Jewish families will wear the traditional uniform of policemen, Superman, Superwoman Batman, Spiderman, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, inflatable mobile phones and smart phones. They will eat their Hamantaschen with poppy seeds and delicious, sweet flavours, triangular shaped biscuits that you could eat permanently and are irresistible. How good is it to be Jewish and so wonderful. 

But, for the moment at least, it is not quite the time for inviting spring into our home. The preparations and plans are underway and soon children across the world will be gleefully ripping open boxes of Easter eggs and the cuckoos will be exercising their plangent vocal chords. The early mornings will be considerably brighter and you won't need a raincoat or mackintosh anymore, removing at once those pullovers or cardigans immediately before skipping out of the front door with a song in our heart.

So Ladies and Gentleman. It did feel like spring yesterday and our thoughts turned automatically to the past. We found ourselves day dreaming just for a while because we're optimistic and remember 1976. It was 50 years ago that Britain sizzled every single day in record breaking 100 degrees of heat from the beginning of May until the August Bank Holiday. From the moment you woke up to late evening, we witnessed unbroken blue skies, sweltering sunshine, cloudless days, weeks and months and the school summer holidays. It happened every day and how good it felt.

For the moment it's still February and the shortest month of the year which means that we can see March waiting in the wings, rehearsing its lines, imagining idyllic scenarios. February is an excitable child who can't wait for their parents to buy them an ice cream, a ballerina on her first night at Covent Garden, a famous celebrity singer with the voice of an angel. Then the London Palladium explodes into rapturous applause because this is perfection, flawless and absolutely exquisite. Yes, it felt like spring yesterday and that's what it's like and that's the way it'll always be. It's so breath taking.         

National Walking the Dog Day.

 National Walking the Dog Day.

But of course it's Walking the Dog Day. You knew that and we didn't have to tell you anymore on the subject. National Walking the Dog Day is the most pleasurable human activity you can possibly think of. It's something humanity has carried out with unconditional love ever since dogs roamed free on hillsides and fields in the English countryside thousands of years ago. We know we love our dogs because, quite frankly, apart from our loving and supportive family, dogs just happen to be our best friends as well, simply adorable. 

They are the one animal we feel obliged to be associated with because they can read human body language and are both non judgmental and totally unbiased. They are the one animal who never criticise us when we look at our worst after a heavy night at the pub or a rotten day at work, school or college. Dogs are just deeply caring, sympathetic, worldly wise and acutely sensitive to all of our moods. They read our mannerisms, watching us carefully in case we get upset about something because they're on our side. Life will always be lovely with our doggie friends. 

Now, in the grander scheme of things you would never ordinarily think of dogs as the one topic of discussion to dominate a family gathering or a convivial party. But we do and it's just infectious. Once your poodle, Great Dane, golden retriever, Pomeranian poodle, Dachshund, Jack Russell, German Shepherd and Alstatian trots into a living room or kitchen, you know the kind of reaction you'll probably get. Aunties, uncles, cousins, mums and dads, brothers and sisters, grandchildren in particular, daughters and sons will collectively sigh with an unwavering admiration that verges on adoration. 

Throughout the centuries, dogs have become hunters, rescue dogs, police dogs, playful, easy going creatures who just love the company of people. They'll never be able to tell you what exactly may be going through your mind but they do know what you may be feeling. And that's the perfect relationship. We do like to think that we can communicate with our dogs because that distinctive, fast moving wag of the tail says much more than the conversations that humans have always been able to express our feelings with.

Dogs feel for us, they long to chase the tennis ball, a game you so excitedly agree to be a part of. On any beach, dads unfailingly chuck anything they can get their hands on and simply keep the family dog occupied and engaged. Dogs play the game you play with our children, relatives and grandchildren because it's just fun, innocent, carefree, instinctive and just immensely entertaining. At times, dogs are our mental salvation because we look at our dogs and are convinced that nothing else in the world matters apart from our dogs. So they know who you are and can relate to you in a way that's gloriously moving.

 And yet there are those who treat our canine friends with the savage contempt that fills you with horror and disgust. Dogs are an extension of the family unit, the presence on our sofas who just jump around joyfully as if wholly connected with who we are. They collect bones, thickly knotted pieces of small rope and tennis balls, before heading out into the family garden. There they romp around tirelessly, bounding across the grass, dashing and darting without a care in the world. 

During the 1960s, TV gave us Lassie, a border collie who captured the hearts of every child around the world because Lassie was brave, fearless, heroic and understanding. He came to the rescue of people who became trapped in caves or were completely lost and hadn't a clue who to turn to. So Lassie became a movie star, a constant companion and a charming ally, somebody who would always be there at the first sign of danger. 

There were always dogs for the blind and once again dogs were our guiding influence, models of reliability when things got out of control and never disappointed. Dogs had compassionate eyes which always looked after you and made you feel at home. Dogs are cute and sentimental and bark their heads off when you desert them because they'd been left on their own for too long. Dogs curl up in their baskets when the rest of the family have settled in for the evening and they love their own company. They stare at you with that delightful look that means everything in the world is fine. 

Of course dogs can be naughty and disobedient, stubborn and clearly in complete disagreement with you because you just want to walk your dog. And today of course is National Walking the Dog Day and dogs do look forward to both the weekend and Sunday most significantly. They know that there are several enormous parks and pleasure gardens near you, forests and woods full of potential mischief, vast acres of space to explore with that inquisitive air that always becomes readily apparent. They leap over fences, hiding and then teasing you, waiting patiently for your next move before sprinting across streams and rivers with the kind of canine charisma that always makes you laugh and smile. 

So here we are on a late Sunday February evening and you've eaten your roast or gorged with relish in your pub carvery. The chances are that your dog would love nothing better than a long, satisfying walk with you and the family. So you casually pick up sticks or tree branches, tree twigs that just happen to be in front of you and are immediately available. The dog can sense your readiness to play and becomes hugely responsive before suddenly stretching away into the distance, thrilled to be considered a member of your extended family. 

Four years ago, Bev and I bought our first dog. He was a pomeranian poodle and we called him Barney, a name that just seemed so right and correct. And now Barney goes with us everywhere. We feed him every day and then he dips his nose into a silver bowl of water and everything in our and his world is just hunky dory. Now it has to be said our pomapoo bears no resemblance to the breed we were led to believe he was. But our entire family love Barney and just adore him because that love is reciprocal and natural. So we hope you've taken your dog or dogs on their constitutional because they will appreciate it and they'll never let you down. It's National Walking the Dog Day folks. Enjoy your dog because he or she will always enjoy you.  

World War Three - be prepared.

 World War Three - be prepared.

So, according to the Daily Express, those renowned purveyors of doom and gloom, crisis and disaster,  World War Three is imminent, probably closer to breaking out at any moment, shortly. You can't say that you weren't warned because this has been coming for ages and the Express were convinced that war was just around the corner ages ago. But here we are on the verge of a major global conflict and this may be the time to think about retreating to either your nuclear bunker or re-establish one of those Anderson shelters so commonly used during the Second World War. How about some solidarity though.

Now the situation is that some of us are now far too old for taking up rifles or joining either your lovely and late dad's Royal Air Air Force with full grey uniform and then firing all of that deadly ammunition you never thought would be necessary ever again. And then there's the realisation that you could occupy the famous role of the great Bill Pertwee in BBC One's splendid war time comedy Dad's Army. Pertwee was the self appointed busybody and air raid warden who detested Captain Mainwaring aka Arthur Lowe. Then you became aware of something that was much closer to home. 

If you were to believe half of the speculation and rumour drifting out from media outlets who love to wallow in misfortune, you'd better be prepared and ready to fight for your country. The world around us is not only dangerous but petrifying and terrifying. The presidents and military leaders of the world are growling like grizzly bears and the winter of discontent in Ukraine and Russia could escalate into something far more fatal and deadly.

 And yet of course this is avoidable because it doesn't need to degenerate into something akin to Armaggedon or the great apocalypse. We can stop this needle and anguish. We don't have to be armed to the teeth or hiding under the kitchen table because we can reach an amicable compromise and we can be friends across the sea, ocean and continent. And yet the Russians are just scrapping for a bloodthirsty fight. President Putin can't wait to release the first round of bombs and bullets that would both destabilise and cripple the rest of the world permanently if he has his way.

It hardly seems possible that once again the spectre of a Third World War is threatening to bring about the end of civilisation as we know it. Following hard on the heels of the war in Vietnam during the 1960s, the emergence of the Cold War, the evil dictatorships of both Idi Amin in Uganda and Pol Pot in Cambodia, once again the world is facing its greatest calamity since the end of the Second World War. We thought we'd seen the back of war and religious hatred when the IRA put down their arms of death and destruction at the end of the 1990s. Northern Ireland had, though, found contentment and tranquillity again.

But then war let out its most barbaric sound when Bosnia and Kosovo in the old Yugoslavia reached its lowest nadir when thousands of innocent civilians were murdered, starved to death, humiliated and then slaughtered again and again. It was the most horrendous war to end all wars.  By then the damage had become both collateral and psychologically permanent. Vast communities in Bosnia and Kosovo were brutally wiped out, the sight of families with children and their extended family now devastated by death and estrangement, division and anger. 

And now we reach today's latest developments. In the USA, Donald Trump, although violently opposed to any kind of war, is probably resigned to the worst case scenario. His patience has now been severely tested and he may crack under unbearable pressure. In Iran, they would rather keep out of any confrontation with the enemy but may be dragged into some nasty bloodbath. Around the world, there is a repulsive smell of cordite, poisonous and chemical elements and you can barely believe that so much pent up anger could boil over into muscular aggression and outright chaos. 

In the United Kingdom we still think our current Prime Minister and every other incumbent from yesteryear is the worst they've ever seen. Sir Keir Starmer is no Arthur Lowe and bears no resemblance to Mainwaring but war seems the least of his problems. Dear Margaret Thatcher seemed to get a warped thrill out of the Falklands War and we can still see Mrs Thatcher rumbling across enemy territory with a tank straight out of Dunkirk. But Starmer has now been attacked for both his sheer incompetence and his pathological inability to cope with problems is deeply worrying.  

It is hard to imagine Starmer in khaki or any wartime garment. There are no Churchills on the military horizon and the Luftwaffe, those cold eyed assassins, are now thankfully consigned to the dustbin of history. Some of us never want anything to do with any mention of Holocausts or Nazi stormtroopers because this was simply the most unforgivable crime against humanity. But there are quiet whispers, murmurings of a total breakdown in global communication. The voices of foreboding are getting louder and louder.  

The Daily Express, it seems, have been predicting  snow in the middle of July since the beginning of time. Then the Express tell us to be on our guard in case there are  hugely disruptive tornadoes and earthquakes at any given time before alerting the rest of the United Kingdom to something we should have known about and taken emergency measures to avoid. England, though, now is on the brink of World War Three. But then again, never and never again because our children and grandchildren have to live in peace and harmony with each other.  

So here's some sensible advice to the good citizens of both the United Kingdom and the rest of the world. Don't panic because the leader of Dad's Army would be horrified in the event of over reaction and paranoia. Personally, it's time to batten down the hatches, flee for the local Tube railway station platform and just keep calm. This is not the time to summon the rallying cry of Dame Vera Lynn and we'll always meet each other again some sunny day because World War Three will never ever happen and, besides, Dad's Army has now officially passed its sell by date. Don't worry folks, it's perfectly safe. Keep living the sweetness of life and keep laughing and smiling.       

Team GB win gold at the Winter Olympics

 Team GB win gold at the Winter Olympics

It seemed almost as improbable as a hastily assembled team of British baseball players taking on the USA in a fiercely competitive World Series match and actually beating the Americans without breaking sweat, decisively, comprehensively and conclusively. And yet this will never happen in anybody's lifetime and, realistically, it is a pipedream and it'll remain a flight of fancy and fantasy. And yet for the first time on snow, Team GB won their first ever gold medal at this year's Winter Olympics in Milano Cortina. We were dumbfounded and just lost for words. 

Every winter, we look out of our windows hoping that Britain will wake up to vast piles of snow on its skiing slopes and then are disappointed when the mountains, although resembling a Christmas cake, are not even remotely suitable for a Winter Olympics. You think of Aviemore in Scotland where it seems to snow in huge quantities at different stages but it's never enough. 

For decades and years now the collective slopes of the Alps, Andes and Pyrenees receive just the right amount of snow to be accepted as regular hosts of the Winter Olympics. Both Switzerland, France, Canada and Japan have always been grateful recipients for these seasonal Olympics. And then we turn our thoughts to the ice skating rink and recognise, as we did with Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean, that this is well within our skillset and field of expertise. The late John Curry and then Robin Cousins, of course brought home, the gold medal on the ice and we began to think that gold was a real possibility. We were right. 

So far Team GB have only been admiring eyes at these Games. The superior nations, though, will always stand out and they are the ones simply surrounded by huge snowfalls in their own geographical environment every year. But yesterday Team GB completely broke with tradition and did something that none of us could ever have dreamt of. We knew that Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards had actually dared to take part in the Winter Games. And then, much to the amusement and scepticism of the British public, Edwards did fly off a ski jump and undoubtedly created British skiing records. Edwards did participate in the Winter Olympics and none could ever deny his bravery and athleticism.  

Over the weekend, however, both Charlotte Bankes and Hugh Nightingale stepped forward into the sporting limelight. It hadn't been the best of weekends for sport since Scotland had thumped England in the Six Nations rugby union and only unfashionable Mansfield Town had upset the odds with a shock win in the FA Cup. So it was that Bankes and Nightingale stood poised on their snowboards, legs slightly splayed out but standing on their snowboard as if they'd rehearsed this manoeuvre a million times. It was sport at its purest and most unblemished, sport doing something completely spontaneous without the aid of drugs and any doping supplement. 

So often throughout the years, Britain have always pinned our hopes on those we think are just delusional, mad and crazy. But in the same breath, we find that these are the sportsmen and women who have always harboured ambitions since they were children and kids love to believe in the impossible. And yesterday we looked out across the Italian mountains and convinced ourselves that even Britain has a gold medal in its bucket list of capabilities. 

After a bewildering series of preliminary heats where the good and great were gathered again, we scanned the idyllic winter scenery and thought we were in our personal postcard. There were vast, monumental mountains, overwhelmingly beautiful because this is our perception of what a good Winter Olympic Games should look like. The snow seemed to cling onto the mountains with a tender, affectionate loyalty that we almost take for granted. The mountains soar into the air and are here to stay for the duration of these Olympics. They're not going anywhere. Here they dominate the landscape, huge quantities of snow, the tops of the mountain summit glistening, shining brightly and then sparkling iridescently.

At various times of the day, they're like commanding sentinels standing guard proudly, undulating and then spreading across the skyline with a handsome symmetry. It is almost as if the whole of Italy has found itself in its most special light.  The downhill men and women are slaloming in and out of poles effortlessly skis digging into the snow and bodies efficiently, while crouching brilliantly into tight, aerodynamic motions if only to achieve greater speed and propulsion. It's a breathtaking spectacle which, at first sight, looks truly terrifying. You really wouldn't fancy even a single moment on this snow caked paradise. Then again perhaps you would. 

In the world of Charlotte Bankes and Hugh Nightingale, a gold medal at the Winter Olympics must have been the ultimate achievement and for Team GB, this was a moment we'd like to bottle forever because this one wouldn't get any better. Here we are in dear England, never remotely imagining something like this could ever materialise in front of us. But Bankes and Nightingale, complete in yellow and blue padded outfits were miracles of balance, speed and movement, racing around the course with immaculate timing and then up and over frighteningly daunting banks before jumping again and again. Arms held akimbo, they leapt repeatedly, approaching corners as if they could have completed the whole course blindfolded.

Sport rarely provides you with that moment in time when you fear that it might go catastrophically wrong only to find that you had nothing to worry about in the first place. At some point we may have to just suspend belief and just bite our fingernails because it is the most remarkable of sporting sights. When they go back to their Olympic village chalets, Bankes and Nightingale will once again bite their gold medal, smiling perhaps for the rest of the year and just basking in the glory of it all. Now we know what must have been going through the mind of Torvill and Dean in Sarajevo 1984.

This maybe the time to take a closer look at these Winter Olympic Games. We will watch open mouthed with amazement as the same snowboarders flip up their boards with an acrobatic grace that is just stunningly memorable and then form our own personal assessment of something we would never attempt to copy. Then the ice skaters will glide across the rink and elevate winter sport to a new level. It'll be ballet, theatre and drama on ice and we will applaud vociferously since we've no idea how sport had reached such a rarefied height of supreme excellence and artistry. Milan, still the main capital of avant garde fashion, will still be cheering itself hoarse long after these Games and so will you.