West Ham are relegated to the Championship

 West Ham are relegated to the Championship.

And so it came to pass, the inevitable, the unavoidable, the doom laden scenario, the end of civilisation but not quite and yet it must have felt this way to the unreasonably devoted West Ham fans who had stood by them for so long, so defiantly, stoically, without fear at first but then recognising that their fate had been sealed a long, long time ago. The written graffiti on the wall looked ugly and grotesque, illegible and beyond our comprehension. It almost felt like another language and culture had been stolen during the night and left West Ham, bereft and broken hearted, inconsolable and still wondering how it all had happened.

Yesterday afternoon on the most religious of all days, West Ham were almost in confessional mode, repentant and remorseful, pleading for forgiveness for unspoken sins and yet stunned. There was a point during their final day in the Premier League against Leeds United when somebody had metaphorically switched off the lights, turned off the electricity and a power cut had reduced West Ham  to the lowest common denominator. You probably thought this would never happen but relegation fell across the club like the darkest of all curtains. 

West Ham have finally been relegated to the Championship and you could almost hear a pin drop at the London Stadium. The realisation was a painful one but now very a truthful moment that couldn't be accepted in the heat of the moment but was nonetheless there in the present. How often have West Ham been so close to the perilous precipice and discovered that the edge of the cliff was still a safe refuge? But West Ham were playing with fire and eventually got their fingers burnt. It was always likely to happen.

On the final day of the Premier League season, West Ham's well known adversaries Spurs were keeping them company rather like two formidable heavyweights who were just locked in each others arms, tussling, wrestling, flailing their fists, hooking and then raining down punches to both the head and midriff as if their lives depended on it. It was all very unsavoury and unseemly, brutal and yet authentic. Spurs were last relegated to the second tier of English football in 1977 but yesterday the bogie man had returned.

But on one of the hottest days of the year, Spurs looked at themselves in the mirror and tried to forget the demons that had destroyed them way back, the year of 1977. It was a year before Ossie Ardilles, Ricky Villa and the brilliant Glen Hoddle revolutionised the way most of us perceive the Beautiful Game. Now, 48 years later, they were struggling again, clinging on for dear life, staring down the bottom of the barrel. Spurs have recently looked like a frightening caricature of their former selves and it's been the most horrific watch. 

Then at 4pm the gun went, blasting and piercing the air with the loudest shriek. The two sworn enemies walked back into the distance, pistols drawn, flintlock and blunderbuss poised, ammunition ready to be fired. Spurs came out of the traps against Everton at the Tottenham Hotspur like men possessed, galvanised beyond belief, fired up and pumped up, bristling and seething, teeth bared, nostrils flaring and fully motivated, knowing what they had to do to stay in the Premier League. The cavalry came charging over the horizon, cannons full of lethal intent and West Ham had been forewarned.

Towards the end of the first half all hell broke loose and Tottenham scored the opening goal of this vitally critical and important game. The ball was sucked into the net by Joao Palhinha, their most experienced and game changing player, scrambling home what must have seemed the greatest goal Spurs had ever scored. The Spurs fans were now besides themselves with happiness. This had to be the winner and across London, West Ham were now deep in the quicksand, sinking into the quagmire and the primeval swamps from which there would be no return. 

Shortly into the second half in both matches involving both Tottenham and West Ham, there was an intriguing lull in the proceedings. Spurs were still celebrating and West Ham were reduced to a painful silence. Then there was a suspended disbelief. West Ham scored through Taty Castellanos followed by another from Jarrod Bowen and then a third from Callum Wilson. Maybe, maybe West Ham could reach out and touch the most tenuous of hopes. It still seemed as if the improbable may yet materialise. Sadly not. Miracles do happen but not that often.

Both Spurs and West Ham were now almost acutely aware of the gravity and significance of the afternoon. With minutes remaining, the claret and blue half of the capital city of London rationalised with the harsh reality that was now facing them. There was a sensible recognition that their 14 year tenancy of the Premier League was about to end. The final whistle went and at the London Stadium, claret and blue shirts slumped to the ground, lying flat out, emotionally exhausted, distraught perhaps but now bewildered, arms outstretched and barely taking it all in. 

And so Sadiq Khan, the heavily criticised Mayor of London, had failed to save the taxpayers of a monumental amount of money. The critics still air their grievances about a stadium that remains ill suited to football and continues to be used for major athletic events. A couple of years ago the Rolling Stones headlined the London Stadium and, more recently, the Foo Fighters but football at the London Stadium almost feels like the wrong time and place.

Relegation for West Ham will now deprive the club of all that much coveted revenue, millions of TV pounds and the kind of status and stature that they may well have felt was theirs by right. Some of the top clubs in the Premier League still retain that repellent air of entitlement and privilege that has disfigured the game for so long now. Regrettably, this has always seemed the way and, for West Ham, this is rather like a journey into the unknown yet again. 

West Ham have known relegation before but the pill is still bittersweet and a shock to the system. One day though the Hammers will once again experience those good vibes and, quite possibly consolidate their position in the Premier League. But, at the moment, it all feels very bleak and ominous. Ipswich Town, who were relegated last season, are back in the Premier League so West Ham may well be looking at the Ipswich model and template. The Bubbles will indeed be flying high. You would hope so. 

It's summertime everybody

 It's summertime everybody.

Oh wow! It's summertime everybody. Here in Britain we flung open our Venetian blinds, curtains or opened up the shutters as Britain awoke on this late spring day on the cusp of summer. It is the most gorgeous, resplendently beautiful summer day, a delectably delicious day full of hope, optimism and a passionate belief that humanity can finally get its act together. This is a heatwave, folks. Yes it's true, it's happening right now in front of our eyes and how grateful we should all be for our health and happiness. 

And so it is that you reach back in time to your previous accounts about the British weather. We all love the British weather because of its infinite variety and diversity, the barometer and thermometer in our hall or living room constantly rising and falling according to the seasons. Sometimes it feels as if we can never be entirely satisfied with our lot because the British climate, is, by its very nature, both temperate and changeable. 

So we growl and scowl when it does nothing but rain or snow, wailing at the wild winds, tearing our hair out when the tempests and storms increase in volume exponentially and then just moan incessantly. Or maybe not. It is a no win situation, no happy medium, neither here nor there, a balance that can never be struck. But this morning, somebody turned on the central heating system and the late George Harrison would have declared that the sun was indeed here. It is a joyous, euphoric day, a day for carnivalesque, floats gliding down roads and streets, steel drums pounding away magnificently and almost eloquently.

Today the weather has the most adopted its most poetic language. It is the kind of weather that either Keats or Wordsworth would have glorified and celebrated because every time the sun came out way back then, it must have felt that all our birthdays and anniversaries had come at the same time. We were privileged and honoured by the emergence of that lovely yellow orb in the sky. And yet with the May Bank Holiday looming, this is quite unexpected and hasn't happened at this time of the year since 1944.

So Ladies and Gentlemen. What are you doing today? The garden is ready and waiting for you and those abundantly blossoming flowers and plants are there to greet you. The roses are raring to go and ready to please, the nasturtiums are nestling neatly and sitting comfortably next to the blooming begonias. The laburnums are loving the attention and the liberal sprinklings of water, the violas more vibrant than ever, the rhododendrons are so remarkably rewarding while those apple and pear trees are thriving. Yes we're having a heatwave, folks, undeniably so.  

Now gentlemen this is your yearly task for the year. It's time to head for the garden shed and dig out those familiar pieces of horticultural hardware. That lawnmower could do with some tender loving care, the hose is primed to be unwound and before you know it, that communal garden and ornamental pond will be jumping for joy. And of course there's the good, old fashioned grass rather like one of your old or new friends, always ubiquitous and about to be mowed with meticulous attention to detail. 

And so we go for it. The kids can't wait to splash about merrily in the small inflatable pool, the boys will shortly be wearing their cricketing finery with the wickets bought from Amazon and the red ball will look like a sweet cherry. The girls will be running free and laughing at the boys. Then dad thinks this is the perfect opportunity to excavate the barbeque because that's been rusting away in the shed and feeling sorry for itself. Dad thinks that you simply don't need an excuse to light up the briquettes and flip some burgers and sausages on the gas grill. 

So then mum can't wait to get out the ageless deckchairs or an assortment of fishing chairs perhaps before embarking on another expedition between the kitchen and the barbecue. It'll be all go for the family and you mustn't forget the Pimms, the soft drinks and the inevitable booze. Soon in British suburbia and the whole of England it'll be a hive of activity, an afternoon of fabulous, fizzy wine and lager scented family gatherings. It'll be a fusion of British happiness and those halcyon days when the sun always shone, used to shine and will always shine because it's wonderful to be alive. 

You are inclined to believe that family picnics in every piece of parkland, woodland and every fertile field across the dales and vales of the United Kingdom will still be held. Large cloths are spread across the green lush grass, hundreds and thousands of sandwiches, cream crackers, a huge profusion of multi flavoured bags of crisps and all of that picnic paraphernalia will be let loose in the Lake District, Peak District, the Quantocks and the Chilterns. It is a scene from any picture book of the British countryside.

And of course there are the countless boating lakes, the Serpentine pool in London's Hyde Park, vast acres of swimming pool country and cooling fountains in Trafalgar Square. Then of course we'll be wandering down country lanes, strolling along seaside promenades, licking gallons of chocolate ice cream and just taking in the sultry, sizzling and salubrious air. We are not in hosepipe ban territory or the land of water shortage emergency quite yet and hopefully never. But we are slowly adjusting ourselves to the current heatwave and thoroughly enjoying every ray of sweltering sunshine. 

It only seems like yesterday but exactly 50 years ago, when your adolescence landed conveniently at Valentines Park Lido in Ilford, Essex, we were blessed with the most stunning heatwave. It was a heatwave that began in early May and just remained unmoved for the duration of that long, hot summer. In hindsight, we always think the old days of summer were always warmer and probably forget the more recent summer times. But 1976 was just astonishing and the mercury on my lovely grandma and grandpa's thermometer in their superb conservatory regularly soared towards the 100 degree Fahrenheit mark.

So it was that we surveyed the wide open, expansive, light blue swimming pool with a studied detachment since we were just mesmerised by this most extraordinary spectacle. You remain convinced that the entire population of Redbridge converged on this al fresco leisure centre. Around us, as far as the eye could see, were masses of young teenagers racing around the perimeter of the pool, dive bombing illegally into the water and then queuing for the slide and the diving board almost constantly. Then the kids started chasing each other, challenging their gang of friends to more derring do, ecstatic fun and games. 

We are now rapidly approaching May and the imminent Bank Holiday weekend beckons. This heat and warmth has come as a bit of a shock to our system. The British were readily equipped with rain umbrellas, mackintoshes and thick layers of pullovers and coats. We were poised to jump into puddles and just keep ourselves entertained on the myriad of screens, phones and games that have become the modern zeitgeist.

Some might have been contemplating the delights of Netflix, Amazon Prime and Disney because we love to complain about the overcast and the dark clouds of rain on the horizon. But hey who cares, anyway because we're having a heatwave and yes it's going to be the hottest summer on record. And as a proud Jew would say to life to life l'chayim. It's going to be a cracking summer. We can feel it in our bones. 

National Sandwich Week.

 National Sandwich Week.

Guess what everybody? You'll never believe it. It's National Sandwich Week. For as long as any of us can remember, the humble sandwich has always been high up on our culinary list of favourite snacks. It acts as the perfect antidote to a hungry office worker desperate for a bite to eat at lunch while juggling a million other onerous tasks such as rushing to the local supermarket for the evening dinner and buying a whole batch of birthday cards for family and friends. Then there's the quick visit to the chemist for another packet of Paracetemol while not forgetting a fleeting visit to the stationers and post office for stamps and writing pads. 

Yes folks lunchtimes are never complete without the great and trustworthy sandwich and where on earth would be be without them? We have a lot to thank the inventor of the sandwich because lunchtimes, or early evening tea times if the mood should take you, are the ultimate answer to an insatiable appetite. It ticks all the right boxes if the boss has been screaming raucously at you for most of the morning and there's a heavy work load on your desk that refuses to diminish. 

You're longing for a pleasant diversion and the clock is ticking slowly, sluggishly and inexorably towards mid-day or one o'clock or whenever it's convenient with your employers because they'll dock your wages if you're not back at work in half an hour. So who does our eternal gratitude extend to at this vital moment of the day? It goes back a century or two and, at the time, the gentleman concerned may have not been acutely aware of the magnitude of his forward thinking or powers of invention. 

So it was the fourth  Earl of Sandwich who gets all the credit and accolades for inventing what we now commonly refer to as the sandwich. During the 18th century, lunchtimes must have been very mundane and almost too monotonous for words. There was the good John Montagu minding his own business and his stomach is rumbling and there's only bread, butter and cheese in the kitchen or parlour. So what does our friendly and noble Earl do? This is the story as some claim it to be. 

The lords and ladies, dukes and duchesses, viscounts and viscountesses of the English aristocracy were all gathering around the card table at roughly lunchtime and they were ravenous and famished, starving but didn't really fancy a hot meal in case it made them feel too bloated and sleepy in the afternoon. A game of poker, canasta, pontoon or any gambling pastime would just not have been the same without something to eat. The good Earl demanded something wholesome and nutritious and he got it with the greatest pleasure since nobody argued with the Earl of Sandwich. 

So the dear John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich had that light bulb moment, a brainwave, a moment of inspiration. He decided he wanted something including the combination of bread, butter and perhaps a generous slice of Cheddar. But he somehow felt obliged to give this new delicacy a name. He thought of himself. And so, on that fateful day from long, long ago, the sandwich was born and we've been tucking into them at the conventional lunchtime hour ever since.

And within perhaps a second or a minute he thought it might be an excellent idea to call the bread, butter and cheese package the sandwich. And so the egotistical Earl of Sandwich grabbed all the day's headlines by naming a delicious food concoction after him? It all felt so natural and logical and why didn't it occur to anybody else that the Earl of Sandwich should create the sandwich. Good thinking and full marks to the good earl.

Nowadays we almost take the sandwich for granted. There is an almost snobbery value about a sandwich consumed from either Harrods or Marks and Spencer because they make the highest quality of sandwiches and also the most expensive. You always know where the sandwich section is because suddenly it appears in your vision and not far from the semi skinned milk and yoghurts and even closer to the the biscuits and chocolate temptations. So you find innumerable shelves stacked high with sandwiches of so many and varied flavours and textures that you feel spoiled.  

So here we go. There's cheese, cheese and pickle, the Ploughman's lunch incorporating tomato, chutney and onion, the egg mayonnaise, the egg sandwich, the roast chicken sandwich, the chicken salad sandwich, and the bacon, lettuce and tomato for those who never eat it since you're a proud Jew and bacon is not for your consumption. But please do continue to eat it because it's traditional and part of our heritage. 

Then there's the club sandwich, the sandwiches with four in a packet which are always filling and rightly celebrated, the prawn mayonnaise sandwiches, the avocado sandwich for those who just want remain svelte, healthy and athletic. There's the simple turkey or beef sandwich and then there's the bread stick which you can always combine with a seductive slice of cream cheese and smoked salmon, eggs Benedict sarnies and now for those who love their sandwich with a touch of class, there's the splendid Subway's roll, a delectably thick roll packed with the aforesaid fillings accompanied by anchovies, tomatoes, onions, olives, lettuce and anything your little heart desires.

Sandwiches have become so much more sophisticated since the Earl of Sandwich thought he'd try something different all those centuries ago. We eat sandwiches on the go, we raided as children the bread bin at tea times for a loaf of bread with anything tasty and irresistible. We packed our sandwiches  with mountains of crisps and lashings of tomato ketchup. For years and years we took our sandwiches to the seaside with our wonderful and lovely mum and dad, grandpa and grandpa and were still eating egg and spring onion sarnies until they were coming out of ears and it was almost tea time.

Then the thermos flasks of tea and coffee would be promptly followed before another round of more sandwiches until our waistlines were on the point of exploding but we didn't mind in the least because sandwiches were good for us and we were all having a brilliant time anyway. Of course there are the picnic sandwiches which are normally the province of summertime and those can be piled high and eaten for ever given half the chance. We tend to think of Enid Blyton's Famous Five when we think of sandwiches.

So the Famous Five venture into the countryside for the day and eat sandwiches, cakes, biscuits and ice-cream in some wild hedonistic adventure. They drink loads of pop, lemonade with yet more sandwiches for tea and supper. It's that important addition to our daily eating schedule. We crave a sandwich on a railway trip home from a busy day, ripping open the packaging enthusiastically because it just feels the right thing to do. Sandwiches are never really given the favourable publicity they probably deserve because, perhaps, we tend to take them for granted. 

We empty the cheese and onion and salt vinegar crisps thrillingly onto our little table before munching our way through this mouth watering, enticing feast. And don't forget the Orange Fanta, or the Seven Up, Dr Peppers, the timeless Coke or Coca Cola, perhaps a Red Bull, or the decadent bottle of coffee or cappuccino. Sandwiches are our best friends and faithful companions. They're seriously underestimated because by the time we come from home school or work, we just want a spaghetti bolognaise, a plate of fish and chips or hearty nourishment such as sausage and mash or a pasta dish and a Sunday roast. 

And so once again you fondly recall your wonderful childhood. Your mind goes right back to your infant school when your late and lovely mum would open up our bread bin in the kitchen. With no prompting or hesitation, she would boil up some eggs. After a couple of minutes, the eggs were sufficiently hard and would be cracked into a bowl where the hard boiled eggs would be mashed up with mayonnaise or salad cream and Bingo. Two neatly cut egg mayonnaise sandwiches were carefully placed into a Tupperware box and that was your lunch taken care of. 

Many of us can never remember when sandwiches were off the lunchtime menu. Now of course the junk food culture has more or less rendered the sandwich redundant.  The global phenomenon that is Mcdonald's, Burger King and even the Wimpy seems to have straddled the ages since the year dot. Since the middle of the 1970s and thence forward, burgers and chips have replaced everything we cherish in good looking food. It is of course a cholesterol nightmare but when did the kids ever complain about that? Now their grievances can only be aired when mum forgets to go into Macdonalds and mum can never be forgiven for at least five minutes. But mums and dads were the best and we'll give them the benefit of the doubt. 

And so it's National Sandwich Week. You wonder what the current generation of  the Earl of Sandwich collective must be thinking of as they tuck into another plateful of sandwiches. Surely they'll finish off their remaining ham and pickle sandwiches which of course we will never devour but you'll always see them at lavish parties or the obvious choices on Boxing Day when all the turkey has been gobbled up. Turkey sandwiches, hey! Just what the doctor ordered.  Sandwiches are so special and uniquely so. The taste sensation is somehow incomparable.      

Manchester City win the FA Cup

 Manchester City win the FA Cup

In the end, the FA Cup Final assumed its familiar shade of light blue and once again the plot bore a remarkable similarity to the four consecutive FA Cup Finals before this year's edition. This time though, Manchester City reverted back to a script that  many of us had read so repeatedly that some of us knew what to expect before it had even happened. It was a case of fourth time lucky for City because this story had roughly the same narrative and characterisation as the one we'd seen a thousand times before. 

There were times when you almost felt as if you were on nodding terms with the Manchester City mantra. Of course there had to be one or two variations on a theme but then, essentially, we somehow knew that City would beat their fellow Premier League high flyers Chelsea with something to spare.You could sense it in the air and there was almost a premonition that this would be City's day. Chelsea have had an up and down season, fading in and out, disappearing from all view at times before breaking into their traditional end of season flourish and swagger. It's been a season of wildly fluctuating fortunes for Chelsea, infuriating but still satisfying. 

The recent appointment of Liam Rosenior didn't go down well because Rosenior must have felt like a sticking plaster over a bleeding wound. Chelsea will finish comfortably in the top half of the Premier League season but not without the occasional moments of eccentricity and a real bout of the jitters. Maybe this has always been the case for Chelsea for as long as any of us can remember but it always seem to turn out well and for the best. Dickens would have loved Chelsea because everything seems to come up like roses for those who play their football at Stamford Bridge. 

Just when it looked as if this year's FA Cup Final would finally stay in London for another year, now it was Manchester City who felt as if they had a divine right to victory if only because they'd been denied in their last three appearances at the Wembley showpiece. And defeat is somehow both morally and outrageously unacceptable, somehow forbidden in the City hierarchy, an alien concept.  So following the Crystal Palace setback last year and their noisy neighbours loss to Manchester United the previous year, this was business as usual.

Qualification for Europe was assured for City ages ago but this was rubber stamped for good measure. Pep Guardiola, the City boss is so accustomed to that winning mentality that he may have been forgiven for complacency. But the man with the matinee idol and five o clock shadow on his bristly chin, once again leapt into the air joyfully and exultantly as if he'd just been chosen as the next James Bond. Manchester City had beaten Chelsea in this year's FA Cup Final, casually, nonchalantly, arrogantly and with an almost patronising ease. Their football sung, hummed and purred effortlessly, a perfect work of art and beauty. 

Sometimes you get the impression that City get some kind of sadistic pleasure out of taunting and teasing their opponents. There is something very conceited and upper class about their football, something very dismissive and pompous about their almost decorative passing patterns. It felt at times as if City were delivering a stern lecture to opponents who dared to question the status quo. But this was City at their very finest, a side whose football was both educational and inspirational at the same time. 

So Chelsea left the headmaster's office, shaken and chastened, told never to misbehave and then given detention for the rest of the year. Chelsea must have been hoping for a spot of leniency from City but this was relentless and unforgiving. Guardiola, City's boss, looked deep in thought, pensive and ever so slightly worried in case City were just not listening to his repeated instructions and tactical demands. But City were on their guard, energised and revitalised, once again playing with their favourite carpet slippers.

The chances are that City will now miss out on winning the Premier League which will be shortly winging its way to Arsenal imminently. So here was the opportunity for Manchester City to reassert their now legendary dominance at the game's highest levels. The Premier League, more than likely, will not be in City's hands but against Chelsea, in what was always likely to be one of the cagiest of all FA Cup Finals, City were unstoppable, unsurpassable, the governing body on the day, those whose authority should never be questioned. 

Chelsea, for their part, did start the game promisingly and threateningly at times, their attack like a smooth running engine and carburettor but then leaking oil at times. Reece James, Wesley Fofana, Levi Colwell and Jarro Hato protected the Chelsea defence with a good deal of assurance and expertise while Moises Caicedo looked a world class act. Marc Cucurella, always busy and lively, ventured ever deeper into the City half with menace and persistence, often tackling too ferociously for his own good. Then Malo Gusto began to dictate the game with an impeccable mastery and control. 

Both Cole Palmer, who incidentally, is still in World Cup contention for Thomas Tuchel's England and Enzo Fernandez were purposeful and imaginative with and without the ball. But Palmer looked so slightly overawed by the big occasion and not nearly as effective as he should have been. Chelsea then looked very blunt and undercooked in attack, not nearly as intimidating and formidable as they once were under Jose Mourinho. Their passes came undone at the seams and their football seemed to fizzle out like a sparkler on Guy Fawkes night. 

So City then gave themselves complete permission to do whatever they felt was the appropriate thing to do with any of their opponents. For well over an hour or so, their football flowed like a meandering stream in the English countryside, trickling beautifully all over Wembley before gushing relentlessly in between the rocks and craggy, rugged looking hills of Chelsea's defence. There were times when City looked angelic and ethereal in possession, not even acknowledging Chelsea at times just leisurely and enjoying every minute of the 90. The job had been done before Chelsea could do anything to stop them.

There were rivers of passes, cataracts of passes that whispered quietly across the billiard table green Wembley grass. There were clusters of passes between the City players, diamond encrusted, short, sweet and staccato passing movements, exquisite jewels, triangular in shape, rectangular and perpendicular, rather like biting the most delicious Danish pastry. You were reminded of a university lecturer explaining the complexities of quantum physics and just making it all look so easy. Perhaps everybody should have understood what they were talking about. It was that easy on the eye. 

At the back the likes of Matheus Nunes, the excellent England defender Marc Guehi, the commanding Abdukodir Khusanov, the power and sheer exuberance of youth displayed by Nico O'Reilly, one of City's own academy products so eager to learn, Bernardo Silva, safe as houses, evergreen and now bowing out of a game he's so adorned with his presence. 

And then there was Rodri, a player of almost regal elegance and glorious grandeur, a player wafted from some paradisial island with a scent of hibiscus and jasmine in the air. Rodri plays football with all the descriptive lyricism of a Somerset Maugham short story. Rodri has been City's driving force, the man who paints all of City's most attractive patterns in midfield and doesn't care how many times he has to do it to make his point. Rodri is the most refined of all players, a princely presence who may well become the best of all time at City. 

Then there was the dazzling wing play of Jeremy Doku and Antoine Semenyo, full of pace, playful innocence and mischievous skulduggery, slippery and sinewy, wonderfully unpredictable, stepping over, dragging back, turning defenders inside out with deceitful tricks and flicks. Doku had one of those games for City that managers must dream about and Semenyo, of course, was somehow destined to score the winning goal for Manchester City. 

So it was that Antoine Semenyo became the hero of the hour for the team in light blue. After a breath taking sequence of quick, quick, slow, slow passes from the half way line, by now City's characteristic template, the ball broke nicely for lethal striker Erling Haaland. Haaland now found himself in unusual territory on the wing but charged down the right before running at his defender and then releasing a peach of a ball to Semenyo.

The former Bournemouth flank man was in exactly in the right time and place to back heel a goal with an almost gorgeous disregard of convention. A Wembley FA Cup Final had just witnessed one of the most technically perfect of winning goals. And we were so honoured to have seen it in all of its radiant splendour. Manchester City had won another glamorous footballing occasion. No sweat. It was so simple. 

FA Cup Final tomorrow.

 FA Cup Final tomorrow

Last August, a large band of football's most modest, humble and unassuming folk, stretched their limbs, warmed up vigorously on the touchlines, ran furiously towards their colleagues and manager in a concerted effort to impress their coaches and managers. It was a scene repeatedly performed at almost every Non League club in football's vast and fascinating heartlands. It was where football started, its infancy, that point in its formation when nothing else seemed to matter apart from a Sunday morning gathering of football's finest and unheralded, the players who never hogged the limelight. 

And so it was that the preliminary qualifying rounds of the FA Cup cranked up its gears, opened up star struck eyes but essentially played for the simple pleasures that yielded little financial reward but just remained the rewarding experience it had always been. There were those who were simply content to play just a peripheral part in the whole structure and romance of the FA Cup's most memorable day for tomorrow is the FA Cup Final, one of football's most celebrated and historic of all sporting occasions. 

Yes once again it's the FA Cup Final and not for the first time, players will be wearing their smartest tuxedo and tails, suits made for measure, carnations in their top pocket and then there is that animal magnetism about the personality of the game which will undoubtedly be in evidence because it will always be there because we know it does and always will be. There is something special and indefinable, mysterious, an almost mystical aura about the FA Cup Final since none of us know why we're drawn into its unique atmosphere, that day of pomp and ceremony that defies categorisation. 

From the prettiest parklands and sylvan recreation grounds when August seemed to go on forever, the FA Cup began its glorious journey to the new Wembley Stadium tomorrow. Amid the brambles and bushes, bowling greens and tennis courts of England's most noble and august green pastures, the teams from the local villages of Middle England made their mark. They did so in the knowledge that, realistically, their chances of reaching an FA Cup Final were so remote and improbable that it must have felt as if the odds were hardly worthy of any decent consideration. 

So, back in the late 1870s the public schools, universities, colleges, and those outstanding amateurs took their first, cautious steps into the giddy world of publicity, celebrity and prominence. At the time the FA Cup had only a tape that constituted the cross bars and very few nets for goals. It was a game played by the landed gentry and those who plied their trade in factories, pubs, tobacco warehouses or just for the fun of it. There were few rules and regulations, no stringent restrictions and just a genuine Victorian pride. 

Over 150 years later, the FA Cup is still showing off its grandest traditions, flaunting its funniest banners and flags on Cup Final day and just being unashamedly ostentatious, happy to lose all of its inhibitions and ready to party. Both social and economic circumstances have changed the game out of all recognition and that was inevitable. It's something called evolution and the march of progress can never be held back. But football is still here and, for that, we must be enormously grateful.

Tomorrow afternoon Chelsea and Manchester City are this year's FA Cup Finalists. Some of us could probably have predicted this year's contestants some time ago because most of the potential contenders were simply being delusional and full of wishful thinking. It's an all Premier League FA Cup Final and, with the exception of Crystal Palace who won the Cup last year and little, unfashionable Wigan Athletic who beat Manchester City in the 2013 Final, the teams who were probably expected to reach Wembley have had their dreams fulfilled.

 But it wasn't for the want of trying because the lower leagues were always in the background, striving, straining every sinew, battling courageously and living in the world of fairy tale fantasies. Southampton almost reached an FA Cup Final 50 years after their only FA Cup triumph but then stumbled across a stubborn if majestic Manchester City who eventually wore down the Saints and scored the most sensational winner minutes from full time. And once again Manchester City have reached their fourth successive FA Cup Final and it all sounds familiar and predictable. 

In the offices and shops, department stores and cafes of Britain, they will be discussing the fortunes of both Chelsea and Manchester City. They'll be analysing each other's season in the minutest details, confident that their side will wipe the floor with them, beat them out of sight and pulverise them, treading them ignominiously into the ground and playing by far the most superior football. The FA Cup has always had its encouraging omens, friendly mascots and all manner of superstitions but it's never really lost that magical place in our footballing hearts. 

For instance, both teams will lay proprietorial rights on their dressing room, their unconventional routines set in stone, the habits of a lifetime. And then the teams will arrive bright and early, up at the crack of dawn before embarking on that dignified coach that is synonymous with the Cup Final. The coach itself will slowly but wind its way down seemingly endless streets and roads, fans flying their good humoured flags , jokey if perhaps slightly offensive and derogatory language, the hilarious banter and then the teams will step off the coach. The excitement will build to such a pitch of intensity that you must have heard this same noise and these same celebrations a thousand times.

It is hard to believe that the Wanderers, Royal Engineers, the Old Carthusians and Oxford University were the FA Cup's original pathfinders, the pioneers who brought the game to the notice of football's most receptive of students, the ones who never really sought the star treatment status. They were the original holders of the FA Cup, the teams who never stopped believing in the impossible. Now we recall them with the fondest affection for it was they who discovered football's heartbeat was still pumping life into the world's most famous competition. None of us could ask for more. 

So as you cast your eyes on Chelsea against Manchester City tomorrow at Wembley it may be advisable to think of those classical FA Cup Finals of yesteryear. Who will ever forget the Matthews FA Cup Final in 1953 when Blackpool, ably and devastatingly assisted by the wing wizardry of Stanley Matthews dismantled the Bolton defence like a park keeper taking down a fence. To this day, the 1953 FA Cup Final will be encased in the most valuable marble, the greatest match of them all, Blackpool narrowly edging as winners in a stunning seven goal thriller where the Seasiders emerged 4-3 Cup winners.

Then in 1973, Second Division Sunderland converged on the old Wembley Stadium rather like unexpected visitors to a party that none thought they'd ever attend. When the final whistle was blown that day and Sunderland had beaten the mighty Leeds United of Peter Lorimer, Alan Clarke, Billy Bremner, Mick Jones, Jack Charlton, Paul Madeley and Paul Reany, one gentleman stole the headlines because none of us would ever forget his physical appearance. 

Bob Stokoe, who had been such an accomplished player in his time, now jumped and then skipped happily from the Wembley bench as if someone had just given him the keys to a luxurious home in the country with several libraries, innumerable wood panelled studies and a couple of stables for the horses. Stokoe was a vision of beige, a long coat trailing beside him and the loveliest of Panama hats on his head. And Sunderland had beaten Leeds 1-0 and won the FA Cup.

In 1988 Wimbledon, who had risen through the non Leagues with astronomical speed, had eventually reached the top flight and, in the old First Division, met the most phenomenally successful of teams during the 1970s. Liverpool, under the joyously inspirational management of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley, had won the League on multiple occasions and conquered Europe  with several European Cups to their name. 

But tomorrow afternoon, Wembley will be at its most cliched bursting point, hundreds of thousands of football's most loyal supporters, shouting, hollering, bellowing, laughing, cheering and chuckling, taunting and mocking their rivals. The chants will be moving and poignant, meaningful and sentimental because football needs its massive hardcore of fans and supporters. Those same fans will return to Wembley every year because it's an absolute necessity, written indelibly on the kitchen calendar.

So it is that the gladiators from West London and Manchester will share their pre match ritual of devouring as many burgers and hot dogs as they possibly can.  Chelsea and Manchester City have had, quite naturally, contrasting fortunes this season. Chelsea seemed to have had so many managers this season that they must have forgotten what exactly went wrong. They will though qualify for Europe but the fans who demand Premier League titles are still grumbling their discontent.  Manchester City, of course will, you feel sure, finish as runners up to Arsenal in the Premier League or so it would seem.

But Pep Guardiola, City's matinee idol, is still a lively presence in his dug out and all of that whistle blowing with his fingers, and all of those angry water bottle throwing gestures somehow typify the man he is. There is still that air of impassioned animation about Guardiola, a relentless restlessness about him that refuses to rest on his laurels. Guardiola, rather like Sir Alex Ferguson, wants to win everything he can possibly lay his hands on and nobody can begrudge this all consuming ambition. Will though Chelsea beat City or vice versa? The FA Cup is theirs for the taking. Some of us have no particular preference for either clubs but we must hope for another FA Cup Final to remember.     

Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr in perfect harmony

 Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr in perfect harmony.

It was almost as if we were travelling back to the days when those famous Abbey Road recording studios in St Johns Wood, North London had been resurrected to its former glory and we were back in the 1960s all over again. If you'd closed your eyes just a minute you'd have sensed that history had made a major comeback and the old gang had got back together for yet another emotional reunion. And yet Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Ringo Starr have never really been away from the public limelight. In many ways they've always been inseparable buddies from childhood and you couldn't keep them away. 

Now admittedly, the Fab Four have sadly been reduced to just the two of them but it could have been the Shay Stadium in New York where the deafening sound of hysterical female fans became agonisingly unbearable and the Beatles seemed to be permanently occupied at the top of the pop music charts for most of the 1960s. If it wasn't the singles hit machine then it was Abbey Road, Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, the White Album, or ultimately Let it Be where it all tragically unravelled and ended.

But here they were again Macca and Ringo in harness, singing the same songs, penning the same lyrics but this time indulging in rheumy eyed nostalgia and reminiscence. The voices of course were instantly recognisable, the story telling narrative still immaculately delivered and so stunningly appropriate. Starr and McCartney could have been forgiven for putting up their feet up, opening up a vintage bottle of wine and perhaps devouring several packets of chocolate biscuits or just luxuriating in the warmth of their fame.

Both Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr, now deservedly knights of the realm, are deeply into a comfortable dotage, both embracing their 80s with a huge enjoyment and panache that beggars belief but doesn't surprise at all. Besides, McCartney is still championing young talent and delighting in the classical and orchestral music scene. He still looks dapper and oozes a remarkable enthusiasm for the new voice, the cultured cadence and knows how to write a good, old fashioned song because he just loves music. 

When John Lennon and Paul McCartney were at the height of their song writing pomp and circumstance, it almost felt the Beatles were invincible and unstoppable. Hey Jude, Yesterday, Sergeant Pepper's, Paperback Writer, Love Me Do, A Day in the Life and Please, Please Me and Eleanor Rigby had reached a soaring ascendancy that left most of us awe struck, mesmerised and totally converted to the wondrous Mersey sound. By now the Parlophone record label had now become Apple and, over 60 years later, the brilliance and genius can still be seen and heard.

Now Sirs Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr are back at the forefront of our attention and it's all very simple and effortless. There is a sense here that both men, now in their twilight years, just wanted to remind us that they're still around, familiarity breeding mutual admiration and determined to make the most of their mellowed and now distinguished voices, thoraxes now beautifully oiled. Admittedly, their latest venture may never win the extraordinary praise and plaudits of their 1960s zenith but it was both listenable and wonderfully evocative, full of the malt and port maturity of a satisfying Beaujolais. The wine must have had the desired effect. 

Home to Us, is a delightful homage to childhood and youth, a memorable anthem to the happy go lucky exuberance of being carefree kids without a single anxiety on their minds. The video follows a pleasing pattern of the good, old days when adolescence seemed eternal and worldwide recognition became almost natural. The images are all sepia tinted and black and white at first but then unfold into a beautiful tapestry of a lifetime friendship and warm, mutual respect for each other. 

We see a grey wartime back street with the hard, cobble stone streets and roads, featuring both McCartney and Starr establishing the kind of compatible rapport that would never be broken. Against a backdrop of billowing, belching industrial chimneys and kids hop scotching their way along on now charred, blackened pavements, the two men took us down that well trodden path to a destination that would become rhapsodically triumphant. 

Now reaching the innumerable bomb sites and rubble strewn grounds of post war Britain, we now follow a mother in hair curlers diligently washing the family's  crockery and cutlery in a wartime ravaged kitchen. There is still though an infectious twinkle in the eye of mum, an almost matriarchal pride in her precious family. There is an unmistakably, cosy domesticity about the whole of Home to Us that engages us, a feeling of hope in adversity, light at the end of the tunnel. 

And so Paul McCartney and Ringo Starr were re-capturing their youth, Starr, probably still recalling Yellow Submarine with the fondest of memories, was glad to be back on the best of terms with his mate, his mucker. To the outsider perhaps it still feels like a relationship that should never have been scarred by the passage of years because both still have a considerable amount to offer. And Home to Us takes us right back to their spiritual roots where it all started. Perhaps we should never forget that sterling contribution to the music industry for both men have always had star quality.  

 

Local political elections

 Local political elections.

Sir Keir Starmer, that master of understatement, kept insisting that it had been a tough couple of days and by yesterday morning, the UK Prime Minister was so shell shocked and distraught that he must have been dreaming and destined to have nightmares for months and even as far ahead as the next British General Election. There can be few who would willingly swap places with Starmer because, quite frankly, who would need all of that hassle and aggravation, the constant remorse, self questioning,  those moments of regret and introspection that no politician can seem to handle. 

Starmer's Labour government had suffered the bloodiest nose in political history, a good, old fashioned kicking where it hurts most and the sense of awkward malaise had rendered him dumbstruck. Over a year and a half ago now, the Labour party had sailed serenely to a gigantic landslide victory over the Conservative Party in the General Election. Sir Keir Starmer was carried high on all of his party members shoulders as if the 1966 World Cup had been won again and none could possibly emulate or surpass. Labour had won the General Election but the glorious air of euphoria soon wore off almost immediately. 

On Thursday, the battle scars of war and conflict on the front were once again starkly revealed, the Labour party once again a wounded animal after so many troubles and difficulties in recent times. Is the whole concept of being elected as the winning party in the General Election, quite literally, the poisoned chalice of any mythology because none of the mainstream parties can ever get it right? Perhaps they should toss a coin or just draw lots. It all seems like some ridiculous Lottery and you wonder why the voters bother. 

We were on local election territory in both London and all the shires, suburbs, cities, towns, villages and communities of every part of Britain. It is now commonly assumed that this needn't be regarded as the end of the world for the Labour party but surely it must be rankling with them that defeat was so humiliating. And here we were thinking that the Conservatives were a basket case for 14 years but once again the public came out in a collective sweat of fury and righteous indignation. They were fuming and just bitterly angry, roaringly resentful of all those stupid politicians who keep burning our ears with their blathering rhetoric.

But suddenly we were informed that there had been a monumentally dramatic shift in the fortunes of both the Labour and Tory party. Both had been brutally beaten up by the playground bully boys, pummelled into the ground, left with their satchels on the ground and their bags snapped in half. There were two new kids on the block and they were just incensed with the prevailing mood of the country. Given half a chance, they'd have probably plundered everything including pens, pencils and notebooks. 

So by Friday morning both the Labour, Conservative and Liberal Democrats were sprawled out on the ground, bleeding profusely if metaphorically, struggling to make sense of what had just happened to them and just staggering to their feet like heavyweight boxers, groggy and severely dazed, rattled and perturbed. How on earth were they smashed out of the park like that? Who'd been plotting behind their backs, secretly conspiring to beat them black and blue, whispering nasty and insulting gossip and then behaving with all of the unsavoury aggression of people who should really know better. 

And yet this has always been the way because we persist with the theory that one political party alone can wave a magic wand and transform the economic landscape overnight. But there was much more than met the eye after Thursday's horror show. There was the Green party, the Reform UK, two intimidating political upstarts, snotty nosed rebels and renegades who were just desperate for a spot of gang warfare. Did they think they were hard enough? They were scrapping for a fight and didn't care a tuppence for the repercussions of their actions. 

So there was Nigel Farage, who sounds like a cross between Dennis Skinner and a slightly more downmarket Arthur Scargill. He was loud and forceful, outrageous and obnoxious in the eyes of some but perhaps others. Some of us couldn't possibly mention. Farage is the bloke in the pub, the pint of Guinness man who lights up his Benson and Hedges cigarettes and then blisters your ears with statements of the obvious and intolerable. 

Now the chances are that although Reform UK almost completely crushed the opposition with a huge display of boastful bravado and braggadocio, you were almost tempted to believe that he may well have been telling the truth. Farage modestly played down his contribution to the rise and rise of the Reform UK party but made no secret of his grandiose ambitions. You suspect he'd love the keys to 10 Downing Street and wipe the floor with the Tories and the Labour party.

Yesterday he declared that the emergence of the Reform UK party was like a breath of fresh air, confidently announcing that shortly Sir Keir Starmer will have to admit defeat and walk the walk of shame. Farage will repeatedly tell us that Starmer will be gone by the middle of summer and the Reform UK party are a party of honesty, straight talking, honour and principle. They'll immediately send back those irritating immigrants who keep landing on our beaches and expecting a land of golden prosperity. Britain will be for British people, the yeomen workers who just want to bring up their families in comfort and security or so they keep telling us.  

For several minutes Farage sounded as though he really meant business and that a noticeable sea change was about to sweep away the flotsam and jetsam of British politics. He grins like the proverbial Cheshire cat, smiles sycophantically and then reassures us that the Tories and Labour are now history. He does so because he'd just like to shake up the status quo, upset the Establishment and just compel us to listen to him whether we liked it or not. 

The Reform Party, for the record, won 1,448 seats in the local council elections and Farage had every right to be smug. The Tories and Labour parties had been trodden into the ground, pulverised, obliterated, made mincemeat of and then taken to the cleaners to quote a few cliches. And then there was the Green party headed by the sneering, smirking, sanctimonious Zak Polansky who is just looking out for the welfare of Britain and has their best interests at heart. But surely this is not right. Polansky is barely out of his nappies in that combustible world of politics but he knows best. 

According to some Polansky, the world would be immeasurably better if you heeded all of his warnings and just followed him around like the great leader he so obviously is. But then you were told that Polansky is a rabid antisemite, a blatant racist, neither here nor there, a right pain in the neck in the eyes of some but, essentially, ineffectual as a chocolate tea pot. But the Greens are the future of this country, this sceptred isle, environmentally friendly, good eggs, a proud patriots and ready to rough up everybody with revolutionary zeal. 

The Greens stacked up a huge amount of the votes and recorded their best local election victory in ages, shunting both the Tories and Labour into no man's land. They were dancing down the suburban streets and roads of Britain and almost besides themselves with unconfined joy and jubilation. The Labour party did win 1,007 seats in the local council heartlands but the outcome does make make for unnerving reading and watching.

Across the green pastures of Britain, town halls were bristling with ballot boxes and politicians massaging their egos. They were traipsing around the floor, wandering aimlessly around for most of the night and then fretting, fidgeting, sighing, scowling and then looking at their watches for the 50th time. It was a scene played right out across Britain and for a while, it was like watching some entertaining circus act and even the high wire trapeze artists looked hugely impressive. 

But today Sir Keir Starmer, the British Prime Minister is out there in the public domain, exposed as a fraud in some parts of the country and just a risible joke in Scotland and Wales. Plaid Cymru and the Scottish contingent had left Labour out cold, bewildered and licking their bruises. The Greens and Reform UK party were still convinced that they'd won the night hands down and somebody should take them to 10 Downing Street pronto. And so it was that the local elections had left its political imprint on the state of the nation and we were still speechless, totally indifferent and apathetic. Surely this has always been the case when matters turn to Westminster and the House of Commons.