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 hog 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. 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 for 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 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. 

 

National Tourism Day

 National Tourism Day.

So there you are. You've packed your holiday suitcases, loaded your bags, made absolutely sure that the sun factor 45 bottle of suntan cream is safely ensconced in all of the right places because without that essential fashion accessory, the chances are that your skin will turn a bright red shade of tomato and you'll burn like a furnace after a couple of days lazily sitting and lounging by the side of the hotel swimming pool. It all feels like paradise, a heavenly haven, nothing to do but soak up those gorgeous rays of sweltering sunshine and pretend you're living in the most exotic climate in the world. 

Now the chances are that this is not the case because you have no legitimate right to live in Spain, Italy, Greece, the USA, the Seychelles and Maldives or any place where the residents talk another language. Unless you're a diplomat and ambassador with some kind of immunity, you're never likely to be allowed to take up permanent residence in the aforesaid countries. Work of course could also be a major factor in flying you off to these far flung nations.  It is best to just relax though, take it easy for a week or fortnight and just allow the sweetness of life to carry you away to some remote island where only the chirruping crickets can be heard at night. 

Yes folks, it's National Tourism Day, a day for remembering what it's like when we negotiate that unbearable rigmarole of passing through customs, dumping our suitcases on to those slowly revolving carousels and waiting for passport control to let you go. The tourism industry has always been a hugely profitable one because we do love our summer holidays every summer since they just do wonders for our mental health and physical state of mind. Tourism is all about acquiring those memorable souvenirs and merchandise.

Every country throughout the world needs a successful tourism industry because without it, nobody would probably go anywhere. Britain tends to be heavily dependent on the royal family for its trinkets, its baubles, the patriotic T- shirts with Union Jacks emblazoned clearly on the shirts, the mugs, the plates, the kitchen towels, the St George Cross hats, the reference books about London and Britain and a bewildering variety of witty, humorous paraphernalia such as saucy postcards, fridge magnets and key rings, glass ware and of course there are the essential days out at the Tower of London and Buckingham Palace.

Tourism is of course big business in every sense of the word. When we take those first tentative, exciting steps boarding our plane it is, quite literally, a voyage of discovery. For those who were just blown away by the whole magnificent adventure as a child, it now feels like the greatest experience of them all. You're a bit blase and smug about a holiday to another country, its culture and its food and drink. You were privileged enough to join your late and wonderful mum and dad on those first introductory trips to Majorca, Benidorm, the Costas Brava and Blanca.

In those days we were all a bit stunned and astonished at the whole concept of visiting another country because we were unfamiliar with both the customs and traditions. We've prepared ourselves for our yearly holiday because we can now get to see those dreamlike locations such as India, Japan, South Africa, Mexico, both the Seychelles and Maldives, Nigeria, Kenya on safari, the USA on multiple occasions, South America and any place situated on the other side of the equator. We look forward to this time of the year because we know that summer is about to come out to play for long, languid weeks and months in beautiful Israel.

But now the tourism industry is a thriving one, fuelled frequently by millions of curious, inquisitive visitors determined to find out about every church, synagogue, mosque, museum, department store, market town, market square and wondrous buildings with those distinctive window shutters, blinds and jalousies that are so characteristic of that country's heritage. And then you just wander pleasantly down shady back streets where al fresco cafes are alive with the sound of clattering cups and plates of food. 

Then you stop at souvenir shops full of those lace and silk scarves, thousands of T-shirts, kids toys and games, clothes with a multitude of stunning colours, a wide variety of football shirts, designer gear, trousers, skirts and cute crocs and flip flop footwear. Half way through the morning you search for a mid morning refreshment break on a pavement cafe, invariably a coffe, latte, cappuccino or hot chocolate with just a tiny biscuit for good measure. These are the holiday attractions we now take for granted but there was a time when as a kid, that you could have only dreamt of venturing into new and pristine lands.

As soon as you land at any airport you suddenly find yourself transported to a world of Hollywood fantasy. There are palm trees blowing gently in the summer breeze and palm trees wherever you like, an abundance of foliage and fauna that you might see in the Lake District or the Cotswolds but is still somehow a cultural revelation. You jump into the taxi at the airport and the driver will be listening to that country's latest news or music and the driver will do his utmost to make you feel at home. You feel a genuine sense of belonging, an immediate warmth and the most cordial of relationships with people who may have been complete strangers but are now your holiday friends for the duration of your holiday. 

Certainly as a young child, the sensation of taking off on a plane and just abandoning yourself to the joys and luxuries of this fortnight of liberation, escapism was just magical, doing things at your pace. During the early 1970s your wonderful mum would take herself off to the local travel agent in the first couple of weeks of January would grab as many holiday brochures as possible. She would then schedule 10 days during the school half term period at the start of June. The prices were scanned enthusiastically and our first holiday in Majorca would set us back the princely sum of £32 including bed, breakfast and all the facilities in the hotel. 

And then you arrived at your hotel resort and destination. The coach would pull into the hotel outside which always seemed to be at the crack of dawn or very late on at night. But the British tourists and pioneers were still wide awake, wearing loose fitting beach shirts and outlandish shorts or even funky swimming trunks. For this young kid, it almost felt as you were imagining this all. Once at the hotel reception desk, mum and dad would promptly clutch your bedroom keys proudly and proprietorially as if they almost owned the hotel. 

But there was something next to the dining room that captured your attention and converted you fully to this marvellous event in your life. And there it was. Larger than life, there was something called a pinball machine in the hotel foyer, a mechanism so captivating and entertaining that it would instil a lifelong fascination in you. The pinball machine was a vast looking upright structure with colourful, flashing cartoon figures on a brightly lit board and a silver ball that you could control with what became known as flippers because every time the silver ball came hurtling down the board you could keep the ball in play and score as many points as you could with only six chances.  

By now we were busy unpacking suitcases groaning with dad's lovely Fred Perry T-shirts, his sartorially elegant navy blazers and jackets, mum's capacious wardrobe of many summer dresses in primary colours and finally the sun factor 45 bottles with  innumerable after sun burn bottles. If we happened to arrive in the early morning hours, you can still remember the childish excitement, the rapid change of clothes into swimming trunks as soon as possible, the feeling you'd completely escaped from arduous school time lessons.

And by lunchtime, mum, dad and young sons would be happily paddling at the shallow end of the swimming pool before spending what felt like the entire day by the pool. Mum, bless her, capitalised on the opportunity to top up on her tan by staring through dark sun glasses and wearing a bikini that made her feel like royalty. After a couple of days in sultry, sensual and scintillating Majorca, she would then lay out across a table the first postcards to be sent to family and friends. This is the way it would be every year for a couple of those remarkable holidays the family would never ever forget, the same template. 

So off we were up and running, caught by the bug, casually sauntering down to the hotel restaurant only to discover that, although the waiters and waitresses were delighted to see you, they hadn't really cracked the catering standards, the immaculate presentation of the food, that fine haute cuisine, the pleasures of the palate. Of course the main breakfast and dinner in the evening did look impeccable to the eye but somehow Spain didn't really know how to cope with vast droves of British guests.

This is how things used to pan out. A vast majority of the hotel guests came from Britain's northern cities such as Manchester, Leeds, Newcastle, Bristol, Scotland, Wales and Ireland. Now what followed felt like some enchanting ritual that none of us could understand at the time. On their dining room tables appeared typical British condiments such as two, three, even four Heinz tomato ketchup bottles, jars of Robertson's jam or marmalade, packets of Corn Flakes, Rice Krispies and most of the cereals we'd all heard about. 

Britain had announced itself clearly, planted its flag on the summit of the Iberian peninsula and arrived in all of their vocal splendour. There were frequent days out to some Spanish cave, sangria drinking sessions or those centuries old bullfights that looked quite alarming to the untrained eye in Blackburn, Oldham, Grimsby or Nottingham. Mum and dad booked a visit to a baby bullfight and the recollection, although slightly blurred, still felt like the best time in your young life. Life was and remains perfect. 

And so we celebrate National Tourism Day. It is a day for acknowledging the debt of gratitude for the caring, compassionate mum and dad who gave you that special insight into the rarefied world of holiday making. We still indulge in globe trotting because it feels natural and inevitable. We are worldly wise, much more enlightened about Japanese pagodas, sampans, kampongs, Asian temples of prayer or worship, Buddhism retreats, towering skyscrapers in the USA, Spanish drinking bodegas and paellas and camel rides in Tunisia, pigs in the Bahamas, dolphins in Miami and elephants in Thailand.

We love Venetian canals and gondolas, the glorious Greek islands, the South American pampas and prairies, cactus plants decorating the countryside, Caribbean banana plantations, Italian spaghetti and pasta, winding, twisting European mountain passes. Where would we be without our friendly travel reps who give us generous chapter and verse about Spain, Italy, Greece, most of Europe and the world? Tourists will embrace tourism for many years to come because we do love travelling and we do keep searching for new and unchartered territories whether they be by the outstanding cruise boat vessel or that laid back holiday by the pool. Happy National Tourism Day everybody and enjoy your holiday.  

The end of the line for West Ham

 The end of the line for West Ham.

While Arsenal look certain to win the Premier League and Manchester City will be puffing and panting behind them in hot pursuit of Mikel Arteta's North London champions elect, the crisis now engulfing your team West Ham United feels like an altogether more different scenario, the kind of disaster movie where civilisation topples to the ground and the world as we know it disintegrates into oblivion never to be seen again. 

As things stand at the moment of writing, West Ham are still just above the dotted line that separates them from Spurs in the increasingly horrific and nerve racking end to the Premier League season. In the normal scheme of things, your thoughts turn to those end of season struggles that almost resulted in relegation for West Ham but then turned out for the best quite remarkably when all seemed lost. We have been there before, accustomed and hardened to the last day of the season skirmishes which are ingrained in the West Ham psyche. 

Almost 20 years ago, West Ham, under the shrewd, knowledgeable and perspicacious management of Alan Curbishley, West Ham went to Old Trafford on the final day of the season, knowing full well that Sir Alex Ferguson was convinced that the West Ham way was some bizarre construct, an urban myth, some abstract concept that didn't really exist. And yet Sir Alex and Manchester United, although still acclaimed as Premier League champions, would end up with the proverbial egg on their face. 

The Argentine striker Carlos Tevez, a Latin magician with the most perceptive eye for detail and judgment, latched onto a through ball on the edge of the Manchester United penalty box. Shrugging off a challenge almost nonchalantly, Tevez, in his navy blue West Ham shirt, steered the ball into the back of the United net quite comfortably and West Ham were safe once again in the Premier League. But that really was a close shave. It was the last day of the season and West Ham had escaped by a hairs breadth from relegation.

Since then West Ham have been relegated twice from the Premier League in recent years and now another neurosis threatens their existence in the Premier League. They are two points clear of London rivals Spurs in the relegation area but the North London club head for Villa Park and Aston Villa knowing that victory would send them leap frogging West Ham over the weekend. Rarely have two fierce London rivals found themselves locked so tightly into a bout of arm wrestling.

Sometimes football can take you to places you'd rather not visit but then the realisation hits you that although it's only a game of football, you wish your emotional investment in the game would assume a much lesser significance than it does. But you can't help it because it's your team but their predicament. So you bite your lips, run your fingers through your hair and begin the thorough analysis. Then there is that awful acceptance of the inevitable, yet another gruelling season in the lower leagues. 

Yesterday though West Ham slipped almost horrendously back into those shark infested waters at the bottom of the Premier League. You were reminded of those desperately pathetic and dreadful relegation seasons when the former Chelsea and Italy striker briefly became West Ham manager but couldn't stop the plunge into the second tier. Then there was Avram Grant, who was so ineffectual and uninspiring that, by his own admission, he refused to smile for anybody who cared to know what was really going through his mind. So relegation from the Premier League struck again for the Hammers.

Now though there are three matches left for West Ham to rectify the fault lines, iron out the defensive deficiencies and just knuckle down purposefully. Football was never meant for the faint hearted or sensitive. It is much harder on the nerves but needn't be because there are bills to pay, work to be done dutifully and families to be fed, clothed and watered. Priorities in the modern game are often confused because we did sign up for that loyal allegiance to our team. But sometimes this is not always possible. 

After a demoralising 3-0 defeat to Brentford, who now find themselves on the brink of a much coveted place in Europe next season, West Ham were staring around the G Tech stadium in West London bemused and startled. Players like the always reliable Tomas Soucek, the classy but clearly out of his depth Mattheus Fernandes and Jarred Bowen, captain courageous and a normally clinical finisher, just clapped their fans obligingly but couldn't really begin to take it all in. There is an almost limp air  of capitulation, imminent relegation, a resignation to their fate. 

It's at times like now that your mind goes back to the last time you witnessed your team's demotion to the second tier of the Football League. It was 1978 and you were huddled together like the proverbial sardines on West Ham's old Upton Park South Bank. Liverpool, at the height of their old First Division championship dominance, arrived in the East End of London like medieval executioners. There could only be one result because the season had been dreadfully nightmarish for West Ham. Liverpool promptly won 2-0 and West Ham dropped out of the old First Division limelight like old time music hall hoofers who had sadly fallen on hard times. 

West Ham manager Nuno Espirito Santo, the Portuguese man with the thickest black and white beard in the Premier League and a tracksuit to match, looked slightly shell shocked and forlorn. Time has yet to run out on him completely but you do feel the utmost sympathy for him. He seemed to get it absolutely right at Nottingham Forest but Spurs and Wolves were just not up to the job description.

Once again at West Ham, there are bleak and moody landscapes and with Arsenal looking to paint some more pretty watercolours next Sunday at the London Stadium, you can almost anticipate the next sequence of events. Even West Ham's penultimate game of the Premier League season, a visit to St James Park, Newcastle, doesn't look like a rescue boat for the Hammers. Maybe the Salvation Army may be more to West Ham's liking at the moment. 

West Ham finish off their Premier League campaign at home to Leeds United and by then the writing could well be on the wall. Graffiti in the East End of London has become a familiar sight in the poshest parts of Shoreditch but for West Ham this is not a colourful spectacle. Leeds United are far from being the exhibitionists who once played with Southampton like rag dolls, winning unapologetically 7-0 during the 1970s.

The likes of Billy Bremner, Eddie Gray, Norman Hunter, Paul Madeley, Alan Clarke and Johnny Giles were football's greatest theatrical troubadours but the current Leeds side will turn up at the London Stadium  in ruthless mood. There will be little aggro or genuine resentment nor will there be any of the vengeful, nasty tackling that seemed to hound the Leeds of Don Revie. For West Ham, the last couple of weeks of the remaining Premier League season will not be easy on the eye or in any way the pleasant watch they might have been hoping for. Still, to misquote a famous film, West Ham will always have Prague and they did undoubtedly win the 1966 World Cup. Or maybe it just seemed that way at the time. 

King Charles The Third- the world is deeply proud of you.

 King Charles The Third - the world is deeply proud of you. 

It couldn't have been easy to be the man waiting in the wings to become the King of England. In fact, it must have been unbearable at times because he must have known that he'd be following in the footsteps of a woman and mother so enormously loved and respected by not only the whole of the United Kingdom but the Commonwealth and the whole world. He's been biding his time, looking up in sheer awe and wonderment at his mother and now suddenly he is that man who's in charge, the King of England and all of the dominions, islands and farthermost corners of the globe. 

For the past week or so, King Charles the Third has been entertaining huge numbers of both the USA and now Bermuda. In a fetching beige jacket and, yesterday, the nattiest of sun glasses and smiling warmly for his all of his most devoted supporters, Charles stole the show, grabbed the headlines and just bowled everybody over with that now familiar charm offensive. He cracked jokes, made all manner of well judged and perceptive comments about life in general and looked very happy.

There must have been frequent moments throughout Charles life when it would have been easier to just withdraw from the public eye, hide away in some secluded spot well away from the Press and massive armies of cameramen and women before poking their lenses most intrusively into every move that Charles has made ever since he was born. And of course we love the royals and, for as long as any of us can remember, the gossipy and voyeuristic have been persistent and insistent about anything that resembles scandal and notoriety. A line has to be drawn in the sand at some point but we continue to watch.

And yet earlier on this week in the highest circles of American political life, King Charles, with his wife Queen Camilla, joined up with American president Donald Trump with his wife Melania and it all went off swimmingly and successfully. In all honesty, it could hardly have gone any better for all parties concerned. Charles giggled his way through a speech about a bell he'd just been presented with and then did his comedy club act with hilarious references about Trump's mother idolising King Charles the Third. 

Once again the Royal Family is back in the public domain, still engaging, still shrugging off the sniggering cynics and just getting on with the business of every day living. For King Charles, the last couple of months have been both very trying, problematic and challenging. His brother Andrew has been dramatically knocked down several notches in the estimation of the British public, before enduring outright humiliation when it was discovered that Andrew Mountbatten of Windsor had now become so blatantly shamed and held to account for his disgraceful antics. 

Today King Charles the Third is a liberated figure, a man released from the chains of oppressive attention, constant scrutiny, comfortable with the man he'd always wanted to be. He is now with the woman who he should have married in the first place but had to wait for almost a lifetime. He is now venturing into new territories, metaphorically of course, since beforehand, he must have been living in a world where some might have regarded him as a figure of fun and ridicule. 

But no longer is Charles perceived as an eccentric character, the man who openly talked to plants and flowers and whose love life, before he married the late and much loved Princess Diana, was often a source of much amusement. Charles was the man who ran away from a girl chasing after him on an Australian beach. Charles was the man who declared he was in love with Princess Diana and then realised that he was really in love with Camilla Parker Bowles.

So for years and decades, Charles endured life knowing that one day his beloved mother the late and adored Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second, would die and he would have to take over as King of England. The burden of responsibility looked as though it had been too hard to bear. And yet, after all the formalities of the Coronation with Queen Camilla, Charles has emerged with flying colours. 

His relationship with his sons the now Prince of Wales William and Harry has always been solid, unquestioned and loving. There is, of course, a long shadow falling darkly over Harry and his wife Megan because Harry has seemingly divided the whole family with some of his more hurtful and wounding comments. Then there was the book and that seemed to be the most unforgivable sin. But Charles is renowned for his resilience and strength of character and he is now saying all the right things. 

He wanders around the world as if the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders. He sits respectfully alongside members of the Senate and Donald Trump, perhaps biting his lip in embarrassment because Trump probably reminds Charles of the late Spike Milligan. Trump is this larger than life character who might have been Milligan's scriptwriter in another age. So Charles looks up to Trump trying desperately hard not to burst into uncontrollable laughter.

So it is that the King of England delivers his speech with perfect diction and quite the most perfect elegance. He talks of that enduring relationship between USA and America. He refers to their mutual understanding and appreciation of each other, that special bond and rapport that can never be broken. More so than ever Charles remains a commendable source of strength and duty to country. And we take our hat off to him because that's important. 

There is a sense here of royal reinvention because for all the trials and tribulations King Charles the Third may have suffered over the years, his spirit is unquenchable. So let's raise a toast to the King because the monarchy, although severely attacked at times by an unforgiving public, still has the capacity to work wonders for tourism, commerce and global perceptions. Some may believe that is not just good enough and but for those with an unqualified admiration for the Royal Family, we can only extended our heartfelt best wishes to them. We think they thoroughly deserve all of the appropriate accolades. Thankyou King Charles and Third and your wonderful family. 

Cricket season and cricketers

 Cricket season and cricketers

At this time of the year, cricket and cricketers are normally tasting the first sweet fragrances of the summer while the football season draws towards yet another eventful and enthralling conclusion. It would seem that Arsenal are in the driving seat at the top of the Premier League three points ahead of their now familiar and fierce contenders for the Premier League Manchester City. There are now four crucial and defining games which will determine the destiny of the Premier League winning trophy but this one could go to both the wire and the final day of the season transistor radio broadcast at both the Etihad and Emirates.

But whatever happens on that final day of the League season, the summertime sport of cricket will have already aired its lungs, pulled on its pads, adjusted helmets and then strode confidently towards the crease, arms swinging purposefully, eyes focussed intensely on every over to be bowled and a perfect combination of sixes and fours on their mind. Cricket and its cricketers have always been foremost on the minds of most Englishmen for a number of centuries and the seeds of the game laid down back then are still flourishing.

Cricket was always the game that legendary cricket writer, broadcaster and wine connoisseur John Arlott always went into lyrical raptures about. For Arlott, cricket was the purest art form, the most emotional of all poems, poetry quite literally in motion and a major part of any discussion on the village greens and recreation grounds of Britain. It is a game played with heart and soul, a passion and feeling that can never be truly replicated anywhere else in the world of sport. 

Cricket has a very specific identity, a geographical significance and nostalgic longing for decades now long since past when Hambledon in Hampshire became its birthplace and origin. Cricket loves to look back towards its golden ages when Sir Donald Bradman, Len Hutton, Denis Compton, Victor Trumper, Wally Hammond, Lindsay Hassett, Ted Dexter, Ian Botham, Sir Geoff Boycott and Fred Truman once stitched their monumental deeds onto the noble shield of cricket's hall of excellence. Cricket would have been lost without its bowlers, batsmen, its third men on the boundary, the players who breathed invigorating life into the game so many moons ago. 

And somehow we wish the game would last forever because it is, quintessentially, the game the conscientious farmers and blacksmiths would just play because it was a joy to behold, leaving behind them their agricultural tasks because all of its rules and regulations were so easy to understand. It was never complicated or rocket science since most of us could instantly relate to its leisurely sedateness, its lazy sunny Sunday afternoon innocence and all of the game's fundamental simplicity, a game that always insisted that cricket should be taken at its own gentle pace, a game to be savoured and relished rather like one of Arlott's extensive wine cellars, a good Chardonnay that had to be matured and then drunk with enormous pleasure. 

To those who still find cricket baffling and mysterious, then explanations may be needed and there are those who still find the game to be both painfully slow, unnecessarily long and, perhaps, unforgivably tedious. They'll tell you that it seems to take several life times to complete the standard number of overs during the match, that there are too many drink breaks for their liking and nobody can quite grasp the steady accumulation of runs by one batsman alone. How long should it take to complete a half century?

And why does a cricket match take five or six days to finish when the boredom threshold may have been broken ages beforehand? But then the traditional lovers of cricket will regard the ones who can't stand the game as philistines or just ignorant. But of course this should never be the case and maybe we should try to sit down for a while and just describe the natural beauties of the game, the thrilling run chases, the one day game in all its intoxicating unpredictability.

The new fangled concept of the T20 Blast and the Hundred has captured the attention of most cricket's fans. Those who regret the cricket of yesteryear will slump into an armchair and simply lose themselves in the literature of Wisden, cricket's Bible. The emergence and astonishing success of the women's game is truly spellbinding. Finally, cricket has woken up to the realisation that women can also crack glorious sixes and fours into the pavilions of the game. And finally equality of the sexes should rightly be celebrated. 

So where are we? Nottinghamshire, the county who once gave us the graceful and imposing Harold Larwood back in the early part of the 20th century, are the current champions. Trent Bridge is still the hallowed ground in the once thriving coal lands of DH Lawrence country. But this year the Nottingham Oval will become just one of the three venues for England's Test matches against New Zealand. This season should give us a real indication of where the balance of power lies. 

For instance will Surrey and Yorkshire once again dominate proceedings in the County Championship. Yorkshire have always been a force to be reckoned with and Surrey just embrace the Oval with its prominent gas holders? Both Essex, Sussex, Worcestershire, Lancashire, Durham, Glamorgan, Leicestershire and Gloucestershire can normally be relied on to attract cricket's aficionados.

And yet in the apple orchards of Somerset where cider is blissfully supped, the leafy and bucolic country taverns of Hampshire and the shoe manufacturing heartlands of Northamptonshire, they will flock in their thousands. In the early hours of the morning, those two dependable umpires will trot down the pavilion steps, toss a coin in the air and then move towards the wicket like important statesmen about to deliver a rousing speech.  So cricket will continue to hold a timeless fascination for those who become addicted to its arts and crafts. 

For some of the more neutral observers cricket should always be mentioned in the same breath as the Ashes, that famous confrontation between England and Australia. Bradman became the most majestic batsman Australian have ever produced. Bradman scored hundreds of hundreds and batted for as long as the mood took him. He was powerfully built, with shoulders and arms built for the game and hands that held onto a bat as if his life depended upon it. Bradman, for many years, was the embodiment of cricket, a personification of everything that was right in the game, its most ingenious exponent, a batsman of rare nobility, handsome shots off the back and front foot and a hugely talented technician of the game. 

So it is that throughout those lazy, dreamy and contemplative days of summer, cricket will wrap a soothing and comforting arm around the shoulders of people who just adore the game. They will probably give us endless statistics of the collective careers of celebrated players, the bowlers who have taken thousands of wickets and the batsmen who may well have forgotten how many runs they've made. And this is perfectly understandable because cricket, after all, was always the summer game which set remarkable standards and values for the rest of sport to follow. Cricket was the democratic game that everybody could appreciate and rightly so. John Arlott was always right.