1966 and all that.

 1966 World Cup and all that. 

So today marks the 60th anniversary of that fabulous, star spangled, wondrously fruitful afternoon when, for England at least the world was our oyster and we were the centre of the universe. We didn't think it would ever happen to us because we'd convinced ourselves that it was just impossible, implausible, some miraculous event that would be a figment of our imagination for ever more. This was completely beyond our capabilities, our aptitude for doing the simple things without finding so many complications. 

But today in 1966, we got it over the line, stretching every bone, muscle and sinew, striving desperately to get the job done and then discovering that it was just a piece of cake. So what were we worried about? All that fuss and commotion for nothing. England had won the World Cup and nothing else seemed to matter. We'd crossed the finishing line, won triumphantly and monumentally. The critics had dismissed us almost patronisingly at times because they must have thought it was just some silly prank, a joke from the thousands of working men's clubs scattered across the country. 

And yet on July 30th 1966 when football used to be played exclusively on a Saturday at three o'clock in the afternoon, England marched out of the old Wembley tunnel to a thunderous crescendo of noise, colour and appropriate patriotism. Union Jacks and St George's flags were waving from side to side like mum's washing line at home. It was England's day of days, a momentous, mind blowing day that shook the world to its foundations because even the rest of the world couldn't believe it. But we had and we knew it. 

Sadly, that day has now been frozen in isolation by time because realistically, most of us have given up all hope of England ever repeating this astonishing feat yet again. The truth is that 1966 is now a single sepia tinted print or some historic engraving that may look appealing to the eye but we'll never see its like again. Or maybe we will and we're just totally disillusioned with the England football team and have now written them off as some flight of fantasy which, for a while, seemed vaguely entertaining but could never be all over again.

So today is a day of grievous commiseration and solemn introspection because the realisation has suddenly dawned on us. Here you find yourself getting older and perhaps even more philosophical. We are now mourning the loss of those empty years, the desolation and devastation, the sadness and sense of solitude because 10 of those players who graced those red shirts have now passed on and only the legendary Sir Geoff Hurst remains the only player still able to reminisce on how good it felt to be a World Cup winner. 

England may have won the World Cup but still the riddle confounds us, a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Why on earth have England never won the World Cup again since 1966. Anthropologists and sociologists have been tearing their hair out in sheer exasperation. Has this got anything to do with global warming, the current ecological state of the world or, put simply, perhaps the quality of the opposition proved too overwhelming? In the cold light of day, England, if truth be told, are just not good enough. 

The statistical evidence has been there for all to see. However you dress this one up, England are still technically short if only not quite to the same extent than might have been the case over 50 years. Then Wimbledon football club were devising their own unique brand of grotesque, long ball football that took the game right back to the age of dinosaurs. In a sense though, England have now redeemed themselves because Gareth Southgate came to England's rescue and the game is now progressive and forward thinking rather than stuck in a time warp when trams and trolley buses lived on our streets and roads.

Way back the game was a sight for sore eyes, an unbearably agonising watch that gave most fans of the old First Division the stiffest of necks. It might have been assumed that air traffic control towers might have been on stand by if the ball had gone any higher than it did. Football, according to that wise philosopher Brian Clough, was of course meant to be played on grass but at the time this sounded just an alien conceept, totally anathema to those who preached the virtues of the simple, short passing game. 

But since the days of Don Revie, who seemed to last roughly five minutes as England manager, the British game has undergone the most radical transformation. Ron Greenwood, the former West Ham manager was always an advocate of the more technical approach, the kind of controlled, patient and collective team ethic that had to start from the back and slowly work its way towards the opposition penalty area. 

By the time Sir Bobby Robson arrived as manger of England from Ipswich Town, the game, although not quite the finished article, was much more pleasurable to the eye. Under Robson players like Glen Hoddle, John Barnes, Peter Reid, Gary Lineker and Trevor Steven became far more comfortable with a football at their feet, polished manipulators of a football whose ball distribution owed much more to instinct and intuition.

England now enjoyed their best World Cup in Italia 1990, a side who not only reached the semi finals that year but were much more advanced in their thinking towards the Beautiful Game. Paul Gascoigne warmed our hearts with some of the most captivating displays we'd ever seen in an England shirt. Forget the high jinks, daftness and frivolity of those Gazza driven days because Gascoigne knew exactly which buttons to press. With David Platt keeping him company in midfield, England almost had it all. They had drive, direction, purpose and poise but then the Germans put a stop to all of those nonsensical visions of another World Cup victory for dear old England. And that was that. 

Graham Taylor was almost a victim of circumstances in as much that he, rather like the Wimbledon of the 1980s had no interest in the finer things in life. At Watford, he moulded an organised and methodical team who did enough to win matches but without the wow factor or any kind of sophistication. The enduring image of Taylor is tragically enshrined in a now infamous Channel Four documentary.

Facing a formidable Netherlands side in a 1994 World Cup group qualifier, Taylor, now England boss could only look on helplessly, a tormented soul who'd evidently made a complete mess of team selection and whose tactics were about as flawed as it was possible to be. Ronald Koeman's winning goal from a free kick just outside England's penalty area may well have haunted him. By the end of the game Taylor was pacing his dug out like the angriest of all men, bleeding the ear of the linesman  with a constant bombardment of complaints and accusations before completely losing the plot.

Then there was Glen Hoddle, Spurs, one of Spurs classiest midfield players, took over as England manager. Now had Hoddle not admitted to spiritual help, then we might have forgiven him. But Hoddle never really found the right chemistry and balance that may have been the missing link. In no time at all, more outrageous statements were attributed to the former Spurs schemer and Hoddle eventually ended up strutting his funky stuff alongside fellow Spurs team Chris Waddle with a vinyl pop record.

At the beginning of the 21st century once Fabio Cappello of Italy and Sven Goran Eriksson had brought their homespun methods to the English game, the game in England, was still in its revolving door period. The football was admirable but neither Capello or Eriksson could pull any rabbits out of the hat. Neither were sorcerers, magicians or revolutionaries although it might have looked at times as if they were. 

The now late and much loved Kevin Keegan simply walked out of the England job because Keegan was too self conscious and felt entirely responsible for any of England's more glaring weaknesses. Perhaps he could have been slightly less self critical about his prowess for the job but sadly the last game at Wembley against Germany was the final straw for the former Liverpool and SV Hamburger striker.

And now we move right up to date with Roy Hodgson and Gareth Southgate. Hodgson was a vastly experienced club and international manager who knew all the wrinkles of the game. Hodgson had sampled Finnish and Swedish football over 40 years ago so was fully acquainted with the intricacies and semantics of football at every level. Club management beckoned for Hodgson with both Liverpool followed by Fulham and finally Crystal Palace. Hodgson was a superb and gloriously enthusiastic manager but most of us could empathise with Hodgson when England kept on running out of ideas.

So it is that Gareth Southgate was appointed as England manager. Finally England had discovered a psychologist among their ranks. Southgate had studied the minds of every single member of his squad of players and had, at long last, rumbled everything he needed to know about the state of English football. Southgate had cleared out all the sawdust and wood shavings in England's defeatist camp. England were free and liberated, mentally attuned to the job they were required to carry out. 

Now England may have lost out in two consecutive Euros Final against Spain and Italy while also going narrowly close in a World Cup semi final against Croatia in Russia 2018 and then the quarter final exit at the hands of a far too skilful French team. And, then Southgate finally announced that he'd gone as far as was humanely possible without being driven out of the England job. 

Today marks the most unwanted anniversary of them all. A week is, notoriously, a long time in the fiercely competitive world of politics. For the England team though 60 years is the most yawning and most humiliating of time lapses although at least there aren't any of those tedious General Elections to decide the suitability for any manager. Can you imagine those endless rows of ballot boxes in lively town halls across the nation? No, nor can we.

When England last won the FA Cup, this humble scribe may well have been far more concerned with the destiny of the family football. In a delightful garden in Ilford, East London, this child of nature was far more enchanted with his lovely mum's beautifully preserved bed of roses rather than the general direction of the ball you were playing with. Three year olds had never had it so good. And so it is today that one Sir Geoff Hurst will pour himself a reflective brandy, quite possibly light up a cigar and imagine that 1966 might be replayed over and over again. Regrettably, it is almost impossible to believe.

Since England last won the World Cup, Neil Armstrong has landed on the Moon and one step had been negotiated for mankind,  the Vietnam war had claimed far too many lives and the IRA have threatened both the security and stability of  world peace in Northern Ireland. It may be a long time until we find a Sir Alf Ramsey lookalike, a man of single minded strategies who knew that England would win the World Cup three years before its date. We must hope that somebody is waiting in the wings because, at the moment, it really does look a forlorn hope. Come on England, you can do it one day.        

National Milk Chocolate Day.

 National Milk Chocolate Day. 

You may find this hard to believe but today is National Milk Chocolate Day. So you can open your ears again because it's the truth and, besides, there is no reason why it shouldn't be. Besides, at some point during the year we all need several bars of chocolate and, for a vast majority of us, it's the one indulgence and guilty pleasure we've always afforded ourselves when the craving for chocolate just becomes too much. 

Ever since our childhood, we grew up convinced that there was no other sweet feast that would satisfy our voracious appetites. It was always there staring out temptingly in your local sweet shop-cum newsagent, tantalising your senses, heightening your awareness, intensifying your pleasure since every bite of chocolate was like a trip to paradise, an exotic island surrounded by mangrove trees and banana plantations. It was our first appointment with childish naughtiness, our happiest childish moments. 

And yet it all started so innocently as these things often do. As soon as we walked out of the school gates, clinging onto mum's hand tightly, we could hardly contain our excitement. We knew what was coming and couldn't disguise our feelings. Mum privately knew what we were thinking and therefore tried desperately hard to warn us as kids that chocolate was bad for you, rotting our teeth and then expanding our waistline.

In later life, adolescence arrived and suddenly we were completely besotted with chocolate, obsessed with chocolate, drinking it, eating it, dreaming about it, waiting for that glorious moment when the bell went at school and it was time to head for the sweet shop immediately. It's difficult to know how or why chocolate became a vital necessity in our lives. It simply was. Maybe this had been a generational thing. Chocolate was somehow hereditary, coursing through our blood cells, our corpuscles, simply passed down through our genetic pool. 

But school days have now become tucked away discreetly away in our fond memories, the kind of enduring imagery you can never forget. Throughout the decades and centuries, that first taste of cocoa beans and masses of sugar have been the ultimate stimulant, now an addiction. It keeps us going on mundane days in the office when there's nothing else to do but check our Facebook or X page. It's that half open silver foil bar that just lies there lazily on your desk performing no function but still there. 

During the 1960s, your late and wonderful mum inadvertently introduced you to chocolate and you were hooked for life. We had yet to add a washing machine to our domestic furniture but then my mum must have realised that all of that hard labour, cleaning clothes manually, had become too demanding and stressful. So she invested in a washing machine and suddenly the sun came bursting out of the sky. 

But before that momentous day, we had to be wholly dependent on our local laundry. Most conveniently, the laundry was situated around the corner from where you grew up. And so it was that every Sunday evening we would venture out, enormous shopping bags in our hands. Inside the bags was a vast accumulation of shirts, ties, trousers, skirts, school ties, pullovers, underwear and a whole host of  clothing that seemed in dire need of a soak and a thorough scrub. 

So as both mum and son- a mere five or six years old, sat patiently in the Ilford Laundry, we began to wonder if there was some rather less strenuous way of speeding up the operation. But it was while we were thinking about some magical appliance that would wash the family clothing in double quick time that we noticed something. In a small corner of the laundry was a drinks machine. Oh what a joyful discovery. 

You wandered across towards this remarkable looking machine and saw a button, that once pressed down, would deliver a hot chocolate drink. There was of course a pleasing variety of other hot drinks such as tea, coffee and maybe flavours you may have forgotten. Without fail, your eyes would  delightedly fall upon hot chocolate. The infatuation for chocolate would become lifelong. If memory serves correctly this hot chocolate was 6 old pence or five shillings in years to come. 

But rest assured, this was the iconic day when all of that Sunday relaxation and leisure had to stop. You'd eaten your mum and dad's lunch, perhaps spending languorous afternoons in the family garden kicking a ball about playfully and puncturing the said ball in mum and dad's beloved thorns and rosebeds. But at the back of your mind you were still looking forward with huge anticipation to that first cup of chocolate in Ilford Laundry. 

Meanwhile back at the school gates the kids flooded out of the gates, pleading with mum to make haste and get to the sweet shop as soon as possible. Mum of course insisted on chatting and nattering to other parents, perhaps exchanging pleasantries about the new BBC Two channel or how the Vietnam War just seemed to be dragging on and on interminably. Perhaps they were discussing the ridiculously expensive price for a loaf of bread or how dear a  pint of milk had become, complaining woefully about rampant inflation or how amusing and lovely their neighbours were. 

But then as soon as you stepped into this heavenly sweet emporium, you were stunned by the sight of hundreds of jars of sweets on groaning shelves. There were lemon sherbets, strawberry sherbets, jars of cholesterol, liquorice allsorts, pineapple cubes and things designed to leave your dentist speechless and dumbfounded. And yet what did we know, less care about? We were kids and we loved sweets. We just wanted to enjoy the sweet joys of life regardless of the detrimental consequences. 

Suddenly you noticed the sweets on the counter themselves. There was Fry's Turkish Delight, your personal favourite Bourneville, Galaxy, those astonishingly lovely orange and mint flavoured segments of chocolate that you bit into and thought you'd stumbled upon a pot of gold. There was Marathon, now Snickers, Opal Fruits, Pastilles, Love Hearts, Fruit Gums,  Fruit and Nut chocolate bars that were almost begging to be sold.

And then you saw those enduring institutions. On the second row of chocolate bars, there was the inimitable bar of Mars chocolate and then almost next to it, Mars, a Milky Way or Milky Bar. Mars became symbolic of our childhood years but beyond your mum's price range. A Mars a day, according to the extensive advertisement campaign, helped you work, rest and play. Inside a Mars bar there was that delicious combination of fudge, toffee, a thousand bags of sugar and what looked like tiny tablets of chocolate which looked like the cement you'd see in walls. But that was eight old pence. Goodness me, that was a bit steep and would the government of the day please bring down the price of chocolate bars?

Then adolescence kicked in and those long, transitional years of teenage life, giddy secondary school days and, of course hot chocolate featured almost constantly in our young lives. As we entered  an impressive looking building we were given a revealing insight into academic life. On the right were the showers, toilet and a place where PE related equipment would be found. Just outside our grand assembly hall was the drinks machine. Oh now we were talking. The hot chocolate- cum drink machine would become your second home, almost a spiritual home. 

Now there was a sight that would become familiar for most of your formative years. On most Sundays, mum and dad would take their young nipper down to Gants Hill Tube station in Essex. Our destination would be Shepherds Bush on the Central Line. My grandma Dora used to live in a flat in Shepherds Bush and that memorable train journey is now imprinted in my mind. But there was something else that caught my attention that now belongs in the archive of your memory. It was distinctive and made you salivate at the mouth. It would become one of your favourite sights.

So on the wall of Gants Hill Tube station there was a milk chocolate bar machine which not only sold the much loved Dairy Milk chocolate bar but Fruit and Nut chocolate, bars of Nestle chocolate bars and all for couple of sixpence or so. You would slide your money into the slot and then, as soon as the coins had gone in, you pulled open the draw and out would come the chocolate. Sadly, that chocolate bar machine, so dearly remembered for nostalgic reasons, is now obsolete and just condemned to history. But at the time it was somehow a boon to those who needed a sugar rush before boarding the train. 

Nowadays both Dairy Milk chocolate and a stunning array of other bars such as Twix, Yorkie, Whisper  After Eight, which once decorated my lovely grandma and grandpa's hostess trolley, are still available and simply irresistible. Sadly, the nutritionists and dieticians keep warning us about  the dangers of eating excessive amounts of chocolate and given its sugar content, they may be right. But we'll never be resist that first hot chocolate of the day and the way it makes us feel. Who can ever forget the honeycombed Crunchie bar? It almost felt too good to be true. 

The last word should go to my mum, a discerning expert on the subject of chocolate. It was chocolate that had an element of the sophisticate about it. Ferrero Rocher was once widely the subject of a Christmas advert campaign that would epitomise both class and style. It was eaten by the great ambassadors of the world and my mum if memory serves me correctly. Also top of her chocolate list was a Walnut Whip, a chocolate that had a small swirl on top of it and a generous helping of cream for good measure. 

So whatever you do today enjoy your Milk Chocolate Day because you deserve it. You've been working and studying, cleaning and washing to your hearts content. You deserve that special reward at the end of the day. You've been on your feet all day, diligently carrying out all of those necessary domestic duties and it's time to put up your feet, switch on the TV or radio and just snap off  some chocolate. And if it's your wedding anniversary or birthday, charge into your local confectioners and just grab hold of as many boxes of Dairy Milk,  Quality Street and Celebrations as you can possibly carry. And if you're reading this in the United States of America, don't forget Hershey's. Enjoy folks. 

 

Andy Burnham- the new Prime Minister

 Andy Burnham- the Prime Minister

So Andy Burnham became the latest Prime Minister and, not for the first time, the critics are sharpening their knives and the public are not entirely sold on the idea. In fact this record is so old now that we know exactly what tracks to listen to on both sides of the album. It was released last year and the same collection of songs is still doing the circuit. Maybe we should ignore all this white noise, this background confusion, the constant references to yet another sequence of General Elections. 

This could really become quite tiresome and repetitive, so much so that you wonder why we watch this farcical freak show, this hilarious circus whereby the high wire act and the clown keep bumping into each other. Maybe they should dispense with the tricycle and just blow raspberries at each other. In fact why don't we just cut to the chase and abolish the current political system once and for all. It clearly isn't working and, besides, those wretched politicians are just a waste of  time. 

And yet Andy Burnham became the 59th Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and some of us felt a deep sense of smug satisfaction and vindication. Months ago you predicted that Burnham had all the relevant credentials for the job, a man of hard, gritty common sense, plucky pragmatism, a neat line in eloquence and an abiding love for his hometown of Manchester. There is something of the working class trencherman about Burnham, a readiness to roll up his sleeves and get cracking on the running of the country. 

So it was that the outgoing Sir Keir Starmer stood bravely outside 10 Downing Street and wondered whether the job had been worth all of the trouble. He duly announced his resignation from the post of Prime Minister and by Monday it was all painfully official. What possesses a rational, coherent, exceptionally intelligent man to undertake one of the most arduous tasks anybody could wish to undertake? Surely the poisoned chalice would simply take its toll and two years later, you're gone.

Starmer was, admittedly, cheered to the rafters and made to feel that he was still loved and wanted by his devoted fans, his loyal zealots and disciples, the men and women who still believe in him implicitly. But there was a palpable sense of relief and an acceptance of the inevitable. Starmer had got it completely wrong, his weaknesses, foibles and shortcomings plain to see. He'd introduced a winter fuel allowance which he admitted was badly conceived and executed and then somehow lost his way. 

So the human rights barrister, a man of enormous intellect and academic achievement, was told to walk out of 10, Downing Street and never darken these corridors ever again. Starmer's wife stood there smiling and supportive as you would have expected her too. But this was no time for regrets because they might have been construed as counter productive. Of course Starmer's term of office had only lasted two years which, in theory, was longer than Liz Truss and Rishi Sunak but it just felt hollow, smacking of desperation, short termism at its briefest and sounding for all the world like the part time job of a temporary legal secretary who could only be guaranteed a six month probationary period. 

The vultures that had been hovering over the House of Commons in Westminster and now they'd wolfed down the carcass with ruthless relish. Andy Burnham was waiting in the wings, poised to strike like a lethal cobra, spitting vitriol but as diplomatic as it was possible to be. Burnham had always been privately aspirational, a careerist politician driven by fierce ambition and world domination. He was lusting after the Prime Minister's job and although he'd given little indication, it was still a nagging yearning.

As we all know by now Burnham used to be the Mayor of Manchester and is a fervent supporter of Everton football club. He would certainly have heard of the Messiah who was Howard Kendall and that League Championship trophy during the 1980s. He might have been aware of Kendall's magnificent midfield alliance with Colin Harvey and Alan Ball and quite certainly Kevin Sheedy, Paul Bracewell, Peter Reid and then Trevor Steven delivering inch perfect crosses for Graham Sharp and Andy Gray.

But, essentially, Burnham will always point to the commendable work he did for the grand city of Manchester and how he transformed this great industrial city into one of the most thriving centres of commercial excellence. Burnham was the one who sided with Manchester blowing the trumpet for the City, extolling its virtues before busting a gut to make it work and prosper. 

And now he wants to do the same for the rest of Great Britain because he cares for his country, his sceptred isle, the country that gave him the chance to lead the country and maintain its life force. But Burnham wants nothing more than to be trusted and believed in because for the last two years the Labour party in government may have been found lacking in those vital qualities. Starmer probably did his best but  he didn't quite step up to the mark, burdened by some mysterious force that none of us could put our finger on. 

So much so that the pressure became too overwhelming and he fell on that cliched sword. Behind him of course was one Wes Streeting who looked as if he was on  the Prime Minister but then found some sinister looking piece of military equipment and betrayed him just like that. It wasn't a machete that stabbed Starmer in the back because that would have been far too barbaric but, suffice it to say, Streeting made his objections abundantly clear. On one early summer morning, Streeting stormed out of 10 Downing Street and looked as though he'd just received an electric shock. 

Then last Monday morning the latest Punch and Judy show made yet another appearance on the political battleground that is Westminster. Some of us now regard the latest activities in the House of Commons as some freak show reminiscent of a local park fairground. This time though there are no flying tea cups, roller coasters nor is there the traditional goldfish which you invariably win if you can hit the coconut shy. This is politics in the 21st century and don't we know about it?

The difference this time is that Britain has a Prime Minister from up North, the Northern heartlands where the people are straight talking, wittty, forthright, no holds barred, never knowingly mincing their words. The people of Manchester are no nonsense, totally without affectation nor airs or graces. They come from a land where the miners from a long time ago would walk into dirty coal fields, their faces blackened with soot, dirt and grime, before embarking on a hard day's graft. Burnham knows that. 

Manchester used to be the embodiment of the Industrial Revolution when men were men and life was structured, rigid, programmed to last for ever. The men would clock on at their respective factories, spend every day and all day, lifting and heaving, screwing on the nuts and bolts of machinery, masking up at boiling hot furnaces and then becoming hot metal sheet workers determined to earn a decent day's pay to put food and water on the table for their families.

But, and as the cynics would point out, that was then and now is the present day. The Manchester Ship Canal still has an important role to play in the role of society but maybe not quite to the same extent. Now Manchester has its own vast media centre in Salford, a home now occupied by the august BBC while, around the city, huge IT offices, sumptuous warehouses, new and luxurious housing and a whole host of vibrant restaurants, cafes and high tech companies have throw open their welcoming doors. 

A while back my wonderful son took me to the National Football Museum in Manchester and of course it was stunning because you could personally relate to it. Lowry's match stalk men, kids and dogs are perhaps just a historical footnote but today's Manchester's paintings are equally as attractive. Andy Burnham has been entrusted with the kind of unenviable responsibility of putting the whole of the country back on the map of the world. But envy is a bad thing so perhaps we should just wish him all the luck in the world. He may need it. 

At the beginning of the week Burnham emerged into the London sunlight and parked himself outside 10 Downing Street. There were no wooden lecterns, no prompts and nothing to suggest that he was reading from the autocue. This was a natural, comfortable and easy going man who looked at his people with a charming air of  reassurance about him, nothing forced or contrived, just straight down the camera and engaging with a public he hopes he won't disappoint. But haven't we heard this song a million times? 

In 1964, the last Northern Prime Minister Harold Wilson, also made those now customary promises in his Labour party manifesto. He smoked his pipe for the next seven years and there was a reliability about Wilson that some must have found very soothing and comforting. Wilson was never one for impassioned rants on electoral orange crates, nor did he throw his arms about wildly just to emphasise the point he was making. 

Wilson was born and bred in Huddersfield, a Huddersfield fan but rarely mentioning the Terriers in any of his rousing speeches. But Wilson invented the Open University, he challenged the trade unions with verbal fist fights and then just got on with it. He once declared the White Heat of Technology to thousands of sceptical businessmen, women and economists who never believed that neither computers nor the Internet would ever have made a good idea at the time. 

Andy Burnham looks and sounds different. He may have gone to Oxford University but the positive proletariat in Burnham will use his job description to make sure that this time the wheels won't fall off the country and crises will be dismissed as a swear word. Burnham uses the language of the people not the flowery platitudes of his illustrious predecessors. He looks for all the world as if he may know what he's talking about which of course could be dangerous in the extreme. 

Realistically the jury may be out on Burnham's leadership for at least the next ten minutes. This may be seen as gross flippancy on your part but somehow you despair of those around Burnham who still think the Labour party are going to hell in a handcart. The electorate always speak from the heart and democracy knows where the country may be going. But this is the umpteenth Prime Minister in so many years and they just keep multiplying like rabbits. What to make of it all, though?

At some point in perhaps the immediate future, Burnham will shoot himself in the foot with some wiseacre remark or some some silly, facetious set of comments that will be taken completely out of context or blown out of proportion. Who's the next Prime Minister to make some ill advised statement about the British economy or some rash, tactless remark about  the bone idle, young unemployed? Surely not Burnham though

As soon as he walked through the front door of Downing Street, Burnham did vow to eliminate rough sleepers out in the street with nowhere to go nor live. Burnham has to get his head around the whole knotty issue of the homeless, the estranged, the forgotten ones, the unfortunate people who have yet to find somewhere they can call home permanently. Burnham knows all about the lucrative potential of oil and gas, rising energy prices, the cost of living predicament faced by over 70 million people. He also knows that the job of being Prime Minister is far from simple and that eventually he will get it in the neck.

Then there is the widening poverty gap, the traumatic hardships suffered by all of those sections of the public who just can't afford to pay extortionate bills or switch on their central heating during the winter. He may think of those isolated council estates where nothing happens apart from the number of disillusioned kids hanging about during the school summer holidays with nothing to occupy their days apart from maintaining contact with their friends on social media giants such as Facebook, X or Tik Tok. 

This is the point when Burnham should make his presence felt. On the day of his confirmation as Prime Minister, the former Mayor of Manchester seemingly got his fingers dirty. He was seen at a homeless centre at 7am chopping up vegetables and keeping his finger on the pulse of the nation. So there may be hope here. We watch objectively and impartially from the side lines hoping that it all works out for the best for Andy Burnham.

We will watch him board a plane to see USA president Donald Trump. Now of course this could either become one of those historic moments where it all clicks seamlessly into place for both Trump and Burnham. But as we know there is a disturbing underlying anxiety, a fear of the unknown. Most of us haven't a clue what suit, shirt and tie Trump may decide to put on for the day ahead let alone building relationships with Burnham. 

On Monday it was all about business as usual. Burnham was all delighted smiles, clapping his Labour party supporters with whole hearted approval and then thanking his mum with all the gratitude of a man who thanks the vicar on Sunday morning for an admirable service, hands closed together with a fleeting gesture of appreciation. It could be very much uphill and daunting from here onwards. But of course for somebody who made this prediction about Burnham's appointment at the top a while back, you'd rather let the lovely people of Britain  make up their mind.  

 

Kevin Keegan dies at 75

 Kevin Keegan dies at 75.

A couple of hours following the death of Kevin Keegan you were reminded of the fact that only 48 hours after the death of Sir Garfield Sobers, sport could only reflect on the mortality of another one of its most exemplary ambassadors. Over the weekend, Sir Garfield Sobers had made his own dignified exit from the world. And once again we mourn the loss of one of football's greatest and most fiercely committed of characters, a man so modest and gracious in both defeat and victory that it was hard to remember a time when Keegan was at fault for anything. 

Admittedly, Keegan did have his moments and they were memorable. In the 1974 Charity Shield between Leeds United and Liverpool, an admittedly fractious and bad tempered curtain raiser to the old First Division, Keegan, in a fit of pique and raging with injustice, got himself involved in a childish skirmish with the fiery and combustible Leeds United captain and talisman Billy Bremner. It was the most pathetic of punch ups particularly after it transpired that Johnny Giles was also losing his rag as well. 

But none could deny the magnitude of Keegan's contribution to both the game in Britain and his dynamic influence on the game both at club level and international level for England. Keegan was a fireball of energy, wit and commonsense, tireless and powerful, indefatigable and always heavily involved in all of the game's most contrasting nuances and pivotal turning points. And there was something about Keegan that had to be admired for all the right reasons because the former Scunthorpe, Liverpool, Southampton and Newcastle striker, always seemed to give his all, blood, sweat and tears ingrained in his DNA.

From the moment he achieved first team status at Scunthorpe, Keegan was destined for the big time. He was an all action, fiercely competitive, admirably conscientious busybody, darting into acres of space at Anfield for Liverpool, hunting and foraging for goals consistently and something of a demanding perfectionist. There was something of the whirling dervish about Keegan, an irresistible force of nature, scurrying and scampering all over the pitch rather like a first year kid at secondary school desperate to impress his PE teachers. Keegan was here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, always available for the ball. 

On a more personal level, you've nothing but fond recollections of childhood memories of the Doncaster born Keegan. It must have been an early primary school moment during, presumably, the summer holidays. Your late and wonderful mum used to have on subscription, the weekly listings magazine TV Times which was promptly picked up every Wednesday morning. Now, for whatever reason, there must have been some dormant artistic desire hitherto deeply hidden away. 

So setting up pad and paper on the dining room table, you strategically cherry picked a red pencil out of a pack of brightly coloured pencils. And then you embarked on your very first tentative attempt at modern art. Shortly and meticulously you would carefully scribble away, enthusiastically drawing an action photo of Kevin Keegan in his Liverpool pomp.  Every contour and feature from the flowing Keegan hair to the red Liverpool shirt to those equally as natty shorts would be keenly copied and, even in hindsight, it almost felt like an authentic reproduction of England's most hard working striker. 

During the 1970s once again, Keegan became the pin up poster boy for an excellent teenage football magazine called Shoot. Kevin Keegan, the chief football columnist for the magazine, would be prominently displayed in Shoot for quite some time. Then Keegan became the face of after shave lotion bottles accompanied by the unmistakable boxing maestro Henry Cooper. You simply splashed it all over.

But it was with Liverpool that Keegan would become the central figure of idolatry. Keegan scored on his debut for Liverpool against Nottingham Forest and there would follow phenomenal success with the Anfield club. There were successive and yet more old First Division championships before the first of many European conquests including the one against Borussia Monchengladbach on a joyous evening in 1977 when Liverpool lifted the old European Cup. 

The sight of Keegan bundling and brushing his way past Munchengladbach's brave and formidable Bertie Vogts is enshrined in football folklore. Keegan, in tandem with the inspirational Ian Callaghan, the balletic Steve Heighway on the wing and Terry Mcdermott scheming and beavering away in midfield, conspired to beat their German adversaries.

It was the night Tommy Smith, a man who just loved a good, old fashioned scrap, rose like the proverbial salmon to head home the opening goal for Liverpool from a Heighway corner while Mcdermott and Phil Neal from the penalty spot furnished a perfect night for Liverpool. But Keegan had made his statement and it was loud and clear. Keegan's international career for England would be his crowning glory. 

Keegan's footballing chemistry and almost harmonious relationship with West Ham midfield player Trevor Brooking would illuminate most of England's better and more prosperous displays. In the 1979 Home International against Scotland, Keegan and Brooking indulged in the most delightful one two inside the Scottish penalty area and Keegan swept home a picture postcard goal. Sadly, such moments were both sporadic and isolated at times but when it happened, you sighed with pleasure.

Then three years later, Keegan, once again, joining forces with Brooking, came on as too late substitutes in England's World Cup group match against Spain in the 1982 World Cup Finals. Brooking narrowly missed and Keegan was even closer to scoring with a header that only narrowly crept past the far post. But England, as has now become increasingly obvious in England's latest World Cup near miss in World Cup 2026, were simply not up to the task and just not good enough.

In 1979, Keegan, with the heaviest heart, left Liverpool for SV Hamburger in Germany. Now an afro haired Keegan enchanted the Germans who were spoilt by Keegan's naturally extrovert, gung ho personality. Keegan scored  a conveyor belt of goals that multiplied then proliferated with every game. Soon Keegan's name would be chanted in almost musical homage. But although Hamburger reached the 1980 European Cup Final, Keegan was stopped in his tracks, thwarted and deprived of another European Cup winners medal by Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest. 

But it was Keegan's Newcastle United years that enriched the Tyneside landscape with his hustle and bustle, surging pace and electrifying acceleration on the shoulder of his last defender that broke so many opponents hearts. Keegan, the player at Newcastle, was at his stunning best, scoring goals for fun as Newcastle were first promoted from the old Second Division to the First and then, much later, in a magnificently bejewelled managerial expedition that led to more trophies. 

And yet it was another tetchy, niggly and irascible outburst that blotted the Keegan copybook. During a remarkable season in the mid 1990s, Keegan's Newcastle suddenly collided with Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United in the most incredible Premier League title race. Seemingly racing away with the Premier League and 12 points ahead of Ferguson's United at one point, Newcastle had a rush of blood to the head. By the penultimate game of the season, that apparently insurmountable points margin was whittled away and now Ferguson was psychologically in Keegan's head. 

In the most astounding TV interview with Keegan, Newcastle were about to throw away that considerable points advantage. Wearing those now celebrated headphones, Keegan's face became twisted with the most contorted angry scowl. Once again, Keegan seemed to go off the deep end under the unlikeliest of provocation and was determined to play Ferguson at his own game. He promised that he would do everything in his powers to rub Sir Alex's nose in it.

Nothing would have pleased Keegan more if United had to go to their last game of the season against Middlesbrough, knowing that United had to win it to wrap up the Premier League title. United, though, did and Keegan was still erupting long after the game. The fall out to that melodramatic end to that season can still be felt all of these years later. But this was typical of the Keegan temperament, all Latin explosions when the mood took him.

When Keegan walked out on the England manager's job almost on impulse after the old Wembley's last ever match against Germany, it felt like the beginning of the end for Mighty Mouse. The Germans had already won and Keegan felt he could do no more to lift the profile of the national side. But the legacy had now been left in stone. Everybody loved Kevin Keegan even when he was falling off his bike at the BBC's Superstars TV show. Keegan was fearless, indestructible, hair dancing in perfect unison with his gold embossed feet. It had been the most magical of lives and of course we'll miss him.     

 

Sir Garfield Sobers dies at 89.

 Sir Garfield Sobers dies at 89.

On a summer's morning in England, there was never a sweeter sound than that of the bat so handsomely brandished by Sir Garfield Sobers. Sobers was, and will always remain, one of West Indies greatest cricketing all rounders.  For two decades, predominantly the lively and eventful 1960s, Sobers dominated world cricket, a giant colossus of the game he so decorated and festooned with his individual virtuoso command performances, a mightily skilful batsman, bowler, fielder and everyman for all occasions. 

Yesterday Sir Garfield Sobers, or Garry Sobers as he was affectionately referred to in the highest echelons of the game, sadly died at the age of 89. Metaphorically, he left the field of action to another thunderous round of applause but this time only the heavens could hear the acclaim. Sobers was a masterful batsman, the complete article, a man who once he took up residence at the crease, spent an excessive amount of time just admiring the spectacular scenery of the English countryside. 

He played most of his club cricket at Nottinghamshire and once he'd set his sights on an innings, the eye was sharp and focussed, concentration set in stone and his batting was rather like a hearty breakfast. He gorged himself on a feast of steadily accumulated runs before launching himself into half centuries and centuries. The shots were like cannon fire, blasted into warm English May, June and July skies, cloudless and blue and directed in the general location of the local high streets outside Trent Bridge.

Sobers was somehow destined to be a leader of the pack, a natural sportsman and athlete, a man of lavish gifts on both the club and international scene. By the time his commanding genius had begun to fade there was another conveyor belt of West Indian talent ready to take over from Sobers. There was Clive Lloyd, known as the Panther, a lithe, long striding, tall, powerful figure who would be appointed as captain of the West Indies. There was Alvin Kalicharran, Rohan Kanhai, Gordon Greenidge, the remarkably incomparable Sir Viv Richards, the bowling  artillery of Malcolm Marshall, Andy Roberts, Joel Garner and Michael Holding. 

But Sobers will always be remembered for one unforgettable Sunday afternoon towards the end of the 1960s. The John Player League was like a soothing, gentle meandering stream or brook gurgling through the heart of England's cricketing soul. It was made up of all the counties within the County Championship, starting at lunchtime with perhaps a Ploughmans Lunch with a pint followed by tea and sandwiches in the pavilion. 

In the eyes of cricketing purists it was more or less an extension of the County Championship infrastructure, a frivolous distraction for those who believed it didn't really matter in the bigger picture. But on one sunlit afternoon over the August Bank Holiday weekend in Swansea, Sobers presided over his kingdom. Walking out once again for Nottinghamshire against Glamorgan, the legendary West Indian came bounding out to bat with that distinctive air of majestic imperialism. The home crowd must have known there was something special in the air but they had no idea they were about to witness history in the making. 

On came Glamorgan leg spinner Malcolm Nash, a bowler of spirit, infinite cunning and splendid skullduggery up his sleeve. The first ball delivered by Nash was of the usual variety; slow, deceitful, but full of waspish intent. It was both straightforward and perfectly normal but Sobers had other ideas. Spotting the opportunity to make hay in the sun and add his name to the illustrious history books, Sobers launched a lofted hook that hit the highest altitude. He heaved his shoulders at the ball, swung his bat for all its worth and sent the ball soaring into outer space. The ball sailed high over the local chapel roofs and for the first six of five more sixes. 

Nash then, rolled down towards the crease with another dolly of a ball, all wristy unpredictability and no less well intentioned and honourable. Now Sobers danced down the wicket as if in the local ballroom, spinning crystal ball on the ceiling. This time, Sobers sent the ball flying with yet another shot of imperious disdain. His arms now met the ball in perfect unison with the general trajectory of the ball, the bat smashing the red ball high over the Welsh valleys towards some distant cathedral with stained glass windows that may well have been cracked such was the ferocity of Sobers second six. 

Sobers next series of sixes were spiced with controversy. After one ball from Nash, Sobers just swotting the ball dismissively high over third man, spotted a Nottinghamshire fielder stationed on the boundary ropes and ready to catch the West Indian's latest missile. And so third man leapt high into the air, jumping heroically before thrusting out a hand and attempting manfully to catch the ball. This he did but hadn't done enough to grasp the ball inside the ropes and took the catch illegally. It was another six. 

The final ball of the Nash over was fraught with fun and danger, risk but carefully calculated strategy. Once again Sobers just let go, hooking joyfully and sending the wildest bludgeoning hit that once again cleared all the rose bushes, hawthorn and dahlias of a local residents garden. This was the final ball of an over and this time the ball headed towards the high street in Swansea. The BBC TV cameras, who were privileged enough to be at the match that day, showed the full extent of what had happened. 

Suddenly, the ball was seen dipping over the gabled roofs of terraced houses and then travelling higher and higher towards a set of traffic lights. The story goes that a red ball hit one of the corporation buses casually humming down a road, bounced on the top of the roof of the bus before gently dropping like a stone next to, quite possibly, a fishmongers shop or a busy bakery selling well sealed loaves of Mothers Pride bread. 

For Gary Sobers the epic accomplishments of scoring 365 against Pakistan in 1958 were constantly replenished with yet greater feats of batting. Sobers was bold, uninhibited, buccaneering, swashbuckling, fearless, full of raw savagery and lethal aggression. There was something almost warlike and blissfully belligerent about Sobers cricket, a wanton disregard of convention, a player who quite literally threw the kitchen sink at every ball bowled at him. 

But then tragedy overshadowed his private life. Driving back from a match with a close friend one evening, Sobers car crashed fatally and his passenger was instantly killed. Never really recovering from this harrowing trauma, Sobers continued to pile up the runs and taking the catches but was deeply traumatised and became an alcoholic for a while. He did turn out for both Nottinghamshire and the West Indies but was not the same man. 

After a glittering career at the very pinnacle of cricket's Olympian heights, Sobers moved into his well earned ambassadorial role, frequently gracing the charity dinners and awards ceremonies that a vast majority knew he'd thoroughly deserved. Sobers was very much the embodiment of West Indian cricket, both revered and honoured by every club secretary, chairman and woman, former player and cricketing dignitary around the world of cricket. 

It might have been thought that Sobers, on careful reflection and with a wistful nod to a nostalgic past, might have considered fellow Nottinghamshire players such as New Zealand fast bowling legend Richard Hadlee or the delightful Derek Randall, a man who loped across the ground from cover with legs that went on forever. 

And Trent Bridge will always fondly recall the great Harold Larwood, the man who had created havoc with his destructively dangerous bowling for England on that infamous Bodyline Tour of the 1930s. But Sir Garfield Sobers will never be forgotten because his cricket spanned the whole emotional gamut. Sobers had everything including that suave air of debonair distinction. We may never see his like again, a gentleman to his fingertips.   

England beaten in another World Cup semi final heartbreak against Argentina.

 England beaten in another World Cup semi final heartbreak against Argentina.

You'd have thought England had completely forgotten about that dramatic World Cup quarter final in 1986. Then a stocky, barrel chested genius who went by the name of Diego Maradona committed the ultimate sin, cheating and bending the rules quite flagrantly before brazenly admitting to punching the ball into the net above Peter Shilton who immediately mistook Maradona for a criminal. Then Maradona just scored one of the most stunning goals of all time to take the game away from Sir Bobby Robson's England with a mazy solo individual run that took both Peter Reid, Terry Butcher and Terry Fenwick on a mesmerising bossa nova dance. 

The sad reality is of course that England were just not good enough on the night and not for the first time. One day England will get their angles and geometry absolutely right and perhaps some easy lessons in geography. For last night England lost their set square, their compass, their sense of direction and purpose while seemingly losing their orienteering equipment such as the good, old fashioned map. It all looked wine and roses for Thomas Tuchel's England until somebody told them to go left rather than right. 

For much of their ultimately humiliating exit from the World Cup of 2026 against their rivals and nemesis Argentina, England were just replicating their admittedly heroic and valiant World Cup semi final defeat to Croatia in the World Cup of 2018. That night it could be said that Gareth Southgate must have drunk one or too many bottles of Russian vodka because England were rather less than sober, a state of inebriation that even now leaves far too many disturbing memories behind it.

England, as was the case last night, were leading for a vast majority of the game only to fall by the wayside to Luka Modric's orchestral promptings. But with 20 minutes to go, England's hitherto attacking and positive approach to the match fell apart at the seams like an old sofa that had once graced a 1950s dining room. After hovering around the navy shirts of the South Americans for ages, England failed miserably to stop the game from degenerating into its 1966 incarnation of violent thuggery and Antonio Rattin throwing his toys out of the pram.

It was all very painful and purgatorial, an England now reduced to a panting, puffing, exhausted rabble of Premier League players masquerading as supposedly world class players. Before we knew it, England were flagging on the ropes and gasping for oxygen in the gorgeous heat of Atlanta. You knew this would happen and somehow it was a self fulfilling prophecy. England wilted like typical English summer sun flowers and there was nobody there to revive them with the standard watering can. 

Once again England found themselves on the morning after the night before, clinging onto feeble consolations, bombarded with vicious, vitriolic accusations, raging recriminations, incessant inquests, agonised analysis and savaged with yet more cutting criticisms. England are once again punch drunk, architects of their downfall, authors of a destiny that had a familiar narrative and baffled as to where exactly things might have gone wrong. 

Four years ago, the navy waistcoated Gareth Southgate brought respectability and a genuine identity to an England side who were still searching for theirs. Southgate had pioneered something different and original about an England who must have thought they'd never be able to find any sense of belonging and acceptance on the world stage. But then came France in World Cup quarter final in 2022 and perhaps we should have given England the benefit of the doubt. Besides, the French had a technical virtuosity about them that England could never really hope to match although they did give it a try.

When Southgate left his post as England boss they started doing dramatic stage and TV adaptations about him and it all felt rather moving and poignant. Then the former Chelsea boss Thomas Tuchel was appointed as Southgate's successor. Tuchel loved getting all animated, waving hands and fingers about him like some irate English farmer whose cows and sheep were refusing to co-operate. Last night Tuchel was gesticulating with the best of them, incandescent with anger and boiling over with righteous indignation. 

For a while, Tuchel seemed to be getting one part of the equation right but then got all his sums, percentages, logistics, tactics and plans in a massive tangle. The first half of last night's game was rather like a Hollywood gangster movie from the 1920s, all shooting guns, screaming police cars and heinous villains who bore a remarkable resemblance to James Cagney or Edward G,. Robinson. There were petty fouls, nasty kicks, shoving matches and poor Elliott Anderson must have felt like some boxing cruiserweight, permanently bullied and toppled to the ground before glaring back at his adversary like a child looking for some semblance of justice. 

Then the whole of England team were drawn into a scuffling melee of shirts, surrounding their opponents, pushing and then squaring up to each other. You were reminded of the provocation that Nobby Stiles had endured against Argentina in 1966 before Stiles took the law into his own hands. Nobody messed with Nobby and Argentina knew it. Then things quietened down considerably before the West Ham dynamic duo of Sir Martin Peters and Sir Geoff Hurst collaborated perfectly for England's winning goal against Argentina in the 1966 World Cup quarter final. Hurst's glancing header from Peters beautifully weighted cross gave the game its most dramatic perspective. 

For much of last night John Stones, Marc Guehi, the superb Djed Spence always hunting with intent, Declan Rice slightly hampered with injury and Reece James were shutting out Argentina with a lock and key that was made with tempered steel. Suddenly, the sumptuous beauty of Lionel Messi was now disfigured by a no nonsense English defence. At 39, Messi should be drawing his football pension but with minutes to go, Messi got all stylish and magisterial. His playmaking days are still not done.

With Elliott Anderson scurrying around in space and carving out gaping holes in Argentina's still measured and treasured passing game, England began to find their feet. The introduction of Morgan Rogers once again recharged, revitalised and rejuvenated Thomas Tuchel's steady attacking formation. Jude Bellingham shouldered arms and drove forward, running powerfully at the South Americans and always unsettling Argentina with menace and majesty. And then, finally England, after an impressive burst of sustained pressure, moved together in unison. Another breakout from defence settled in the middle of the pitch where the white shirts went headlong. 

Rogers went headlong into attack from a long diagonal overload, a raking, immaculate ball which eventually ended up with a gloriously floated cross. The ball landed up at Barcelona's new acquisition Anthony Gordon who slid in at the far post to steer the ball accurately past Emiliano Martinez in the Argentina goal. It was a goal that stung the palms of every Argentinian player on the pitch. From that point onwards, the current world champions played as if their supremacy had been rudely undermined.

The hydration break did nothing for England apart from ruining their own concentration. For the final 20 minutes or so, England just disappeared from the game in a puff of smoke. With increasing frequency their football now looked withdrawn, ragged, haggard, gaunt, a side now hiding behind a bunker of their own making. England were sitting so deep in their own defensive rut that had they retreated any further back they'd have probably ended up in Detroit with nothing to comfort them but a radio station playing Motown. 

So it was that Enzo Fernandez, Cristian Romero, Nicolas Tagliafaco, the extraordinary talent of Alex MacAlister, and the always consistently outstanding Julian Alvarez began to get into English faces. Their football re-discovered its old tempo and rhythm. Argentina were spraying the ball around the pitch like a team who had studied all of those sweet passing aesthetics from long ago. They rolled the ball around between themselves delicately and utterly effortlessly as if born to the role. The equaliser was inevitable. 

After a corner on the right, the South Americans shuttled the ball swiftly across the face of England's now besieged penalty area. The ball was laid square to the exemplary Enzo Fernandez. Fernandez found himself in splendid isolation before clubbing a fizzing thunderbolt that exploded past Jordan Pickford in the England goal. England were reduced to clutching at the proverbial straws, losing their way rapidly, back pedalling and just handing the ball back to their opponents like a game of Pass the Parcel. This time England just kept unwrapping one piece of paper after another only to find yet more frustration.

Then England bought on Newcastle's Dan Burn and you wondered at the crazy illogicality of adding another 30 plus defender who looked as if  he'd just been invited to an old primary school reunion. Then just to rub salt into the wound former Brentford striker Ivan Toney came on as a sub and he may just as well have been like some ghost in a haunted castle. Toney has been plying his trade in Saudi Arabia and Toney looked more like Peter O' Toole in Lawrence of Arabia. 

With the game seemingly heading for extra time, Argentina must have known that England were down, wounded and beleaguered. They were now under the cosh from swarthy faced Latin film star looks. Messi, still the most profound influence at 39, took the ball under his wing, picked up a head of steam gracefully on the right before lifting a delicious cross towards Lisandro Martinez charging in at the far post to head home joyfully to secure another Argentina place in their second consecutive World Cup Final. 

And then there was the horrific sight at the end of this tempestuous often ill tempered match. A line of boastful Argentina players unfolded political reminders of Los Malvinas and the Falklands War. Their banner was both tactless and a diplomatic disaster. But England have now been relegated to the role of has beens and a ludicrous bronze runners up match with France on Saturday.

 Sir Alf Ramsey would certainly have had something to say about these Argentinian mavericks and rebels but England are back in the land of emptiness and rejection once again. That 60 year plus hiatus will now just feel like some ancient triumph on the muddiest of battlefields. Still, at least they have their memories, admittedly blurred by time, but still just about recognisable. At the moment, they will just have to be enough. 

England beat Norway in the World Cup quarter final

 England beat Norway in the World Cup quarter final.

It was always likely to be one of those historic nights. We felt it, sensed it and privately dreaded it. England had done it again. They'd conquered the odds, shaken off the shackles of an often cumbersome history, adopted their latest siege mentality, struggled almost incessantly and then recovered sufficiently to reach only their second World Cup semi final against Argentina next Wednesday in the last 10 years. 

But, firstly, there was the small matter of sweet revenge, the loveliest retribution of all time and the now ancient footage of that hysterical rant of a misguided Norwegian TV commentator. It was a World Cup qualifier in 1981 and the now former West Ham manager Ron Greenwood had just got his feet under the table as England boss. It had been both a transitional period and a time for sober reflection after Don Revie had upped sticks to the deserts of Saudi Arabia, finding himself both alienated and demonised by both the FA and England's hitherto loyal fans. But then Greenwood arrived and all was well. 

Kevin Keegan, Trevor Brooking, Trevor Francis, Tony Woodcock, a very young Bryan Robson, the late and much missed Paul Mariner were primed and ready for success. Then there was a coltish, beautifully polished midfielder named Ray Wilkins who would be at the height of an illustrious career with both Chelsea and then Manchester United and the rest of the England team suddenly hit their straps. Phil Thompson was a leggy, but imposing central defender who had already won the European Cup twice for Liverpool a couple of years before. 

But on a forgettable night in deepest Oslo, England were humiliated by a team of  unheralded, almost amateurish international footballers, footballing novices wet behind the ears. Norway, unlike today's far more technically endowed generation, were expected to crumble and capitulate to an England side who had been playing the game since the days of the Wanderers, Royal Engineers, Old Carthusians and even Oxford University. These were footballing giants well before the age of twentieth century modernity and the turbo charged dynamism of today. 

That night, one Norwegian commentator took the law into his own hands. Before you knew it, the man behind the microphone was boasting, blustering, grandstanding and bubbling over with joy. This was followed by another bombardment of gloating, shameless self aggrandisement, convincing himself no doubt that he was the greatest thing since sliced bread before reeling off a whole list of English icons. Before you could refer to your own history books and a sizable encyclopaedia, here they came. 

There was Lord Nelson, Britain's greatest Admiral of the Fleet, a mighty presence on land and at sea, doughty, defiant and battle hardened. Now our social Norwegian commentator would wax lyrical and eulogise about that political titan and former English Prime Minister Anthony Eden, a distinguished almost aristocratic man who got into hot water over a number of important foreign policy issues. The names kept rolling off our Norwegian TV commentator like torrents of molten lava from an erupting volcano. 

Lord Beaverbrook had a powerful stranglehold over both politics and the newspaper industry. Beaverbrook was highly respected but often despised for being too outspoken, an often aloof, crusty reactionary who thought he knew everything. Once again our Norwegian commentator launched into a mocking tirade about Beaverbrook, his voice now so high pitched that he could probably have broken the sound barrier.

Margaret Thatcher, who had been in office as Prime Minister for only two years, reduced this Nordic voice of authority to a figure of fun. The name of Thatcher had now been screamed so loudly and furiously that even Mrs Thatcher would probably have seen the funny side of it. And then there was the late and much loved Princess Diana who had done nothing wrong at all apart from being English royalty. And sadly, tragically that story would have the worst of all endings. But Norway had shot down in flames every conceivable English public figure of fame and renown. 

And yet last night England's always lively and unpredictable team were up to their usual tricks, often stretching the patience of anything that moved in an English shirt. This was not a comfortable watch but then, that may have always been the case anyway. We are indeed talking about England and that is a huge documentary of the good, bad and ugly over recent decades. But when the final whistle went at one'o clock in the morning to signify another last gasp winning goal, most of us were gibbering wrecks.

England could not have been closer to leaving this year World Cup when suddenly there was a rumbling thunderclap, a momentous shift in fortune, when, as had been the case so often in the past, there had been nothing but misfortune and then a red faced exit from another major World Cup at the wrong stage. Last night it eventually turned out right on the night but not before our emotions had been suspended for a while. 

For much of this epic encounter against Norway, England were trying to manoeuvre the bishop behind a row of pawns, before sweeping them aside. Then the castle and knight were desperately trying to get out of each other's way before the king and queen were just toppled over quite unceremoniously. This chess match was boiling over with the most complex strategy and a real sense of mystical intrigue. True, England looked as they were controlling large parts of the game but there were other parts of the game where sloppiness and ineptitude might have got the better of them.

There were lengthy periods throughout the game when the electric cables had been cruelly removed from England's barely mobile team. Sometimes it looked as if the white shirts had called together their trade union to form en masse before ordering their side to go on strike, a show of militancy that Brian Clough might have found attractive had he been given the England job. 

Here was an English team in their most garish beach shirts, fashionable shorts and flip flops. Occasionally there was some kind of life and animation but that could have been a figment of the imagination. And so it was the Miami heat began to take its toll on both England and Norway. England were literally sweating and toiling, lolling around and loping forward painfully, recycling the ball in the revolving door of England's often wooden attack. It was though often lifeless, lethargic and 

By now England were seeing much more of the ball but rarely able to translate their first half superiority into the hard currency of goals. Both Noni Madueke and Anthony Gordon were trapping the ball onto their chests with admirable ball control but their wings were now abruptly clipped. Gordon kept turning the ball back sharply back towards a colleague in the middle of the pitch when perhaps he should have taken full responsibility and run at his defender more powerfully. There was a notable lack of ambition when the remarkable Jude Bellingham embarked on muscular, ferocious and powerful runs but even Bellingham found himself in no man's land at times. 

Meanwhile Marc Guehi seemed to drift off into a hypnotic trance, the result of frequent stepping on the ball on the half way line, dwelling for a minute or two and completely forgetting about his job description. Guehi though was a model of dependability, mopping up at the back with an impeccable timing, his positional sense perfect, his mobility on the ball so gratifying to watch.  

England were now though moving at the average speed of a tortoise, trotting and jogging uncertainly and tentatively with no intention of taking the lead at any point. Declan Rice looked as though he just wanted a lengthy consultation with a medic or somebody in the injury treatment room. His corners were finding the idyllic palm trees of Miami rather than the heart of the penalty area. Yesterday, for all his heroic stoicism and gritty defiance, this was not his day in the sun. 

Rice was patently unfit and as such, should have been left out of yesterday's game against Norway. We know how much more confident England are when Rice is in the side, rather like an impenetrable shield, striding out of the back like a long distance Olympic athlete, always in charge and never flustered. There are times when we may well take Rice for granted but he's invariably here, there and everywhere, never disappointing, his self assurance his modus operandi.

Elliot Anderson carved out a reliable and conscientious figure in England's now flagging attack, easing the ball away away from England's defence with a cleverness and feel for the ball that often goes unnoticed.  At the back Ezri Konsa and then a clumsy John Stones were almost caught red handed at the back, dribbling the ball accidentally across their own penalty area and giving the ball to a red Norwegian shirt when surely the easier, more practical option would have been a rapid counter attack. 

A couple of minutes later England, now struggling for any semblance of rhythm or direction, were fatally undone by a Norway side who had barely broken into sweat. The ball was switched into acres of space near the England penalty area. Andres Schjeldrup, a baby faced winger full of guile and get up and go, received the ball on the far side of England's wide open defence, turned his opponent inside out before what looked to be a lobbed cross that swung over Jordan Pickford and into the net. 

And then just before half time England found salvation and redemption. When the game seemed to be passing  before them, Anthony Gordon, so quick witted, eager and perceptive, started racing forward into attack. Then Gordon sent a peach of a ball inside to the irrepressible Jude Bellingham. Bellingham, now reading Gordon like a good book, intelligently anticipated Gordon's pass. The Real Madrid playmaker ran onto the ball and drove the ball handsomely wide of the Norwegian goalkeeper. 

The equaliser was just the tonic and medicine England required. Then, during the second half with both teams locked in a tug of war attrition, the game had now become rendered pointless. Penalties were rejected, Norway hit the bar and almost discovered the winning goal while England just spent an eternity, huffing, puffing, almost drained of colour, then demoralised because the ball just wouldn't find the net. 

And finally England explored yet more territory inside the Norwegian half. Extra time had loomed and then commenced with the inevitable scramble for that golden nugget of a World Cup quarter final winning goal. Once again England surged forward gallantly into attack for that last chance saloon of a winner. When Aston Villa's attacking midfielder Morgan Rogers came on for England in a flurry of other substitutes, England grew stronger and stronger. The fresh set of legs had completely switched the tempo of the game and there was instant momentum.

Minutes into the second half of extra time, Rogers, bounding forward like a gazelle on the prairie, found himself just outside the penalty area for England. Rogers, spotting his shooting opportunity where others had failed to do so, lifted his leg back and fired the most pulverising shot like a bullet from a gun. The Norway keeper Orjan Nyland fumbled the ball and Bellingham swooped like an eagle from high, caressing the ball into the Norway net.

And so for all the sweaty exertions of the always imaginative Martin Odegaard and Sande Berge, Norway could never quite get a hold on the game properly. They too had chosen the patient passing approach, carefully opening England up like a tin of garden peas. But the ball had travelled so mechanically that at times you might have thought that their wires had got tangled up and the game had gone way beyond their reach. 

So England reach only their second World Cup semi final in over eight years. Russia 2018, now seems like a glowing amber sunset when Croatia seemed to steal everything from Gareth Southgate's England. It was daylight robbery of the most heinous kind. But for 2026 read 1966 when Antonio Rattin had that celebrated rush of the blood to the head and Argentina were knocked out by Sir Alf Ramsey's hugely charismatic warriors in the World Cup quarter final. Maybe just maybe there are omens and miracles that might just prove to be the undoing of Lionel Messi and Argentina in this World Cup semi final on Wednesday evening. We'll see.