Oscar Wilde's 172nd birthday today

 Oscar Wilde's 172nd birthday today.

So today would have marked a very significant birthday in classical literary circles. For today Oscar Wilde would have been celebrating his 172nd birthday and he may well have seen the funny side of any recognition of his prodigious talents. The life and times of Wilde have been heavily documented and, to those who may have thought him so cruelly misunderstood as an author, this may not be the time to dwell on his private life, the life of a tortured soul who never really came to terms with his homosexuality. 

Born in the poetic city of Dublin, Wilde rapidly raided the local libraries for more and more information about not only his background and family ancestry but the joys of Victorian literature and purple prose. There is still a vast cross section of the literary community who hold Wilde in such high esteem that it does seem a crying shame that Wilde was hounded, ridiculed and lampooned for some of his more outrageous antics. 

Of course Wilde was a gifted poet, playwright, short story writer and the most brazen of all exhibitionists. Wilde loved to be in the esteemed company of his literary contemporaries, showing off his extraordinary talent for writing and a penchant for the unusual, unconventional and unorthodox. He could never be remotely considered as dull for Wilde played to the gallery, drinking, carousing and cavorting the night away, a bon viveur, elegant raconteur, vivid and vivacious story teller, boisterous host at wild parties and then scandalising the world around him with even greater acts of excess and debauchery. 

And yet Oscar Wilde will sadly be remembered for all the wrong reasons. He was vilified and stigmatised as both gay, a dandy, a rebellious law breaker, and a convict who did time in a prison he might have thought to be the lowest point in his life. Society and most of the national newspapers were so terrifyingly unforgiving that perhaps Wilde had every right to feel both persecuted and victimised by those who simply had no time for him.

In the Ballad of Reading Gaol, Wilde describes all of that pain and suffering, the sense of being an outsider, a pariah, a parvenu, somebody who never really felt loved and respected by his reading public. Of course Wilde was a genius, a writer of outstanding gifts and there was an inherent belief that the written word was both true and honest and that a command of language and grammar had to be admired. Which indeed it was.

But it was the Picture of Dorian Gray that launched him to the highest plateau of literary excellence, a masterwork of purity and tenderness, possibly autobiographical but nonetheless aesthetically pleasing. Here Wilde gazed into the mirror of his soul and saw nothing but confusion and a loss of identity. Of course Wilde saw the younger image of himself and, quite positively loathed what had become of him in the present day. 

Some of us would loved to have been a fly on the wall in those august literary salons from the late Victorian period when gossip was both fruity and malicious. What did Wilde think of William Yeats or George Bernard Shaw, fellow Irishmen who could spin a yarn with consummate ease? Did he really think that only the Irish could write sweet and honeyed verse and stanza, only the Irish had the wit, humour, badinage and bonhomie to charm the socks off everybody they met? Wilde was somehow the poster boy, the respectable role model whose gift for phraseology was matchless. 

In years to come we'll look back on today and remain awe struck at both the ornateness and simplicity of Oscar Wilde's writing. We may care not to recall his lewd excesses, the Bosie and Marquis of Queensbury shock, horror story but most of us can really appreciate the flamboyance of his personality because the rest of his literary masters were also burning the candle at both ends. They didn't give a damn, not two hoots about the consequences of their own actions because they were having far too much of a good time to care for a second.

We acknowledge the profundity of De Profundis because it was thought provoking and philosophical. Wilde's vast repertoire of plays and comedies are legendary. The Importance of Being Earnest has been shown so many times on the stage that some can almost memorise every line without thinking. The Importance of Being Earnest was essentially, Wilde's masterpiece, a phenomenal work of satire and mockery, an amusing attack on the landed gentry and the social mores of the time. 

Then there was Lady Windermere's Fan and a Woman of No Importance, a clever observation of late 19 the century manners and morals.  The dichotomy drawn by the wealthy bourgeoisie and the so called common peasants who lived below stairs was something only Oscar Wilde would have made with such impressive force. 

So Oscar Wilde would have been 172 today. To be honest you wouldn't dream of being a considered authority on the subject about everything to do with Wilde. You know that the comedian and hugely intellectually brilliant Stephen Fry once took the role of Oscar Wilde on the cinema silver screen. You also know that Wilde, on his death bed, took one look at the wallpaper and snootily disapproved, allegedly saying that he neither liked the design of the said wallpaper and wished it would be removed as soon as possible.

 But the man with the neat cravat, shirt and moody, velvet jacket with what looked like a carnation, lives on in the hearts of his huge appreciation society. Happy Birthday Oscar. Put up your feet in the Garrick Gentleman's club, sip a fragrant brandy in his hand, light a cigar if the fancy takes you and read the Financial Times because those oil companies are bound to be up to no good. What on earth would he have made of  Mrs Brown's Boys or the BBC for that matter? Personally something quite objectionable and offensive. But then whoever listened to Oscar Wilde. You apologise for the Mrs Brown's Boys comment but surely you can take a joke. Besides Mrs Brown's Boys has a lovely Irish theme and Wilde adored the Irish. 

National Dessert Day.

 National Dessert Day. 

You've been longing for this day. It's been one of those days you've been looking forward to for ages. In fact it's mouth watering, immensely pleasurable and palatable. Your taste buds have been waiting for this day. So here we are Ladies and Gentlemen. It's a day of glorious culinary satisfaction, the pinnacle of pinnacles. It won't get any better because we do love this indulgence. It's our guilty pleasure and we make no secret of the fact. 

So today is National Dessert Day. Oh yes it is. It could hardly be anything else. It's a day of gorging on gorgeous puddings, the kind of sweet confections that you might have thought some of us had completely forgotten about. It followed  a well balanced meal full of proteins, heavy cholesterol and loads of naughty calories that we shouldn't really eat but know will make us feel good about ourselves. We'll pile on the pounds and stones and the bathroom scales will reveal the embarrassing truth.

School days were your reference point on this subject. After a huge lunch which was admittedly delicious,  you were now faced with the wondrous temptation. Do you devour a spotty dick, a currant based pudding that still remind you of what it was like to be a kid. Then that same spotty dick would be submerged by gallons of custard and you were transported to the land of pleasure. Little did you know it then but you were subconsciously adding several tyres of fat to your waistline and you were carrying too much timber.  And then there was the richly celebrated jam roly poly. What a stunning idea. 

We all love to eat desserts whether it be a tasty chocolate cake in a plush five star restaurant, that famous Black Forest Gateau so synonymous with the 1970s or something that may remind you of those fabled school dinners. What on earth was semolina about or rice pudding ? What possessed the great nutritionists or food scientists of the time to assume that either of those desserts would leave you smiling and exhilarated. 

And yet all those years later desserts of every kind and variety are still regarded with all of those contradictory emotions that some of us are scratching our heads over. On any given day, all desserts and puddings are fabulous and too good to be true. And yet all desserts should be banned and forbidden now because all of that sugar can only lead to the road to ruination. We are still reaching the same conclusions but, in essence, desserts give a boost to those whose spirits may well have been dampened by a sad or unfortunate event in your lives, the answer being widely known as comfort food.  

But whether you're out with friends and family in the local Toby Carvery, pub, hotel, guest house, restaurant, or a seaside cafe next to the amusement arcades, desserts are far too tempting. Could somebody pass the menu because that apple pie or coffee cake with nuts has to be consumed immediately? We all love desserts, the bigger the better, vast quantities of dessert or pudding. Somewhere though in our minds lurks the lingering fear and suspicion. Is it good for us or not. And yet none of us care because we vow not to have another one since our stomachs will slowly expand and you'll pay the penalty for it later. 

Back in the old days, sweet trolleys in restaurants would glide around the aisles of soft carpet which were like chariots of glorious cakes that even Marie Antionette would have approved of. There was baked alaska, huge slabs of marzipan, magical meringues with oceans of cream, strawberry cheesecakes and then the desserts so evocative of childhood and perhaps adolescence. You really shouldn't be devouring them with relish but you do because you love them and can't really get enough of them.

As a kid your lovely and late mum and dad would take you that famous food and drink restaurant known as Lyons Corner House in Marble Arch, London's glittering West End. At the time it must have felt as if you were going to tea with the Royal Family. The Lyons Corner House was a magnificent and swanky, five star restaurant with all bells and whistles. You didn't need a special appointment to be there and your opportunity to enjoy the whole eating experience just seemed far too good to resist. 

As soon as you walked into the Lyons Corner House, the sounds could almost be heard at nearby Oxford Circus. There was laughter in abundance, steam pouring from the kitchen, voices bellowing  and often melodious. Then there were the pots and pans, crockery and cutlery rattling, clattering, echoing before another set of spoons were accidentally sent crashing to the ground. But that kitchen was like a paradise of  foodie surprises, gastronomic feasts which were lovingly prepared and then delivered to your table. 

You were told that before you were born, the Lyons Corner House would play host to gentle orchestral music, small groups of musicians who entertained their diners with piano keys rippling across the dining room with both delicacy and decorum. It was another age of course, of fine wines, waiters and waitresses pouring out Beaujolais wine that had been matured in a French vineyard for ages. There was champagne if you could afford it but we did for both birthdays or anniversaries because that seemed appropriate and quite elegant. 

Then you remembered your late and lovely mum whose speciality was either a profiterole or rum baba oozing the most beautiful aroma. To this day people still eat profiteroles because it used to swim in a river of cream, pastry and chocolate with perhaps a couple of raspberries for good measure. It didn't really occur to you why your mum was so deeply enamoured of both these desserts. It was always her preferred choice of sweetness and none could possibly argue the point. Mum was always right and indeed she was. 

Then there was your favourite dessert at Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. Ultimately, it became an established favourite because it was just divine and sent wonderful messages down to your digestive system. It was honey cake. Now honey cake was first sampled at school dinners. The irony was though that you counted yourself quite privileged if you were on the right table to get double helpings of honey cake. Invariably this was never the case so you would sigh with despair and just grumble away in deep frustration.

Now honey cake at Rosh Hashanah was just the most exquisite of all desserts because by the time Yom Kippur and the Fast had finished you knew what to expect. Having gone without food or drink for 25 hours, honey cake was the perfect medicine, the best antidote to stress or hunger pangs. You would come rushing out of your synagogue and there they were, plates of honey cake which would send a surge of relief and electricity through your body. 

And finally there is sticky toffee pudding with chocolate custard or rhubarb and custard, anything that sings on your mouth as soon as you take a spoonful. What about fruit cake, Dundee cake, birthday cakes, chocolate eclairs, or your barmitzvah cake which if memory serves me correctly, was full of icing and ornate designs around the bottom tier of the cake? This cake towered majestically over everybody and you can remember some of the cake being donated to charity, so enormous was it. There were four or five tiers of cake and nobody was ever going to eat all of that in one sitting. 

So there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. Have a wonderful National Dessert Day. Just embrace the day as if it were one of those chocolate fountains at parties or barmitzvahs. Desserts are, quite literally, the icing on the cake, something we like to finish off our main meal with because it would be terrible not to and you'd never forgive yourselves if you didn't. You'll regret it and know it.  So go on treat yourself. Desserts are meant to be savoured,  salivated over, digested carefully before that first crunch of biscuit in the cake. Oh what a taste sensation. Have that last fondant or tiramisu or even that ice cream sundae with hundreds and thousands and don't forget to order the trifle. Life is indeed sweet.        

Manchester City- the ultimate basket case.

 Manchester City- the ultimate basket case.

There are times when football really does need to take a long, hard look at its moral conscience. The recent events at Manchester City are  a stark illustration of what happens when you forget who you are. City have always had a clear identity but then the lines become blurred. You conduct your business as sensibly as you can but then find that something went missing. There were the glaring discrepancies in the accounts, not everything seemed to add up and suddenly the auditors and creditors begin to sweat anxiously. 

For the last two years or even more, Manchester City have become the ultimate basket case, a team tormented by evil spirits. After notching up four consecutive Premier League titles with football from seventh heaven, City stand exposed, disgraced, discredited, rumbled and, above all ashamed of themselves. But this was never the way it was intended and the lesson to be learnt is a salutary one. City of course, have done something wrong and the accusations of cheating, deceit and financial skulduggery look as if they may stick for a long time to come. 

The charge sheets that now seem to be haunting City are innumerable and complex. There were dodgy transfer deals and sponsorship agreements that might have been above board at the time but now look like criminal documents. You can almost see both players, management, coaches and psychologists being interrogated everybody in a police cell with a light bulb hanging ominously from the ceiling. If they didn't know it at the time, they do know now. City have become notorious swindlers, being economical with the truth and, above all, dishonest. 

Now the 100 plus charges that are stacking up against them may be a case of what goes around comes around. All football clubs have been forewarned that if they refuse to keep the game within respectable boundaries, then their sentence could become both nasty, ugly and deeply damaging to the club for many years. In the modern game, the head spinning and phenomenal sums spent on multi million pound players, just beggars belief. The Greed is Good League, a now very apt description for City's behaviour, has consumed the Beautiful Game, poisoning its soul and creating havoc with the club's financial infrastructure. Brian Glanville remains one of the most perceptive of social commentators and we have much to thank him for. 

But now things have got out of control and are spiralling downwards quite dramatically. When Pep Guardiola took over at City, the club had already claimed its first Premier League title since 1969 when the old First Division swapped shillings, tanners, old sixpences and fivers the size of a small country. Then the likes of Malcolm Allison embraced all the wealthy trappings of the time by smoking massive cigars and drinking champagne as if it were going out of fashion. Now though the metaphorical guillotine is about to fall on the Etihad Stadium.

This though has never a pleasant watch for all concerned. From the moment Saudi owners arrived in Manchester, there has indeed been a radical transformation. Sergio Aguero was the man responsible for that last gasp victory against QPR and everything changed overnight. Manuel Pellegrini was appointed as the Messiah and happy days would develop into even more prosperous seasons to follow. City now became an all conquering, unbeatable, unsurpassable goal scoring machine. The Premier League was won for the first time since 1969 and City supporters could hardly believe their luck. 

Up until recent seasons City had cruised to the Premier League title almost effortlessly and nonchalantly  and for the next four seasons, Guardiola's daring matadors won four successive Premier League titles. It really didn't occur to anybody that there was anything wrong, that, behind the scenes, large amounts of cash were ending up in the hands of dubious characters. Of course somebody should have rung the alarm bells, that there was something awry, crooked and unsavoury in the air and nobody should be allowed to get away with this one.  

So what to make of this unholy mess for football. In theory perhaps football should be hanging its head in shame, contemplating its navel and wishing a hole could open up for them. This is bad as it gets for any football club. There has always been an air of toxicity and corruption within football but now any punishment City may get for their foul misdemeanours could be unheard of. Even Pep Guardiola must be relieved that he's well out of this psychodrama, this potential football catastrophe.

You looked back to the days when the smartly suited and booted Peter Swales always came out with reassuring comments about City's accounts. Swales was a highly respected accountant who always added things up correctly and even Malcolm Allison must have felt safe in his job as manager. But now Swales would have been horrified and mortified, desperately looking for excuses and explanations. 

What happens to City in the long term is simply guesswork and even now Manchester United could be heard laughing up their sleeves. The noisy neighbours are of course beside themselves with a warped joy they can hardly hold back any longer. In Manchester United's 1-1 draw against Spurs on Saturday there were the usual satirical jokes, the sadistic banners proudly declaring that City are cheats and supporters who rightly believe their Premier League titles, Carabao Cups and Champions League victories should be withdrawn immediately. Cheats of course should never prosper and City now look like armed robbers who may have stolen from too many banks.

Yesterday City thrashed their oldest adversaries Liverpool at Anfield with a handsome 3-0 victory. At the moment City top the Premier League but you do wonder whether what will happen if City do win back their Premier League title. Does this mean relegation to League Two or will the prize remain in their hands. Commentators, experienced punters and radio phone in judges are now deliberating over the worst case scenario for City.

We now watch all the latest developments at the Etihad Stadium rather like lawyers in a court of law, thoroughly scanning and reading every missing pound and then dithering for a while. This is unprecedented territory for City. How do you penalise a hitherto remarkably successful Premier League club even with all the incriminating evidence in front of you? All of that hard work and apparent due diligence had been done but somebody has to be blamed. This story will run and run. 

Meanwhile City can also look forward to another Champions League adventure. You suspect that the whole of Europe is privately chuckling and chortling at City's unfortunate set of circumstances. The rest of the football world now finds itself in a terrible state of shock and it remains to be seen where City will be next season. Trips to Accrington Stanley, Shrewsbury, Oldham, Crawley Town  and Stevenage must fill City supporters with both terror and trepidation. But it can't happen to Manchester City. Or can it? We will closely monitor all of the latest events because this latest episode in their history has so many Greek tragedy proportions that you really couldn't make this one up.  

Prescot- within cheering distance of Liverpool.

 Prescot- within a cheering distance.

In many ways the town of Prescot would hardly if at all, merit any conversation or discussion in the bigger picture of things. Prescot, of course, as we should all know, is synonymous with electrical cables. It is the electrical hub of not only Prescot and Liverpool but also the rest of the world. Without Prescot you'd probably struggle to make a cup of tea in the morning, switch on the TV, heat up your home and just plug in a whole variety of mechanisms so that your day will work and run both smoothly and efficiently. Prescot never hogs the early evening news, never getting the bouquets of praise it so richly deserves and there is no sense of appreciation for its unsung endeavours. Prescot is just there for you all to admire.

Last week my lovely wife Bev and I travelled up to Prescot and found it to be both charming, welcoming, friendly and delighted to greet anybody who just happens to be passing through. Prescot never gets the headlines, nor the seedy or salacious gossip that would probably have attracted the attention of the old Sunday newspaper the News of the World. They are just polite, civilised and well mannered. Nobody could ask for any more. 

Nobody really wants to be famous or indeed notorious in Prescot because it's a gentle and quiet backwater in Northern England that just sits there and minds its own business. So here's the observation. Prescot is renowned for its electrical cables. On a traffic roundabout there are some of the most striking and artistically pleasing metallic objects that look like giant cotton reels but are not quite cotton reels. It took you a while to realise that these were, in fact, the wires and cables most of us take for granted. Prescot is full of electricity and vital connections with the outside world. 

Now in the general scheme of things, you would never have known Prescot was there. It is full of modesty, humility and a lovely looking community centre. Lest we forget it does, of course, boast its own police station and a wide variety of shops, restaurants and cafes. There's nothing unusual about that but it does serve as a reminder that every town, big city, village and suburban idyll does have its accompanying rural jewel in the crown. Prescot could never be accused of being tedious or mundane. Most certainly this could never be the case. 

But within cheering distance of both Liverpool and Everton football clubs. it does represent the heartbeat of one of Britain's lesser known suburbs. During the week, Prescot was never a hive of activity nor was it jammed solid with tourists from around the world. But, there it was, a small, tightly knit community just getting on with the business at hand. Ordinarily, Prescot makes a tidy profit every day and the sprinkling of butchers in the shopping centre just leave their mouth watering hunks of beef, chicken and lamb hanging in their window, like an invitation to a birthday party. 

On one day though your heart was lifted most noticeably by some memorable revelation. Next to Prescott's shopping mall, an elderly gentleman sat next to the entrance of the building. For a moment you had to stop in sheer wonderment because it was a sight that none of us would have given a second glance to. We'd have been preoccupied with doing our shopping, popping into the shopping mall's charity shops or just browsing the shelves with increasing fascination. 

But here was our old, upright and honourable gentleman. He was just sitting there with his accordion, warmly wrapped in several layers of clothing and wearing  a coat to add extra comfort. The pomp and pageantry of a stunningly warm summer had gone but an autumnal splendour had joined our friend. He sat there cross legged, gently manipulating his squeeze box with a wondrous assurance and dexterity. You couldn't help but notice that the buttons on the accordion were worse for wear. Still, we were there to witness this hugely compelling spectacle and nothing else mattered at all. He was happy and so were we. 

Some of the songs our accordion playing friend sounded ever so slightly familiar, one of which sounded like the soundtrack to an old Western movie from Hollywood's golden age. For a  minute you were convinced that you'd walked into Brussels in Belgium, Amsterdam in the Netherlands or some endearing market town in Switzerland where the day would be dominated by the sound of grand sounding church bells. But this was Prescot near Liverpool in England, a musical haven on that day. Or so it seemed. But this gentleman was determined that nothing should ever get him down. His nimble fingers flickered across the buttons and his only objective was to entertain the passers by.

Meanwhile back in the main shopping centre, there was a strangely comforting silence, a wonderfully spacious grandeur about Prescot that might have gone amiss had you not noticed it. Outside a Wetherspoons restaurant called the Watch Maker, the same men would take up their positions on the bench quietly surveying the scene around them before drinking their first pint of lager of the day. You couldn't help but notice the small array of betting shops near Wetherspoons and the William Hills next to the Watch Maker slowly filling up with contented gamblers who just wanted to win a couple of quid on the horses at York. 

Clearly Northern England is not the stereotype that might have been depicted by the great LS Lowry with his industrial mills and match stalk men, dogs and cats. There are no smoking chimneys or blast furnaces pumping out dirt or repulsive smelling chemicals. There are no young boys trundling their barrows up and down delightful cobblestone roads. Nor are there any whippets whatsoever or flat caps for that matter. But there is Prescot with its reassuring solidity, its air of wonderful permanence and then something else that caught our eyes. 

My wife and I decided to take our beautiful granddaughter to the Shakespeare North theatre. For the last fortnight we've been taking her to one of her baby playgroups. But then we noticed the theatre's association with one of the funniest comedians from way back when. The late and great Sir Ken Dodd had given his whole hearted backing and, quite possibly, financial support for this remarkable building. While walking out of the Shakespeare North theatre you were made aware of just how much it must have meant to Dodd both emotionally and spiritually. 

So there's Prescot. Prescot is straightforward, straight down the line, unpretentious. It is Britain at its most local, regional and comfortable in its skin. There are no private roads where glamorous celebrities live in sumptuous palaces. There are no thick white columns or pillars outside their homes, very few gravelled driveways and no security intercoms situated next to statues of lions guarding the front doors. True, the marvellous Sue Johnson of the BBC's classic sitcom the Royle Family does come from Prescot and she must be enormously proud of her birth place. 

But Prescot is essentially on the outskirts and, just down the road, the legend of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley can be heard reverberating around the Albert Dock. Liverpool were and continue to be the impeccable standard bearers of footballing excellence. Around Prescot there is a large and significant following for the club. The heroes and idols are always uppermost in their minds because they were part of that surging, swaying throng of supporters who tumbled down the Kop and must have thought they were dreaming.

The local team Preston Cables are now playing in the Northern Premier League Division (West). They are second in this League and this afternoon meet Wythenshawe at the Auto Safety Centre Stadium which sounds like the local car mechanics garage but must have a prominent role in Prescot's social standing. A couple of days ago the Pesky Bulls, to give Prescot their affectionate nickname, were beaten by Mossley 3-2 but approach today's game against Wythenshawe with the same kind of confidence they've always shown. 

A couple of seasons ago our wonderful son and his friends took dad to his first Preston Cables match. Considering their humble non League status, the Cables played moderately well that afternoon. But there is still an old school, old fashioned grandeur about Preston Cables. The stands and terraces are still rickety but magnificently sturdy when the mood takes them. On the opposite side of the ground of where we standing there are a huddle of houses with bright, shiny solar panels while in one small and isolated corner, the youngsters were simply being lively and active, jumping around thick clumps of grass and then watching the game again when it looked as if the Cables were about to score. 

Prescot live easily in the lengthening shadows of Liverpool's Anfield and Everton's Hill Dickinson Stadium. They still do a roaring trade in meat pies and one day they too may be able to compete against the likes of Preston, Bolton, Oldham, Burnley, Manchesters United and City and Blackburn Rovers. At the moment, this is just pie in the sky thinking, some daft concept that will never ever come to fruition. So thankyou Prescot. It was a privilege to be among your company.        

   

Vocational GCSEs at school.

 Vocational GCSE's at school. 

School exams, hey? Weren't they the high point of your academic itinerary? Just when it seemed that things could hardly get any more worrying or tougher, suddenly you were confronted with what seemed like the most monumental and trying of all tasks. For some, exams were simply an effortless breeze, the proverbial piece of marzipan cake with perhaps a small spoonful of custard. And yet for others it was the most difficult challenge we'd ever experienced. And now we find ourselves in another world entirely. Well, not quite but almost.

Now opinions may count for nothing in particular but for some of us exams were terrifying, emotionally oppressive, stiflingly nonsensical and just a glorified set of memory tests. Here we were all gathered in a soul-less assembly hall with rows and rows of tables and chairs and nothing but a few random, haphazard, vaguely memorable facts, figures and statistics whirling about our confused young minds.

But then you could be completely wrong because you emerged from your school with no qualifications, wondering why there was this urgent necessity for something that had nothing to do with the outside world. At best they probably give you a basic grounding in the ways of the world and then you're faced by all of those seemingly insurmountable problems you may have to tackle in later life. But do they serve any purpose? That's for you to chew and think about and then another moment of quiet reflection.  

Of course there is a bitterness and bewilderment on your part on reflection. But since when did algorithms, logarithms, calculus, geometry, tenon saws in woodwork and possessing a knowledge of the capital cities of the world have anything to do with being a City trader in high finance or becoming an eminent lawyer in the Highest courts of justice. Not a great deal you would have thought. There are some things that remain beyond your understanding and yet once again the government have come up with some new fangled idea that will blow us away. 

The great educationalists and teachers of the country may be scratching their heads. Yesterday the government announced a brand new set of ideas for the implementation of vocational based GCSE exams. In a sense it sounds like a logical extension of the conventional end of term exams system where the traditional subjects including English, Maths, History, Geography, Art, Chemistry, Physics and Biology are about to be added to with more hands on, practical tests. It is a welcome development but you do wonder whether the equally as taxing apprenticeships that used to follow your first five years of education, will now be either phased out, dumped in the rubbish bin of academic studies or just replaced with more of the same. 

The fact is that the proposed vocational GSCE's will be rolled out for public consumption very soon. The projects consist of qualifications in building and construction, business management, child development and creative media production. Now this does sound highly impressive and well intentioned but the sceptics may well sneer at something they may have heard about a million times. Of course our children are fully deserving of the chance to become expert builders of properties and none should ever be denied the opportunity to become wealthy entrepreneurs and dotcom millionaires but we are in familiar territory. 

Still, we should be fully supportive and totally onside with Prime Minister Andy Burnham. Those first months for Burnham may well have tested his strength of character and mettle to the limit but this one sounds like a winner. We have to recognise and nurture the burgeoning potential of our current generation of schoolchildren for they are the next engineers, lawyers, landscape gardeners, economists and shrewd thinkers in the vibrant high tech industry. 

Our memories of school are now rather embarrassing from a personal point of view. But we did enjoy clambering up those climbing frames during PE lessons, jumping over pommel horses in our vests and plimsolls, shinning up ropes and then finishing the week with country and western dancing on a Friday afternoon. Then we moved onto secondary school where pottery classes were treated with all the amused derision of young kids who hadn't a clue what we were supposed to be doing. You then spent at least two and half years marooned in woodwork and metalwork classes getting all hot and bothered, fashioning miniature bookshelves in woodwork and a shoe horn in metalwork. It now felt like a complete waste of time. 

In hindsight, school days should always be remembered with a fond smile and heartfelt pleasure but, to this day it all feels like some ridiculous exercise in futility. Of course you would have learnt far more of interest and long term benefit in a grammar school but that 11 plus exam in primary school was the pivotal turning point in your early education. You feel sure that the only reason you didn't pass your 11 plus was simply because it was a straightforward Maths and English test. It occurs to you that you passed the English part of the exam but failed Maths miserably which you just detested anyway.

The outcome was simple. You had to pass both English and Maths to meet the required criteria and, in the end you ended up in some allegedly inferior secondary school where the teachers did their utmost to teach you but only ended up shouting at the disruptive reprobates who just created havoc and made their teachers lives hell. Certainly, you began to withdraw so dramatically into a world of who cares indifference that it all feels terribly frustrating. 

You were convinced that becoming a brickie on a building site or working with children in a nursery environment was never for you personally. You could never see yourself setting up your business in the field of any commercial product on the market because the motivation would never have been there. And yet a creative media production course would certainly have suited you so much more because journalism and writing had always stimulated your imagination. 

Looking back through the years, you feel sure that an intellectually demanding degree at university would have proved far more satisfying.  You had thought of going to university to do a journalism degree but then couldn't commit to because it was a three year course and besides you and your lovely wife were far too busy bringing up your wonderful children and the priorities were obvious. But you now realise that nursing, building or becoming a ruthless businessman making vitally important financial decisions would ever have been your cup of tea. 

In fact we had neither domestic science known as cooking, sewing and embroidery of any description but we were required to spend endless lessons drawing up crotchets and quavers in music. It all seems a long time ago and yet the memories are still painful. Why did we have to run around a dark room while lights were switched on and off for this was our drama class? You feel sure that Sirs John Gielgud and Laurence Olivier would never have agreed to undergo such ritual humiliation.

But schooldays still seem so far off location in our minds where the landscape was filled with the rich tapestry of life. We were successfully socialised with kids of our own age and playtimes would be dominated by pulsating games of football. And next to our playground was the adjacent car park where innumerable tennis balls and fully pumped up footballs would be fired into the middle of nowhere or an unsuspecting dinner hut that looked like a wartime Nissan hut. Had your shot been wayward, it may have bounced on the rooftop of a Methodist church hall, where history lessons were conducted. 

And yet one day the legendary DJ Noel Edmonds once paid a fleeting visit to our school, parking a hugely distinctive Land Rover in the car park. Our headmaster was Edmonds charming dad Duncan who was a hilarious story teller, a man with a glorious anecdote to tell his pupils in our assembly hall. Sometimes you are left with the impression that when you did walk out of your secondary school for the last time, it felt like walking straight into a very dark tunnel so marginalised did you feel by the rest of society. 

But vocational GSCE's may be the way forward and we must hope that the children of today can finally make their dreams and ambitions all come true. The next generation are our grandchildren or children of the future and we must never overlook or forget them. AI may have something to say and some of us are ever slightly concerned. But the children will get it right. We have every faith in them.     

Millwall and West Ham- points shared in Championship local derby.

 Millwall and West Ham- points shared in Championship local derby.

Football historians would tell us that both Millwall and West Ham was simply a grenade waiting to go off, an accident that had danger and threat written all over it. In fact this was supposed to be such an explosive, fiery and combustible local London derby that most of us were suitably cautioned in case the flames of fury and passion just engulfed us and we had to be rushed off immediately to Accident and Emergency. 

Let's get one thing straight immediately. Millwall and West Ham supporters hate each other and the feeling is mutual. The origins of this personal animosity can be traced way back to the yellowing pages of yesteryear. Truly Millwall and West Ham can't stand the sight of each other, wishing that each would just go away and never come back again. This is one of the most toxic encounters in the whole of the football league. The rivalry between the clubs has been festering and bleeding for ages and for a while yesterday it looked as though it was about to kick off big time on the seething terraces of the New Den. 

In a small corner of the ground, both sets of supporters were taunting and goading each other mercilessly rather like first year secondary school students who were just there for an ugly punch up and an eyeball to eyeball confrontation. To say there was hatred and enmity in the air would have been a gross understatement. You could barely keep these two teams apart and you could smell the loathing. So this really didn't come as a major surprise although thankfully there were no fatalities or casualties. 

And yet for the first time since 2009  Millwall and West Ham were thrown together by a cruel twist of fate. It was both unsightly and unpalatable, horribly unedifying at times and potentially, the worst kind of punch up in the school playground. Police on horses were hovering with intent in the background in case things got completely out of control but, by the final whistle, it was all good natured banter and bonhomie. Thankfully, there were no ambulances or paramedics so that was comforting to know. 

By the end of the game, the aggro and antipathy had fizzled out and a compromise had been reached by both sets of supporters. If you leave our manor alone, we'll leave yours without a single word of abuse. This was, of course the Dockers derby, two teams separated by what used to be some of the most productive shipyards in London. Strong, muscular stevedores would ply their trade, toiling away industriously at their day job and greasing the wheels of British industry at the beginning of the 20th century. 

And so it was that Millwall, always the bad boys, agent provocateurs and the devil incarnate, met their East London neighbours in the second tier of football. For this was the Championship, a shameful indignity for West Ham but now an ever present reality for Millwall. Both West Ham and Millwall have known contrasting fortunes for a number of years but here they were once again reunited as if somebody had told them that this would always be the case and both couldn't wait to get started. Swords please gentlemen. This was a nasty, evil, unpleasant encounter, a match played in acrimonious circumstances and no quarter given or allegedly. On yesterday's evidence though, this was just all hype. 

You remembered those days of  flying fists, flick knives, agitation and anguish, industrial language, the barely concealed anger. There were the railway stations thick with threatening football supporters, the vicious violence, the torn train carriage seats and then those growling chants born of something akin to some kind of weird tribalism. It was all totally unnecessary, unsavoury and deplorably unseemly. But then, to an outsider, there was perhaps something in there that had to be good and yesterday was that day. But there was an underlying current and that simply added spice to the occasion. 

After several exchanges of insults and the almost customary obscenities, Millwall, now near the top of the Championship and West Ham leading the pack at the top, came together rather like sworn enemies but just trying desperately to keep the peace. West Ham arrived at the New Den as leaders of the Championship with a glut of goals in their account so far while Millwall just thought of themselves as their equals although this may not have been the case as such. 

Millwall were always a club of folk heroes, meaty, beefy players, stocky and strapping characters who loved a good, old fashioned scrap. There was Barry Kitchener, Derek Possee, Gordon Hill, that force of nature on the wing and then Terry Hurlock, a fiercely competitive, combative and abrasive fireball of a player who rarely held back in the tackle. Millwall were one of those clubs who were always unfashionable but, often seen in the news as notorious thugs and villains of the piece.

West Ham, for their part, have now regained some of their old poise and flair. For a while it looked as if they were heading towards some distant wilderness where nobody has any time for you. Then four wins in a row including goal festivals against Wolves, and then three against Derby County, Bolton and quite emphatically Wrexham 6-0, stabilised the club and set their season in proper motion. For those whose emotional investment in the club knows no bounds, this now feels good if only because things had to get better. 

The 2-1 defeat at home to Charlton Athletic and a flat, listless 1-1 draw at Watford as well as the 2-2 draw at Burnley now feel like revolting smells rather than sweet perfumes. West Ham are now driving ahead at full steam, cruising and gliding rather than puffing and panting like an old steam train. There is a renewed appetite for the game, a genuine rediscovery of the kind of football most West Ham fans think they should be playing without any kind of prompting or reminding. Now it all seems to be coming together. And not before time.   

And so it was that Millwall came charging out of the block like seasoned greyhounds, flaring at the nostrils and going toe to toe with their London rivals. Jake Cooper, Jordi Osei Tutu and Mark Sykes were more than a match for West Ham's supposedly dashing aristocrats, not exactly foppish and full of their own pomposity but determined to make their mark on the game. All four stifled and smothered anything West Ham had in their collective locker. 

Then Millwall launched an ambitious cavalry charge against the visitors, flooding players into the attacking half and leaving West Ham baffled and bothered. The Lions roared vociferously, a meticulously well organised unit, full of running, chasing and gallantry. Their movements were purposeful, red blooded, masculine and often ruthless. For a while it also felt as if Millwall were too well co-ordinated in the middle of the park, a side primed for action, moving the ball quickly and precisely to feet and then bombarding the West Ham penalty area with a barrage of crosses. 

With Derek Mazou-Sacko, Camiel Neghli, Jenson Metcalfe, Zak Spurge, and the classy Tairyk Arcone lending an air of perfect synchronicity to Millwall's now rampant attack, Millwall opened the scoring. A long throw was launched into the West Ham box and, after a frenetic goal mouth scramble, Caleb Taylor was left on his own. Taylor swiftly latched onto a loose ball and thrashed the ball into the West Ham net with decisive conviction from close range. 

Then, remarkably, Millwall had the audacity to extend their lead. It hardly seemed possible and yet it did happen and we weren't imagining it. Shortly before half time another throw created havoc and confusion in the West Ham penalty area. This time the adventurous Camiel Neghli had joined the attack and as the ball came dipping into the box, another tangle of legs left Neghli to fire home mercilessly for Millwall's second. 

By the second half, West Ham had finally woken up. There was now a steeliness and firm resolution about their football that had deserted them in the first half. When Mohamadou Kante stepped forward as a substitute for West Ham, the game had now swung like a pendulum. Kante was forceful, much more aggressive and on the front foot than had been the case before the Frenchman came to West Ham's rescue. 

Now the whole balance and complexion of the game had changed irrevocably. West Ham were much more positive,  a model of fluency and fearlessness. Their football had focus, clarity and controlled aggression. Arne Engels, their multi million capture from Celtic, found himself strutting around the middle of the park like the most attractive of peacocks, finding his passing range and then measuring them rather like a tailor in a menswear shop. Divine Mukasa is slowly flourishing as a very competent and complete midfield enforcer and Manor Solomon, the Israeli winger who guided Leeds to the promised land of the Premier League, was slinky, slippery and breathtakingly stylish.

At the back both Kyle Walker Peters, Max Kilman and the ever influential Konstantinos Mavropanos and the superb Morato, were like minded individuals, Walker cutting in from the flank and then easing himself forward while Mavropanos has now given an important element at set pieces. Captain Jarrod Bowen, after a slow start to the game, began to pick up the ball and run with it, shuffling the ball between his feet deceptively before leaving his defender gasping in his wake. Bowen stretched Millwall quite frequently rather like an elastic band and the Lions could only admire the claret and blue scenery. 

The game now firmly camped inside the Millwall half, West Ham turned the screw and applied the necessary pressure. A delightful cross field movement involving firstly Solomon found Engels. Then the ball was switched to Pablo who neatly slipped the ball square to  Kante who fired a low, unstoppable shot past Millwall keeper Filip Marschall. West Ham were back in the game and flowing effortlessly. The claret and blue shirts were stringing passes together as if they'd been going through the same routine for ages.

West Ham's equaliser was another exquisite gem. A corner on the West Ham right was whipped in with some ferocity and, after Austbo, West Ham's summer signing from Norway, had finally crossed the ball  with a well flighted ball, there was Mavropanos leaping like  the proverbial salmon to firmly head the ball home for a well deserved equalising goal. 

That was that.  This had been a wholly fascinating, intriguing and thoroughly entertaining Championship head to head.. At times this was just riveting and engrossing, a London derby spectacle that had lived up to its hype. Sometimes you begin to question the logic of football played at Saturday lunchtime. But then who are we argue if this is to be the future of the game? And now both Millwall and West Ham took their feet off the accelerator and an international break follows. Football very rarely surprises you.   

Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur

 Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur.

So it is that we approach the half way point of the Jewish High Holy Days. Last weekend the vast global Jewish population welcomed in Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year but without those Auld Lang Syne traditional melodies ringing in our ears. Nor do we go through that now familiar rigmarole of linking arms, jigging in between swords in tartan or watching either Moira Anderson or Andy Stewart caressing our ears from our TV speakers at the yearly Scottish Hootenanny and then launching into a rousing rendition of I'll Take the High Road. But hold on both of the aforesaid are no longer alive but their spirit lives on. 

And, after all those Jewish festivities last week where the shofar was blown for the 5,787th time, now we have a completely different set of circumstances. For as long as any of us can remember now, Yom Kippur has become the yearly homage to starvation, abstinence, asceticism, willpower, physical restraint and sheer dogged discipline. Yes folks it's that time of the year again, when the simple pleasures of eating, drinking, carousing and cavorting in bars, clubs and restaurants have to stop for at least 25 hours. 

Yom Kippur is that deeply solemn period of our lives when the lovely Jews of the world detach ourselves away from the frothy and frivolous moments of every day living that we often take too seriously at times. There can be no consumption of food and drink, no smoking or vaping, no raving to the modern day compositions of Ed Sheeran,  garage, funk or grunge music and no indulgence in anything that may have meat, milk or fish in its dietary requirements. In fact it may be advisable to just spend all day in synagogue(shul) praying, chanting and repenting our sins. Forget about the feasts just for a while. 

While we were growing up, some of us embarked on our yearly rebellion, storming the barricades, threatening to eat every piece of bread in our bread bin before stuffing our faces ravenously with various combinations of pizzas for lunch, tea, cakes and biscuits during the afternoon and then drinking every brewery dry of its lager, cider and spirits. As a child, you simply weren't interested in fasting, questioning your mum and dad all the time. It was both baffling and incomprehensible, 25 hours of pointless misery, unnecessary deprivation, struggle and hardship. 

But, from your barmitzvah age onwards, you knew that you owed to it your family, late and lovely mum and dad and equally as adorable grandmas and grandpas to fast. Of course there was a cussed reluctance to accept the status quo, a sudden recognition of some yearly and admittedly, uncomfortable ritual that had to be endured at the time but then just took for granted every year. Yom Kippur has never been a picnic, so to speak, but you have developed a resistance to food and water and it's now really pleasurable. 

In many ways Yom Kippur and its fasting connotations has now become hard wired into your autumnal mindset. Come Yom Kippur, mum, dad, grandma, grandpa, brother and uncle would stand together in unison, kindred spirits, deep in reflection and contemplation. Grandpa would wear that grey suit and smart shirt while dad would wear his navy suit or jacket, with blue or white shirt crisply laundered and tie. Grandma was always warm, full of loving tenderness, caring, solicitous, smiling and compassionate. Grandpa would spend the whole day in what used to be the Beehive Lane synagogue(shul) while mum, dad, brother and yours truly would head for the exits at lunchtime. 

It all felt socially awkward at the time because nobody had given me an adequate explanation of what exactly you were supposed to do or say. You'd started Hebrew classes(cheder) but those siddurims were like foreign language books that were just indecipherable, Hebrew words, sentences and paragraphs that were lost in translation. You could read Hebrew but you had no real idea what exactly the words meant in English. Mother was Ima, Dad was Ubba, Ma was what, Boker Tov meant Good Morning, Unai was I but that constituted your entire Hebrew vocabulary. But the whole of Yom Kippur was shrouded in mystery, some esoteric form of grammar that belonged to Biblical times rather than 1974.

As a family we would observe the same pattern of behaviour every year. The night before Yom Kippur was Kol Nidre, an evening full of sombre significance, a couple of hours of gravity, gravitas and deep respect. Then Yom Kippur would follow the next day and you must have spent at least half an hour pouring out your grievances, moaning, groaning and complaining about the Fast getting nowhere in particular. 

Personally, adolescence had been mildly traumatic but nobody was to blame. Here you were with doting family but no friendships with the wider Jewish community of your age group. Of course it was perhaps vaguely frustrating but at the time you probably felt as if you didn't really need anybody else in your life. But every time you looked upstairs to the seating gallery all you could see was a millinery shop of gorgeous women's hats and the kind of fashions that, as a kid, you must have regarded as just over the top and outlandish. 

And then it occurred to you. There were girls up in the gallery who were the same age as yourself but may just have well been complete strangers, none you'd known from your local Jewish youth club because they were having the most enjoyable time as early teenagers.  You, however seemed to be trapped in a self absorbed world of isolation and estrangement, on your own and nobody with whom any kind of social conversation could be struck up. Somehow though this was the way it was. Maybe you were just content with your own company.  

Anyway, every lunchtime and every Yom Kippur there would be the now customary exodus out of the shul and back home again. The prayer Yiska for the dead among your beloved ones, was the cue for a frantic surge out of the building and they would head straight for Valentines Park in Ilford, East London. Here families, boyfriends, girlfriends, young children would all be seen pushchairs and prams in tow. It was rather like any religious congregation, a gathering of the great and good, the teenagers brazenly smoking and drinking cans of Coca Cola while you surveyed the scene with a certain degree of amusement. 

The afternoon itself seemed to pass by fairly quickly because you just wanted to while away the hours in the hope that the day itself would pick up a head of steam and fly past. Every so often peals of laughter and local humour could be heard quite clearly. There was a sense here that although Yom Kippur was never your favourite day, you could still smile and wander around, becoming part of the crowd.

You remember vividly now some old friends who, in one particular year, tried to lead you astray. As you left Valentines Park, there was McDonald's junk food emporium in Cranbrook Road. Up until that point in your life, you'd always fasted dutifully and quietly, never dreaming of snatching even a burger or chips for that matter. But my acquaintances decided to drift through the front door of this junk food empire and buy the most horrendously greasy burger and chips you were ever likely to see. It was all a bit underwhelming and, when all was said and done, it really did nothing to stimulate my appetite. 

And so the masses would disperse in Valentines Park and you were left with the impression that Yom Kippur was simply a case of mind over matter. My late and lovely mum always maintained that the body could quite easily go without food or water for 25 hours and that it did no harm to your digestive system.  In a sense of course she was right because you immediately called on your Jewish resilience and survival instincts and just blotted food and drink out of your mind. 

For the whole of my teenage period, my wonderful dad and I would regularly return from synagogue(shul) ravenous and famished an hour before the end of the Fast. But mum acquired this lovely habit of reminding us of the feast that would follow the fast. Bless her, she would always cook her yearly concoction of fried fish and delicious salmon cutlets preceded by the sweetest cup of milky coffee. It is a memory that can never be forgotten. 

So to all of my Jewish family and friends well over the Fast if it is medically possible to do so. Last year and for a number of years, my lovely wife Bev and I have seen in the New Year and observed the Fast at the glorious Finchley Reform shul. Here Saracens rugby union ground would be the genial host for the High Holy Days. The remarkable sight of all those rugby trophies in their cabinets and those stunning paintings on the wall, may never fade away.

But this year Bev and I will be attending our new synagogue(shul) the Sinai reform shul in Moortown in Leeds. We have been overwhelmed by the warm Yorkshire hospitality and will certainly feel at home here as well. And at the back of your mind will remain one of my fondest Yom Kippur  memories. On Kol Nidre, my dad and I started walking towards Beehive Lane shul. At the bottom of the road, a gust of wind took my dad's umbrella on the kind of journey that Mary Poppins would have taken great delight in. And so to the great Jewish population fast well if you can but if not enjoy the Jewish holidays. Keep well and best wishes to you all.