Snooker player John Virgo dies

 Snooker player John Virgo dies

It used to be the case that a love of snooker was the sign of a misspent youth, a waste of an afternoon or a sure sign that you could have been using your time far more productively. For some of us, it was never the easiest watch and only TV provided snooker with a glamour and personality that perhaps we should have done more to get excited about. But when snooker loses one of its greatest exponents, you begin to wonder why you didn't really take it as seriously as you should have done. 

John Virgo, one of the most cheerful and upbeat of all sportsman, possessed a charisma and charm that his contemporaries always valued in Virgo. Virgo was always a classical snooker player always sticking to the orthodox but then surprising everybody in the game with the flamboyant and unpredictable. Like most of his rivals, Virgo was always respectful of his opponents but ruthless when he needed to be. Long after he retired, Virgo was still bathing in past glories and always hungry for victory.

And the annoying stereotypes continued to haunt snooker. It was a pub game that was either played in your local watering hole or some atmospheric hall or leisure centre. Snooker had vast hordes of enthusiastic fans who followed Virgo everywhere. He was their spokesman, their rallying cry, their advocate and champion. He played snooker with a permanent smile on his face and none could question his unstinting commitment to the game or, as it's commonly referred to as a snooker. 

The lines are now blurred between snooker's divine right to be considered as a sport and those who still regard it with sneering disapproval. How can a spectacle that requires no physical exertion whatsoever, still attract hysterical praise and adulation from millions of people who can't get enough of it? But Virgo was markedly different, a humorous joker always laughing along with his captive audiences but also playing snooker with a meticulous attention to detail. 

After serving his apprenticeship in the pubs and clubs of Salford, Virgo rose to prominence and arrived shortly after snooker converted black and white TV coverage into resplendent colour. The BBC's Pot Black was compulsive viewing for a growing audience who were slowly developing a passion for the sport. The likes of Fred and Joe Davis were very much the pioneers just after the Second World War but then the 1970s knocked on snooker's door and a whole host of unknown men captured our hearts. 

There was Fred Davis, Steve Davis, Alex Hurricane Higgins, Eddie Charlton, Cliff Thorburn and, more recently the inimitable Ronnie O' Sullivan, another entertaining extrovert who sets his own rules and boundaries and frequently tests both. But everybody loves Ronnie because he's a national treasure and gets an enormous satisfaction out of beating one of his fierce rivals. 

But John Virgo won the 1979 UK Championship beating Welshman Terry Griffiths followed swiftly with four major titles and trophies. He took snooker to an even bigger fanbase and he did so with an impish chuckle and a complimentary word or two. Snooker revels in its immaculate suit, shirt and bow tie image because snooker has a measured precision about it, a cunning strategy and a thrilling simplicity that requires no explanation.

You sit down to watch the game and that green baize table is simply mesmeric and you are drawn helplessly into its web of  intrigue and mystery. My late and wonderful dad loved a good game of snooker and would insist on watching its changing moods and clever machinations. From the beginning frame of red balls to the striking and vivid blues, yellows, pinks, black, pink and red balls and 147s, snooker has always held us gripped. 

Now for the sceptics and cynics and naysayers, snooker is unbelievably boring, too slow for words and somehow demeaning to the intellect. But what do they know that we clearly do? Snooker is big money, highly lucrative, unquestionably prestigious, a millionaire's dream, the kind of financial windfall that the working man or woman could only dream of. 

In more recent times Virgo was chosen as the guest on a snooker related quiz show called Big Break. Introduced by comedian Jim Davidson, Virgo demonstrated all of the qualities that we'd always admired. He was the court jester, funny and gloriously facetious at times, quietly modest at times but never less than committed to the sport he'd honed his craft in during his early adolescence. John Virgo, we'll always remember that happy-go-lucky demeanour. Thankyou. 

It's time for some book promotion.

 It's time for some book promotion. 

For those of you who know what happens next, this is the time when your humble self published author and writer reminds you that there's something that might interest you. So, for your further reading pleasure, this is my current book of football poetry. It's fun, quirky, lyrical, descriptive and this could be either your cup of tea, breakfast, lunch or supper depending on your appetite and craving for originality. 

So here we go. My current book is called Football's Poetic Licence and is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Barnes and Noble online. Of course, football is the universal language of the sporting world. It speaks to you eloquently of the dramas, the melodramas, the wildly contrasting emotions that cross all borders and frontiers. Football is the Beautiful Game and its simple pleasures, traditional highs and lows, fortunes and misfortunes can never be underestimated. 

This summer, the world will gather together in huge congregations, heartfelt communal and tribal gatherings for the World Cup. This year, the World Cup will be hosted by the USA, Mexico and Canada which, in the grander scheme of things, does sound pretty exciting. But there is a novelty value about this tournament because only the USA and Mexico can boast some history and pedigree. Canada may have to search around for their identity because football has yet to break into their market, their publicity machine. Sooner rather than later it will become a vitally important topic of conversation in the bars and pubs of Toronto, Montreal, Quebec and Banff. But we'll be delighted to see them because football loves the underdog and we love Canada.

There is an intriguing undercurrent of discussion murmuring in the heartlands of Canadian discussion rooms. It may work in their favour but, still, the thought persists that Canada may have to be politely introduced to world football's charming hosts. They may get it eventually but the fear is that they won't understand the breathtaking beauty of Brazil, the Latin sensuality and romance of the Argentinian game, nor the technical efficiency and European flair of Germany, Italy, Spain nor France. Or maybe they will and you're being very patronising. Canada will be certainly welcomed with open arms and eternal friendship.

England and Scotland will be at the party because football's sense of international diversity remains its most significant feature. Of course they play the same game and that's the epitome of cool but it needs to be said that football is also inclusive and tolerant, never discriminating or excluding anybody. And the rarefied world of football poetry is different. You feel sure that the esteemed likes of Keats, Wordsworth, Shelly and Wilde would have been quite flattered by homage to football although they might have reserved judgment on football poetry. 

Anyway, the fact is that my book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence is currently at Amazon. Football embraces all cultures and classes, from the athleticism and physicality of the African game to the more sophisticated narratives of the South America. So here we are my friends across the world, this is my book of football poetry and this is definitely the book for you. It is a warm homage to the world game of football, poetry in motion. 

So here goes. Check out my book of football poetry Football's Poetic Licence, now available at Amazon. I wax lyrical about the FA Cup, Premier League, Champions League, my late and wonderful mum and dad, there's a warm eulogy to my lovely dad, my grandpa Jack who cut the hair of those noble 1966 World Cup winning heroes Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst, Sir Martin Peters, the World Cup, England, USA, Euro 2020, Europa League, the Carabao Cup, football grounds and Ilford FC, my local team growing up. Tell all your friends and families. Best wishes to the global football community. 

National Curmudgeons Day.

 National Curmudgeons Day. 

So come on, cheer up. It may never happen and probably never will but it could and then you somehow knew it would be so that's a self fulfilling prophecy. There are those people out there who inhabit a world of constant despondency, nothing but incessant pessimism, gloom and doom merchants, misery guts merchants, grumpy, cantankerous, thoroughly objectionable, negative, disagreeable souls who are the proverbial pain in the neck. They're always complaining about something and can never be happy unless they're whinging and moping about the worst case scenario. 

Now, my late and wonderfully delightful father in law Stan was the best in the world, an admirable and hardworking father of two wonderful children. He served the Ministry of Defence as a conscientious civil servant for almost 40 years. He worked hard and diligently because he was dedicated and always knew the meaning of duty and service to the work force.

But, and this is a view widely shared by his loving family, Stan loved a good, old fashioned moan and gripe and was always finding fault with something and somebody in officialdom. But he was the greatest and kindest, most warm hearted and considerate father in law you could ever meet. And yet, according to Stan, there was always something fundamentally wrong with the government of the day, there were far too many injustices within society that could never be righted and there were annoying imbalances that none of us could rectify.

Essentially though, we tend to get all hot and bothered under the collar about the trivialities and insignificant aspects of our life. Now, though, we are incensed about the astronomical fuel and electricity prices, the soaring gas bills, the unfeasibly expensive phone bills and those ever rising rents to landlords that are always a thorn in the side of young students looking for their first property. So it is that we get angrier and angrier, wildly indignant at the declining moral fabric of the British culture and so much more.

We wake up in the morning and the immediate concern is that good, old fashioned chestnut known as the British weather. Now the weather across the United Kingdom has always been one of the most enduring and traditional preoccupations that do so much to dominate our everyday conversation. We have to worry about ephemera, the things that shouldn't really matter but do and we can never tell you why. We despair of rain during the summer when it should be up in the 90s and gloriously hot. Then we look up at the dark, cloudy skies in June and July and wonder how Britain invariably ends up with day after day of wet, soggy pavements. 

But in complete contrast, we open our blinds and curtains during the winter and half expect twenty inches of snow on the ground and are frustrated when not being able to get out as much as we would like. So when it feels like spring in December and there are still one or two tulips in our gardens, our minds get totally confused and befuddled. So we get on our high horse and criticise our highly qualified weather forecasters because they can never be accurate and it's not the weather we're supposed to get. 

There are the pompous, pontificating politicians who, according to some, are a complete waste of time. The trouble is that there can be no satisfying those grumpy grouches who are always blaming someone or bleating about something. They sit all day in the kitchen, leafing through the news in the tabloid newspapers, fuming and fretting, privately boiling and seething, blustering and bickering with insufferable neighbours or telling their local councillors that those wretched pot holes in the road are getting worse and worse. But then again some of our neighbours are full of sympathetic understanding and kindly words. 

We just become exasperated with those council tax bills, the criminally extortionate prices of breakfast cereals, bread, meat, fish and all of those essential foods that keep us alive and well. It's the cost of living crisis at the moment and how are we ever going to cope and afford basic clothing for both kids and their mums and dads? We more or less surrender to the inevitable relegation of our football team West Ham United all the while condemning outright the manager, the chairman or woman, the ground staff and the catering department for our eternal shortcomings. 

And finally we can barely tolerate the unbearable traffic on the road, vehicles restricted to slowcoach pace at roughly 20mph. There are the winding, twisting tailbacks, bumper to bumper cars, lorries and vans that lead to a procession of bad tempers and very patient motorists who just keep hooting their horns just in case this is something of a deliberate conspiracy. So we just keep airing our understandable grievances because nothing is going to get done and may never be however many times we email the authorities.

Recently, our recycling bins reached bursting point and you found yourself shoving tons of cardboard, paper and plastic into a huge orange and black repository that looked as if it was about to explode with excess and rubbish. So you kept your feelings to yourself and just remained cool and composed, recognising the absurdity of what was happening in front of you.

Then you realised that even though we are almost a month into the new year, the dustmen and women still think it's Christmas. They've forgotten to empty the eco waste again.  And yet there is something warm and reassuring about the world of the grumpy people. They're seemingly never satisfied and yet we love them. They are indeed the rich tapestry of life.  Here's to the Curmudgeonly folk of the world. You're brilliant. Victor Meldrew, of course we believe it.

Holocaust Memorial Day.

 Holocaust Memorial Day.

So here we are again. We've arrived at that point in the year when thoughts turn almost naturally to the Holocaust. On Tuesday, the global Jewish population cast their minds, 86 years ago now, to the one apocalyptic event in world history that horrified, terrified and left a vast majority of the world in a state of numbed silence, shock, stunned horror and paroxysms of disgust and fury. The world found itself paralysed, broken, heartbroken and utterly despairing of the immediate future. 

And so it is that January 27th is the date that marks the day when the grandchildren of the Holocaust survivors stare mournfully into the ground because they have no words for there are none that can adequately explain or justify the life changing, momentous and horrific events of the Shoa. These flashpoint moments have now left the darkest shadow over the lives who witnessed it in all its gory, gruesome and blood curdling fashion. This is the day we recognise the admirable sacrifices made by armies, navies and huge regiments of soldiers. 

From a personal point of view, the Holocaust is the one day in the calendar year when you begin to rationalise the irrational, clarify the indefinable and inexplicable and then fill out all the missing details that may have gone over our heads. I remember who they were because they put their lives on the line, felt their brutality and then saw the horrendous savagery of it all and are still dumbstruck by something that seems so barely imaginable. 

And yet, ever year, I pay my respects to my late and wonderful mum and dad at Waltham Abbey Cemetery before wandering off to the Holocaust Memorial. The Holocaust Memorial is undoubtedly one of the finest, most impressive spaces and sanctuaries for those whose lives will always be remembered, dwelt upon deeply, lamented upon with absolutely appropriate grief and then thought about again and again with sadness and sombre reflections. Of course this is a painful process and the psychological scars  are still with you because you saw the tragic repercussions thirty years after the end of the Second World War. 

You are, when all is said and done, a grandson of a Holocaust survivor and the Shoa still hurts almost vicariously, jabbing you in the pit of your stomach, reminding you of the stark reality of what happened. You saw your beautiful grandma suffering the hellish flashbacks, tormented by the murderous terrorists who were the Nazis and convinced they were still in her vision. They were still behind her, still attacking her precious family and she screamed hysterically because she experienced the agony, purgatory, those relentless atrocities, the starvation, the terrible confinement of the concentration camps and gas chambers. 

It all feels so unbearably heartbreaking, loaded with poignancy and pathos, that one moment in history when all normality was suspended for a seeming eternity. But then you think back to your grandma and grandpa's Gants Hill home during the 1970s and you feel sure it was a never ending nightmare. Your grandma was showering her first son with demonstrative affection, spoiling him with crisps, chocolates, sweets and unfailing love, a love that can never be forgotten but felt so gloriously overwhelming. You were hugged and kissed over and over again and now they still return to your memories over and over again.

But then you were taken back to that one horrendous day at the height of the Holocaust. One day, my grandpa Jack set out on one of his many visits to the shops for a packet of cigarettes. On his way back, he was suddenly confronted by those vile and evil Nazi stormtroopers. A group of monsters descended on my adorable grandpa and suddenly all hell broke loose. One of these presumably grey jacketed men, complete with swastikas stitched to the material, ran after my grandpa with a bloodlust that can never be defined.

My grandpa, ever the battle hardened and most stoic, formidable of men, stood his ground and remained delightfully defiant, refusing to be defeated and overcome by force, violence and aggression. He must have lashed out at the Nazis, covered his face but was helpless to the inevitable barrage of punches. So, he fell awkwardly to the ground in a crumpled heap, face contorted with incessant blows to head and the rest of his body. You were not there of course, but the imagery must have been frightening. 

I've now discovered all the missing details, the six million lives who have now been inscribed and carved on the walls of innumerable Holocaust Museum and Memorial walls. Theirs were the lives I may never be able to recall because they were cruelly snatched from those who were adored by their loved ones. Their early childhood and adolescent days would never reach fruition because it was completely out of their reach. So we keep thinking, praying and pondering, chanting prayers clearly and then privately because this is the way we'd like it to be. It is only the way and there are no alternative scenarios. 

And now you gather together all of your heartfelt emotions, compartmentalising all of those innermost feelings because there can be no specific category for anything happened during the Holocaust. It is, put simply, man's inhumanity to man, his entire family and extended family. It is the unforgivable sin that can only reluctantly accept apologies because, several generations down the line, it is still there vivid, harsh, authentic, in my face and bones, sending chilling sensations down my spine. 

Now on Tuesday I will become aware of the historic magnitude of it all, the suspension of belief, knowing clearly that the damage has already been done. Tears have now flowed in gushing rivers and tributaries, eyes reddening and sore with every recollection and remembering your late and lovely mum and dad, grandma and grandpa. Tuesday will feel both sensitive, repeating itself endlessly in my mind. Their voices will never be heard again. And that's infuriating and frustrating because you wanted and longed  to attend their family parties and social gatherings, their weddings, anniversaries and their children's birthday parties.

But lest we ever forget the Holocaust. It's the most challenging and mentally demanding day of the year because indirectly your ancestors were there and they could never convey the gravity and soul destroying nature of what had just happened. So I'll be closing my eyes and bowing my head in contemplative sorrow and remembering my family and extended family. It'll be extremely hard because it's always been and always will be. But my wonderfully loving and supportive wife, children and grandchildren and family will always be there for me. I have so much to be humble, grateful and blessed.    

Donald Trump- what a character!

 Donald Trump- what a character.

You'd have thought you were watching some ridiculously barmy TV sitcom or some bizarre reality TV spectacle where nothing is how it should be. You have been completely detached from the real world, maybe a parallel universe where all the characters and main protagonists were manufactured or just fashioned from clay or some complicated sequence of computer graphics where only cartoons or caricatures live. 

There is a school of thought the new fangled AI (Artificial Intelligence) technology has gone to work and is now rapidly spreading across the USA like wildfire. Regrettably, the most powerful man in the free world is doing his utmost to create chaos and pandemonium wherever he goes. He is relentless, remorseless, a force of nature and doesn't care who he hurts or damages. And yet these are worrying times for not only Europe but the rest of the world.

Donald Trump, surely one of the most ludicrous and unique American presidents of all time, is simply uncontrollable, speaking from the hip, unapologetic, saying exactly what's on his mind and never pausing for breath. He is tactless, disturbingly opinionated, childish according to some, irritable, petulant , bad tempered and determined to do things his way. He's threatening to turn the world upside down and shake it vigorously until such time as people listen to him. And now he wants to take over Greenland. 

At the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, Trump was once again putting both feet in it and expressing the kind of statements that nobody wanted to hear and only the foolhardy would ever take  seriously. There is something of the Speakers Corner about Trump's personality that could be construed as wildly comical because he may just as well have been delivering his wacky comments from an orange crate in Hyde Park. We may have thought we'd seen everything we needed to know about Trump but seemingly not. 

All of the most important dignitaries from all corners of the globe have gathered together in Davos and must find themselves in some kind of bewildered trance. They watch Trump blathering and blustering forth like some mad, possessed man who believes that world domination may not be that far off. He reprimands Nato like a parent telling off their six year old for climbing trees without their permission. He keeps pontificating about Greenland and slapping trade tariffs on the country rather like some world statesman who only has Greenland's best interests at heart. 

You look at this pretty and picturesque country covered in snow and resembling some perfect winter skiing sanctuary and can barely believe what an American president is telling Greenland what to do. Yesterday, the Danish Prime Minister faced the public and must be wondering whether it's something Denmark has said. You see Trump indirectly blames Denmark for all the troubles in the world. Well, most of them anyway. So we watch in amazement and then rub our eyes convinced this isn't happening. And yet it is. 

Donald Trump, it seems patently clear, has lost the plot. Of course, in his defence, he did broker a ceasefire and peace agreement with Hamas and lovely Israel and it all looked very rosy complexioned. The Ukraine- Russia conflict is a work in progress and Trump is dealing with this war in house, an internal debate that will take time and patience. But the absurdities that are pouring from Trump's mouth at the moment are just unedited and free to air. Nobody has put a stopwatch on Trump and he just loves the sound of his own voice. 

And when we discover the early evening news, we see a man on who the cynics would tell us is on a mind blowing and vast prescription of drugs. Surely the man has lost control of his senses and there has to be a psychologist or therapist  available because Trump is just traipsing through the concrete jungle of the big, wide world and mindlessly trampling all over our common sense and intelligence. So why is he being allowed to get away with this recklessly aggressive attack on diplomacy and sensible thinking?

You keep thinking of Trump's predecessors and how they would have dealt with this horrible fiasco. The late and much missed Jimmy Carter would have been horrified about recent developments. Both Carter and the pacifist likes of Ronald Reagan would have grabbed hold of Trump's suit lapels and told them exactly what they thought of him. Trump is, quite literally, a bull in a china shop, firing off one controversial and explosive remark in double quick time one after another. His comments are wildly inflammatory, fiercely critical, incendiary and almost spitefully provocative. 

He is an incessant talking machine who now tells us, almost incredibly, that he deserved the Nobel Peace Prize and should have been gloating about it now rather than blaming everybody else for being overlooked. Trump is fed up for being taken for granted and you can forget about that peace mantra. That was Trump looking for pats on the back, global approval and demanding a knighthood from Britain. 

And then there was the newly minted Board of Peace, a splendid idea that is utterly commendable. Trump stood on his platform as if masquerading as one of the world's greatest leaders and Presidents of  all time. Lincoln, Truman, Roosevelt, Kennedy, Carter, Reagan, Obama are mere bit part actors and extras in Trump's world. What did they achieve? As far as Trump is concerned he stopped eight wars from flaring up into a monumental global catastrophe and he is the one who should get all the fulsome praise and plaudits. Nobody else but him. 

We all know about Trump's potty claims to being the most handsome man in the world, those narcissistic tendencies which lead us to believe that he must spend at least two hours in the mirror in the morning just combing his hair. Then his make up man or woman joins him in his private dressing room and powders his face until such time as the President gives the thumbs up. The eyebrows are puckered, the suit cleaned so immaculately and meticulously that it looks as if a menswear salesman has made sure he's made the right choice.

And yet although he looks on the large and rotund side, you feel sure that his golfing days more than make up for any deficiencies in his character and general bearing. Trump, every so often, pops over to Scotland during the summer and plays like Jack Nicklaus. Or so he would probably tell anybody who cares to be within earshot of him. Of course, he's just stocky and well built and there's nothing tubby or chubby about his appearance. So listen to Donald Trump because he knows best. 

The recent stories about his notorious friendship with Jeffrey Epstein and a whole host of dubious X rated celebrities, couldn't have done Trump's reputation any good at all. Trump mixes in the company of undesirables, incorrigibles, dastardly people who just massage his ego and tell him he looks wonderful all the time. So it is that we return to the subject of Davos and the World Economic Forum and Trump's relationship with the cream of world politics or perhaps the lack of one. 

You can imagine them now hiding away in their private rooms, mumbling and muttering their astonishment, questioning Trump's presence in the room. There are no elephants in this space but you do wonder if this is just a follow up to the Truman Show and we'll all wake up at 6am in the morning and follow the same routine every day. The year is barely a month old and already the President of the United States is already hitting the ground and running. Who cares about the rest of the world since he's the one man in charge and nobody else matters? Donald Trump - it's over to you. Keep going. You're doing your best. 

National Disc Jockey Day.

 National Disc Jockey Day.

To quote the late and great Alan Freeman, today is national disc jockey day pop pickers. Not 'alf? Now for those of a certain generation, Alan Freeman was the epitome of cool, professionalism, impeccable factual accuracy and a general bon viveur. Freeman was the ultimate gentleman, a man of supreme wit and humour, jokey joviality and a complete dedication to the world of music, rock music and an enduring passion for all genres of popular, mainstream and classical music. 

Now this neatly leads you into what today is. Yes folks, it's National Disc Jockey Day, undoubtedly so. For most of us the disc jockey is that invisible, anonymous figure who either wakes us up to the breakfast show or sends us off to sleep with a late night phone in. In between those waking hours, the disc jockey serves up an enticing cocktail of the latest hits in the charts, the nostalgic goodies, country and western, soul, disco from the 1970s, or just incessant often controversial talk where the presenter either gets hot and bothered about nothing in particular or thinks that the political climate in Britain is far too inflammatory, somehow defying comment at times.

Then there are the explosive moments on radio where disc jockeys play those catchy jingles we'll always remember before reverting to an often tedious monologue about themselves depending entirely on your point of view. Some disc jockeys would rather avoid any kind of recognition because it might be embarrassing if they didn't meet up to the public perception of them. Then there are the colourful characters who just dump the rule book unceremoniously and just have some good old fashioned fun in the studio. 

Your mind immediately turns to the one and only but, sadly, late Kenny Everett. Kenny Everett was, by his own admission, crazy and bonkers but in a nice way. Everett was anarchic, obviously non conformist, permanently rebellious, railing against authority, always pushing the boundaries until they were almost broken but, most of all and, perhaps most importantly, hilarious. Everett enjoyed a relationship with his listening audience that spanned the late 1960s and only came to an end with his tragic death to Aids.

Everett's story is one now fondly recalled and that's how we would choose to remember him as an outspoken, cheeky, extrovert, impudent but wonderfully clever disc jockey. He began his career on the illegal pirate ships during the 1960s and just kept going. When he arrived at London's brand new commercial radio station called Capital Radio, all of those sceptical and stuffy radio executives and owners of stations roundly took exception to Everett and thought he represented some outrageous expression of modern culture and society. Everett was their spokesman and didn't hold back. 

But when things settled down and after Radio 1 had seen the back of Everett, commercial radio provided him with the perfect platform to go wild with that gloriously imaginative style of presenting that must have left the BBC Director General simmering over with anger. Everett introduced pop music in a way that was sometimes unconventional but always with his finger on the pulse of London and Great Britain.

In 1975, Kenny Everett discovered on his Capital Radio turntables one of the greatest pieces of music he'd ever heard. The group was Queen, fronted by that spectacular showman Freddie Mercury. We were approaching Christmas and the charts would be shortly be announced to an expectant audience. Nobody saw what would come next. Slipping the single out of its sleeve, Everett dropped the stylus on the record player and the rest is well documented history. It was a rock opera masterpiece.

Queen's latest album was Night at the Opera and a track called Bohemian Rhapsody was discreetly hidden from view. Freddie Mercury, himself, couldn't believe that this one single from an album would become rock music dynamite, a song which would achieve the kind of phenomenal popularity that other contemporary bands could only dream of. Overnight, the name of Queen would become hot property, a worldwide famous pop group who had, unknowingly, released a monster hit that would dramatically change their fortunes. 

And so it was that Kenny Everett's name would become synonymous with Queen's Bohemian Rhapsody because once played on the air, Everett would play it over and over again, enthralled and mesmerised by its artistic beauty. Bohemian Rhapsody would remain at number one for what seemed an eternity and the influence of the music playing DJ would become enshrined in the annals of history. 

Then there was BBC Radio 1, the one station who broke the pirate radio's monopoly on daytime pop music. In 1967, Tony Blackburn, another fresh faced and angelic figure from the pirate boats, introduced Flowers in the Rain by the Move as the very first 45 single ever to be played on the radio. Blackburn, of course, a national treasure and still spinning the discs all those years later.

For the next decade and a half, Britain would wake up to the the sound of the top 40s, Blackburn was a pioneering character who loved to entertain with cheesy but lovable jokes and a fierce supporter of the Beatles, Rolling Stones, the Animals, Manfred Mann, Procol Harum, Cliff Richard, Cilla Black plus the Motown might of Diana Ross and the Supremes, the Temptations, the Detroit Spinners, Stevie Wonder and Marvin Gaye. 

With Radio 2 still faithful to its policy of easy listening music and household crooners who weren't quite as funky and jazzy as Radio 1, Radio 1 gave us a whole conveyor belt of unknown DJs such as Dave Lee Travis, Simon Bates, Paul Burnett, the Emperor Rosko, Noel Edmonds and then more latterly Simon Mayo and then there was John Peel late at night with his very distinctive taste in punk music from the 1970s. Peel was a revolutionary because he found all of that pop music distinctly boring and lacking in originality so he went against the grain and did his thing rather than follow the script. 

Meanwhile Radio 2 could still boast the likes of the late and  much missed Terry Wogan and former 1950s singer Jimmy Young. Wogan was the immensely smooth and likeable Irish charmer, amiable to all and sundry, the very personification of reliability and a natural story teller with a wit, humour and a warm, engaging personality. Wogan became a renowned chat show host, a man with a gentle, delightful sarcasm at times and nothing but good to say about the world. And that, in essence, is how disc jockeys would like to be known for.

But then disc jockeys ventured into the clubs and nightclubs, the late night gigs that would go on until the small hours of the morning if the establishment allowed it. Disc jockeys now became idolised and worshipped, screamed at by hysterical teenagers, smiling constantly while wearing a vast assortment of technicoloured beach shirts, a medallion on their chests and huge racks of initially 45 singles from the charts and then 12 inch singles, EPs, green, yellow, blue and red vinyl with a striking record label.

And so find ourselves in the time where the weekly helping of BBC Top of the Pops first aired. In 1964, Top of the Pops appeared on our screens for the first time live from a Manchester town hall. Sadly, the programme was scrapped a number of years ago but leaves as its lasting legacy an archive of the sublime and the ridiculous. We'd always remember the presenters such as Tony Blackburn, Dave Lee Travis, Ed Stewart, David Hamilton, Noel Edmonds, John Peel, grudgingly it seemed at the time but so wonderfully. Peel loved music but he drew the line at the Top of the Pops. 

Increasingly disc jockeys are stereotypically portrayed as that friendly voice on the radio, the man or woman who dutifully obliges with special requests for members of your family. They'll promise you a substantial amount of money if you can correctly the name of the first ever single ever released in Britain or which famous group once reached the top of the charts with a song about a combine harvester. DJs keep you entertained and informed with constant traffic updates, interviews with eminent rock stars and then the kind of small talk, humorous witticisms and bubbly bonhomie that becomes their trademark. 

Most of us take our disc jockeys for granted but still recall with some affection where we were on the morning that Radio 1 made their first ever broadcast. It was September 30th 1967 and the world was experiencing all the joys of flower power, garish fashions in Kings Road shop windows, and England were still bathing in the eureka euphoria of their only World Cup trophy so far. That Was the Week That Was the progamme  that dared to challenge the Establishment with its political and satirical digs at prominent figures in Westminster. 

But disc jockeys are reassuring when the going gets tough. They take us back into a pleasantly nostalgic land where your back doors were always open and the price of butter would have set you back a couple of shillings. They were always cheerful and never despondent because they were there for us, chirpy, kind and thoughtful people who always looked on the bright side. Disc jockeys sympathise with us when we fail important school exams and then celebrate weddings, anniversaries, the happy gatherings of our lives that disc jockeys want you to enjoy. So never fear the DJ is about to play your favourite song that means so much and the world to you. We'd be lost without a DJ because music reminds us of our favourite memory and there can be nothing wrong with that. 

Local football derbies, Manchesters City- United and Spurs- West Ham

 Local football derbies, Manchester City, United and Spurs- West Ham

It hardly seems like it but local football derbies in Britain are as old as time itself. They date back to a time when Queen Victoria reigned supreme over her dearly beloved UK and the Commonwealth. Some have now been lost to memory because only photographic evidence remains and the British tabloids have perpetuated their images and vivid action shots. They have now become embedded in football's soul and bloodstream.

Yesterday, Manchester United beat their noisy local neighbours City with a 2-0 win that could well prove to be decisive in those final 16 or 17 matches before the season's end. United, still struggling to replicate the extraordinary years of Sir Alex Ferguson, found both their balance, focus and a thrilling rapport with each other that hasn't been seen for a number of seasons now. Reuben Amorim has gone and United are rather like a stalling steam locomotive train who have just hit upon a mini renaissance and are quite happy to be where they are in the here and present.

Interim coach Michael Carrick, with those dulcet Wallsend Geordie tones nicely oiled, stands on the deck of the great ship that is Manchester United and, yesterday, for a while at least, it felt good to be in the groove. Carrick looks as though he's thoroughly enjoying himself even if the gig is a part time one and United are still in transition, waiting patiently for the right moment to set sail on another voyage of discovery.

So, for the first time in what must now seem ages, United were reminiscent of the team who once conquered Europe, won the Champions League with an almost effortless nonchalance, a team joined and fused together rather like electrical wiring. There was a unity and collective ethos about United that some at the Streford End at Old Trafford must have forgotten all about. But victory, of course, sweetened by the flavour of local bragging rights, couldn't have come at a better time for United and Manchester City were numbed, dulled and reduced to wandering souls who had lost their way and needed some friendly guidance.

And then we realised where we were. For well over 100 years and much further back in time, Manchester City and Manchester United have locked horns with each other like feuding stags determined to inflict as much as damage on each other as possible. At Old Trafford, we saw the latest instalment of the local derby that is absolutely definitive in the eyes of those who have been watching this fiery contest for so many years. It has been football at its most argumentative, nasty at times, tasty on others, essentially confrontational, bittersweet on some occasions, heart breaking on others but so often personal that you would think they couldn't stand the sight of each other. 

When Manchester United were known as Newton Heath and Billy Meredith was scoring goals for fun at United, even then there was a pathological hatred and vicious antagonism between them that has endured for countless decades. In Victorian times, the city of Manchester was dominated by the ship canal where barges and boats of every conceivable description would glide up and down the canal sedately and the supporters of City and United would cross bridges before a football match would break out. And none of a nervous disposition would ever dare to come between them. 

City of course for their part, played at Maine Road and even kindly allowed their neighbours United to use their ground after Old Trafford had been bombed to smithereens during the Second World War. But you can imagine them, teenage boys with flat caps, neat and tight waistcoats and the colours of red, white and blue clashing on the terraces. Scarves, rattles and rosettes were still a prominent feature of football's weekly conflicts. Nobody questioned their existence for this was the working class game.

But local derbies are full of spice and rich rivalry, matches with that very distinct air of neighbourly parochialism, communities fiercely divided on the day by two football teams who were probably just a terraced home from each other. During the week they must have shared a factory floor and the metallic grind of iron and steel could probably be heard on the other side of the Pennines. But come Saturday afternoon at 3pm they were sworn enemies, ready to pick up a bayonet, flintlock and blunderbuss and fire off their footballing artillery. 

And then there was that famous Manchester derby when United's world fell apart almost tragically but without any hint of the Greek about it. In 1974, Manchester United experienced the most wretched and horrendous season since the club was first formed. For most of that season, things went from bad to worse to rock bottom. United dropped into the lower half of the old First Division and languished there like a rusting and neglected building that hadn't seen a lick of paint for at least 70 years. What followed next was a disastrous decline into the world of relegation and the old Second Division. 

On the final day of that forgettable season for United, the now late and much missed Denis Law just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. In the middle of an emotional minefield, Law was now wearing the light blue of Manchester City rather than the Red Devils shirt of United where the Scotsman had spent some of his most fabled and legendary years. It was goal- less for ages and then it happened. It was like a flash of lightning or a clap of thunder. 

City, breaking with some speed and regularity, kept pressing United back while United just flapped and staggered around like a drunken sailor at sea for whom buoyancy had now proved impossible. Law, loitering with intent on the edge of the six yard penalty area and with his back to goal, almost apologetically back heeled Manchester City's winning goal and looked totally ashamed of himself. It was never meant to happen like that but United were down and out and heading for the old Second Division.

Meanwhile, back in London and the capital city, there was another local derby and one that defies any kind of geographical understanding. Spurs have always been based in North London while West Ham are undoubtedly situated in East London. For reasons that have never really become abundantly clear, Spurs and West Ham just don't get on with each other. In fact they'd probably challenge each other to a heavyweight boxing match given half the chance. There is an almost unspoken malice and red blooded antipathy between the two of them. 

Yesterday Spurs, drifting through the season and bobbing precariously around the lower half of the Premier League, will certainly not be relegated. But after their 2-1 defeat at home to local neighbours West Ham, a vast majority of Spurs were loudly booing their team for ages before manager Thomas Frank finally emerged for the media, not exactly a broken man but wondering whether Denmark would still throw a warm homecoming reception should he be sacked any time shortly. Spurs fans have reached the end of their tether, disgusted at the team's miserable malaise and slump into the land of nowhere. 

And yet West Ham themselves are still deeply troubled, a team not only fighting for survival in the Premier League but well and truly up to their neck in the murky waters of a relegation crisis. Simply put, West Ham have been the victims of some of the shoddiest acts of mismanagement and after two quick fire changes of manager following the exit of Julen Lopetegui and Graham Potter, the East London club are looking for any light at the end of the tunnel. 

After a 10 match winless run, the Hammers are going through the mill. But at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium yesterday afternoon, West Ham had the rub of the green and the tea leaves looked very healthy. At long last something clicked and all the attacking mechanisms were functioning. Crysencio Summerville, the Dutch winger who looked as though he'd been frozen out of the team by Mohammad Kudus, who then left for Spurs, picked up the ball after a nimble footed exchange of passes, cutting inside his defender before driving a beautifully accurate shot that beat Spurs keeper Guglielmo Vicario.

Spurs were, by their own admission, both poor and dysfunctional, huffing and puffing in the most haphazard fashion and never really looking like a goal was within their capabilities. But when captain Christian Romero equalised for Spurs, it must have felt a lifeboat had been thrown in their direction. In the 93rd minute though, an Olly Scarles corner for West Ham dropped invitingly into a bus queue of players before Callum Wilson nudged the ball over the line for a crucial winning goal for West Ham.

And yet you can still see those early days of West Ham- Spurs battles over the years. Over on the industrial docklands and tobacco warehouses of London's East End docklands, West Ham would welcome visitors to the old Upton Park. Spurs fans would jump onto a trolley bus, tram or horse drawn landau if the money was good and then traipse down the Seven Sisters Road before disembarking at White Hart Lane, seething with anticipation 

Then the newspaper sellers doing a roaring trade with the Star, Evening News and the still wonderful Standard, would hand out their final programmes, Peaky Blinders caps firmly fixed to their head.  But the London derby between Spurs and West Ham would still baffle the neutral. Spurs came into this world when a group of schoolboys would gather under street lights and discuss the fortunes of their local football team while the iron foundries were hammering out their story at West Ham.

West Ham played at the Boleyn Ground and the historical connection with royalty sounds as if dear Ann would probably have been very flattered had she known that her name would be employed in footballing circles several centuries later. Local football derbies will never lose their enduring appeal and yesterday may well have proved the point. Manchester and London were on the same territory once again and how football was so delighted to be part of the local derby scenario.