April Fools Day.

April Fools Day. 

Today in 1957, most of us were probably going about their business in much the way they've always done so. They were clocking on at their local factory, chasing the train to get into the office as punctually as they possibly could and the kids were rushing into school, satchel in their hands and pursuing the perfect education. There were only two TV channels, the Light Programme was entertaining its rapt listeners and Kenneth Kendall was adjusting his dinner jacket and bow tie before presenting the BBC News. Kendall would sit in front of that huge and distinctive BBC microphone, conveying the news of the day in serious and official tones.

At the time the wireless, as it was affectionately known, was amusing their vast audience with Round the Horne and the wacky, hilarious Goons with Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Michael Bentine sending us all into hysterical laughter at home. Britain was still in a state of harsh austerity and rationing while Harold Macmillan was the Prime Minister and reassuring us that they'd never had it so good. 

On the BBC they were preparing their latest broadcasting project. In hindsight, it was all very casual and innocent and none of us were ready at all because we were much more concerned with earning a living or accumulating as many qualifications as possible at universities. In those days those erudite students just had to turn up for lessons without shelling out a single shilling. So we looked forward to the future and then discovered the 1960s. Now that really was a startling revelation. 

But it was the 1950s and Sir Cliff Richard was still Cliff, a fresh faced teenager with a penchant for producing feelgood records like Summer Holiday which was actually released a couple of years later. But he was still very much a 1950s rock and roll kid. So we turned on our transistor radios and flicked a switch on our black and white TVs, drainpipe trousers dry cleaned, polishing our winkle pickers or shoes and drinking from most of the coffee bars in London's Soho. We then picked out our favourite Eddie Cochran record on our jukebox and life was complete as it had been and always would be. 

Then on Monday evening, the BBC's Panorama, a news and current affairs programme, the voice of respectability and seniority, once again did earnest investigative journalism. But, suddenly, we were presented with the ultimate in April Fools Day jokes. The BBC must have thought they'd catch us unawares and we were entirely gullible. And we fell for it hook, line and sinker. We didn't know it at the time but the BBC must have thought we were just pre-occupied or just determined to relax in front of our goldfish bowl TV sets. They hadn't anticipated what would happen next. 

So here's the story as it unfolded. Richard Dimbleby, one of the BBC's most immensely respected and authoritative of all news journalists and broadcasters whose voice would become such an integral part of the BBC's coverage of the Second World War, spoke again on that unforgettable night in 1957. Now according to Dimbleby, there was a prolific growth of spaghetti on trees in some Italian idyllic haven. 

We were told, at some length that thick crops of spaghetti were now being picked in some small corner of Italy. And the editorial evidence was there for all to see. Groups of devoted workers were seen carefully separating strings of spaghetti from rows of trees. It had to be true because the BBC and Richard Dimbleby had told us so. It had to be right. But, this was just absurd, barmy, nonsensical, barely credible and just foolish nonsense. Indeed it was and we were duped, deceived, done up like a kipper. Spaghetti was growing on trees. This had to be the funniest of all April Fools Day jokes. 

And so to the present day. Apparently a procession of giraffes have been spotted wandering down the M1 or was it the M25, grazing casually along the hard shoulder and pinching sweets from excited kids in the back of their cars. Oh yes and orange snow is falling in the Scottish glens and highlands. It has just been reported that rhinos and crocodiles are also floating down the River Thames and the river police are on the case. 

Now the rumour is that the BBC have been turfed out of the Salford Quays media centre and will be announcing tonight's news from a church hall in Manchester. Local vicars and priests have been seen studying all of today's most important events and will all be required to read the latest news because all of the BBC's newsreaders are now sunbathing on some tropical island in the Caribbean.

And then there's the story of a herd of wildebeest stampeding across the Torquay landscape but that was part of an old TV comedy. John Cleese was the disgruntled, agitated and cynical hotel owner of a Torquay guest house called Fawlty Towers who once explained to the late Joan Sanderson that you should be able to see this farcical scenario everyday. April Fools Day has always delighted us for as long as we can remember but at times it maybe hard to distinguish fact from fiction. 

This has just arrived in our newsroom. Circus clowns and high wire trapeze artists have allegedly been elected as party political leaders in the House of Commons and were seen canvassing members of the public for their votes. With the local elections now a month away, gentlemen wearing red noses and cycling on a unicycle are now widely expected to win their votes quite convincingly They were unavailable for comment but it is now felt  that the clowns and trapeze artists will become prominent figures in the House of Commons. The Prime Minister's Question Time sessions will never be quite the same again.

It was rumoured that strange martians from outer space have been seen deep in animated conversation with members of their own family, discussing both the cost of living crisis and the phenomenal price of petrol. At a famous motorway service station, creatures with blue and green and rubbery faces, wearing silver suits and oval shaped hats, were exchanging pleasantries at a Costa's coffee and tea cafe. One was drinking a latte before greedily devouring a flapjack and then muesli for breakfast. The public were told not to approach these gurgling, chuckling and giggling individuals who have been creating a major disturbance with their mysterious whistles and loud, bellowing voices. 

And finally, 98 year old Lord Lucan was seen coming out of a bookmakers in central London, betting slips in his hands, smug and satisfied after his horse had won every race today. He was scrolling furiously on his Smart Phone and then smiling broadly at the public. He then walked arrogantly towards a a yet to be undisclosed supermarket, investing in another  expensive Apple mobile phone. And last night, shortly before midnight, medieval knights in shining armour were allegedly sitting in a famous junk food restaurant, eating cheese burger and chips and drinking chocolate milk shakes.

So it is that April Fools Day has taken its leave for another year. The identity of the Loch Ness monster has yet to be confirmed but, last week, sources  are convinced they saw the Loch Ness monster, brazenly smoking cigarettes and drinking gallons of brandy on some remote island. Now we are all aware of the silliness and tomfoolery which have always been associated with the day. But hey it was all good fun and none of us are foolish and will never be taken in again or ever. Fun and nothing but fun.  

       

Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience

 Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience.

It all took place at Wembley Park which was roughly half a mile away from Wembley Stadium where it all happened for the England football team last Friday and where it memorably happened 60 years ago against the same opponents and 60 years later. Effectively, the England fans were still scratching their heads on Friday at the new Wembley. But this time we were admiring some of Hollywood's most lovable and endearing cartoon figures at Wembley Park. That in itself was enough to send you down the sweetest memory lane and suddenly there it was. Nostalgia. 

The Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience is currently packing them in along Wembley Way and inside Wembley Park, it is a childhood haven. You remembered the old Wembley Stadium and could hardly believe how dramatic a transformation there had been since the days when the Twin Towers dominated the North London landscape. The new Wembley now has the most striking arch which immediately catches the eye and for those who designed the new stadium, this must have represented their crowning moment of glory. 

And yet Wembley used to look like a huge concrete piece of architecture with a basic concourse and hundreds of  burger, hot dogs and exotic food outlets. But Wembley almost divided opinion and when it was demolished at the end of the 20th century, some of us were more relieved than anything else. Now the new Wembley has endless art installations, both innovative and progressive looking, more restaurants and cafes than you can possibly imagine, donut stalls, mini children's playgrounds and so much more. Now Wembley is down with the kids, cool, sophisticated and forward thinking. 

Yesterday, my lovely family and I took the opportunity to visit the Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience. For those who may not know about Pixar, then here's a synopsis of what Pixar is. Pixar used to be called Disney,  as in the home of cartoons, and everything associated with our childhood although families were, of course, included. Suddenly you were back in your early years and it was a fantastic privilege to be among our children and grandchildren while at the same time appreciating the fun and enormous enjoyment they were getting from the day. 

So Pixar conjures up its own symbolic significance in the movie franchise market. It is a young boy perched comfortably on the crescent of a moon fishing the day away. It is the angle poise lamp that swivels around ever so cutely and then shines the brightest light. It is your childhood and now your grandfather's experience because we'd all love to recapture the spirit of our youth because it reminds us of who we were and what we might have been doing as kids, playing on our bikes, picking strawberries with mum and dad, buying vinyl albums and singles and dancing in nightclubs. 

But yesterday we went back to days of more recent vintage. Toy Story has to be one of the most imaginative, superlative, magnificent of children's films ever made. There have now been four Toy Story films and all of them have been just astonishing cinematic masterpieces. Woody, as voiced by Hollywood acting royalty Tom Hanks, is the Wild West cowboy with a natty Stetson hat, country and western checked shirts and trousers and the guy who made you laugh uproariously, smile amusingly and just make you feel good. 

Woody's best friend is Buzz Lightyear and Andy just wants everybody to behave themselves and be happy, lifelong friends without a single malicious word for each other. So Buzz Lightyear is the figure who just keeps everybody ticking over and always ensures that the whole gang at Pixar never step out of line. They're happy and they are united, like all families should be. There's Slinky, Jess and those adorable toy soldiers who sit on one of the tables and are just contented with who they are. 

You move around the whole Immersive Experience and wonder if you may be imagining this but it's true, undeniably so. There's Grumpy from the movie Up, who harbours a private ambition to go flying with balloons to South America and just pulls on our sentimental heart strings. There's Cars, cartoon figures with red bonnets who race each other quite earnestly and competitively because that's what motor racing cars do. Pixar transports us to the world that Disney would have dearly wanted us to join him on. Cars get very upset and annoyed when things go wrong and then they apologise and all is well.

Then, just for a couple of minutes or so, you cast your minds back to your first ever childhood movie. It was Jungle Book followed almost immediately by Bambi. And then there were your precious and beautiful children and now our grandchildren and everything in our world is complete. We are deeply and immensely satisfied. We take photographs of Woody and Buzz, pose unashamedly for the red Cars, smiling and laughing all over again. We buy the Pixar souvenirs and merchandise because the kids love of all that. And then it's time for a relaxing lunch and time to head for home. It was simply brilliant.    

Once again England held by Uruguay- this time in friendly.

 Once again England held by Uruguay- this time in friendly.

Yet again England looked at a reflection of  themselves in the mirror and the images were uncannily similar. Whereas England were held in a vice like trap against Uruguay 60 years ago, now they were stopped in the tracks yet again, driving back out of a frustrating cul-de-sac and finding there was little room for manoeuvre. In 1966, Sir Alf Ramsey's England were caught up in the most horrendous traffic jam and snarl up. Uruguay were England's first group opponents on that sun lit July evening and now they were again in a friendly.

Back then the World Cup were not nearly as high profile as they are now although the mouth watering prospect of holding the Jules Rimet World Cup in England's fair and pleasant land was enough to have most of salivating and licking our lips. The very thought that Brazil, Portugal, Italy, Russia and West Germany were about to leave their wonderfully technical imprint on English shores held the nation transfixed. Winning the World Cup was simply a welcome bonus. North Korea of course weren't even remotely considered because they were both a shock and surprise in equal measure. 

But the goal-less draw between England and Uruguay in their opening group match in World Cup now seems like some weird historical anomaly. In hindsight, it was probably a blessing in disguise because England still lofted high the Jules Rimet trophy and were duly anointed world champions with that famous 4-2 victory over West Germany. It maybe that England will still be thinking about Friday's dreadful fiasco against Uruguay until at least the conclusion of their friendly game against Japan on Tuesday. 

To say England were just an appalling shadow of their former selves on Friday evening would be the greatest understatement. England were simply dire, shapeless, clueless, an abject let down, not even competitive at any point and you wondered if their minds were truly on this game. It was a good 90 minutes completely wasted, rather like a group of Bedouins wandering through a vast, empty desert. In fact this was just awful and atrocious, an ugly caricature of international football at its worst. Somebody should have reminded both England and Uruguay that this was supposed to be a football match.

But for 90 long and painful minutes, England and Uruguay were locked in the most grotesque tactical wrestling match of all time. It was like watching 22 sumo wrestlers slapping their thighs and grabbing hold of each other in some ludicrous contest of highly charged physicality. What ensued was some bizarre sequence of shoving, pushing, jostling and the occasional glimpse of attacking structure and cohesion. None of Friday's participants though seemed to be showing any genuine desire or inclination to actually win the match. 

England were wearing an almost unrecognisable red, a new kit but the same old problems. On Friday Thomas Tuchel's England were almost hiding their trump card against the South Americans. At times this felt like England's shadow squad masquerading as their usual first team. At no point did England ever look a threatening and menacing team capable of scoring for fun. This was not the way Sir Alf Ramsey would have approached a game of this nature. He'd have discarded his wingers immediately and simply gone for broke on the break. 

The problem is that England's subs bench, which will probably take the field against Japan, may be all they have to leave their opposition guessing. Admittedly, the big boys of Declan Rice and company could provide much more of a lethal bite moving forward. But on Friday evening, the fans, who had probably come straight from the pub, must have been wishing that they'd have been in a drunken state before the game. This was not football as any of us would correctly define it as and surely far from intoxicating.

For long periods England lumbered forward over the half way line like a rusty old jalopy that is clearly not roadworthy. There were none of the connections or fluidities that would have made this game much easier to understand or appreciate. But the carburetor was creaking and no sign of the compatibility that England will almost certainly need come their opening World Cup group match against Serbia.

Certainly England will have nightmares about their opening World Cup group encounter against Morocco 40 years ago when Morocco just injected an anaesthetic into Sir Bobby Robson's England. Half way through the game the late and much loved Ray Wilkins had a rush of blood to the head when, in a fit of childish petulance, he threw the ball at the referee and was sent off. England would later come unstuck again when the Maradonna hand sent England packing and home against Argentina. 

Still, if England friendlies are to be taken seriously, then this may have been just a laboratory experiment that flared up in England's face. We are still baffled by the complete irrelevance of friendlies, sham exhibition matches which only trigger resentment and complete indifference.  In the end though England still shook hands with Uruguay and no egos were damaged as such. Maybe somebody will just allow the domestic season to just meander towards its thrilling end game.  

England fielded both Tino Livramento, Djed Spence, the struggling Spurs full back at the moment, the robustly dependable Harry Maguire with Chelsea's Fiyako Tomori shielding England's back four like one of the guards at Buckingham Palace. England were never ever disturbed or scared, nervous or in any way distraught because this was never that kind of a match. And so we were left to debate the pointless futility of this friendly. We are none the wiser and the match against Japan will just complicate the issue. 

Mystifyingly, Tuchel had picked a veteran Jordan Henderson at the centre of England's midfield and you can only assume that Tuchel was testing out his April Fools Day joke days before the event. Henderson now plies his trade at the grand old age of 35 and although a beacon light of composure and exemplary experience, this is not the way Tuchel should be approaching a World Cup with England. Henderson is still a calming influence and a steady barometer but he is not a match winner and, with the best will in the world, it is to be hoped that this is just a one off. 

James Garner, who is now providing David Moyes Everton with a splendid creativity and vision, made his England debut with a thought provoking and influential display to warm the cockles of all hearts. Garner was spraying passes to all points of the Wembley compass rather like a young Trevor Brooking or Tony Currie. Garner is far from being the midfield constant who could challenge the midfield dominance of a Brooking or Currie. But his name is James Garner and perhaps Hollywood may well come a calling one day. 

But with Phil Foden once again falling by the wayside for England and sparking no inspiration at all on Friday night, it was left to Dominic Solanke and Marcus Rashford to get England up and running. That they failed to create anything of any significance against Uruguay probably tells us everything we need to know about England at the moment. England, to their credit, were highly impressive in possession but kept bumping into light blue shirts rather like kids in dodgem cars at the local fair. 

With minutes though England did take the lead and for that we must be enormously grateful because had this game gone on for much longer in this vein, England fans would have been leaving their seats in their masses rather than just a simple trickle. But then England launched their last corner of their game and the ball was floated towards the far post. Amid utter pandemonium  and much pushing, shoving, jostling and pushing, the ball ended up right at the base of the post and Ben White, whose appearance had been the subject of so much pre match controversy, toe poked the ball over the line. 

Uruguay protested loudly and persistently but the goal was given. Uruguay, who surrounded the referee for a foul in the penalty area, were unrewarded. The South Americans had come as more than lightweight visitors who had just come down to London for a quick Selfie legacy of Buckingham Palace. It remains to be seen whether Federico Valverde can hold a candle to the late and great Juan Schiaffino or the immensely effective Luis Suarez of more recent times. But his firmly struck penalty as a result of  Ben White treading awkwardly on Uruguay feet, probably gave the game the right result. Honours even.    

England - Uruguay 60 years later.

 England - Uruguay, 60 years later. 

And so it was that 60 years ago that the England football team emerged from the old Wembley Stadium in their first and, sadly, only World Cup Finals on home soil. It was their greatest moment and their finest hour, that reference point in our lives when time stood still, frozen in posterity for ever more. Now there would be the most glorious coronation since a young, radiant Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth would make that memorable introduction speech before Sir Alf Ramsey's first game in the 1966 World Cup. It was just the loveliest of coincidences, an evening where royalty would come face to face with a football monarchy. 

In the tunnel before that first group match between England and Uruguay, the England players slowly made their way out of the tunnel and onto a sun kissed Wembley pitch, bathing in the glow of an early July evening. They were all ready and prepared and yet the electrifying atmosphere inside the ground would simply become too intimidating for words. But 1966 should have been perfectly designed for England because everybody was waiting and expecting. 

England were fighting fit and fine fettle but first night jitters would prove far too much to handle. Even Sir Alf Ramsey looked worried and deeply wary of one terrible anti climax. His worst fears were confirmed and England's opening group game against Uruguay finished in a sterile, dreadful goal- less draw. This was England's first tantalising glimpse of  South America's most expressive art gallery, football from the baroque and rococo era, football from the most educated finishing school. Or so we must have thought. This was more of a tactical wrestling match, though.

Four years later, Sir Alf Ramsey experienced the real article when the Brazil of Tostao, Gerson, Rivelino, Carlos Alberto and the incomparable Pele gave England its rudest awakening, a masterclass with the most impressionistic brushes. But in 1966, England were drawn in the same opening group including Uruguay, Portugal and France, a broad cross fertilisation of football's most thoughtful minds. It was a world summit of thinkers and studious footballing cultures and England had an unsettling bout of first night hiccups. 

Back in the tunnel, Jack Charlton, Roger Hunt, Bobby Charlton, skipper Bobby Moore, Martin Peters, Gordon Banks, Ray Wilson and Nobby Stiles were nervously bouncing their footballs repeatedly, nervously shading their eyes from the sinking evening sunshine. It had been reported in the weeks and months leading up to the World Cup Finals in England, that Sir Alf Ramsey had taken elocution lessons so unsure and self conscious had he become about his Dagenham East End accent. But Sir Alf had nothing to be ashamed itself at all because his team would do all the talking on the pitch. 

The universal language of football had been adopted and England were in their own back yard. But throughout their traumatic ordeal against Uruguay, England went no further than a series of bewildering cul de sacs before being turned back into their own half by a disciplined and well drilled Uruguayan side. The South Americans were well motivated for the occasion and knew exactly what was required of them. It had been a deeply frustrating evening but a mere blip on England's forward march to the World Cup Final against West Germany where a 4-2 victory ensured them immortality and legendary status. 

However, tomorrow night Thomas Tuchel's 2026 World Cup hopefuls will be hoping for rather more than panic attacks, fluffed lines but perhaps understandable anxieties. Once again England have qualified for another World Cup without a single blemish. Most of us though may well be lulled into a false sense of security because the limited and poor opposition that England have thus far encountered, may well be more of a hindrance than help. 

Then next week Japan visit Wembley Stadium in another odd if perhaps suitable choice considering the world class quality they may have to negotiate in USA, Canada and Mexico. Japan have made remarkable progress in international circles and while not really expected to upset England's apple cart , will still come with notable football credentials. Football in Japan is now a hugely marketable commodity and the Premier League is extensively shown in most of the bars, clubs and restaurants of this Oriental gem. 

But tomorrow we will think for a moment of that special period for English football. It was 1966 and the massive cultural revolution that spawned outlandish fashions can still be remembered with fond recollections by both the Kings Road and Carnaby Street set. England did win their only World Cup to date but were stopped in their tracks by a light blue shirted team who were determined to spoil the party on its first night. 

Uruguay had done what they had set out to achieve and their mission was promptly accomplished. As the white shirts of England trooped disconsolately away from the pitch 60 years ago, most of the nation could only have wondered what was going through the players minds that night. There can be no omens at all because football has never really done superstition. It is to be hoped that Thomas Tuchel will be reminded once again that you can leap off your seat with joy when the final whistle goes because poor Sir Alf Ramsey looked as if somebody had stolen his last fiver at the end of the 1966 World Cup Final. Oh England, England. We have faith in you and may football's purists be rewarded. 

Manchester City beat Arsenal in the Carabao Cup Final.

 Manchester City beat Arsenal in the Carabao Cup Final.

Just when you thought you'd seen everything it becomes patently obvious that you were wrong. Is it true that Manchester City, rather like a stately gold carriage, just move through the crowds like footballing royalty, occasionally acknowledging the cheerful waves lining the route? And yet the kings of Manchester up until last season, are still sitting on their regal throne and refuse to be deposed. It could hardly have gone any better for City and worse for Arsenal. 

Yesterday, Manchester City, still members of the Premier League's aristocracy, met their equally as highly esteemed lords of the manor Arsenal in the 2026 Carabao Cup Final. Although City are not quite the formidable force of old, their 2-0 victory over Arsenal at Wembley Stadium is still a superlative achievement.  This was supposed to be Arsenal's time but, for the moment at least, silverware still eludes them. But it can surely be only a matter of time before the Emirates stadium will be rocking and shaking with celebration and jubilation. The Premier League trophy is surely bound for North London and you feel sure Arsenal know this. 

And yet at Wembley the blue and red landscape had a rousing familiarity about it. But then you realised that you had been here before because both Arsenal and City had faced each other in the same competition at the same stage. In 2018 Kevin De Bruyne, a superbly gifted and wonderfully creative midfield technician, teamed up with Vincent Kompany to drive Arsenal into the ground with an even more convincing 3-0 victory. The game was virtually over before it had even started. 

Sadly, and maybe subconsciously for Arsenal, minds were pre-occupied with more important issues. There was a sense here that this was one distraction too many for the North London club. There can be little doubt that Arsenal are a side of rich substance, top flight breeding and possess an obvious air of classy refinement. They have won innumerable old First Division championships and Premier Leagues while barely breaking sweat at times and the unbeatable Invincibles season will be spoken about for years and years with an almost effusive admiration. And how they deserve every compliment since Arsenal are still standard bearers for some of the purest football seen in any football stadium.

Unfortunately though there are some critics who will insist that the Gunners have dragged the game back into some prehistoric dinosaur age. Their set pieces, including their corners, have been strongly condemned for appearing very bland and predictable. This is not of course a throwback to the utterly detestable, despicable and reprehensible style which Wimbledon once relied upon for their livelihood. Arsenal are far from being exponents of the long ball more a stunningly imaginative one touch football team to drool over and cherish.

But, apart from the first twenty minutes or so when the team from North London held the upper hand, Arsenal seemed to vanish from sight. The likes of Ben White, Piero Hincapie, Martin Zubimendi, Declan Rice and Gabriel were stifling Pep Guardiola's attacking cavaliers and throwing a huge red blanket over City's swaggering strollers. Arsenal were controlling without dominating possession, frequently engaging City in that inevitable chess match. Suddenly Arsenal's bishops, knights and pawns were invading Manchester City's queen and castle. It looked for all the world as if City would have been quite happy to concede defeat and that check mate might have become a harsh reality before half time. 

This though was very stodgy, cagey, cautious and circumspect football from both Arsenal and City. Arsenal seemed to be pinning City into the tightest of corners, trying desperately to overwhelm Pep's Manchester City with force of character and no little flair. And yet King Canute kept holding back the tide and City were resilient, charismatic and dogged. It was their day and nobody was about to snatch victory from their grasp. Pep Guardiola simply couldn't hold himself back. It was a trophy, another day and the perfect excuse for a hilarious dash down the touchline, arms in the air in much the way that Bob Stokoe had once galloped onto the old Wembley after Sunderland had won the FA Cup in 1973.

Deep into the second half though there was a cultured fluency about City's football, an effortless artistry in possession of the ball that became readily apparent. At times there was an arrogance about City and when one of their stylists decided to play keepy up with the ball, Guardiola's face turned to thunder. But it was now that the vastly experienced Bernardo Silva began to venture deep into the half and City gelled and clicked automatically. Rodri, surely one of the most elegant of all midfielders in the Premier League, stamped his almost poetic beauty on the game, controlling and regulating the temperature of the match with deliberate and measured passing. 

At times Rodri reminds you of why you became so besotted with the Beautiful Game. He was always composed, never rushed, authoritative and by far the most commanding influence on the afternoon. Occasionally he looked like one of those feudal landowners in the middle of the 19th century who would survey their empire with an air of entitlement and privilege. Rodri was superb and comfortable with a ball in the way that an artist that looks at his palette of colours and wishes that he too could be a Picasso. 

By now Matheus Nunes had combined forces with the silky skills of Ryan Cherki who always passed the ball with unerring accuracy and admirable maturity beyond his years. Antoine Semenyo was toying with the Arsenal defence unashamedly like a child with a rag doll and Jeremy Doku just unstoppable. Eventually Arsenal surrendered, crumbling under sustained City's relentless attacks. And so the breakthrough was achieved, a goal for City.  

A glorious diagonal crossfield ball from Rodri found Silva whose neat reverse pass led to Doku sweeping into space and his low cut back cross found City's very own homegrown product Nico O'Reilly who stooped to head home the simplest goal from close range. City were now just easy on the eye, ridiculously confident and simply opening up Arsenal like the peel of an orange. You did feel desperately sorry for Arsenal because what promised to be their afternoon to remember became like a punch to their metaphorical ribs.

Minutes later, City were varnishing and embroidering the game with their unique brand of tika taka, possession based football that left Arsenal giddy and dizzy. Jeremy Doku was tormenting Arsenal with a samba and salsa shaking of the hips. Doku was weaving in and out of Arsenal red shirts as if determined to inflict total humiliation. Doku it was who proved the central sparking plug on City's wing, turning and twisting his men, rolling his defenders as if he'd been executing the same movement since he was a kid. He now floated across the edge of Arsenal's penalty area before offloading to two more City shirts before another peach of a cross to City's new kid on the block O'Reilly who flicked his header into the net.

The game was up for Arsenal but they can now surely console themselves with the knowledge that they've much bigger targets on their mind. They will now surely wrap up the Premier League title by, quite possibly, just after Easter.  There can only be a psychological obstacle on their minds since City may feel they have too much ground to make up. Surely this time is the right one and Arsenal will prosper with considerable style. 

 Arsenal have been here over and over again during the last five seasons or so but the impression is that London will be bringing back the Premier League trophy back to the capital. Arsene Wenger, their most decorated of all managers, will have a special bottle of champagne ready and waiting in the kitchen and Mikel Arteta could finally get his just desserts. The Emirates await their triumphant heroes.  

Three days to go before the Spring Equinox.

 Three days to go before the Spring Equinox.

This Saturday we find ourselves in that blissful world of renewal, regeneration and the rebirth of a new season, a period of fertility, abundance, fresh beginnings and the first chapters of the Spring Equinox. At the moment the heavens are shining brightly, the skies as blue and upliftingly transparent for months to come and, if you close your eyes for long enough, it feels like the opening production of a spectacular West End musical destined to run for ages. It'll keep running and running and you'd like to think that today's early Spring warmth will continue to decorate our personal landscape with a broad canvas of hot sunshine.

And so across most of Britain and the rest of the world, the dedicated and conscientious farmers of society will be traipsing around their immaculate and orderly garden, before inspecting their groaning sheds complete with secateurs, spades, lawnmowers and several bags of manure and compost. Right at the back of your shed there may well be decaying newspapers, coffee stained mugs, old, rusty chairs and perhaps a transistor radio you may have forgotten all about. 

If you fancy your chances you may well be tempted to put all of your horticultural knowledge into practice because that grass is in urgent need of tender loving care. Those seeds have been planted in the ground carefully, lovingly and solicitously with maybe a spot of attention and cultivation of your land. You'll dig away at muddy grounds, clear away all of the twisted twigs and then set about the daunting task of injecting a new lease of life into those admittedly forlorn looking branches. 

At the moment the tulips and daffodils are about to be liberated and sent out into the world, achieving all of their heartfelt ambitions since winter may well have decided to forget all about them. Here in sunny North London, cherry and white blossom are set to come out to play. You can probably see them, cheerfully expressing their happiness and just delighted to be here. It is their time to present to the world a good old fashioned air of renaissance, feeling good about ourselves before bursting with optimism. You can't wait to just get out there for summer. 

And then there are your allotment sites, at the moment neglected during the winter but still ready for inspection and ready to yield the first crop of carrots, strawberries, tomatoes, potatoes, lettuces and cabbages. Britain is rightly proud of its green fingered expertise. We love to be out in the open, breathing  in the invigorating air with immense satisfaction and enormously privileged to be associated with the first saplings of the Spring earth. Then you can see the first signs, those tentative buds and petals of red and yellow roses, swaying one way and then dancing in the breeze against a background of gentle, whistling, whispering winds.  

On Saturday though it'll all reach its fruition. It'll be the first day of Spring although next week the clocks will go forward and the days will get longer and longer, brighter and brighter. The agricultural heartlands will be ready for action, tractors and combine harvesters preparing to spend all day, all evening and perhaps most of the night making sure that everything is as it always should be. 

Of course there will be bumper crops and the yellow sunflowers. You'll suddenly see row upon row of nature's finest harvest just waiting to be picked gleefully and yielding something quite extraordinary. And then you'll be reminded of those cultural events that have dominated the thoughts of humanity for as long as any of us can remember. In Britain, we'll be rubbing our hands with glee because we know what's coming next. 

In a couple of weeks time, the jockeys, horses and trainers will be patting the backs of  their noble animals and hoping that Grand National day at Aintree will represent the height of their careers. Ever since the 18th century, the Grand National has entertained millions of people with that familiar spectacle of horse and man in perfect harmony. Scattered across Aintree will be those monumental, if terrifying fences such as Beechers Brook and the Chair. Every year the Grand National welcomes its visitors with its yearly diet of excitement and anticipation. And then the gruelling stampede begins. 

The critics have always disapproved of the Grand National because they believe quite sincerely, that's it cruel and that some horses lose their lives and that it should be banned immediately on those grounds alone And yet during the 1970s Red Rum won the National with an almost regal grace and style and nobody complained then. 

There is of course the Boat Race, that celebrated testament to stamina and endurance. Every year the post and under graduates of Oxford and Cambridge university will stare across the rippling waters of the River Thames, before spotting the delightful bridges of Tower, Hammersmith and Putney. The ladies and gentlemen of the rowing world will take their seats in their boats, slapping each others backs inspirationally and then going for it. 

They plough through placid waters, oars chopping through the waves as if their lives depend on it. And then one of those highly academic universities, suitably enlightened about the world, will be driving hard towards the end of the Boat Race, powering their way forward to the finishing line. And then we'll let out gasps of astonishment because this is what England has always done best and will always do so.  It's England at its most reliable, England at its most indulgent and England observing its most traditional etiquette, always polite, never flustered but just getting it right. It's a couple of days before Spring and how we love the changing seasons and life.       

Hamilton- the musical

 Hamilton - the musical.

The critics loved it, adored every single second, minute and hour of it and then applauded thunderously because they'd seen something that would always live in their memory permanently. How does the West End of London do it year after year? This hardly came as a surprise because once again a musical had caressed the discerning ears of a public who always know how to respond to a theatrical masterpiece. They stood and cheered themselves hoarsely whenever the vast repertoire of songs had finally rung out.

My lovely wife Bev and I had acknowledged the superlative magnificence of Hamilton- the musical that transported us back to a time when all of the social issues that had so dramatically affected America in its dim and distant past had now been adapted to the big West End stage. And so it was that Hamilton broke into song and kept singing and singing, rhapsodising and rhapsodising, belting out those classic numbers in quite the most remarkable homage to one Alexander Hamilton. Had you heard of him? No, nor had we.

There was a tempestuous period in American history when everything seemed to kick off, when men were men and women were women. These were formative and learning years for America, a young country  still learning the political ropes. One man though broke all boundaries and spoke out on the country's behalf,  patriotic as the Stars and Stripes and a determined man, a man of firm resolution and steadfast principles. 

When the American Civil War or the Revolutionary War broke out, Hamilton stepped forward into the limelight and delivered some of the finest speeches about slavery and its abolition. He was almost putting his name forward onto the dangerous parapet of American politics. Hamilton was the leader without a single flaw or blemish in his character who praised America to the skies, arguing fiercely for its independence, reminding a violently racist America that he was still there for them, on their side. 

And so he took his pride to the highest authorities and continued to bluster his positive and favourable rhetoric. There was a time when the America of the 1960s once banned a black woman from travelling on a bus. Rosa Parks though beat the system and united all races, classes and backgrounds. She sat at the back of a bus and refused to budge, defiant and intransigent, sitting there unmoved and demanding the right to be considered an equal. The repulsive smell of racism and segregation had now stunk the place out but Hamilton stood his ground in forthright fashion and took on the Establishment. 

Hamilton - the musical was a fabulous West End musical with a brilliant variation on a theme and the kind of music that was both refreshingly innovative, a dazzling exhibition of dancing, singing and just performing with a glorious abandon and foot loose, fancy free choreography. It was a stirring, immensely gratifying and rousing show full of music that just sent a joyful tingle down your spine. It had everything that you'd expect in a West End musical; exhilarating entertainment on another level. 

But Hamilton was quite literally a musical, a vast homage to hip hop, blues, jazz and rap. There were moments when the inclusion of the extraordinary Bob Marley would not have seemed out of place. The whole of Hamilton was like a huge tableau of riffing, rapping, free word association with rap poetry that left you stunned and drooling with overflowing admiration. The story of Hamilton was straightforward and  fluently executed. We were not disappointed and we just delighted in the expression of the West End theatrical spirit. 

Hamilton was one of the first central characters who believed forcefully that slavery in America was a disgrace, a tale of blatant exploitation. Alexander Hamilton was the Treasury Secretary campaigning on behalf of those who were oppressed, repressed and discriminated against for ages. Hamilton joined forces with Thomas Jefferson, the President of the USA in their collective attempt to turn the tide in the Revolutionary War which was tearing America apart.

But Chris Jackson as George Washington, Lin Manuel Miranda as Alexander Hamilton, Jonathan Goff as a camp and effeminate King George, Daveed Diggs as the Marquis de Lafayette and Jasmine Cephas Jones as Peggy Schufler all combined in one fantastic song and dance production, a classical collaboration of most genres of music that just kept the electric momentum going until the final curtain. 

Here were men dressed in the traditional military clothes of the American Civil War while the ladies wore the bustle and rich fabric of billowing skirts that reminded you of a time when everything and everybody was dignified and decorous. Then the action unfolded on stage with performances of immaculate timing, magical lyrics that were right up to date, every word rhyming wondrously and admirably.

There were astonishingly imaginative numbers, rap compositions that felt as if you were listening to one of your Open Mic sessions where the local rap poets poured out Caribbean words of wisdom, every word perfectly measured and balanced, beautifully modulated words that had slang, rhyming couplets and magnificent showmanship. For a minute you could have been on a paradisial beach in Barbados where the rum was flowing and the coconut juices were available in plentiful supply. 

And so the show reached its memorable climax. Hamilton is shot dead, the whole cast gathering around the deceased body now lying prostrate on the ground. There were tears and emotions, raw grief felt painfully and a sense that a generation had passed sadly into history. So treat yourself to another warm, feelgood musical and let the rest of your family and friends know as well. If you have seen Hamilton then you extend your heartfelt congratulations.