England labour to World Cup victory against Democratic Republic of Congo.

 England labour to World Cup victory against Democratic Republic of Congo.

This was never likely to be an easy watch for the thousands of England fans who had flown to the the USA for an expedition they must have assumed would be plain sailing. But this was painful, unsightly, unseemly, a gauche, twisted, distorted and, ultimately disjointed mess of a performance in their round of 16 World Cup match against the Democratic Republic of Congo. In fact, by the end of the game England must have been craving a visit to Hollywood, Los Angeles, California anything to numb the discomfort of this awful charade of a match for Thomas Tuchel's hearty, battle hardened warriors. 

Now in theory, England should have fully recovered from the fiasco that was Ghana when nothing happened of any significance, everything seemed to get stuck in a rut and much was lost in the translation. You could hardly blame the weather or the sweltering heat of good old USA because this vast network of the global population weren't complaining so why should England air their grievances when nobody else is. 

England's goal-less draw against Ghana was simply an exercise in futility, a match going nowhere and lacking in any semblance of direction or purpose. Somehow you begin to wonder whether even England know where they're going since none of us can really get a handle as to why they continue to struggle after their opening group match in any World Cup. Perhaps somebody turned off the electricity that everybody must have felt pulsing through England when Croatia were swotted away almost dismissively. And even then it looked like a labour of love. 

And so we thank our lucky stars that the DR Congo finally wilted and buckled in the sweltering heat of Atlanta. For much of the game there was a nimble footed athleticism and sensual suppleness about their passing that occasionally reminded you of a Brazil, Germany, France, Spain or Argentina. This may be a gross exaggeration but then England were heading towards the exit door of this World Cup, as Congo bravely held onto a slender lead with just over a quarter of an hour left. England, though, did redeem themselves and got out of jail. So they found the keys to escape incarceration and England were saved by the bell. 

So here we are and the story so far is a progress in work. Against Croatia, England were adventurous, fearless, uninhibited, carefree, expansive and always on the front foot. Although they were hauled back to reality after taking the lead when Croatia were quite clearly not looking, sloppiness and defensive negligence brought the game level at 2-2. By now Harry Kane had found his coat of many colours and suddenly re-captured the devastating goal scoring form that Bayern Munich supporters are now revelling in. 

By the time Brian Cipenga had opened up a corridor of space on the far side of England's gaping and exposed defence, Congo must have thought this would be the perfect opportunity to dance the conga. Cipenga rifled home the opening goal for Congo and that was the ultimate warning. When England were simply day dreaming their way through their sterile encounter with Ghana, most of us were beginning to think they had fallen down a metaphorical hole and were trapped in their own tedium. At one point England were reduced to just looking around at themselves in a bewildered trance, locked in chains and just staggering around in a drunken stupor. 

Sometimes England just love to make life so unnecessarily complicated for themselves. Ghana were no push overs admittedly but international football has now proved  to be a much more level playing ground. There are no minnows, tiddlers or mediocrities in world football. But Ghana did seem intent on throwing a stifling blanket over their defence, erecting a huge fortress across their penalty area and then admiring the turrets and portcullis in front of them. They nullified and cancelled out everything England had to offer and were still congratulating themselves quite proudly when the final whistle went. 

But Thomas Tuchel's side once again showed a backbone and resilience that did seem to get stronger with every passing minute. Worryingly, though, it seemed to take ages before the realisation hit them that this was no walk in any park. There was something stodgy, tepid and lukewarm about England, like men trudging through treacle. Their reluctance to move at anything like the speed and accuracy required for a World Cup match against Congo, was embarrassing in the extreme. And so the game moved forward at almost walking pace, pass after pass circulating around the width and length of a pitch at a snail's pace. England were simply clueless and that was distressing. 

At the back Marc Guehi, Ezri Konsa, Djed Spence and Nico O'Reilly were forming clear lines of communication and understanding with each other. It did look as though the fashionable presses were being negotiated and all looked on the same page as each other. Mind you, there were one or two smudges in the margins and occasionally it all all looked slightly cumbersome and clumsy. Spence and O' Reilly are maturing quickly at the highest echelons of football but they can be caught out and their positional sense looked as if it needed a compass to help them out. 

Towards the end of the game though England began to get their act together. Their movements had a much more visible stamp of class and assurance. Elliott Anderson, who has now moved to Manchester City, comfortably shunted the ball progressively in between tangles of legs, passing with a smoothness and dainty delicacy that was truly uplifting. Declan Rice now looks an established fixture in the England side and once again he carried the ball into the opposing half as if he'd been doing the same thing for most of his career. Rice is versatility personified, always available in possession and rarely loses the ball. Football comes naturally to him. 

On the flanks Noni Madueke, also for Arsenal, tricked and flicked the ball inside and out of retreating defenders, swaying one way and then another. When Jude Bellingham, Harry Kane and Marcus Rashford were desperately trying to build a successful relationship with each other up front, it was never the one we thought it would be. Bellingham was hugely impressive while Kane looked disturbingly leggy and Rashford still retains the potential to explode from the starting blocks, running menacingly at defenders who think they've just seen a cheetah flying past them. 

Finally, persistent pressure did take its toll on Congo. With minutes to go, the introduction of Anthony Gordon preyed on Congo's nerves. Gordon now became a force of nature. Stationing himself on the wing, Barcelona's new winger and flier, picked up the ball on the edge of the opposition penalty area, sneaked covertly into space before checking back onto his favourite crossing feet.

Gordon chipped a delicious low cross to Kane and the Bayern Munich thrust his neck muscles and headed the ball almost effortlessly past Lionel Mpasi, the DR Congo goalkeeper who heroically stopped and flung his body in the way of everything England could throw at him. Mpasi was simply magnificent but then it all unravelled for the Congo goalkeeper. England were now firmly in the ascendancy. 

In the game's dying embers, England went again for the umpteenth time. After a series of seductive close passing cameos, England scored the decisive winner. A quick passage of short passes around the Congo defence culminated eventually in Kane doing what most would now regard as second nature. He swivelled around his defender in the tightest of spaces, jockeying for position before spinning around and fiercely ramming the ball past Mpasi. The goal billowed in the Congo net and England were through. How simple was that. 

National Multiculturalism Day

 National Multiculturalism Day. 

So here's the way it should be but at frequent periods throughout the decades, this has never really been the case. Humanity, at times, has often found it almost impossible to get on with each other, always fighting, battling, arguing, waging war with almost horrendous regularity and then leaving nothing but death, destruction and carnage in its wake. What is it about the human race that the cultures and religions of the world find it so difficult to find common ground? So we just blame each other. And that's that. 

Today, National Multiculturalism Day should be a vigorous celebration of contented communities, peace and harmony at its richest, linking arms and hands across the globe. We should have nothing but the utmost respect for the African, Asian, Jewish, Greek, Italian, Spanish, Danish and all of those vitally important islands, dominions, states, suburbs, villages, towns and cities that comprise the whole landscape of our precious universe. 

It seems appropriate that the Sabbath should be one of the most powerful expressions of gratitude for what we have. As a proud Jew, this is a day for quiet reflection, counting our blessings and praying for a good and healthy life which perhaps we take for granted. And yet Shabbat is our conference table, the gathering place for families, friends, loved ones, mums, dads, cousins, aunties and those who you adore. Children and grandchildren are the people who we embrace with unashamed tenderness, feeling, heart and soul.

But surely National Multiculturalism Day should be much more about identity and eating the indigenous foods we've always feasted on during our childhood days. The vast numbers of international restaurants available on the high street can often be too mouth watering for words. For instance Indian foods have always whetted ravenous appetites, with their hot spicy food such as onion bhajis, nan bread, plenty of chicken tika masala, rice by the paddy field, chicken korma, curry in hugely impressive varieties and so much more. 

This is the day we should be putting aside all of our differences and animosities, burying the hatchet, dancing the day away, wearing the most strikingly colourful costumes, completely abandoning grudges and resentments that may have been simmering under the surface. The summer music festival is a classic case in point. Here is the perfect platform for friendship, a mutual liking and appreciation of who we are rather than others would like us to be. 

In a world riven by strife, hardship, squalor and terrible poverty, today would seem the ideal day for just sharing an amusing story, a whimsical anecdote about your milkman or postman who just wants to be a brief friend on your doorstep. Summer revelries are now upon us and wherever you are in the world, there is always room for a Retro music festival, a glorious array of singers and bands from the 1970s and 80s who converge on regional parks and remind us of who we were and still are. 

And yet more often than not, we fall out with each other because your a Catholic and your neighbours with the vivid lace curtains are Protestant. At the height of the Troubles in Northern Ireland, when the IRA were bombing and killing each other with a daily savagery, it may have seemed an impossible task to find an effective solution that would bring the war to an end. And yet it did eventually. At the end of the 1990s, Tony Blair's Labour government, in collaboration with Mo Mowlam's heroic bravado, found a peaceful and permanent truce that was the Good Friday agreement. 

Now of course Ireland, although still divided at times, can still play Gaelic football and hurling with nothing more than simple friendship and a wonderful sense of reconciliation in the air. Life should be all about exchanging pleasantries, playing cricket during the summer together and then playing neat, concise football and hockey. Now more than ever, the Notting Hill Carnival in London should still be about beating out the Caribbean rhythms on steel drums, devouring jerk chicken and blasting out strident ska and reggae on those distinctive ghetto blasters. 

And then there are those wonderfully lavish Greek and Jewish weddings where the bride and bridegrooms spend most of their special evenings either lifting the bridegrooms up to the ceiling on a chair or planting money on the bride or bridegroom. It is the music that leaves us totally reinvigorated, the songs that we've sung since childhood, the hymns we've chanted since time immemorial in churches, shuls(synagogues) and the solemn prayers and blessings that have wafted out resonantly from mosques.

More so than ever before, football's Premier League has embraced Brazilians, Argentinians, Mexicans, Nigerians, South Africa, Italy, Spain, Senegal, Central Africa, France, Germany, Ukraine and a kaleidoscopic variety of touch players, flamboyant individuals with a touch of genius about them and then a collection of the eccentric and unpredictable who light up the game like the Blackpool illuminations.

We always think of a society that promotes multiculturalism as one that is totally inclusive, tolerant and compassionate to their fellow man or woman. It is a society that never looks down on the colour of skin  always abhorring any kind of bigotry and prejudice. Maybe the raging war between Russia and Ukraine will remain unabated and just rumble on until common sense does, one day, prevail.

But surely as humans we owe it to future generations that multiculturalism does have a vitally important role to play in the future. Oh and we mustn't forget about those beautiful Chinese lanterns in London's West End, its special fried and egg fried rice and noodles and those charming Chinese New Year's dances with dragons and lions. Multiculturalism is, undoubtedly an enduring force for good.  

Goal-less draw between England and Ghana in World Cup group match

 Goal-less draw between England and Ghana in World Cup group match.

This really is becoming a case of history of repeating itself. Four years ago in the World Cup of Qatar in 2022, England simply demolished Iran in their opening qualifying match 6-2. Then, ironically, in their next game, the Stars and Stripes of the USA frustrated and denied Gareth Southgate's England so annoyingly and yet so predictably that maybe England should have known better. It was like a stern reprimand, a warning to the rest of the world that England should really stop being so arrogant, presumptuous and insular. 

And yet four years later, after the most mental and cultural metamorphosis under Southgate, England eventually reached their now customary quarter final summit and went much further into the tournament than any of us had a right to expect. They're England, flaky, vulnerable, gullible and impressionable. They'll never achieve anything. Now they did lose to France in the last eight but England's musty old mindset had undergone a revolutionary reset. Attitudes had changed on a much more commendable scale. England had finally come of age, a team who, according to Southgate had to believe they could win the World Cup. 

But after a rousing and exhilarating 4-2 victory over Croatia in their World Cup group opener, last night felt like a flat pancake or the demoralising burst of a balloon. Something was clearly missing. It almost felt as if the laboratory experiment which had worked out so well had now gone up in flames with the wrong kind of sodium. There was a quiet confidence about the national side which had permeated so easily into Thomas Tuchel's fit and sprightly squad. You could have been forgiven for thinking that this would be the most leisurely stroll in the park. But then again we somehow knew it wouldn't be the case. 

And then Ghana moved onto centre stage, everybody simply expected and that proved England's almost regulation downfall. Never assume anything because if you do, you may regret it permanently and that's how much it pretty well panned out for England. Ghana had already earned a 1-1 draw at Wembley fairly recently and were no pushovers but this was an exercise in tedium and stultifying anti climax. England had pressed the slow button on last night's proceedings and by the end, they were almost stationary.

In fact so sluggish, lifeless and lethargic had England become, that it was rather like watching a Strauss stately waltz without the chandeliers and mirrors. England crawled, shuffled and inched their way into the Ghana half like an exotic tortoise almost reluctant to move. We are now at a stage of England's development where only baby steps in their evolution really count for anything. And yet England were painstakingly static, much too patient at times and lumberingly laborious. 

Last night reminded you of some excruciatingly boring BBC Test Card. At times England were perhaps too respectful of the opposition and never really the ruthless attacking machine most of us were hoping for. This was no Boston tea party and besides, that was ancient history and this was a World Cup football tournament rather than a celebration of American independence. England had forgotten all about the co-ordinated passing movements and the clarity of thinking that had so characterised their convincing win against Croatia.

England eventually came to life in the second half against Croatia after an eventful four goals in the first half. There were though one or two loose bolts and nails at the heart of a creaky England defence which shipped two Croatia equalisers and turned most of the England fans into nervous wrecks. In the second half,  Tuchel's loud rocket in the dressing room electrified England into life.  But a gorgeous run and goal from Jude Bellingham, two Harry Kane's specials from the penalty spot and the most ferocious header from a corner lit up Boston like a Las Vegas gambling casino. 

Sadly though there was nothing to savour from the national side. England were jittery, nervous, luring Ghana into a cul de sac only to find themselves trapped in a dark room. Ghana had erected the most impenetrable fortress and there was nowhere for England to go. The gates were firmly locked and it almost felt as if a vast net had imprisoned England's attack. The yellow Ghanian brick wall was a model of stubbornness, the most perfect example of high security and iron clad solidity. They were not budging though and, with an hour gone, England were throwing more than the traditional kitchen sinks at Ghana.

At the back, both Reece James, Ezri Konsa, Marc Guehi and Djed Spence were venturing forward with neat and attractive designer football, football of the highest culture. But in front of them Declan Rice was always mobile and far sighted with inventive short passes into space, always aware of any hint of danger. Rice seemed to be pacing himself with an air of measured restraint. Rice and Elliott Anderson of Nottingham Forest formed the most compatible partnership, floating around the midfield areas with perfect serenity. And then the magical and spontaneous Jude Bellingham began to turn around the Ghanian defence like a spinning top. 

Charging down the flanks was the tricky, mischievous Arsenal schemer Noni Madueke, twisting, teasing, making a mockery of his defensive counterpart. But this wasn't going to according to plan. The closest England came to scoring was a Nico O'Reilly header that pinged off the bar. Kane then shot wildly over from close range late on but that was through no fault of his own. England had exhausted all conceivable options and it all flopped and fizzled out rather lamely. 

But no immediate harm had done to England's prospects. They are still in the driving seat in their group with four points. Barring the most calamitous collapse against Panama, England looked set fair to progress into the knock out stages of the World Cup. So far so good although perhaps a victory may have made for more pleasant viewing last night. England will now move deep into the World Cup make or break stages and the rest is anybody's guess. 

And then the camera panned to Sir David Beckham, the architect of so many rococo free kicks with a nod to the baroque. Beckham was in the crowd last night and suddenly the mind reeled back to that dramatic last gasp free kick winner against Greece which ensured England a World Cup place in 2002. We tried to forget the petulant Beckham kick out against Argentina's Diego Simeone, a nasty blot on an otherwise unblemished, illustrious career. 

Above all it is now time to look forward to England's final group game against Panama. At the moment England have now been branded as a side who need to take a reality check. If you haven't that tiresome cliche once you may never want to hear it again. Still, it's steady as she goes. 

Political madness

 Political madness

And so the fairground that is British politics just kept spinning around before screaming, swooping, whooping and yelling at the top of their voices. At the heart of Westminster, an emotional roller coaster continues to defy belief and gravity. There was a point yesterday when everything felt sickeningly chaotic, the feeling you normally get when you've had too much to eat and drink. Of course it was both comical and  amusing because this is what usually happens when sheer incompetence meets dramatic absurdity. 

Yesterday morning the current UK Prime Minister quit, fell on the proverbial sword, resigned post haste, sheepishly moved out of 10 Downing Street and the world expressed yet more astonishment, blown away by the frightening speed of events and simply trying to make sense of what was taking place. Here we go again. Sir Keir Starmer announced that now familiar statement to the country. He couldn't take any more, he had now been pushed to the brink and the pressure had now become unbearable. So he had to go whether he liked it or not. 

Sometimes that whole complex political machinery just keeps breaking down, malfunctioning and conking out. Now for the umpteenth time, possibly the fifth or sixth Prime Minister in five years or even more have come and gone according to however you calculate the figures. But now we're faced with yet another crisis, utter confusion, flummoxed flux and turmoil. Not for the first time Britain has become the laughing stock of the rest of the world because the Punch and Judy show is back in town and the critics are having a field day. 

Once again, that end of pier seaside act is delivering its customary jokes, laughs and pranks in a way that has now become traditional within those fiercely confrontational corridors and lobbies at Westminster. The custard pies are landing in exactly the right place, the acrobats and jugglers are having the time of their lives and the clowns are just squeezing red noses as if this was the kind of behaviour that came naturally to them. So where are we now?  We could be in the middle of the kind of political warfare from which we may never emerge unscathed because we keep relying on them and voting for them.

And once again the great British public can now breathe out in sheer relief again. Democracy has spoken again because nobody likes Sir Keir Starmer anymore. We know this is cruel and heartless, perhaps terribly unfair and it could be a travesty of justice. Besides, Starmer is a man of integrity and principle, decent and honourable, an exemplary family man, a charitable do gooder. He supports Arsenal with admirable loyalty and will remain, essentially, unfailingly kind and generous and never short of a joke or a wisecrack. 

But after only  two years or so or even less, the British Prime Minister has now become vilified, hated, even despised by some of his own backbenchers and fellow Cabinet ministers. After all those encouraging early signs of promise in those first weeks as PM, the novelty value has alarmingly worn off completely and suddenly that pantomime villain is being booed and hissed with ferocious disapproval. The Labour party entered 10, Downing Street with a comprehensive thumping, landslide victory at the polls. Soon though the lustre lost its shine and the vultures descended. 

Now those same vultures are tearing out the remnants of a bloody carcass and eating the leftovers. Yesterday morning he did what a whole succession of British Prime Ministers always do when their time is up. He walked up to that wooden lectern outside Number 10, stood steadfastly and with enormous dignity. It was time to go to King Charles the Third and inform His Majesty that, with the heaviest heart that he could no longer carry out the duties of his exalted office. It was time to embark on his life story memoir adventure and a lucrative career in after dinner speaking. 

Starmer was quietly philosophical and wishing he could be on a holiday beach in any part of the world. He'd suffered all the aggro, aggravation and hassle that normally come with a Prime Minister job description. For the last couple of weeks or so, this was an accident waiting to happen, a man under a siege mentality, disappearing off the political map and rapidly heading towards a metaphorical railway station called obscurity.

He was gone, out of the exit door and yesterday's chip paper. Goodbye Sir. It was nice to know you but for all his academic excellence and a successful career as an eminent lawyer, Starmer couldn't cope with those mammoth tasks at the top of the political ladder and it was all too much. So he succumbed to the inevitable, those angry, furious, dissenting voices within his Cabinet. For a while it was a satisfying look and, quite pleasant at times because his interventions at the height of the Middle East War did leave us with a warm glow in our hearts.  Starmer was a pacifist, the most influential of all diplomats and he did know how to deal with the remarkably opinionated Donald Trump.

And yet we still remember the stringent cutbacks on the winter fuel allowance whereby thousands of old age pensioners rose up in arms and complained with some justification. Then there were the shady negotiations behind the scenes where Starmer's lack of charisma led to accusations that he just wasn't getting it right. Somehow, his decisions were falling on stony ground. It all seemed highly suspicious and certainly not above board or so it seemed. You can never do any right in the eyes of the great British public because eventually you'll be rumbled regardless of your suitability for the job and general prowess. And so this led to Starmer's downfall. 

This morning Britain is back where it was before, dare you say it, Boris Johnson. There was, though, none of that old Etonian tomfoolery or those very intellectual Latin references. When Johnson left 10 Downing Street very few knew whether to laugh or cry. Liz Truss, his successor, embarrassingly exited the same address after almost bankrupting the country with total ineptitude and economic mismanagement of the country's finances that beggared belief. Truss vanished without trace although she was last seen dabbling in the rarefied world of podcasting. 

Truss left by the back door after only 45 days and then finally there was Rishi Sunak who lost favour with the country because there was something of the computer swot about him and as somebody with a prominent role in merchant banking, the figures were all wrong and all of  the miscalculations were reckless in the extreme. Something had to turn up right and we thought it had. But clearly we were taken in by all the hype and hysteria.

Two years ago the Labour party came to power, forming the latest Government. Party grandees had romantic visions of another Tony Blair charging into 10 Downing Street on a beautiful white horse. But then Sir Keir Starmer was appointed Prime Minister and from that point onwards, the country engaged in the kind of character assassination that most of us thought we'd left behind us when Boris Johnson was in charge of the country. Sadly, Johnson fought valiantly to stop the rot but only experienced damage limitation.

And then there is Andy Burnham. Burnham looks a picture of assurance, modesty, feisty resolution and quiet confidence. Burnham sounded like a man who knew exactly what was going through the minds of the British public. He was convinced that the whole political system in Britain had failed everybody miserably and he was determined to revolutionise the whole of the country with dramatic changes and accountability on every level within the House of Commons. According to Burnham we've all been sold short by politicians and  everything they represent on both a national and local scale. 

The next couple of months could well be seen as vitally important in the country's future. Suddenly, the mainstream parties of the Conservatives, Labour and Lib Dems have now become increasingly marginalised by the new kids on the block. The Reform UK party, under the blunt and very masculine leadership of Nigel Farage are also competing against the seemingly dangerous Green Party under Zak Polansky, both parties with disturbing hidden agendas.

But for now at least Andy Burnham is officially a serving Westminster based politician travelling directly back to a seat in the House of Commons. His halcyon years as Mayor of Manchester are now consigned to history and Burnham must back himself in the forthcoming leadership battle. In a small corner of the country, there will be a heartfelt outpouring of sympathy and compassion for a man who just wanted to make a difference as Prime Minister. We will be thinking of Sir Keir Starmer but we will also be hoping for some semblance of continuity and stability because, at this rate, Starmer will not be the last victim of circumstances.        

England are up and running.

 England open up with a convincing World Cup match against Croatia.

So England are up and running and judging by their highly impressive 4-2 victory against Croatia in their opening group match, it does feel like that the American and Central American adventure is destined to go the full distance or maybe we should err on the side of caution. We know what we're going to get from the England football team because the preliminary group stages of any World Cup can often provide us with the most painful headache of them all.

England love to qualify for the World Cup but then it all seems to go horribly wrong, the darkest shade of them all. Perhaps we should approach World Cups from a different angle. Expectations dissolve and then disappear and a grotesque air of anti climax sets in with a vengeance. England have never done things the easy way because that would be far too logical and straightforward. So we bury our heads, clutch at thick clumps of hair, blow out our frustrations and thwarted hopes and just forget about international football for as long as possible. 

The trouble is that we are now fully conditioned and hardened to t England's almost farcical acceptance of the status quo. If defeat on opening night seems a way of life for England, then perhaps their unswervingly loyal Barmy Army should just expect nothing less. But against Croatia, those standard patterns of behaviour have now changed quite dramatically. Suddenly England are winners and it all feels as if the tone has been set, the signs are much more positive and, for the time being, it's onwards and upwards. 

The trajectory for this edition of the World Cup was, as has always been the way in recent years, smooth, completely stress free and undemanding. Sometimes the delusions of grandeur that always seem to accompany England teams to the World Cup are much more of a liability than they should be. But for Thomas Tuchel, their upbeat and cheerful boss, this is the perfect project, the most realistic of ambitions. It looks as if England are fully prepared, beautifully balanced, aware of their deficiencies and shortcomings, just reading from the right script.

During the first 20 and 25 minutes England looked groggy, wobbly, unsure of themselves, nervous and tentative on the ball and hiding in the shadows of their uncertainty. There was a sense of terror and trepidation about England that could only be described as deeply worrying. Maybe they were acutely aware of the fact that thousands of St George's flags were waving forlornly and not having the desired effect. But surely England have had enough of this practice only to find a huge psychological barrier in front of them. 

And so it was in the oil rich fields of Texas and Dallas, England struck gold. Deep in the heart of debonair Dallas, there was always an air of a billion dollar prosperity that has to be seen to be believed. Not that far away, you could probably see the ghosts of the past drifting through naturally pessimistic English minds. In the Wild West saloons of cowboy country, Dallas seemed a gloriously improbable setting for a game of English soccer but then JR Ewing would have probably giggled his head off if somebody had presented Tuchel with a baseball shirt and ball. But they did and nobody cared.

In recent years the World Cup has flaunted its most colourful scenery. From the historic majesty of Russia's onion shaped Kremlin, to the charming amiability of South Africa, the World Cup's direction of travel has taken us to places that some of us could hardly have imagined possible. But from the dusty deserts and often ugly immorality of Qatar four years ago, the World Cup has now come to the USA, Mexico and Canada and the air of glamour, showbiz superficiality at times and then polished professionalism is undeniable. 

And yet for England this was very much business as usual. This was the confident England who had once swotted aside Tunisia in their opening group match in France 1998. Certainly for much of the second half England were decisive and incisive, wound up and animated, reinvigorated and rejuvenated, hungry for goals, direct and purposeful while never losing sight of the passing game that has now been their characteristic imprint under Tuchel. 

With the likes of Reece James, a marvellously assured defender for Chelsea, John Stones, oozing command and composure as a now seasoned centre half and Manchester City's Nico O' Reilly emerging and maturing at a most encouraging speed, England's back four is holding fast and, at times, looks firmly impregnable. Both Declan Rice and Elliot Anderson were gliding around and  floating at the base of England's wonderfully rotational defence as if they'd been programmed with a disciplined efficiency. 

Suddenly, there was a distinctively sharp mood shift within England's first half attacking approach. The captain Harry Kane, Barcelona's patient and now destructively penetrative winger Anthony Gordon and the exceptional Jude Bellingham, were gelling harmoniously and brilliantly. Where for a while there was a sluggish listlessness and battle fatigue about England, now there was a genuine desire to score with every single attack. 

Ten minutes into the game and England were in front with a goal that had to be replayed in case somebody might have missed it. Noni Madueke, showing immense promise and a lightning turn of pace on the flanks, drove into the Croatia penalty area with gratifying purpose. Now the veteran Luka Modric, for whom this has to be his last World Cup, tripped Madueke in the penalty area. The referee pointed to the spot immediately. 

Harry Kane stepped up to take the penalty area, stuttered inexplicably and his shot bounced off the keeper's chest. The penalty kick had to be retaken because of a moving goalkeeper on the line and encroaching Croatian players. This time Kane was not hesitant and steered the ball high into the net for England's opening goal. From that point onwards the floodgates seemed to gush forth and England constructed movement after movement. 

And yet Croatia are never to be lightly dismissed and written off at any point. In the Russian World Cup of 2018, Modric was at his most superlative and sumptuous, as England were overwhelmed in the semi final. Now though Croatia were back in contention with the best they could offer. Another inventive attack culminated with Martin Baturria following on with a nod of the ball into his path and Baturria thrashing the ball powerfully into the net. Jordan Pickford, England's goalkeeper could only look on helplessly. 

Then something quite remarkable seemed to happen. From another Declan Rice corner, the ball was swung invitingly to the back of the Croatia penalty box. Now lurking in complete isolation, criminally unmarked was Harry Kane. Kane, in the centre of the penalty area, must have thought all his birthdays had come at once. Kane was left with free rein thundering his header mercilessly into the net. Croatia were visibly deflated and never the same, their resilience now gone and nowhere to be seen.

But just before half time Croatia struck back once again. Breaking menacingly at England's now shaky and deeply retreating defence, they reached into their repertoire. Petar Mesa grasped his opportunity and a half that contained four goals would seemingly be too good to be true. The second half though began with yet another early England firework that the Croatian thought they'd dampened. The creative genius of Jude Bellingham was once again at its wondrous best.

The Real Madrid playmaker carved a magnificent pathway into the heart of the Croatian back four. Bellingham just kept going and going until the position was just right. Bellingham, carrying the ball for seemingly ages, went toe to toe with his defender before pulling the trigger and firing his shot wide and deep into the corner of the net. England had regained the initiative again and everything looked rosy in the garden for the Three Lions. 

Croatia had now exhausted themselves of all feasible options. England were in cruise control, prodding and probing with short, succinct cameos of passing perfection. By now Croatia were puffing and panting, worthy and well intentioned but never a force for good. With minutes to go, England picked up the ball for the umpteenth time. England were stampeding forward almost at will and after another clinical, forceful break, the ball travelled rapidly and efficiently between several England feet. The ball was ultimately moved across a hapless Croatian back four and one pass found Marcus Rashford. Rashford tucked back onto his favourite foot and the Barcelona striker curved the ball around the keeper with a typical poacher's goal. It was 4-2 to England and we'd heard that scoreline before. 

And so England meet Ghana in Boston on Tuesday comforted by the knowledge that their first litmus test had been an outstanding success. This is for real and there are no more dress rehearsals. It is hard to form any judgment when England reach any World Cup. Form can often be misleading but against Croatia there was a feeling of accomplishment, a palpable sense of job done, three steps forward rather than back. By the time England face Panama, England could well be looking ahead to even brighter horizons. We must hope so.   

   

Andy Burnham- the next Prime Minister?

 Andy Burnham - the next Prime Minister?

It's all turning rather ugly and unseemly at the top of the political hierarchy. This is not a good nor is it an edifying watch. You can look away if you like because things are so unsavoury and unpleasant in the British government's highest circles that it may be advisable to switch off your TVs or screens now. It started a couple of weeks ago when the vultures were hovering around Westminster and the House of Commons began to resemble a bearpit where an explosion of discord and discontented rumblings could be heard as far away as Land's End or John O' Groats. London was a busy and eventful city once again. 

Meanwhile deep within the whispering corridors and lobbies of the House of Commons there was all manner of chaos and bedlam. Malicious rumours were circulating that were so rampant and toxic that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that there were evil spirits haunting the old building. Perhaps there were medieval executioners still in existence waiting for the right moment. The axe was about to fall on yet another Prime Minister and the smell of blood was ghastly. Surely not another fallen Prime Minister. 

But then again why not? We'd seen exactly the same film and read a similar novel on innumerable occasions. You know how it goes? You give a new Prime Minister the benefit of the doubt and then a year or two later down the line the whole deck of cards is sent toppling over and it's just a complete disaster. We've afforded this particular Prime Minister far too much time and leniency so for Sir Keir Starmer, it was time to pick up your P45, leave 10 Downing Street now and don't forget to feed Larry the Cat before you go. 

So here we go folks. It's showtime, that pivotal moment in a Prime Minister's tenure when the good folk of Britain turn against you, becoming totally fed up with you, exasperated beyond belief, boiling over with righteous indignation, fuming and furious, utterly incensed, beyond the point of forgiveness and steaming over with despair and disenchantment. And that was only yesterday. So Starmer comes out all guns blazing, the gloves are off and what else do you expect him to do? He's given it his best shot. But, clearly this is not good enough. 

There is a boredom threshold within British politics that means if the current Prime Minister hasn't instilled the feelgood factor within at least the first five minutes, they'd better think again because for Starmer's Labour party, this particular idea isn't working for anybody least of all the great British public. Being Prime Minister is officially the poisoned chalice and it won't get any better before it gets worse. This is becoming so comical and amusing that if it were to appear at the end of a seaside pier, you might want to give it a visit. 

And then a gentleman who used to be the Mayor of Manchester decided to throw his hat into the ring. He was rather curious whether there were any jobs going at Westminster. He'd heard about the catastrophic losses that the Labour party had suffered at the recent local and national elections and he was definitely interested. He didn't want to stir up any hornet's nest or muscle into territory where his presence would not be welcome but he did fancy the top job in 10 Downing Street. Any chance of that happening? It was worth a try so why not?

For over a month or so there have been  incidents of scandalous back stabbing, members of the Cabinet breathing fire, storming out of 10 Downing Street, resigning on the spot, bickering childishly and sticking the proverbial two fingers up in the air at any Labour minister within earshot. They were  mad with anger, demeaning and denigrating one another with personal abuse. Poor Sir Keir Starmer. Nobody deserves this kind of treatment. And then there was Andy Burnham. 

Yes folks Andy Burnham. That Andy Burnham who's done so much to transform the landscape of Manchester in recent years. Burnham would probably go into raptures about his club Everton's famous 60 goal a season Dixie Dean. A couple of weeks ago, Burnham was seen running around the streets of his local Makerfield community and wishing that Everton could win the Premier League just to  prove that he cared about the people, the common man, the football supporter who would faithfully stand on the terraces at the old Goodison Park and then move his allegiance to the Hill Dickinson Stadium. 

He pounded the streets wearing an Everton shirt, concentration fixed, a devoted Labour party supporter, red through and through although blue when Everton were playing over the weekend. Of course he was ambitious, aspirational, straining every muscle in his athletic body and desperate for recognition. At first he'd have been quite content to stand in the shadows of his boss Sir Keir Starmer. But you know what it's like? The boss is just not up to the job and, quite frankly, he's getting on your nerves. 

There are even louder noises of  criticism, red blooded disgust and opprobrium, a nasty air of vindictiveness, almost, dare we say it, a vendetta against Starmer. You could hear and feel it in every brick and mortar in the House of Commons. They were stamping up and down madly, the natives were definitely restless, all was not well. They were hurling insults and pejorative comments at the Prime Minister and they were nasty and personal. 

But some of us were delighted to see Burnham in such fine form. He could be the man to step up to the plate because he had the finger on the pulse of the nation. How hard could it be the Prime Minister? If the likes of Boris Johnson, Liz Truss, Rishi Sunak could do it why not Burnham? But the truth is that we'd given the Tories 14 years to get it right and they were so polarised and divided at the end that it looked as though they were just colliding into each other, not knowing which direction to go. 

But Andy Burnham looks credible, the real deal, personable and likeable, the most eloquent of all orators, down to earth, full of common sense and just a decent chap. He seems to be expressing all of the right statements that the country needs to hear but this may be time to err on the side of caution. There has to be a skeleton in his cupboard, an underlying agenda, something he'd rather not tell us about. He's a great talker, a natural communicator, a charmer in dinner party conversation and he'll be the one to boost flagging Labour party spirits. Then again we do have worrying reservations because they all say that.

And yet it could still go horribly wrong, backfiring on him and hitting him in the face quite painfully. Look at where the Labour party have got us in the past. Historically, Tony Blair was probably the most intelligent, successful, capable and resourceful Prime Minister Britain have ever had. He gave us Education, Education and Education. But then things rapidly went downhill when Blair frogmarched us into the Iraq - Afghanistan  war and President George Bush thought they he and Blair were the best of friends. It was all terribly awkward, irresponsible, careless, warlike and very aggressive. 

Further back in time there was a passionate Welshman called Neil Kinnock. Kinnock almost snatched the reins from the formidable and incomparable Margaret Thatcher. Kinnock just begged and implored the public to vote for him at the General Election and much good that did him. Kinnock started falling out with the unions and just couldn't get the message across to Britain quite as effectively as he would have liked. So Kinnock bowed out of the limelight and was more or less forgotten. 

Finally there was Michael Foot, a leader of the Labour party with no dress sense and was about as likely to get his feet behind the doors of 10 Downing Street as Larry the Cat. Foot was all fiery political double speak and rousing rhetoric which went down so badly at the House of Commons Questions and Answers time that comparisons were made to damp, wet and dirty cloths. Then Foot disgraced himself with that celebrated ragged, old, threadbare donkey jacket on Remembrance Sunday in November. What on earth was that all about?

And so for Andy Burnham, the next rabid Socialist weekly wannabe. Burnham would vehemently distance himself from any Socialist proclivities. He hasn't a Socialist bone in his body and besides, he would tell us, he probably doesn't read the magazine. But Burnham is photogenic at the moment, an excellent public relations man, cautious and diplomatic and just taking things one step at a time. 

But Burnham is progressive, go ahead, listening to those who may have their doubts, in touch with the dustman, the working man or woman, the postman who delivers your post, the milkman who regularly drops several pints of semi skimmed milk on your doorstep and Great Britain as a vast collective. 

Shortly the good citizens of Makerfield will be given the choice as who should become the next leader of their constituency. If he can negotiate the minefield that is the Green Party or the Reform UK party then you never know. These are turbulent but exciting times for the Labour government. There is a chance that for those who remember the old days, Harold Wilson is still looking benignly down on Burnham. Then again Wilson was a fervent Huddersfield Town supporter so maybe not. Who would be a Prime Minister? Certainly not.   

The World Cup at the age of eight.

 The World Cup at the age of eight

For an eight year old, the whole bewildering concept of a World Cup must have seemed like some incomprehensible language and yet you were acutely aware that something of vast significance and cultural enormity had taken place.For most families in Britain the now familiar sight of black and white TVs was becoming increasingly less common and the startling emergence of colour TV had now installed itself in our living rooms at home. It is hard to remember a time when the myriad colours of our TV set were few and far between. Of course we take them for granted now but at the time, it was all grey monochrome way back then. 

So to the best of your recollections it was black and white in 1970 and it was a 12 inch set tucked away discreetly in the corner of our dining room and, as a child, it was always there. But football was yet to be discovered and although you may have been more pre-occupied with exhilarating games of football with only yourselves for company, this was your voyage of discovery. You were your own goalkeeper, defender, midfielder, winger or striker. It was about individual excellence and your brother had just arrived in the big, wide world.

Back inside the family home, mum was busying herself with the important domestic duties, cleaning up the dishes, plates, crockery and cutlery and then hanging wet clothes on the washing line. It was all very simple and yet mundane if perhaps a daily necessity. You'd been at infants school for a number of years and the prospect of a major global football competition seemed about as fascinating as wallpaper. And yet there was an awareness of something in the air. Football and sport had gripped your imagination and you became addicted to this extraordinary spectacle for no particular reason. 

Every week your late and lovely mum would buy the still available TV listings magazine TV Times, which took up residence on the family coffee table every Wednesday for ages. So you rushed in and out of the family garden and then wandered into the dining room again. You can still remember leafing through the magazine and perusing the usual variety of only BBC and ITV programmes. Then you stumbled across an amazingly colourful World Cup wallchart in the middle of the TV Times. You scanned the chart and noticed pages that were heavy with symbolism and imagery. 

For the first time every country's flag was clearly delineated and illustrated on the wallchart. At first sight it was rather like turning the first page of a thick novel with over a 1,000 pages, bright, vivid, almost kaleidoscopic, rich primary colours, the vibrant yellow of Brazil, The Star of David of beautiful Israel, the red, white and blue of England, the blue and white of Italy, the exotic design of Mexico, the white of West Germany and too many good to be true. This explosion of colour in a magazine was a feast for the eyes and you were hooked. 

Scattered around in a circle were a huge array of the sublime and the ridiculous. Uruguay had that light blue and white shade on their gleaming shirts and then there was El Salvador whose flag you'd never seen before and a country you were yet to be taught about at school. So here was this giddy, heady mix of stunning cosmopolitanism, a world wide amalgam of hugely different cultures, nationalities and identities. This was decades before the the Wall that separated East Germany and West Germany crashed down, the stern imposition of Glasnost and Perestroika on an ageing and tired looking Soviet Union and the map of the world was torn apart by division, hatred, prejudice, racism and a war footing that was ablaze with hostility. 

But you were transfixed and spellbound, desperate for more information and enlightenment. This was not quite a transformative moment in your life because you had yet to be introduced to the finer rudiments of the game, the textures and flavours of the Beautiful Game. That would come later on your adolescence, a mystery yet to be revealed but one that would be described and analysed in lucid detail in a thousand newspapers and magazines in years to come. But there was football in black and white TV and that was settled. 

So you switched on that goldfish bowl on the tiniest DER black and white TV set. ITV bore no relation to the third channel we'd always thought of and a random number led us to extensive coverage on Thames TV and London Weekend. Meanwhile the more established and conservative BBC had already captured our imagination with Match of the Day which was slowly developing into the must see football magazine TV programme introduced, at the time, by the inimitable David Coleman.

Then there was the quality of the picture on your screen. The 1970 World Cup Finals were held in Mexico and, for the BBC and ITV, Mexico must have felt like the other side of the world in those far off days but for the commentary teams on both channels, this represented the ultimate challenge. How to manoeuvre a whole load of unwieldy, bulky cameras into this Aztec paradise? Then you had to hook up all of the sound equipment, connecting wires, complex logistics that somehow bore fruition when all seemed lost. 

It was the sound on your TV which was totally disembodied from your young, receptive ears. You felt you were listening to a live broadcast from a game reserve in Kenya or the Borneo jungles, a remnant from one of the first Moon missions in space shortly before the 1970 World Cup. Kenneth Wolstenholme may just well have been on the planet Mercury, David Coleman was on some isolated lagoon next to a gorgeous island far, far away. Now nobody knew why it all felt so distant, remote and barely audible. 

In those days, legendary commentators such as the great Brian Moore were seasoned campaigners who had already launched the Sunday lunchtime football programme The Big Match. Moore was the consummate professional, smart, elegant, pipe on his desk and, for the first time, accompanied by a guest list of ex professionals, managers and learned pundits. But when Moore took us over to the Azteca Stadium in Mexico, the likes of Hugh Johns, Keith Macklin and Gerry Harrison sounded like high tech robots and some of us wondered whether Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin had kindly presented the microphones to them as birthday gifts. 

In those days football commentators were our idols and heroes, jewels of verbal dexterity, the tones of their voices so perfectly pitched that you almost felt you were in Mexico sitting next to them. But it was all reminiscent of some old Western film where the likes of John Wayne and Jimmy Stewart had rolled into the Wild West on their trusty horses with shot guns to announce their arrival. Radio commentators only had radio microphones which were the only available means of communication in 1970 and for many following years. So there was a crackling, humming sound on your TV set that did rankle with some for a while but there was an acceptance of the status quo. 

In 1970 ITV showed us the full box set of innovations and radical experiments. Now was born the ITV panel, Brian Moore, deep in animated conversation with the men who had done it all before. There was Pat Crerand, Manchester United's secure and reliable defender, who'd won the European Cup two years before at Wembley when United polished off Portuguese titans Benfica 4-1 at Wembley. Crerand was softly spoken, wise, perceptive and almost objective at times. But his was the definitive voice of authority. 

Then there was Malcolm Allison, fedora hat on his head but without cigar in the TV studio. Allison was unashamedly flamboyant, garish in his choice of shirts and always with a controversial line in footballing rhetoric and choice comments. Allison was unstoppably talkative, blisteringly opinionated and fiercely critical of Sir Alf Ramsey's England. Allison had transformed Manchester City and then walked into Crystal Palace during the latter years of the 1970s as if he owned Selhurst Park. 

The appearance of Brian Clough on the ITV panel was a temptation too good to resist. In 1970, Clough was a young  manager yet to taste the delicious puddings of League Championships and European Cups with Derby County and, gloriously, with Nottingham Forest. We now know why that he should never have come anywhere near the grenade that went off in his face at both Brighton and Leeds United but Clough was a voice in the background, firm, outrageous, serious, businesslike, a mouth that spoke at the most passionate volume, gregarious, ruthless and never afraid to challenge the Establishment. 

And finally there was Derek Dougan, Wolves prolific striker, tall, gangling, the most uncomfortable opposition for any helpless defender. Dougan scored goals from every Pythagoras Theorem angle and would rough up full backs and centre halves on gluepot pitches that resembled allotment sites. So Dougan offered his pragmatic pearls of wisdom, shrewd, insightful, probably factually correct and accurate even if it was hard to tell. But Doogan was a model of modesty, studious and quietly reflective.

After Dougan we later learnt that Dougan had become involved with the combustible world of football politics, a strong and forceful personality, honesty personified and a trouble shooter at the heart of the FA's decision makers. Dougan argued the case for those gullible men at Lancaster Gate, then the FA's home. He never held back and reminded you of a militant trade unionist vehemently making his presence felt. 

So it is that we now find yourselves in the present day. This evening, the current edition of the World Cup for men is now hours away from another rendition of those delightful skills and thrills. To those who aired those perfectly understandable moral objections to the last World Cup of Qatar in 2022, there is a widespread air of confidence, positivity, creativity, an extension of yet greater frontiers and more teams than ever.

This time the expansion of the World Cup to an unprecedented and astonishing 48 teams may sound bloated and beyond any understanding to those who feel it's almost overwhelming in its scope. England will be there, Spain and France will join in quite artistically, Germany can never be discounted or written off because we know everything we need to know about Germany. Brazil, Ghana, Cape Verde, Panama, Australia, South Africa, hosts USA, Canada and Mexico, Croatia and Scotland, Ecuador, Morocco and Turkey have rounded personalities, a galaxy of grandstanding gadabouts, showmen, delusional in some cases but nevertheless warmly welcomed to the greatest blue riband international football tournament in the world.

Some of us will be watching loyally and devotedly because we know about England because it's now so well documented that we can already see how it might turn out. Gareth Southgate, England's groundbreaking former manager, will be watching as a media observer this time and he's got several portfolios on the subject of international management. Southgate almost delivered but then found himself thwarted at the winning line because somebody should have told England to take a deep breath.

We would love England to win the World Cup because we were two going on three in 1966 and totally oblivious to all the fuss and commotion. In later years we found out all about the emotionally repressed and phlegmatic Sir Alf Ramsey, a man so broken with nerves and crippling anxieties that by the end of the 1966 World Cup Final, Ramsey just buried his head in his hands and had no idea how to react. England had undoubtedly won the World Cup but Ramsey looked shell shocked, numb and dumbfounded. Then the realisation sunk in and Ramsey grasped the World Cup with the broadest smile.

Clearly, Ramsey was privately delighted but still a tormented soul, still registering the greatest sporting achievement of all time. And yet four years later, this seven going on eight year old living in the comfortable and salubrious suburb of Ilford, Essex, was still deciphering the complex rules and regulations of the Beautiful Game. The masterful maestros who were Pele, Tostao, Jairzinho, Gerson and Carlos Alberto were gentle and enormously well respected footballing teachers to this small child who once wore a tank top for a primary school group photo in the middle of June. You were young and foolish but nobody seemed to care.