Winter Olympics

 Winter Olympics in Milan

There was a time when the sport of skiing was always regarded as the one activity that only the rich and privileged could afford. Then again the middle class took one look at the wealthy bourgeoisie and just sniffed disdainfully at the commoners and peasants, shamelessly showing off their latest ski boiler suit and claiming to have watched Ski Sunday introduced by David Vine every week without missing a single trend or fashion.

Over the weekend the Winter Olympics of Milan began that well trodden journey towards the land of sportsmanship, goodwill to all mankind, equality of the sexes, no racism or discrimination of any kind, tolerance and understanding. Then again the whole Olympic movement has always tried desperately hard to rid itself of deceit, illicit drug taking, doping and corruption. And look what happened when that didn't work. The cynics accused the Olympic committee of being cheap and tawdry, a sleazy sham and full of shifty eyed, fraudulent behaviour. But that was enough about the summer Olympic Games. 

Anyway, the Winter Olympics has parked itself in Cortina Milan and although the critics are still darkening its corridors with accusation after counter accusation, we know otherwise. Somehow, you just have to pinch yourself at some of the events that have always decorated the Winter Olympics. For a fortnight, Italy will be packed to the rafters with world class downhill skiers, delightful skaters, the bobsleigh, the luge and the toboggan or the tea tray as some would affectionately call it.  

In the general scheme of things, the Winter Olympics never really had the desired impact as the summer Olympics because we are now in the depths of winter and there's a different aura about the Games. Once again we look at those snow clad mountains in Milan and just shiver because we think it's cold. But hold, on the kids of Britain and the world love the snow and nobody takes any greater pleasure in the snow than the children who pray for the snow because it's fun and you've got the day off school and once again you can slide down hills surrounded by snow. 

Anyway, there is something strangely comforting about the snow and the Winter Olympics. It is perhaps the only time of the year when we can all be warmly insulated in our well heated homes and not envy the ones who are probably accustomed to the freezing conditions anyway. So we wrap ourselves in our blankets on the sofa and wonder if it'll ever stop raining outside. So we look at those crying windows with acres of dripping rain spots and just yearn for spring and summer. It simply can't come quickly enough. But then who cares about the rain and snow, anyway.

And so it is we turn to Team GB's latest hopes of ice skating glory. Lilah Fear and Lewis Gibson will be hoping to follow in the distinguished footsteps of Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean 42 years ago when the hopes of a nation fell on them. Torvill was a very feminine figure, all toothpaste smiles and a winning personality. Dean used to be an upright, tall, commanding and reassuring policeman but was now Torvill's partner, never flustered or bothered, just content to be creating a massive slice of history into the making. 

So there we were there in Sarajevo in 1984 and we must have waited ages for Torvill and Dean to underline their signature on a momentous night in what used to be Yugoslavia in another age. Their performance incorporated everything we'd been hoping from them. It looked like an ice skating marriage made in heaven. In fact, for those who probably believed there was a romantic dalliance between them, it almost seemed too good to be true. There was indeed chemistry between Torvill and Dean and they were compatible but not close enough to be married to each other. 

Come the early hours of the morning millions of folk in the United Kingdom couldn't wait to put the kettle on, smarten ourselves up in front of our TV and just pretend we were there when of course we weren't. But it would have been nice to think that we were. It was Nottingham's finest hour apart from that episode in Sherwood Forest when Robin Hood and his merry men appeared on our radar. Torvill and Dean were simply magnificent, outstanding athletes, the personification of grace and majesty with beautifully choreographed movements. Nobody had ever seen Bolero performed with such dignity and class.

And then of course there were Team GB's other Olympic heroes and stalwarts. John Curry's story was a  triumphant one but tinged with heartbreak. Curry had already come out as gay and this had been well documented. But when Curry sadly died of Aids and the world just wanted to put a sympathetic shoulder around Curry's family, you simply remembered the man himself and his remarkable achievements.

In the 1976 Winter Olympic Games of Innsbruck in Austria, Curry pulled out all the stops, gliding serenely and almost graciously towards his gold medal winning performance. The flowers that Curry was showered with were a pleasant and uplifting metaphor for what Curry had done on ice. It was a decorative and dainty performance, full of rich technical skill and supreme artistic merit. John Curry may have passed but he left behind him an indelible Olympic legacy. 

Then there was Robin Cousins, another ice cool craftsman of his trade. Four years later in Lake Placid, Cousins would perform with identical panache and the most immaculate interpretation to the music he'd been given. After Cousins had retired, he would go on to spread the gospel by teaching and influencing millions of youngsters who perhaps had never really given ice skating any consideration whatsoever. 

And so we return to the present day and Lilah Fear accompanied by Lewis Gibson. This time the British public are waiting patiently for another Torvill and Dean moment at one o'clock in the morning. The Winter Olympics may not quite the same kind of box office cachet as the summer edition but it does look both exciting and, at the same time, terrifying. So here's what some of us might do. 

We'll watch those downhill skiiers flying down those slopes, weaving fearlessly between the poles and glad that it isn't us. We will look on with nothing but endless admiration at those terrifying tea trays or toboggans, hurtling around bends at 200 mph and then feel even more relieved. Then there are the acrobatic events such as the breathless snowboarding which, to the outsider, looks mind blowingly dangerous and ski mountaineering which makes its Olympic debut.

Ice hockey of course has been around for decades and will once again be dominated by those countries who have always excelled at the sport. Now as an impartial observer, ice hockey just looks like violence on ice, a convenient excuse for a riotous punch up. The sight of experienced Canadian ice hockey players bundling each other into a corner and trying to punch their opponents into submission, just looks morally unacceptable. It is a kind of mini warfare where nobody benefits at all. 

So it is that the Winter Olympics are now here for a fortnight or two. During the opening ceremony of these Games, we were treated to the sight of Italian coffee pots dancing around the San Siro. Now San Siro is the home of Inter and AC Milan, still recognised as two of the most respected and adored football clubs in Europe. But the ceremony was never going to be festooned with football references because this was the Winter Olympics and that would never be the case anyway. 

And then we recalled Eddie 'the Eagle Edwards, an eccentric British gentleman who, as a kid had always wanted to do ski jumping for a living. The story has been told repeatedly but never loses its lustre and shine. It was a rags to riches, a dogged determination in the jaws of adversity. Edwards took on the might of the Olympic establishment and did take part in the Winter Olympics of Calgary in 1988. Of course there were those who thought he'd lost any sense of reason and commonsense. But Edwards wasn't mad and he wasn't silly. He did take part in the Winter Olympics and he defied the odds admirably. And that encapsulates the spirt of the Olympics. Look at the opposition in the face and tell them it can be done and it will. Edwards remains the Winter Olympics fearless cheerleader. Never give up

The Munich air crash

 The Munich air crash.

It was football's darkest hour. None of us could have foreseen just how great a tragedy could still have the capacity to affect us almost seven decades since it happened. But it has and will continue to live in the memory of all who witnessed it at the time. For some, it may haunt their every waking moment from the time they get up in the morning to the time when they go to sleep. We must pray that it never happens again in anybody's lifetime and therefore it is enough that we recollect the event with painful clarity. 

For today marks the 68th anniversary of the Munich air crash which claimed the lives of the Busby Blues of Manchester United, one of England's finest collection of enormously gifted individuals. Even now, the scale of what took place on that snow bound Munich airport runway remains simply incomprehensible and conceivable. It almost feels as though the accident itself was so avoidable that every time you look at the dusty black and white film footage of the air crash, all of those horrendous memories keep flooding back. 

However hard you try, you can still see Bobby Charlton, he of the thunderous shot and one of England's youngest natural talents at the time, lying in a hospital bed on a drip, fighting for his life. And then there was the extraordinary Duncan Edwards, the one United player who briefly represented his country with peerless distinction, a player of world class refinement who, some suggested, would have become England's captain for years to come. But sadly and heartbreakingly this was never to be the case. 

And yet the weekend before, Manchester United had gone toe to toe with Arsenal in quite the most astonishing League match in the old First Division. They had beaten Arsenal 5-4 at Highbury and even now the game is still remembered with an emotional intensity that, in hindsight, now feels like the hollowest of reminiscences. How could one match be followed with another whose aftermath would be so shocking, so appalling and so devastating that it keeps drifting through your mind and refuses to go away? 

But tomorrow at Old Trafford and every Premier League game throughout the country we will bow our heads with a reverence and solemnity that will be both apt and heartfelt. At six minutes past three tomorrow afternoon, the United players of today's generation will drop their heads, hands clasped behind the backs and, for some, this will be the most private and personal moment in their lives. They will think of the Busby Babes, closing their eyes tightly and praying for the families who may still be grieving. It will be the hardest couple of  minutes of their lives.

What happened in Munich this day 68 years ago is another sharp reminder of football's vulnerability, its humility, the sombre recognition of the Busby Babes who died when, quite obviously, this should never have been the case. United had just beaten Red Star Belgrade in a European Cup tie and were looking forward to greater riches in the competition. The intervention of fate dictated otherwise and on a cruel day in the history of Manchester United, the heartbeat of that team was stopped abruptly and brutally. 

The players who died still sound like an agonising and plaintive cry from yesteryear. There was Roger Byrne, Dennis Violett, Tommy Taylor, Eddie Colman, David Pegg, Bill Whelan, goalkeeper Harry Gregg, the aforementioned Bobby Charlton, Duncan Edwards and Geoff Bent. On reflection we now know that that plane should never have been allowed to take off in such extenuating circumstances but it did and more is the pity. 

On three separate occasions, air traffic control had given United permission to fly back to England for United's home game against Wolves on the following Saturday. Repeatedly so, the nagging voices who ordered United to come home, will resonate with us for ever more. That crusty reactionary Alan Hardaker warned United that if they didn't return to England immediately, they would be docked points in the League and sanctioned with the heaviest of fines. 

For the last time, the United players settled back in their seats and the authorities were breathing down United's necks. Ploughing along an icy, slushy runway, the plane attempted to take off but then slid out of control before plunging towards extinction. With fuselage and the main body of plane hurtling towards a hut, the plane then crashed on impact and a majority of the Busby Babes were dead. There were flames and ashes everywhere, shrapnel scattered across smoky ground and it looked undoubtedly terrifying.

And so, 68 years later, the Manchester United team of caretaker coach Michael Carrick will step out with the present day United squad for their Premier League encounter against Spurs. Football will hardly seem relevant or important at all for the minutes silence before the game. Football will become the least of any of our worries or concerns. Of course United will be totally focused and ready to concentrate on victory or so they must hope. But the seconds will linger forever tomorrow and the clock at Old Trafford will tick round inexorably and achingly. 

Of course there have been League championship titles, Premier League titles, FA Cup Final victories and European Cup Final triumphs since that fatal day in 1958. Football has to continue because it has to and we have to move on. There will be a time for gravity and moroseness tomorrow and the grandchildren of those who lost their great grandfathers will look on with a stunned bewilderment. How on earth did this one event leave so many psychological scars for ages? We will try to understand the traumatic consequences of  the Munich air crash but will never do so. We'll do our utmost and hope for the best.

There is though the comforting knowledge that the Busby Babes could have blossomed into one of the most stunning Manchester United sides of all time. We will never know now but, tomorrow, United will walk out of the tunnel against Spurs with their heads held high. It won't be easy and nobody ever said it would be but for both the Matt Busby and Sir Alex Ferguson years, it'll be a time for healing and positive thoughts for the future. We must live with nothing but optimism since life is indeed beautiful. 

Snooker player John Virgo dies

 Snooker player John Virgo dies

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's time for some book promotion.

 It's time for some book promotion. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

National Curmudgeons Day.

 National Curmudgeons Day. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Holocaust Memorial Day.

 Holocaust Memorial Day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Donald Trump- what a character!

 Donald Trump- what a character.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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