World War Three - be prepared.

 World War Three - be prepared.

So, according to the Daily Express, those renowned purveyors of doom and gloom, crisis and disaster,  World War Three is imminent, probably closer to breaking out at any moment, shortly. You can't say that you weren't warned because this has been coming for ages and the Express were convinced that war was just around the corner ages ago. But here we are on the verge of a major global conflict and this may be the time to think about retreating to either your nuclear bunker or re-establish one of those Anderson shelters so commonly used during the Second World War. How about some solidarity though.

Now the situation is that some of us are now far too old for taking up rifles or joining either your lovely and late dad's Royal Air Air Force with full grey uniform and then firing all of that deadly ammunition you never thought was necessary ever again. And then there's the realisation that you could occupy the famous role of the great Bill Pertwee in BBC One's splendid war time comedy Dad's Army. Pertwee was the self appointed busybody and air raid warden who detested Captain Mainwaring aka Arthur Lowe. Then you became aware of something that was much closer to home. 

If you were to believe half of the speculation and rumour drifting out from media outlets who love to wallow in misfortune, you'd better be prepared and ready to fight for your country. The world around us is not only dangerous but petrifying and terrifying. The presidents and military leaders of the world are growling like grizzly bears and the winter of discontent in Ukraine and Russia could escalate into something far more fatal and deadly.

 And yet of course this is avoidable because it doesn't need to degenerate into something akin to Armaggedon or the great apocalypse. We can stop this needle and anguish. We don't have to be armed to the teeth or hiding under the kitchen table because we can reach an amicable compromise and we can be friends across the sea, ocean and continent. And yet the Russians are just scrapping for a bloodthirsty fight. President Putin can't wait to release the first round of bombs and bullets that would both destabilise and cripple the rest of the world permanently if he has his way.

It hardly seems possible that once again the spectre of a Third World War is threatening to bring about the end of civilisation as we know it. Following hard on the heels of the war in Vietnam during the 1960s, the emergence of the Cold War, the evil dictatorships of both Idi Amin in Uganda and Pol Pot in Cambodia, once again the world is facing its greatest calamity since the end of the Second World War. We thought we'd seen the back of war and religious hatred when the IRA put down their arms of death and destruction at the end of the 1990s. Northern Ireland had, though, found contentment and tranquillity again.

But then war let out its most barbaric sound when Bosnia and Kosovo in the old Yugoslavia reached its lowest nadir when thousands of innocent civilians were murdered, starved to death, humiliated and then slaughtered again and again. It was the most horrendous war to end all wars.  By then the damage had become both collateral and psychologically permanent. Vast communities in Bosnia and Kosovo were brutally wiped out, the sight of families with children and their extended family now devastated by death and estrangement, division and anger. 

And now we reach today's latest developments. In the USA Donald Trump, although violently opposed to any kind of war, is probably resigned to the worst case scenario. His patience has now been severely tested and he may crack under unbearable pressure. In Iran, they would rather keep out of any confrontation with the enemy but may be dragged into some nasty bloodbath. Around the world there is a repulsive smell of cordite, poisonous and chemical elements and you can barely believe that so much pent up anger could boil over into muscular aggression and outright chaos. 

In the United Kingdom we still think our current Prime Minister and every other incumbent from yesteryear is the worst they've ever seen. Sir Keir Starmer is no Arthur Lowe and bears no resemblance to Mainwaring but war seems the least of his problems. Dear Margaret Thatcher seemed to get a warped thrill out of the Falklands War and we can still see Ms Thatcher rumbling across enemy territory with a tank straight out of Dunkirk. But Starmer has now been attacked for both his sheer incompetence and his pathological inability to cope with problems is deeply worrying.  

It is hard to imagine Starmer in khaki or any wartime garment. There are no Churchills on the military horizon, the Luftwaffe, those cold eyed assassins, are now thankfully consigned in the dustbin of history. Some of us never want nothing to do with any mention of Holocausts or Nazi stormtroopers because this was simply the most unforgivable crime against humanity. But there are quiet whispers, murmurings of a total breakdown in global communication. The voices of foreboding are getting louder and louder.  

The Daily Express, it seems have been predicting  snow in the middle of July since the beginning of time. Then the Express tell us to be on our guard in case there are  hugely disruptive tornadoes and earthquakes at any given time before alerting the rest of the United Kingdom to something we should have known about and taken emergency measures to avoid. England, though, now is on the brink of World War Three. But then again, never and never again because our children and grandchildren have to live in peace and harmony with each other.  

So here's some sensible advice to the good citizens of both the United Kingdom and the rest of the world. Don't panic because the leader of Dad's Army would be horrified in the event of over reaction and paranoia. Personally, it's time to batten down the hatches, flee for the local Tube railway station platform and just keep calm. This is not the time to summon the rallying cry of Dame Vera Lynn and we'll always meet each other again some sunny day because World War Three will never ever happen and, besides, Dad's Army has now officially passed its sell by date. Don't worry folks, it's perfectly safe. Keep living the sweetness of life and keep laughing and smiling.       

Team GB win gold at the Winter Olympics

 Team GB win gold at the Winter Olympics

It seemed almost as improbable as a hastily assembled team of British baseball players taking on the USA in a fiercely competitive World Series match and actually beating the Americans without breaking sweat, decisively, comprehensively and conclusively. And yet this will never happen in anybody's lifetime and, realistically, it is a pipedream and it'll remain a flight of fancy and fantasy. And yet for the first time on snow, Team GB won their first ever gold medal at this year's Winter Olympics in Milano Cortina. We were dumbfounded and just lost for words. 

Every winter, we look out of our windows hoping that Britain will wake up to vast piles of snow on its skiing slopes and then are disappointed when the mountains, although resembling a Christmas cake, are not even remotely suitable for a Winter Olympics. You think of Aviemore in Scotland where it seems to snow in huge quantities at different stages but it's never enough. 

For decades and years now the collective slopes of the Alps, Andes and Pyrenees receive just the right amount of snow to be accepted as regular hosts of the Winter Olympics. Both Switzerland, France, Canada and Japan have always been grateful recipients for these seasonal Olympics. And then we turn our thoughts to the ice skating rink and recognise, as we did with Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean, that this is well within our skillset and field of expertise. The late John Curry and then Robin Cousins, of course brought home, the gold medal on the ice and we began to think that gold was a real possibility. We were right. 

So far Team GB have only been admiring eyes at these Games. The superior nations, though, will always stand out and they are the ones simply surrounded by huge snowfalls in their own geographical environment every year. But yesterday Team GB completely broke with tradition and did something that none of us could ever have dreamt of. We knew that Eddie 'the Eagle' Edwards had actually dared to take part in the Winter Games. And then, much to the amusement and scepticism of the British public, Edwards did fly off a ski jump and undoubtedly created British skiing records. Edwards did participate in the Winter Olympics and none could ever deny his bravery and athleticism.  

Over the weekend, however, both Charlotte Bankes and Hugh Nightingale stepped forward into the sporting limelight. It hadn't been the best of weekends for sport since Scotland had thumped England in the Six Nations rugby union and only unfashionable Mansfield Town had upset the odds with a shock win in the FA Cup. So it was that Bankes and Nightingale stood poised on their snowboards, legs slightly splayed out but standing on their snowboard as if they'd rehearsed this manoeuvre a million times. It was sport at its purest and most unblemished, sport doing something completely spontaneous without the aid of drugs and any doping supplement. 

So often throughout the years, Britain have always pinned our hopes on those we think are just delusional, mad and crazy. But in the same breath, we find that these are the sportsmen and women who have always harboured ambitions since they were children and kids love to believe in the impossible. And yesterday we looked out across the Italian mountains and convinced ourselves that even Britain has a gold medal in its bucket list of capabilities. 

After a bewildering series of preliminary heats where the good and great were gathered again, we scanned the idyllic winter scenery and thought we were in our personal postcard. There were vast, monumental mountains, overwhelmingly beautiful because this is our perception of what a good Winter Olympic Games should look like. The snow seemed to cling onto the mountains with a tender, affectionate loyalty that we almost take for granted. The mountains soar into the air and are here to stay for the duration of these Olympics. They're not going anywhere. Here they dominate the landscape, huge quantities of snow, the tops of the mountain summit glistening, shining brightly and then sparkling iridescently.

At various times of the day, they're like commanding sentinels standing guard proudly, undulating and then spreading across the skyline with a handsome symmetry. It is almost as if the whole of Italy has found itself in its most special light.  The downhill men and women are slaloming in and out of poles effortlessly skis digging into the snow and bodies efficiently, while crouching brilliantly into tight, aerodynamic motions if only to achieve greater speed and propulsion. It's a breathtaking spectacle which, at first sight, looks truly terrifying. You really wouldn't fancy even a single moment on this snow caked paradise. Then again perhaps you would. 

In the world of Charlotte Bankes and Hugh Nightingale, a gold medal at the Winter Olympics must have been the ultimate achievement and for Team GB, this was a moment we'd like to bottle forever because this one wouldn't get any better. Here we are in dear England, never remotely imagining something like this could ever materialise in front of us. But Bankes and Nightingale, complete in yellow and blue padded outfits were miracles of balance, speed and movement, racing around the course with immaculate timing and then up and over frighteningly daunting banks before jumping again and again. Arms held akimbo, they leapt repeatedly, approaching corners as if they could have completed the whole course blindfolded.

Sport rarely provides you with that moment in time when you fear that it might go catastrophically wrong only to find that you had nothing to worry about in the first place. At some point we may have to just suspend belief and just bite our fingernails because it is the most remarkable of sporting sights. When they go back to their Olympic village chalets, Bankes and Nightingale will once again bite their gold medal, smiling perhaps for the rest of the year and just bask in the glory of it all. Now we know what must have been going through the mind of Torvill and Dean in Sarajevo 1984.

This maybe the time to take a closer look at these Winter Olympic Games. We will watch open mouthed with amazement as the same snowboarders flip up their boards with an acrobatic grace that is just stunningly memorable and then form our own personal assessment of something we would never attempt to copy. Then the ice skaters will glide across the rink and elevate winter sport to a new level. It'll be ballet, theatre and drama on ice and we will applaud vociferously since we've no idea how sport had reached such a rarefied height of supreme excellence and artistry. Milan, still the main capital of avant garde fashion, will still be cheering itself hoarse long after these Games and so will you.  

Sir Jim Radcliffe

 Sir Jim Radcliffe.

There must be a time when tact and diplomacy has its right and proper place. In football, such qualities can often be found quite frequently. But then, there are those who simply find it impossible to hold themselves back. Some of us believe that, in the midst of yesterday's verbal indiscretion and moronic ignorance, football can still be a life force for good, a wholesome and healthy product that always makes us laugh and smile.

Yesterday Sir Jim Radcliffe, the part owner of Manchester United and a billionaire to boot decided to test the waters, pushing the envelope, provoking comment, just being controversial because it was a slow day for news and there was nothing else to say or do. The truth is Radcliffe has gone too far and probably needs to be told off, severely reprimanded and forced to apologise for his bluntness and honesty. At times, it's probably best not to say anything even when you can't help yourself. Radcliff strayed over the line, transgressed the boundaries and spoke his mind quite forcefully and ruthlessly. 

Manchester United are now currently enjoying an excellent Premier League season despite the slowest of starts to this campaign. They may have struggled under Reuben Amorim who was subsequently sacked when it looked as if United were dropping like a stone and plummeting towards the bottom half of the Premier League season but Michael Carrick, their once stylish midfielder, has applied the stabilisers. The chances are that United will finish quite handsomely high in the Premier League. But then, an outspoken voice within the Old Trafford hierarchy blurted out what he thought was the truth. 

And even now there is a nasty smell, a foul odour, an uncomfortable feeling that somebody has broken the law, crossed the line, said something so obnoxious and offensive that none will easily forgive him.  Sir Jim Radcliffe, if this is what we should call him now, is now regarded as a racist, xenophobic, bigoted and self righteous fool whose views belong in the age of the dinosaurs and some prehistoric land where women were both undermined and underrated while the men went out to work and earned a decent living.

The truth is that Radcliffe should never have been allowed to get away with yesterday's explosive outburst, implying quite clearly that the immigrants who have colonised this country should go back home to their own country rather than inhabiting our islands. According to Radcliffe, those people from other parts of the world, should go back to where they came from. And of course this is deplorable and despicable racism, utterly distasteful and repellent because we know Radcliffe should crawl back under the stone from whence he came. Or maybe we're being too harsh and should leave things as they are. 

For a moment, your mind wandered back to the days when Martin and Louis Edwards were in charge of Old Trafford. Those were the days when chairmen and the board of directors invariably sung from the same hymn sheet, conducting their business with civility and decorum and the bottles of scotch, brandy and whisky were always available just when the discussion became a little too heated. So then Sir Matt Busby was told quietly and sensibly that the fans at Old Trafford were angry and restless and not to panic because the storm would pass and, besides, United were and, still are, a national institution, footballing giants. 

And then you thought back to the days when football chairmen and owners thought they knew best and adamant that they were in the right. Burnley, who once won the League championship or the old First Division, were owned by a domineering, troublesome, dictatorial and autocratic butcher whose name was Bob Lord. Lord, apart from his meat cleaving prowess, was also an interfering busybody who thought it was his responsibility to pick the first team for Burnley on a Saturday afternoon. Lord was no nonsense, direct and forthright, a damaging influence on the club who stagnated for years afterwards.

Manchester United have also chosen the wrong kind of men to lead them into the promised land. During the 1980s, a businessman named Michael Knighton guaranteed United years of prosperity and trophies. On the opening day of one season, Knighton was seen trapping the ball on his knee and playing pretentious games of keepie uppies, close ball control of the highest order. But then it all exploded in United's face and football became a horrific spectacle, anathema to those who used to revel in the Busby Babes and Sir Matt Busby's greatest. 

But now there is Jim Radcliffe. Radcliffe was the man who gave his blessing to Reuben Amorim of Portugal as manager of United. He also sanctioned the signings of Bruno Fernandes of Portugal and Casemiro of Brazil. And this is where the Radcliffe logic and double standards have now taken root in his broken and prejudiced mind. So it's time to stop our friends from around the world immediately from entering customs at Heathrow airport because they're not British, culturally out of their depth in dear Blighty and should never be allowed to settle their family in Manchester or any major British city. 

And then there were thinking that the days of colonialism and exclusion were a thing of the distant past. Those far off decades when the map of the world was pink and the empire was only British, are now an ancient anachronism, some old fashioned piece of distorted geography that only the insularity of the English or British could lay claim as their own.  So we were the bosses, we were the governors, those stubborn authoritarians who should rule this fair land forever more. 

However, Radcliffe seems to be out on his own this morning. The rest of the world have been fierce in their criticism and outright condemnation. Sir Keir Starmer, Prime Minister of the UK, was furious, deeply offended and echoed the sentiments of many of us. Radcliffe meekly apologised and sought remorse and contrition but then seemed to stick to his original point. The words tumbled out incorrectly and the language was garbled and too emotive for any of us. He had put his foot in it and was still wearing the same shoes because he maintained that his incendiary remarks were designed to shake everybody up. But then we remembered who Manchester United were, are and will always be. 

Manchester United are one of the most celebrated, globally revered, admirable and progressive clubs in the Premier League. They have now won both the old First Division championship and Premier League a record 20 times, they have won the European Cup and Premier League on a number of occasions now and their legendary status can never be questioned. 

Manchester United are a marketable commodity around the world with gleaming souvenirs and merchandise, fans in India, Africa, Australia, Brazil, Argentina and Asia. They have huge marketing departments in Hong Kong, Malaysia and, quite possibly, the Borneo rainforest and they are the connoisseurs of the Beautiful Game. They were purists and aesthetically pleasing to the eye and when Sir Alex Ferguson was the head honcho at United, they had Sir David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs, a fearsome and hugely gifted generation of young players who achieved that perfect chemistry and understanding. 

Sadly, one Sir Jim Radcliffe blotted the copybook, muddied the landscape and just thought he could act  with complete impunity. His proposal for the colonisation of people from abroad, still leaves a bitter taste in the mouth. Football is currently examining itself, feeling pretty delicate and fragile, under attack from all quarters. Radcliffe is dragging the game through the mud without, seemingly saying sorry at all. He thinks he should have been entitled to put across his view because we do live in a country which advocates free speech.

But Manchester United are a club of the highest class, status and stature. Surely Radcliffe has both recognised and realised what exactly he's done. Unfortunately, somebody will have to take him to task. In the next week or so the dust will, of course, will settle and United will give Michael Carrick the chance to maintain their good form and finish the season strongly. They will distance themselves from the ludicrous statements of Radcliffe and get on with the business of playing football. It may not be too much to ask for.    

National Guitar Day.

 National Guitar Day. 

You've all been waiting with bated breath so let's surprise you. You would have never known what National Day it is so it is time to put you out of your misery. Ladies and Gentleman and for all those musicians who so diligently ply their trade with complete dedication, today is National Guitar Day. Now the chances are that for those who don't play the guitar, it isn't really the most important day of the year. Still, you can come out of your recording studio and enjoy the fruits of this acknowledegment of National Guitar Day. 

So where do our thoughts take us when we think of that very recognisable sound of the guitar? Do we think of Tin Pan Alley in Denmark Street, the heart of London's always bustling West End? Or perhaps we might venture into Charing Cross Road where the guitar still takes you back to the age of rock and roll, Lonnie Donegan's skiffle during the 1950s and all of those electric guitars of varying sophistication. Guitars tick all the right boxes because they were the distinctive soundtrack of the late 1950s and 60s in London where pianos, violins and drum kits still sit very impressively next to the guitar. 

Back in the early 1950s one man paved the way for a thriving, booming industry, a pioneering figure who today's generation still look back fondly on as the man who started it all, a sparking plug and catalyst for those who just loved writing songs that were simple. They had to be accompanied, though, by guitar solos or a subtle backing track for a song that just seemed so right and totally evocative of the period, maybe reflective love songs that took you right back to that first date in a candle lit restaurant. There was one, though one man and man only who made all the difference in the world of guitars.

His name was Bert Weedon and Weedon was the man who created the magic, a guitarist with the nimblest of fingers, somebody with a natural aptitude for finding new chords and colours within the framework of a guitar driven composition. Weedon quite literally taught the world how to play the guitar with skilful thumbs and joyous freedom. Weedon possessed a natural comfort and dexterity with the plucking plectrum that gripped Britain. None had really captured the essence of guitar playing until Weedon arrived. 

And so Weedon gave us his unique masterclass in that magical sound of the guitar. So it was that when Britain entered that seminal and life changing decade known as the Swinging Sixties, an all guitar group leapt into the music pop music consciousness, both owning and revolutionising the way the guitar could be played and would continue to do so for some time.  

The Shadows were an all British guitar band who elevated the guitar to a deliciously pleasant level that was choreographed to perfection with those wonderful feet shuffling movements of the Shadows. Both Hank Marvin, Bruce Welsh, Brian Bennett, Jet Harris the bassist and Tony Meehan would lend a polish and an air of finesse to the art of guitar playing. Hank Marvin, with his trademark glasses, would later carve out a film career with Cliff Richard and the Shadows and their appearance in the movie Summer Holiday will remain a treasured memory. Summer Holiday was a jolly and uplifting film about Cliff Richard and the Shads travelling in an old fashioned but classic Red Route Master double decker London bus and just enjoying life. 

But the Shadows gave us Apache, the superb Wonderful Land, Sleepwalk and Kon Tiki, smoothly effortless and the kind of music that the teenagers of the late 1950s and early 1960 would take to their park and listen to intently on their transistor radio with a shameless admiration and appreciation of that simple twang of the guitar. And the Shadows certainly knew how to twang their electric guitars because it was their definitive trademark. The Shadows wore sharp suits, smart trousers and were the boys every girl wanted to introduce to their parents. They were clean cut, respectable, knowing instinctively where their music was taking them to. 

Then, at the beginning of the 1960s a band from Liverpool called the Beatles stopped everybody in their tracks. John Lennon and Paul McCartney composed most of the Beatles most resonant and poetic lyrics. Lennon and McCartney were tailor made for the guitar, the instrument wrapped around their shoulders and then being held onto with a tenderness that was both moving and electrifying. Lennon and McCartney and Lennon gave the Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band, its quirkiest acoustic and both Yesterday, Hey Jude and the guitar textured Ticket to Ride would become one of many of their greatest hits. 

McCartney though as a front line guitarist had so much imagination and invention in his head that you wondered whether you would ever hear anything like it ever again in the future. Lennon was just John Lennon, seemingly too casual and blase about the Beatles phenomenal success and convinced that even the Rolling Stones would have difficulty in matching, emulating and surpassing them. When the Beatles broke up in 1970s, Lennon pursued a solo career, spent a week in bed with Yoko Ono in a shop window, grew his hair to an impossible length, developed a beard and just kept producing song after song of unsurpassable genius. 

Burt Bacharach's Something, a George Harrison classic, had those mellifluous guitar backing tracks that Lennon would have given anything to write. But the Beatles kept going through the 1960s because they knew they were pathfinders, discovering key changes in the guitar that few of their contemporaries could ever get the better of. Lennon and McCartney loved the guitar because it was liberating, exciting, energising and just ground breaking. 

At around about the same time during the 1960s Eric Clapton, from that wonderfully transformative and creative period of song writers, emerged into the spotlight. Clapton was a brilliant and stylish rock guitarists and Layla somehow defined both Clapton and the way he brought his guitar to life. When Eric Clapton, who joined the band Cream, arrived on the scene, the guitar became like a philosophy, a mantra and slogan that everybody could recognise. There was a vibrancy and vivacity about music during the late 1950s that everybody could dance to in first the coffee bars of Soho and the much wider world.

Twenty years later, one of the most dynamic rock bands of all time exploded into a decade that probably hadn't seen them coming. They were genuine rock guitarists who crafted some of the most ingenious lyrics of all time, a group at first glance who were, allegedly, so outrageous, gaudy and garish that it seemed only a matter of a time before burn out would set in and the group would have a limited shelf life. And yet Queen were and still are a breath of fresh air and the critics would have to keep their feelings to themselves. 

But Queen were sensational, spectacular, glamorous and fittingly fashionable. Freddie Mercury, Brian May and Roger Taylor, were superlative musicians who embraced the guitar with the relish of youngsters who were determined to follow in their footsteps.  We Are the Champions, Seven Seas of Rye, their first single, Radio Ga Ga, A Crazy Thing Called Love and, above all, the remarkable Bohemian Rhapsody dramatically changed the landscape of  the rock guitar community. 

Brian May, now a distinguished astro physicist, remains one of our most famous and prominent mainstream guitarists. May attacked every Queen song as if his life depended on it. With long, frizzy black hair and electric guitar in his hand, Brian May made his guitar screech, scream and shriek with purpose and conviction. He would hold his guitar up in the air as if it were some birthday present his mum and dad had just given him. Then there the wild, extravagant chord changes, the respectful smiles and glances in Freddie Mercury's direction and Roger Taylor who pounded out the drums with a relentless ferocity.

During the 1970s there was Bread's Guitar Man, George Harrison's While My Guitar Gently Weeps and those gently tranquil Spanish guitar symphonies of sound that made us think of the English countryside, musical streams and wide, expansive acres of meadows, cornfields and late night jazz gatherings. The guitar sound always reminded us of where we were in childhood and then followed us into burgeoning adolescence.

And so today is National Guitar Day. The fact has to be emphasised in much the way the guitar either prompted us to play it playfully or simply at the end of the day with a smooth cappuccino, latte and my lovely and late mum's milky coffee. John Williams and Jeff Lynne's ELO are yet more legendary names from the high society of the guitar world. But if you should happen to have an old guitar in your attic and you're so inclined then this may be the time to express yourself for no other reason than it's the greatest musical instrument of all time. You are the Guitar Man or Woman. Enjoy.

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 was, and still is, 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.