World Book Day.

 World Book Day.

It is one of those days some of us feel to be entirely relatable and identifiable. It just feels as if the subject under the microscope today may have been taken far too seriously and much more moderation should have been exercised. Reading could never have been regarded as an obsession but books were rather more than a simple pleasure because, to be honest, reading was my ultimate escapism, the mental salvation when there was nothing else to do. And maybe you shouldn't have read so much. But today folks, books should still be considered as one of the most important building blocks in any child's development. 

Today is World Book Day, as it always has been for as long as you can remember. During your childhood, you built a brick wall of rebellion against reading. Reading was always something adults did rather than you as you were growing up. It was boring, pointless, irrelevant, sadly lacking in any kind of stimulus and a complete waste of time when you could have been in the early stages of inventing, pioneering or creating something that would leave us breathless and dumbfounded, suited only for six o'clock news, the main story. 

Books represented something much more than a golden world of literature that had to be explored from a young age because mum and dad naturally assumed that if you continued to read as many books as possible you'd probably end up as a rocket scientist, professor, the Prime Minister or one of the world's greatest financiers. If you read sufficiently, your prospects of promotion to the highest echelons of society would be considerably better than if you'd decided that you just wanted to be a dustman, milkman, train driver or a cleaner. Or maybe this was just lazy stereotyping on your part. 

Then again if you did start taking books out of your local library and carefully compiled as much information as possible, the chances were you'd be on the right road to success, well paid affluence, a job in the City on the Stock Exchange, a mathematician of remarkable intellect, an economist who would grease the wheels of capitalism, a best selling writer of some renown or a celebrity par excellence. 

For many of us, books were the first foundation stone of your early development when the world perhaps seemed to be both frightening and bewildering. You were a reluctant reader for the very reasons mentioned above. You didn't have time to wander into a wood panelled library with rows of boxed tickets as you entered and shelves heaving with enlightenment, learning, scholarly erudition or maybe just adventure stories, reference books, encyclopaedias, brilliant books on science fiction, romance, horror or maybe the days newspapers.

And all those decades later you can still see the distinctive columns outside the entrance of Gants Hill library. These are indeed the chief characteristics of Gants Hill library in England's finest Essex suburb. You can still smell the scent of studious contemplation, reinforced by the gentle coughing and sneezing from local residents browsing the many shelves. But there was something special about Gants Hill library because inside there was a reverential silence almost belonging to some mystic religious order.

Then the magic happens. You enter the building and are faced with either the chief librarian or a member of staff standing there smiling dutifully at you behind the counter. Suddenly you're confronted with rows upon rows of boxes of tickets with your name, your address and the random set of numbers on each ticket. It may have been the equivalent of today's QR code but this was your passport to the fantasy world of books, hundreds of books sitting next to each other in disciplined formations like well drilled soldiers. 

Of course you were stubborn non reader as a kid although you did know your mum and dad were right because eventually you had to find about what exactly made the human and animal universe worked. Soon primary school furnished you with the knowledge of adding up and subtracting numbers, multiplication, division and long division, the rudiments of English grammar and vocabulary, the ABC followed by secondary school. 

Eventually you developed your passion for reading when it became a vital necessity. As a class we boys read William Golding's Lord of the Flies currently trending on BBC One on a Sunday evening. At the time there was a basic understanding of what the story was about. But there was no real idea of what we were supposed to be doing as a result of reading out loudly during English lessons. It was only in later years that you became aware of the book's premise, detail and concept. 

Personally, you stumbled on Redbridge library next to Ilford Town Hall during the early 1980s. A sense of guilt and embarrassment may follow you because you should have been in full gainful employment. Circumstances dictated otherwise and soon you were occupying every single waking hour after lunch eagerly grabbing and then embracing the great British classics. It was never an addiction but you somehow felt obliged to read as much as you could without bothering to wonder why you were doing this. 

First there was the eminent German author Thomas Mann who gave us the best in Teutonic language and mention of his dog Basha. There then followed the mighty colossus who was Charles Dickens, where you read most if not all of his repertoire including Hard Times, Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickelby, David Copperfield, Oliver Twist, Barnaby Rudge, Dombey and Son, Little Dorrit, the fantastically amusing Martin Chuzzlewit, the lesser known and heralded Sketches By Boz and the Christmas stories. It was the most wondrous discoveries. 

Then there was the masterful literary genius of Thomas Hardy, the one author who changed my whole opinion on the big, wide world. Subconsciously, you were living in Dorset and you too were farming in the agricultural heartlands of Wessex. You too were planting the seeds, harvesting the crops and then fraternising with Hardy's powerful and resonant characters. You too were living in the quaint timber thatched cottages and drinking gallons of mead, beer and cider if you were particularly thirsty.

You couldn't help but immerse yourself in the Mayor of Casterbridge, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, A Pair of Blue Eyes, The Trumpet Major, Return of the Native and the man's delightful short stories. Hardy was the man you were looking for when you needed to know everything there was to know about human emotions, the triumphs and positive narratives. Hardy was the finished article who started life as an architect but then established different narratives with suitably dramatic plotlines. 

There followed James A. Michener, Franz Kafka, Marcel Proust, Leo Tolstoy, Joseph Conrad, the elegant Henry James and the wonderfully eloquent George Eliot who embellished the English language with a descriptive flair and polish which took us effortlessly through Middlemarch, Mill on the Floss, Adam Bede and Felix the Radical which was equally as poetic as the rest of Eliot's masterpieces. You did read the Brontes, Jane Austin and have now completed most of the American back catalogue of William Faulkner, Ernest Hemingway and Scott Fitzgerald.

And so it's World Book Day and we should be celebrating the joys of reading to our children and grandchildren. It is the most fascinating of pastimes and hobbies, a genuine pleasure if you've a spare moment during your day. You become totally absorbed in the imagery and symbolism of books, the literary journeys that can transport you to exotic South Sea islands. You were now with W. Somerset Maugham, the man who took you inside the minds of eccentric colonels, spies, plantation officers in the middle of the Borneo forest, cunning card players, spivs or wealthy lords and dowagers living in ostentatious wealth. 

Today is World Book Day, a day for being reminded of what it was like to pick up your first book of nursery rhymes, fairy tales, lovable characters such as Thomas the Tank Engine, Postman Pat, Harry Potter, the Gruffalo before arriving in Disney where yet more childhood companions live. Literature on the written page is always to be valued and then heavily examined by its harshest critics. We all have our favourite authors such as James Patterson, Lee Child, Jo Jo Moyes and the Sophie Kinsellas of the literary canon. Essentially books are all about acquiring the fundamental skills of reading, laughing at prose of stunning originality, word construction or just enjoying the word pictures painted by the mainstream writers of the modern day. So please curl up on your sofa, pick up your favoured choice of author, allowing yourself the luxury and freedom to experience the joys of the written word. Enjoy folks. It's World Book Day.       

  

Spring on the horizon.

 Spring on the horizon.

So here come the joyous moods and mannerisms of the passing seasons. The wintry stillness and sleepiness of those long gone days of November, December and January days are constant reminders of human hibernation, comfort foods and indoor activities, warming our hands by roaring, crackling log fires at the first breakfast of the day and then long, therapeutic walks along nostalgic country lanes, crunching purposefully through thick blankets of yellow and brown leaves and then slowly blooming, beautiful parklands. It is such a privilege. It is a scene we've always found ourselves in during so many days of leisure and relaxation through late Christmas hours. We do it this year and will always do again and again for eternity. 

But here we are at the end of February and yesterday it felt like spring and then we sensed its encouraging omens, felt its soothing rhythms, touched its magnificence, and then abandoned ourselves to its pretty patterns, its picturesque possibilities, the awareness of its stunning revelations, its revealing and tantalising insights, the subtle suggestions of  long, hot summers. It may be February but in June and July we could be back in the rarefied land of 1976 when the glorious heatwave seemed to go on indefinitely. 

At the back of our minds, we are reminded of our youthful solitude and painful shyness, the way it used to be but no longer is. But springtime is just under a month away now and soon we'll herald its arrival with rousing trumpets and bugles. We'll fling open those blinds and curtains and welcome its pristine splendour and glory through wistful windows, the way we always allowed in the honeyed rays of sunshine from early childhood to mature adolescence.

Then we know that something special and auspicious is in our midst. We can see that first carnival of spring's yearly parade, tulips and daisies dancing the bossa nova, the samba, the salsa, the stately waltz. Behind them lies the percussion and windwood section, winds gently blowing and then wafting through doorways, halls, school playgrounds, ageless village churches, rippling excitedly over placid, docile lakes and rivers. It's almost springtime and let's celebrate for the rest of the year and forever more. 

Across Britain, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world, we saw the first oil paintings and watercolours of spring at its most playful and flirtatious, sunlit mornings and afternoons teasing us and then laughing, giggling, acting out children's games of hide and seek. There it is, the sun, darting mischievously between thirsty hedgerows, bouncing off the branches from trees that may look neglected but look perfectly content to be where they are. It was always thus for the poets of the world and that's who you are. 

So why do you choose to be poetic at the moment? Yesterday it just felt so appropriate and totally correct. You forgot about political infighting, gang warfare in the House of Commons, the conflicts and confrontations, the bloodletting, the name calling, the blatantly insulting industrial language in the heated corridors of Westminster, the endlessly insoluble wars, disasters, man's inhumanity to man. Yesterday you walked along pavements bathed in the luxuriant yellow glow of sun kissed streets and roads, inhaling deeply the sweetness of life and then something even more rewarding. 

Soon the flora and fauna of nature's loveliest manifestations will be among us. We will see the flamboyant theatricality of the daffodils, red and yellow tulips, the dainty daisy chains delivering their first eloquent sentences. We will sing joyful rhapsodies at the sight of those majestic buds of roses, red blossoms of colour nodding amiably at each other rather like we do when we see that first combine harvester and tractor, acknowledging their existence with a cheerful wave and smile.  

And then we will look forward to those first exciting sounds and acoustics of springtime melodies, perhaps playing our first game of tennis of the year although that may have to wait a little longer. We will hear the delicate, whispering winds of springtime, soft breezes whistling musically, the first harmonious orchestras of the year, nature showing off its first choruses and verses, reminiscent of the classical pianos we played as children and the violins that were always thoughtful and peaceful. 

In a couple of days time, the global Jewish population will be taking to the streets with the festival of Purim and our faces will light up at the Charedi populations who love this time of the year. The children will dress up in fancy dress and the adults will imitate their off spring. Before you know it, thousands of Jewish families will wear the traditional uniform of policemen, Superman, Superwoman Batman, Spiderman, Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, inflatable mobile phones and smart phones. They will eat their Hamantaschen with poppy seeds and delicious, sweet flavours, triangular shaped biscuits that you could eat permanently and are irresistible. How good is it to be Jewish and so wonderful. 

But, for the moment at least, it is not quite the time for inviting spring into our home. The preparations and plans are underway and soon children across the world will be gleefully ripping open boxes of Easter eggs and the cuckoos will be exercising their plangent vocal chords. The early mornings will be considerably brighter and you won't need a raincoat or mackintosh anymore, removing at once those pullovers or cardigans immediately before skipping out of the front door with a song in our heart.

So Ladies and Gentleman. It did feel like spring yesterday and our thoughts turned automatically to the past. We found ourselves day dreaming just for a while because we're optimistic and remember 1976. It was 50 years ago that Britain sizzled every single day in record breaking 100 degrees of heat from the beginning of May until the August Bank Holiday. From the moment you woke up to late evening, we witnessed unbroken blue skies, sweltering sunshine, cloudless days, weeks and months and the school summer holidays. It happened every day and how good it felt.

For the moment it's still February and the shortest month of the year which means that we can see March waiting in the wings, rehearsing its lines, imagining idyllic scenarios. February is an excitable child who can't wait for their parents to buy them an ice cream, a ballerina on her first night at Covent Garden, a famous celebrity singer with the voice of an angel. Then the London Palladium explodes into rapturous applause because this is perfection, flawless and absolutely exquisite. Yes, it felt like spring yesterday and that's what it's like and that's the way it'll always be. It's so breath taking.         

National Walking the Dog Day.

 National Walking the Dog Day.

But of course it's Walking the Dog Day. You knew that and we didn't have to tell you anymore on the subject. National Walking the Dog Day is the most pleasurable human activity you can possibly think of. It's something humanity has carried out with unconditional love ever since dogs roamed free on hillsides and fields in the English countryside thousands of years ago. We know we love our dogs because, quite frankly, apart from our loving and supportive family, dogs just happen to be our best friends as well, simply adorable. 

They are the one animal we feel obliged to be associated with because they can read human body language and are both non judgmental and totally unbiased. They are the one animal who never criticise us when we look at our worst after a heavy night at the pub or a rotten day at work, school or college. Dogs are just deeply caring, sympathetic, worldly wise and acutely sensitive to all of our moods. They read our mannerisms, watching us carefully in case we get upset about something because they're on our side. Life will always be lovely with our doggie friends. 

Now, in the grander scheme of things you would never ordinarily think of dogs as the one topic of discussion to dominate a family gathering or a convivial party. But we do and it's just infectious. Once your poodle, Great Dane, golden retriever, Pomeranian poodle, Dachshund, Jack Russell, German Shepherd and Alstatian trots into a living room or kitchen, you know the kind of reaction you'll probably get. Aunties, uncles, cousins, mums and dads, brothers and sisters, grandchildren in particular, daughters and sons will collectively sigh with an unwavering admiration that verges on adoration. 

Throughout the centuries, dogs have become hunters, rescue dogs, police dogs, playful, easy going creatures who just love the company of people. They'll never be able to tell you what exactly may be going through your mind but they do know what you may be feeling. And that's the perfect relationship. We do like to think that we can communicate with our dogs because that distinctive, fast moving wag of the tail says much more than the conversations that humans have always been able to express our feelings with.

Dogs feel for us, they long to chase the tennis ball, a game you so excitedly agree to be a part of. On any beach, dads unfailingly chuck anything they can get their hands on and simply keep the family dog occupied and engaged. Dogs play the game you play with our children, relatives and grandchildren because it's just fun, innocent, carefree, instinctive and just immensely entertaining. At times, dogs are our mental salvation because we look at our dogs and are convinced that nothing else in the world matters apart from our dogs. So they know who you are and can relate to you in a way that's gloriously moving.

 And yet there are those who treat our canine friends with the savage contempt that fills you with horror and disgust. Dogs are an extension of the family unit, the presence on our sofas who just jump around joyfully as if wholly connected with who we are. They collect bones, thickly knotted pieces of small rope and tennis balls, before heading out into the family garden. There they romp around tirelessly, bounding across the grass, dashing and darting without a care in the world. 

During the 1960s, TV gave us Lassie, a border collie who captured the hearts of every child around the world because Lassie was brave, fearless, heroic and understanding. He came to the rescue of people who became trapped in caves or were completely lost and hadn't a clue who to turn to. So Lassie became a movie star, a constant companion and a charming ally, somebody who would always be there at the first sign of danger. 

There were always dogs for the blind and once again dogs were our guiding influence, models of reliability when things got out of control and never disappointed. Dogs had compassionate eyes which always looked after you and made you feel at home. Dogs are cute and sentimental and bark their heads off when you desert them because they'd been left on their own for too long. Dogs curl up in their baskets when the rest of the family have settled in for the evening and they love their own company. They stare at you with that delightful look that means everything in the world is fine. 

Of course dogs can be naughty and disobedient, stubborn and clearly in complete disagreement with you because you just want to walk your dog. And today of course is National Walking the Dog Day and dogs do look forward to both the weekend and Sunday most significantly. They know that there are several enormous parks and pleasure gardens near you, forests and woods full of potential mischief, vast acres of space to explore with that inquisitive air that always becomes readily apparent. They leap over fences, hiding and then teasing you, waiting patiently for your next move before sprinting across streams and rivers with the kind of canine charisma that always makes you laugh and smile. 

So here we are on a late Sunday February evening and you've eaten your roast or gorged with relish in your pub carvery. The chances are that your dog would love nothing better than a long, satisfying walk with you and the family. So you casually pick up sticks or tree branches, tree twigs that just happen to be in front of you and are immediately available. The dog can sense your readiness to play and becomes hugely responsive before suddenly stretching away into the distance, thrilled to be considered a member of your extended family. 

Four years ago, Bev and I bought our first dog. He was a pomeranian poodle and we called him Barney, a name that just seemed so right and correct. And now Barney goes with us everywhere. We feed him every day and then he dips his nose into a silver bowl of water and everything in our and his world is just hunky dory. Now it has to be said our pomapoo bears no resemblance to the breed we were led to believe he was. But our entire family love Barney and just adore him because that love is reciprocal and natural. So we hope you've taken your dog or dogs on their constitutional because they will appreciate it and they'll never let you down. It's National Walking the Dog Day folks. Enjoy your dog because he or she will always enjoy you.  

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 would be 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 Mrs 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 and the Luftwaffe, those cold eyed assassins, are now thankfully consigned to the dustbin of history. Some of us never want anything 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 basking 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. Radcliffe 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.