The World Cup at the age of eight.

 The World Cup at the age of eight

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Days to go before the World Cup.

 Days to go before the World Cup.

So here we are days away from the beginning of another World Cup. Football waits with bated breath, surveying its wallcharts, the thousands of permutations, possibilities and logistics. Around the world, millions of families will be hanging on its every word, dramatic turning point, the breathless anticipation of a global festival with its footballing superstars and inquisitive celebrities from the world of fashion, art, science and modern technology. 

More so than ever the World Cup, this year hosted by a combination of USA, Mexico and Canada, will be infiltrating our souls, the core of our being, draining our senses, suspending our beliefs, holding us in a strange state of bewildered abeyance because we've no idea how England might do this time. It's the most well documented fact of them all. It's been 60 years now since Sir Alf Ramsey's battle hardened players ran themselves into the ground, busting a gut, straining every sinew and testing our patience to the limit. On a magical day in July 1966 England did win the World Cup and yet since then, there has been nothing.

England have never meant to do this to us but they have almost without thinking about it. They've been close, agonisingly close at times but tumbleweed has blown over the horizon of every English landscape you could imagine. It has been 60 years of abandoned hopes, horrendous quarter and semi final nightmares, the brink of the spectacular only to find a desert of desolation. Yes, the England football team have driven us, quite literally to drink and then we drown our sorrows because it's quite definitely the manager's fault.

For the last couple of years, a navy waistcoated, sharply suited, bearded gentleman has done so much to revolutionise the shape, pattern, mental mindset and overall psychology of football's confusing thought patterns. Gareth Southgate, a smooth and commanding central defender for Crystal Palace, once stepped up to take a penalty for his country in Euro 96 and committed the cardinal sin. He missed a penalty and the Germans went on to win the trophy in the Euro 96 Final against the Czech Republic. Unforgivable or maybe not. 

But then Southgate became England manager and within a couple of life changing seasons, the England manager was being feted as the Messiah. He was a managerial genius par excellence. Within several Euro and World Cup tournaments, he'd guided us to the promised land of a World Cup semi final in Russia 2018 only to lose to Croatia. Then he secured two consecutive Euro Finals in which they were heartbreakingly beaten by Italy and Spain. In hindsight, though, Southgate had achieved much more than met the eye. 

What becomes abundantly clear is that  international tournaments have never come easy. In fact the mental block which has proven so hard to overcome and obliterate from their minds, is further proof that England seem to be afflicted with some inexplicable stage fright, a fear of the unknown. There is a nervousness and trepidation about those crucial 90 minutes when English legs turn to jelly. And we simply don't know why and never will so it'll probably be a mystery wrapped in a riddle. 

Four years on from one of the most corrupt, morally dubious, outrageously scheduled World Cup of all time, the Jules Rimet trophy will be returning to the Land of the Free. America will be embracing all of the heartwarming tradition and history of football's greatest global Shangri La. Mexico, a nation with a proper football storyline and narrative, will be joining forces with Canada who may not be quite so enlightened and well informed about football's most delicate nuances but will welcome the world amiably.

In Qatar of 2022, the World Cup was subjected to a barrage of sinister goings on behind the scenes, repeated allegations of human rights abuses, a blanket ban on alcohol and the horrific stigma of being gay. Some of us were almost mortally offended at the way the game was being used and manipulated for all the wrong reasons. At the end, one of the finest players of recent times on a world scale did hold aloft the World Cup. Lionel Messi is the most exquisitely talented player and, in the twilight of his stunning career, Messi had finally won the World Cup for Argentina.

But then we return to the subject of the England football team. We still don't have the required answers to important questions. Why did we spend the whole of the whole of the 1970s,  hiding behind our sofas, growling and scowling as another penalty landed in a metaphorical back garden. These were the wilderness years, years of scratching our heads in stunned amazement. Over and over again we were left out and excluded from the party because it was our fault and nobody else was to blame. 

When the traitorous Don Revie packed his suitcase for Saudi desert riches, Revie was slaughtered, vilified, despised, blown out and ostracised as if the man had been responsible for the most notorious bank robbery. The former Leeds United man got out before the FA had had time to drive him out of the back door. The sense of betrayal would haunt Revie for ever more. The damage though had been done quite irreparably.

England failed to qualify for both the 1974 World Cup Finals in West Germany and then carelessly botched another attempt to reach the 1978 World Cup in Argentina. Hollow and fallow years would follow and Don Revie became the pantomime villain, the man who had deserted England in its direst need. There was something inherently wrong and diseased about the game at both club and international level and the evidence was there for all to see. 

The 1980s would prove much more fruitful though. The late and much missed Sir Bobby Robson, a refined player for both Fulham and then Newcastle's favourite son as manager, was appointed as England manager. Robson took us to the World Cup in Mexico and endured the full gamut of reactions and, ultimate failure. England had though made positive progress in the tournament but then an Argentine footballing beauty named Diego Maradona scored one of the most hotly disputed goals of all time and then embarked on the most mesmerising bossa nova before waltzing past the whole of a flabbergasted and speechless England defence. 

It was hard to know what must have been going through the minds of Peter Reid and Terry Fenwick nor Terry Butcher. But it looked, for all the world, as though they'd just seen a ghost or perhaps it was a figment of the imagination. England though had reached a World Cup quarter final for the first time in ages. A long ago distant image of Bobby Robson though slumped over a hotel swimming pool somehow illustrated the extent of their frustration. But Robson had experienced a breakthrough moment for the national side.  

Then briefly, a man named Graham Taylor was entrusted with the England job. Now Taylor was never one to hide his feelings away from the public domain. On another traumatic evening for England in the early autumn of 1993 there was a sense and sound of impending doom. Taylor had been branded as a dull, long ball, functional football man. The Watford empire did challenge the mighty at the top of the old First Division and then Aston Villa came calling and, admittedly, we did believe that things could change for the better. 

But on a cool autumn evening in Rotterdam, the Netherlands, who had overwhelmed England in Euro 88, were back on the warpath again. Taylor spent the whole of the game ranting and raving at officialdom on the touchline. Then he must have had another private meltdown when England thought they had scored but were then denied. When Ronald Koeman chipped over a beautifully curled free kick over the England wall and into the net past David Seaman, Taylor must have thought there was a vicious conspiracy against him.

England would not go to the World Cup of USA in 1994. Taylor was clobbered over the head, branded a fool, blamed for everything and never really forgiven. He was derided mercilessly, hung out to dry, compared to a vegetable and was never seen anywhere near the FA's hallowed corridors again. What followed was another period of time when England once again withdrew into their shell, a world of rigorous self examination, uncertainty and sheepish introspection. 

Then the former Spurs midfield maestro Glen Hoddle came and went before being engulfed by the darkest shadows. England once again stumbled and staggered before collapsing against Romania in a group stage match in the World Cup Finals held in France. England were limping around the world like a wounded First World War soldier bandaged and bloodied from the ravages of a major battle. 

Suddenly we discovered Terry Venables. Venables had enjoyed a distinguished player with Chelsea, Spurs and QPR. But now the cheeky chappie from Dagenham grabbed hold of the national team's reins and the sorcerer worked his miraculous ways. It was Euro 1996 and the limelight had fallen over England again. England were the centre of attention, adulation and admiration. What could be better?

England went most of the way and for the most of that unforgettable summer, England reached deep into its fulsome reserve of patriotism and a real sense of pride. There were Three Lions On the Chest, the roaring masses on the teeming terraces. England promptly disposed of Spain who would win both Euro and World Cup trophies in years to come. The match against Spain took us to the very edge of unashamed excitement and Stuart Pearce redeemed himself with one of the winning penalties.

And so we trusted the first Swedish manager to take over as head honcho as England boss. The FA had now broadened their horizons and Sven Goran Eriksson's private life had often overshadowed his role as football manager. Eriksson was never mysterious but was certainly friendly and forthcoming at Press conferences for the assembled Press. 

The introduction of Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard was almost a breath of fresh air but then it all went stale when we discovered that both Gerrard and Lampard were attacking midfielders reading the same books at the same time. Both imposed a definite identity on the central midfield area but were like identical twins. But both men gave sterling service to the national team but never quite clicked together seamlessly when the big occasion demanded it.

Finally there was Fabio Capello and the striking phenomenon who was Wayne Rooney in the World Cup of 2010. The Italian gave Rooney his freest role but then it all unrivalled. England struggled awkwardly and embarrassingly against Algeria in their opening group match and Rooney stormed off the pitch after an appalling goal-less draw with an impassioned rant aimed at grumbling and crotchety England fans. But we'll never forget the lovely and noisy vuvuzelas that blared across South Africa for most of that tournament. 

So it is that Thomas Tuchel is entrusted with the latest responsibility as the England man in charge. Tuchel is German and therefore thorough and meticulous in his preparations. Now Harry Kane will once again be the striker designated to score those vitally important goals. Jude Bellingham will be appointed as head boy, prefect and creative catalyst for England, the playmaker, the man pulling the strings, instigating all of England's most defining movements.

We will of course be watching with an almost morbid fascination at home and abroad. We will gather in kitchens and beer gardens across Britain, footballing tribalism at its most authentic and raw. England open their group match with what could prove tricky and troublesome opposition in Croatia. Croatia of course knocked out England in the 2018 World Cup semi final in Russia as if it came naturally to them. They were fully aware of England's vulnerable and fragile chin and England promptly came a cropper. 

But now England head towards meetings with Croatia, Ghana and Panama. This is always a jolly journey with the England football team. The trajectory is bound to be both bumpy and rocky but then it was always thus. Realistically, England may well go far into the land of Disney, Mexican mariachis and Canadian Rockies but who would be a betting man or woman? England will be carrying their usual and cumbersome baggage of high hopes and sometimes misplaced optimism. It should, though, be fun. 

England have always made us grit our teeth but as long as the Barmy Army are in melodious voice then who knows? A re-run of the World Cup Final against West Germany 60 years ago? Now that would really push credibility and could only be considered to be wishful thinking. Bring on the 2026 World Cup Finals. It has to be England's turn. 

National Cheese Day

 National Cheese Day.

Today is one of those days with a very specific texture and flavour. For most of us cheese represents something that has been regarded as essential on any shopping list at the end of the week. We'd probably be craving this food if it had been somehow forgotten. And yet there it sits in the fridge comfortably rubbing shoulders with the butter, the milk, the yoghurts, the mayonnaise quite possibly and a dear old sandwich be lost without it. It's cheese, cheese, cheese and smile for the camera.

A couple of weeks ago, the good people of Gloucestershire witnessed one of the funniest, quirkiest, silliest and yet the most remarkable of yearly cultural events. It was dotty, potty, absurd, shocking to those who may have never seen it before and just inexplicable. But it did take place without any last minute hitches or technical problems. Middle England wallows in its peculiarities, its out of the ordinary rituals and, once again, we were neither disappointed or surprised. 

What followed was the annual cheese rolling race. Now the cheese rolling race is one of the daftest sights you're ever likely to set eyes on. But every year, it just unfolds before our disbelieving eyes, the most incredible manifestation that almost defies explanation. So off they all went, intrepid, fearless souls taking part in a mass participation activity or, if you do take it seriously, sport at its most fiercely competitive. 

High on top of a hill in this most royal of counties, seemingly hundreds of folk gathered en masse, primed and ready to go, refreshed and revitalised by a quick pint or two in the local pub and facing one of the craziest challenges. For this is quite clearly madness personified or maybe its perfectly sensible, harmless and inoffensive. It looks frightening, nay less terrifying but these daring enthusiasts just love to be out in the open on a late spring day. The British countryside is swaying in the bright sunshine and the human race has always challenged itself to the limit. 

But yes folks. It's National Cheese Day. You're impressed aren't you? It's something you've always wanted to be reminded of because cheese has been around for centuries. We venture into our supermarkets every day whistling a tune and going about our way quite happily. Now let's see. Don't forget the jam, bread, vegetables, the meat and fish, the cereals, the dog or cat food, the sweets and chocolates for kids and the the family sized bags of crisps, the fruit of course, all of those savouries and indulgences we take for granted. 

Then, suddenly, you realised the necessity for cheese, that lovely slab of yellow dairy sustenance. But where does the fascination for cheese come from, its irresistible appeal  when lunch demands it.  Did it occur to the farmers of the world that the cows who so generously provide us with the milk and the calcium from our favourite Hereford animals could be converted into something so nutritious and wholesome.  Then there was the light bulb moment? We'll take that milk, allow it to curdle before going off. 

Then we'll allow the milk to curdle, go hard and bob's your uncle. In no time vast slabs of cheese appear on our dinner table in a ceramic dish. Now way back when, a large brick sized cheese would sit snugly on the dining room table, right next to the bottle of tomato ketchup, also flanking the salt and vinegar cellar. Ah how satisfying is cheese? So what's your favourite cheese? Or perhaps you've no preference as such because it comes with pies, omelettes, melted, grated, kids strips, salads or just something that's bound to take your fancy after a lavish Christmas Day turkey feast.

Now most of us love nothing better than a good, old fashioned early evening helpful of cream crackers, plenty of margarine or butter and, of course cheese. There's the reliable Cheddar, the scintillating Stilton, the mouth watering Red Leicester, the Double Gloucester, the delicious crumbly Irish cheddar, Gorgonzola, Brie, Camembert, cottage cheese, goats cheese, Edam and cheese with salad dressing or another blob of mayonnaise. It's a most succulent and deeply appealing combination. 

During the 1970s, the middle classes or upper classes would meticulously organise cheese and wine parties. Nowadays cheese and wines are, quite, probably a dated anachronism, a throwback to a time when those with the disposable income would happily part with money for those little sticks and several hundred cubes of pineapples. There was something cheerfully pretentious about cheese and wine parties because it was a symbol of wealth, influence and your lofty position in high society. In other words you'd arrived and you were entitled to such harmless luxuries. 

Back in the mid 1970s, the BBC's Play for Today featured Allison Steadman in the TV classic Abigail's Party. In a slightly embarrassing moment during a polite, well mannered party, there was a painful silence. If memory serves you correctly, Ms Steadman glided around the coffee table and asked her guests whether anybody liked the Greek singer Demis Roussos. So the turntable was employed and there was music. Presumably Steadman had already offered the obligatory cheese and pineapple sticks to grateful party goers. 

Now of course the upwardly mobile and the professional lawyers, merchant bankers, doctors and well heeled economists probably devour vast quantities of vol au vents, or those tiny sausages that take at least one bite to eat, although the wine, be it red or white, is carefully chosen according to its vintage. Maybe they'd plump for a latte, a cappuccino, espresso or the straightforward tea or coffee. But cheese invariably makes the party swing and should never be excluded.   

So folks, let's mark National Cheese Day. The brilliant plasticine characters Wallace and Gromit, as created by the supremely gifted Nick Park, once again emphasised the tasty virtues of cheese, a gastronomic delight. Cheese Gromit and Gromit agrees immediately. So they slice off another piece just to finish off the evening meal but, according to our eminent dieticians, you'd probably pile on the pounds and stones if you eat too much of it.  But hey, it's time to make a cheese sandwich with maybe a pickle or chutney for good measure. Enjoy your cheese and don't forget the mayonnaise.

Britain's Got Talent winners the Hawkestone Farmers Choir.

 Britain's Got Talent winners the Hawkestone Farmers Choir. 

Last Saturday evening something pretty life affirming and morale boosting happened. No it wasn't an updated version of that vastly popular BBC quiz show the Generation Game introduced by the wondrously funny and versatile Bruce Forsyth. Nor did it mark the welcome return of Sale of the Century once presented by the fabulously professional Nicholas Parsons, one of the great showbusiness after dinner circuit speakers and a hugely impressive orator on any given subject. The 1970s now seem like some golden generation for light entertainment on the TV and Saturday nights have never seemed quite the same. 

Over the weekend though, TV switched on all of the right buttons and filled a gaping vacuum in the schedules more than adequately and succeeded in converting the hardened sceptics that there was life after public exhibitions of pottery and clay moulding, people dressing up in silly clothes and then acting out in daft plays with Bruce Forsyth. It all seems such a long time ago and on Saturday evening the tried and tested formula of the good, old fashioned talent show, a concept probably long since forgotten in the mists of time, returned once again to our TV screens.  

On Saturday night, Britain's Got Talent reached another sensational and glittering climax. This is TV at its most redemptive and entertaining, a perfect remedy for the disillusioned, and an uplifting panacea for those who are fed up and sick to the back teeth of a constant diet of depressing documentaries, shocking investigations into the lives of savage murderers, and nothing but doom and gloom. The news is almost incessantly repetitive, tedious and enough to drive you to the local pub. 

The winners of  Britain's Got Talent were the Hawkestone Farmers Choir, inspired by the charismatic and sometimes controversial celebrity and former Top Gear presenter Jeremy Clarkson. Now Clarkson has become one of the most engaging and likeable of farmers, a man so committed and besotted with his dramatic change of career that you almost feel as though he should be appointed to some prestigious position in political circles.

Maybe Clarkson would make an excellent Cabinet minister or someone associated with the running of the country, a deeply influential figure who could definitely be the answer to Britain's enduring troubles. But then you probably wouldn't want to argue with somebody like Clarkson if somebody referred to him as incompetent and hadn't a clue what he was doing. But it was all very different on Saturday night because he was the man taking a vicarious pleasure in some triumph that he was responsible for. So we settled down for the evening and listened to the Hawkestone Farmers Choir because they had got it absolutely right. And they were outstanding. 

They sung from the same hymn sheet, harmonised melodiously and must have restored your faith in humanity because we knew it would and did. You were convinced that one day a collective choir with the most musical and powerful of voices would warm the cockles of British hearts. We hadn't really seen anything like them because talent shows are normally dominated by magicians, comedians with a familiar line in modern banter and bonny badinage or singers with monumental voices who just capture our imagination for ever more. 

A couple of years ago, a Scottish woman in the most ordinary looking of outfits, exploded into our consciousness like a meteorite from another planet. Susan Boyle walked onto the Britain's Got Talent stage and suddenly burst into a life changing rendition of a song I Dreamed a Dream from the blockbuster and epic, long running and record breaking musical Les Miserables, adapted from the Victor Hugo novel. Boyle proceeded to sing like an angel, an operatic voice from heaven that none of the audience could ever have hoped to hear again. But Britain's Got Talent had captivated TV viewers once again and who could ever question its right to entertain the multitudes of millions watching. 

Throughout this year's variety of the barmy and barely believable were brightly lit drones creating remarkable patterns and bringing them to spectacular life. There were the visually stunning stunt acts of bravado and derring do, the lyrical poets extolling the virtues of Great Britain and of course the obligatory performing dogs who jumped through hoops and spent the whole act dancing. But the Hawkestone Farmers Choir will be travelling down to the Royal Variety Performance in November in front of King Charles the Third and Queen Camilla and deservedly so. 

Some of us remembered some of those original talent shows from yesteryear. During the 1970s there was New Faces where the judges included music song writer Tony Hatch, comedian Arthur Askey and presented by Derek Hobson. Hatch was the honest, ruthless and uncompromising man who has often been regarded as the predecessor to the blunt and forthright Simon Cowell. A now distant memory of New Faces was of a fresh faced Victoria Wood, a brilliant exponent of word play and amusing anecdotes about people and places in song form. Sadly, the exceptional Victoria Wood passed away several years ago but now she remains one of Britain's national treasures and is fondly remembered.

And then there was Opportunity Knocks during your childhood. Opportunity Knocks was a trend setter, a ground breaking talent show that none of us had ever seen the like before. Among innumerable acts was the splendidly gifted poet Pam Ayres who came onto the show launching into a series of homespun verses about country life, the human condition and funny interpretations of everyday events and cultural British traditions. Pam Ayres set the bar to the highest standard and won Opportunity Knocks with the love of the nation showering upon her from every direction. 

There was also one man who would leave an indelible mark on British TV. He was Britain's muscle man Tony Holland. Now Tony Holland was the most extraordinary of individuals, a muscular, athletic and Arnold Schwarzenegger look alike Mr Universe. On one incredible night, Holland stood before a transfixed audience as Holland flexed well honed muscles, now commonly known as a six pack, pulling his pectorals and then emphasising his now well defined chest with sharp, jerky motions. Opportunity Knocks would fade then disappear because Hughie Green, a hitherto unknown Canadian TV  personality and precocious child film star, was exposed as a dubious and then unsavoury character with a troubled past. 

But on Saturday in the present day, it was Britain's Got Talent that won all the garlands of praise, a talent show for the ages. Its latest winners the Hawkestone Farmers Choir was a major shot in the arm for the agricultural industry, one often taken for granted and always cast as one that always seems to be struggling and declining. But Saturday night was their chance to shine and they took full advantage of that moment in the limelight. We will remember where we were when it all happened and that it made us feel good about the current state of British TV. In isolation, it was both heartwarming and deeply enjoyable. And that's to be highly recommended. 

Paris St Germain win the Champions League.

 Paris St Germain win the Champions League.

On the sprawling boulevards and pavement cafes of Paris, the artist quarter and the Arrondissement that provides much of Paris with much of its cultural vibrancy, Paris St Germain or, affectionately known as PSG, sealed back to back Champions League final victories, as Arsenal, valiantly and spiritedly, whole heartedly, but ultimately fruitlessly, lost to the now Parisian giants on penalties. At the Gare Du Nord they were celebrating outside railway stations and flying flags from the latest models of  Peugeot and privately remembering the wise philosophies of Napoleon Bonaparte. But this was hard on Arsenal.

It only seems like yesterday since Arsenal goalkeeper Jans Lehmann was foolishly and recklessly sent off in Arsenal's one and only other Champions League final defeat to Barcelona. Was it really 20 years ago that Arsenal were beaten by Barcelona as a result of one keeper's rush of blood and foolish impetuosity? But history should always be buried as soon as possible and last night Arsenal were on a mission again. 

It goes without saying that Arsenal have richly deserved their Premier League title, a side of classical proportions, an often unparalleled majesty and impeccable breeding. Arsenal have set all of football's exemplary standards,  a team of smooth sophistication, passing of the most breathtaking virtuosity and some of  football's most elegant patterns and rhythms. Their geometric angles and dainty one touch football are something to be deeply admired but this was not to be their night. 

The criticism levelled at Arsenal this season that they may have become too dependent on corners and free kicks for most of the goals has now propelled them to the top of the Premier League. Last week's confirmation of the Premier League title now seems like a long time ago for Arsenal but today, the Gunners will be honking loud car horns and cheering themselves hoarse in Finsbury Park, Islington, Highbury, Barnet and all of the local watering holes. The Premier League is theirs to hold and none can take that away from them. 

At times though there were moments during their Champions League final battle royale when, in intermittent spells, PSG may have felt both trapped and marooned on a desert island. They simply couldn't find any clear pathway out of Arsenal's most stifling blanket defence. The navy shirts of PSG were switching the ball between themselves without ever finding the keys to open up Arsenal's vault. PSG certainly had both a method and clearly defined strategy but were almost stumbling around in the darkness going nowhere in particular. 

And so it was that Jurrien Timber, William Saliba, the unfortunate Gabriel and Riccardo Calafiori were providing Arsenal with magnificent looking shields at the back. Declan Rice was his normally authoritative self while Myles Lewis Skelly grew in confidence with every minute that passed. Martin Odegaard was both painterly and purposeful, a genuine midfield player with the most delicate of touches on and off the ball. Bukayo Saka was mischievous, mesmeric and mercurial, full of the winger's magical soft shoe shuffle and always threatening. But by the game's end, Arsenal's 64th game of a long, hard gruelling slog of a domestic season had taken a severe toll on them. Arsenal were out on their feet. 

Admittedly, Arsenal did take the lead after roughly 10 minutes but that was good as it got for the side who play at the Emirates Stadium. But the momentum and propulsion could never be kept up or sustained for any great length of time. For most of the first half, Arsenal were simply pinning PSG to an invisible wall, smothering the attacks of the French side with hundreds of feet wrestling back possession on the turnover. 

There was, though, a stylish assurance about some of Arsenal's football but it didn't really look as if they had any idea how to hold onto their slender lead. PSG were driving into Arsenal cul-de sacs.Then, it was Arsenal who took the initiative when, after the ball had hit Trossard on the back in the centre circle, Kai Havertz raced away as free as a bird, streaking away towards the angle of the penalty area before motoring forward and then rifling the ball firmly high into the back of the net. Arsenal were in front and nothing else seemed to matter.

Arsenal were seeing much of the ball but always looked unsure of themselves, that air of easy and footloose fluency now fading into obscurity. Saka and Odeggard were magnificent and PSG looked both frustrated and bewildered but Arsenal kept blocking and holding PSG at arms length. The first half was now approaching before half time presented the Gunners with greater opportunities and adventures in the second half. 

But the North London side were probably haunted by the Barcelona defeat in the Champions League Final of 20 years ago and there was an uncertainty about Arsenal, a worrying disturbance in their minds. The football was still there, thriving and prospering with cultured, feet to feet attacking movements. By now, though, Mikel Arteta looked seriously concerned and his biggest fears came to fruition. The bitten lip of stress and anxiety was now patently evident. Arteta at his usual, animated self, was restless and impatient, living and breathing every kick, pass and tackle in his minds, now worried and clearly unhappy.  

He then frowned, before flinging his hands into the air rather like a man who might have lost his Pools Coupon behind the sofa and looked on horrified when he hadn't won a penny. By now PSG were dropping further back into their own half but always looked both dangerous and ruthless into the bargain. Now the game was teetering on the brink and could have gone either way. And that's part of football's charm offensive. 

Both Achraf Hakimi, Marquinhos, William Pancho and the beautifully talented Nuno Mendes were back in the game. PSG's rocky looking midfield looked wobbly and distracted until the hour mark of the game. But then the stunning Warren Zaire Emery, Vitinha, Joao Neves and Ousman Dembele began to play on Arsenal's weaknesses and defensive collywobbles. There were obvious holes and deficiencies in an otherwise immaculate Arsenal's defence. PSG looked comfortable and cosy, weaving and carving open Arsenal, a side of impulsive first time passing and bewildering close ball control. 

For the first time in the game, Arsenal began to look confused and nervous, anguish and agitated before losing the ball and never regaining any real possession. And so PSG kept pressing Arsenal further and further back, driving them right back on to the edge of their own penalty area. The French finesse and panache looked like something out of a Monet masterpiece. The passes were fizzing effervescently through the lines of the Arsenal defence and Arsenal, although still gallant, had nothing left in the tank. 

And then before you could blink, PSG hauled themselves back into the game. Their equaliser came from the sweetest one two on the edge of the Arsenal penalty area. Dembele then bundled into the area before tumbling awkwardly with what looked to be a penalty. After much deliberation, the referee went back and forth to the VAR screen. The penalty was given and Dembele blasted the ball high into the net past an otherwise excellent goalkeeper in David Reya. That's how the game remained and ended. 

Extra time brought nothing but a stifling stalemate. Both PSG and Arsenal had nothing left in their attacking repertoire and were now staggering towards the finishing line. It was a penalty shoot out which were all taken with admirable ease. Both PSG and Arsenal missed their spot kicks before Gabriel,  who had never put a foot wrong during the evening, stepped back at a diagonal pace or two but then hit the ball with far too much power and venom. Essentially, the Brazilian had done nothing wrong at all but you could sense that the pressure had almost been overwhelming and Gabriel shot too high and the ball landed in the ecstatic throng of PSG fans.

So it was that PSG of France had trodden on the turf where the legendary Ferenc Puskas had once so decorated the Beautiful Game with so many Hungarian embroideries. Hungary had seen the new European champions or the Champions League. It had been a night when Arsenal had come so agonisingly close to winning the Double of Premier League and Champions League but not quite close enough. Mind you, today, the open topped bus parade will be inching its way through the joyful streets and roads of North London. Arsenal have still won the Premier League and the congratulations will continue for many a day, week, month and years to come. Good old Arsenal, we're proud to say your name.   

National Senior Health and Fitness Day

 National Senior Health and Fitness Day.

This is the day when doctors and surgeons will take us into their confidence and tell us quite categorically that we could do with losing a few pounds or even, more dramatically, a considerable number of stones. They'll have your best interests at heart because they know you need to lose weight. So we dutifully acknowledge the unnecessary timber around our waist and we do need to go on a rigorous diet regime. Then, for a while, we look at our stomachs, racked with guilt, blaming ourselves for both eating and drinking excessively and then find ourselves at a loss. We must set the right example to family and friends.

Today is National Senior Health and Fitness Day. And for those of an advanced age and pensionable status, our self awareness and acute knowledge of our mental and physical health can be quite sobering. We didn't mean to empty the cake and biscuit tin in record time but it was just there, luring and beckoning us to eat just one more. We know that both chocolates, biscuits and cakes can have an ultimately detrimental effect on our general health but they were mouth watering, delicious and enticing.

Now of course, we all do it, don't we? On the first day of the New Year, our conscience pricks us quite sharply. So we head to the local gymnasium, flexing our arms, stretching our calves, and then doing a thousand press ups before going through the same procedure. We may be sufficiently energised to go for long, gruelling and arduous run around our local back streets, parks and roads because that'll work up a sweat for us and the happy hormones will kick in with a vengeance in no time at all. 

It is of course very well intentioned and admirable at first but then by March and April, we're back to square one, feeling ever so slightly fitter but never really satisfied with our performance. The yearly subscription just seemed like a good idea. Some of us used  to run quite regularly about 40 years ago but never really knew what you were supposed to be doing. Subconsciously, it all felt good and physically rewarding because you felt like some kind of intrepid explorer, setting new challenges, increasing your mileage and going much further than you could have ever imagined. 

Once, you completed a half marathon and having reflected on the enormity of your accomplishment  you began to think there were more acts of athleticism and sporting heroism you could achieve. You'd always loved playing football with school kids in the playground. But then you realised what you'd missed out on  something you should have done as a kid. Of course you should have joined your Jewish youth club. You should have played both table tennis or badminton, football and then  weightlifting with your contemporaries but then felt no sense of belonging and hadn't realised my lack of self esteem was holding me back. But you are still humble and grateful for the present for family life and beautiful grandchildren.

And yet, you continue to keep fit in your gym. For a number of years you have pushed yourself to the limit, your remarkable powers of stamina and endurance even impressing yourselves. You jump onto the pedal bike, pedalling furiously, frantically and frenetically, head down, tributaries of sweat pouring from our foreheads, speeding at the most ridiculous pace before slowing and then getting faster. And then the rowing machine comes in to its own and if you close your eyes you can almost feel like one of the crew at the yearly Oxford and Cambridge boat race. It is the harshest fitness regime and as somebody who now finds himself deep into their 60s, such violent exertion and ferocious dedication to the cause was never urgent, pressing and that important. 

But the levels of fitness we all aspire to can never really live up to our expectations. We promise to eat in moderation, climb up more stairs and steps and then concentrate on walking, power walking before embarking on multiple lengths in the neighbourhood swimming pool. We launch into stunning feats of aerobic exercise, powering through the water with front crawl, breast stroke and, awkwardly, the back stroke. And you kid yourself into believing that, in some fantasy land, you too could swim the English channel.  You are of course being both delusional and totally unrealistic so you pull on your swimming trunks and then just indulge in a couple of half an hour or so of gentle breast stroke. 

Then, there are those who stop eating foods that simply pile on the cholesterol. Since the late 1960s, 1970s and then 1980s, young, impressionable girls read their kind of magazines. They were told, quite absurdly, that they were overweight and would never get that glamorous fashion model assignment by over eating So, tragically those same girls would eat very little and thought a strict dietary regime would make them look a million dollars. But then bulimia and anorexia reared their ugly head as potentially life threatening diseases and how we despaired about news of their tragically early deaths.

Now of course we're far more enlightened about the foods that are conducive to good health and all the relevant exercise we should take. Footballers used to sink vast quantities of pale ale, lager and too much alcohol for their own good. But, thanks to former Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger, players demand a carafe of wine and just a glass or two of red and white for their lunch and tea. Everthing is grilled and fulsome plates of fish and richly beneficial vegetables are commonplaces on their everyday menu. 

These could be regarded as spartan and disciplined routines but if you were to stick to them, then you'd feel a whole lot better about yourself. Senior Health and Fitness Day is still something to be considered in any conversation about our general well being. The years are passing, bones and muscles deteriorating and then renewing themselves but you've got to keep going.

So don't stop walking those vital steps through precious British woodland, rambling for fun against a backdrop of towering mountains and then jumping across subdued streams before contemplating another London Marathon, perhaps a less strenuous 5k. But then you're under no obligation to do any of the above. What about a weekend health spa with sauna and far more leisure facilities? Enjoy folks.   

West Ham are relegated to the Championship

 West Ham are relegated to the Championship.

And so it came to pass, the inevitable, the unavoidable, the doom laden scenario, the end of civilisation but not quite and yet it must have felt this way to the unreasonably devoted West Ham fans who had stood by them for so long, so defiantly, stoically, without fear at first but then recognising that their fate had been sealed a long, long time ago. The written graffiti on the wall looked ugly and grotesque, illegible and beyond our comprehension. It almost felt like another language and culture had been stolen during the night and left West Ham, bereft and broken hearted, inconsolable and still wondering how it all had happened.

Yesterday afternoon on the most religious of all days, West Ham were almost in confessional mode, repentant and remorseful, pleading for forgiveness for unspoken sins and yet stunned. There was a point during their final day in the Premier League against Leeds United when somebody had metaphorically switched off the lights, turned off the electricity and a power cut had reduced West Ham  to the lowest common denominator. You probably thought this would never happen but relegation fell across the club like the darkest of all curtains. 

West Ham have finally been relegated to the Championship and you could almost hear a pin drop at the London Stadium. The realisation was a painful one but now very a truthful moment that couldn't be accepted in the heat of the moment but was nonetheless there in the present. How often have West Ham been so close to the perilous precipice and discovered that the edge of the cliff was still a safe refuge? But West Ham were playing with fire and eventually got their fingers burnt. It was always likely to happen.

On the final day of the Premier League season, West Ham's well known adversaries Spurs were keeping them company rather like two formidable heavyweights who were just locked in each others arms, tussling, wrestling, flailing their fists, hooking and then raining down punches to both the head and midriff as if their lives depended on it. It was all very unsavoury and unseemly, brutal and yet authentic. Spurs were last relegated to the second tier of English football in 1977 but yesterday the bogie man had returned, this time though for West Ham. This was third relegation to the second tier in recent years. 

But on one of the hottest days of the year, Spurs looked at themselves in the mirror and tried to forget the demons that had destroyed them way back, the year of 1977. It was a year before Ossie Ardilles, Ricky Villa and the brilliant Glen Hoddle revolutionised the way most of us perceive the Beautiful Game. Now, 48 years later, they were struggling again, clinging on for dear life, staring down the bottom of the barrel. Spurs have recently looked like a frightening caricature of their former selves and it's been the most horrific watch. 

Then at 4pm the gun went, blasting and piercing the air with the loudest shriek. The two sworn enemies walked back into the distance, pistols drawn, flintlock and blunderbuss poised, ammunition ready to be fired. Spurs came out of the traps against Everton at the Tottenham Hotspur like men possessed, galvanised beyond belief, fired up and pumped up, bristling and seething, teeth bared, nostrils flaring and fully motivated, knowing what they had to do to stay in the Premier League. The cavalry came charging over the horizon, cannons full of lethal intent and West Ham had been forewarned.

Towards the end of the first half all hell broke loose and Tottenham scored the opening goal of this vitally critical and important game. The ball was sucked into the net by Joao Palhinha, their most experienced and game changing player, scrambling home what must have seemed the greatest goal Spurs had ever scored. The Spurs fans were now besides themselves with happiness. This had to be the winner and across London, West Ham were now deep in the quicksand, sinking into the quagmire and the primeval swamps from which there would be no return. 

Shortly into the second half in both matches involving both Tottenham and West Ham, there was an intriguing lull in the proceedings. Spurs were still celebrating and West Ham were reduced to a painful silence. Then there was a suspended disbelief. West Ham scored through Taty Castellanos followed by another from Jarrod Bowen and then a third from Callum Wilson. Maybe, maybe West Ham could reach out and touch the most tenuous of hopes. It still seemed as if the improbable may yet materialise. Sadly not. Miracles do happen but not that often.

Both Spurs and West Ham were now almost acutely aware of the gravity and significance of the afternoon. With minutes remaining, the claret and blue half of the capital city of London rationalised with the harsh reality that was now facing them. There was a sensible recognition that their 14 year tenancy of the Premier League was about to end. The final whistle went and at the London Stadium, claret and blue shirts slumped to the ground, lying flat out, emotionally exhausted, distraught perhaps but now bewildered, arms outstretched and barely taking it all in. 

And so Sadiq Khan, the heavily criticised Mayor of London, had failed to save the taxpayers of a monumental amount of money. The critics still air their grievances about a stadium that remains ill suited to football and continues to be used for major athletic events, baseball exhibitions and pop music concerts. A couple of years ago the Rolling Stones headlined the London Stadium and, more recently, the Foo Fighters but football at the London Stadium almost feels like the wrong time and place.

Relegation for West Ham will now deprive the club of all that much coveted revenue, millions of TV pounds and the kind of status and stature that they may well have felt was theirs by right. Some of the top clubs in the Premier League still retain that repellent air of entitlement and privilege that has disfigured the game for so long now. Regrettably, this has always seemed the way and, for West Ham, this is rather like a journey into the unknown yet again. 

West Ham have known relegation before but the pill is still bittersweet and a shock to the system. One day though the Hammers will once again experience those good vibes and, quite possibly consolidate their position in the Premier League. But, at the moment, it all feels very bleak and ominous. Ipswich Town, who were relegated last season, are back in the Premier League so West Ham may well be looking at the Ipswich model and template. The Bubbles will indeed be flying high. You would hope so.