National Holocaust Museum

 National Holocaust Museum.

In 1995, a family of devout Christians founded the National Holocaust Museum. It was a momentous period of time because across the world the global Jewish population had been heard throughout the decades. They too, would prove to be so movingly influential once again because we need to listen and absorb, digest, process thoroughly and analyse every single aspect of the Holocaust, all of those unresolved questions with very few concrete answers because none of us can ever understand the enormity of it all. As a grandson of a Holocaust survivor, I feel particularly qualified.

And so it was that the Smith family including sons Stephen and James were sufficiently inspired and energised to come up with the most magnificent idea of them all. They'd heard about the vast and extensive documentaries, the masses of information and misinformation, the lies and fallacies as well as the Holocaust survivors whose story still resounds throughout the ages. It is, as we all know, one of the most horrific, harrowing, terrifying, touching and moving story of one religion whose persecution then annihilation has continued to both polarise and unite the whole world. 

And yet 81 years later we could still hear the screams of agony and purgatory, watch in incredulity vivid images of death, the rampant hatred and contempt, the evil forces of antisemitism, the blatant racism, the adults and children who were horribly humiliated before being murdered and slaughtered unbearably and disgracefully. But for one family and the mother of that family, this story was one that had to be recounted and then given us the most powerful reminder since one day our children and grandchildren may think that the Holocaust is no longer as relevant or accessible.as it should be. They will know much more though and that may be the decisive breakthrough in any historical reference to the Holocaust. 

But this is my testimony  and you know for a fact the next generation, our generation will know exactly where we're coming from. They will be furnished with a rich understanding and knowledge of the vicious manslaughter, the barbaric brutality, the callous indifference to death, pain, suffering and murder. There is a sense here that none of us can truly know what happened in hindsight since your grandparents and mum were too traumatised to open up about the Holocaust. Besides, who on earth would want to hear that same familiar story? We do and so we should because we have to be sharply aware and informed. Always and indefinitely. 

Yesterday my lovely wife Bev and I visited the National Holocaust Museum in Laxton, Nottinghamshire, a place of sorrow but tranquillity. reflection and rumination, of stunned silence, careful observation and plenty of private thoughts that can never be questioned. The Smith family, with the full support of mum Marina, went to Israel in 1991 on an exhaustive fact finding tour in Israel. They visited Yad Va'Shem, that special pilgrimage for not only Jews but every religion, class, background and belief. It is a location for serious investigation, a reminder once again of the sinful loss of life that some of us find it impossible to register. But of course it happened. None can deny that.

Four years later and the Smith dream became a remarkable achievement. From the beautiful city of Jerusalem in Israel to a small corner of Nottinghamshire, this had become a journey of a lifetime finally bearing fruit. In 1995, the National Holocaust Museum opened to the public and once again we joined them on a voyage of discovery that many of us had travelled on for as long as we can remember. We wandered around the museum in a state of shock, anguished astonishment, gaining an even broader picture of man's inhumanity to man. 

There was the centuries old Blood Libel trials where a non Jewish academic became convinced that the Jews were responsible for all the cruelties, injustices and important events of everyday life. It now seems far distant but even then Jews were vilified, detested, doubted, spat on, alienated, ostracised and made to feel totally inferior. Way back then, the Jews were treated as pariahs, different, unique, a genuine threat to modern society for reasons that still baffle and rankle of good, decent, law abiding, honourable folk.

Then we walked through the mazy, labyrinthine roooms and eloquent spaces that told the stories that we may have listened to at some point in our lives. But,  in essence, are these are the history lessons we should all explain and convey repeatedly until the message sinks in that peace is the only solution and not war. There were the traditional glass cases of exhibits, the oppression, the sinister killings, the soul destroying and egregious starvation. the taunting tortures and, of course the gas chambers.

You were suddenly confronted by the most graphic of all representations, the shop windows daubed unforgivably with Jude and the swastika scrawled in the most ugly and obscene fashion. You saw the Jews being frogmarched helplessly through the grounds of the concentration camps, the death chambers, the showers with Zyklon gas, the barbed wire authenticity, the Nazi stormtroopers in all their disgusting and revolting military uniform. 

You saw the twisted anguish on the faces of children, the terrible branding on their arms and on their heads, people being thrown, pushed, prodded, forced against their will, shuffling tearfully to their death, the final judgment, a demise of which the world could only look on with repulsion and bewilderment. The rooms were heavy with the poignant voices of the heartbroken, the survivors who were left to rot and die. But they were the ones who somehow emerged into the daylight with tender love stories and lovely testimonies of redemption and salvation, of coming out on the other side and blinking into sun light and daylight. 

It was a gentle wander through one of the darkest and bleakest periods of Jewish history. There was the enforced isolation and seclusion, the scraps of bread and water that constituted breakfast, lunch and tea and then the awful realisation that they were the ones who had to sacrifice everything and pay for it in death. Heads were shaven, bodies now wracked with convulsions of pain, hurt, constant discomfort and young children were being beaten savagely. Of course we have seen it before and the Smith family whose concept it was to educate and inform those whose curiosity was perfectly understandable, are here to show us all the visual evidence we need.

The National Holocaust Museum in Laxton, near Nottinghamshire has now been opened for over 35 years and the public, yearning desperately for yet even greater enlightenment, are even clearer. We all know by now the story of the Holocaust because it is imperative that not only Britain but the rest of the world should be given the ultimate history lesson of all lifetime. Of course there is a disturbing body of scepticism whereby the deniers  just insist that the Holocaust never happened or if it did then the numbers were hugely exaggerated. We must ignore them because they are the dangerous ones. 

Once again there were the distortions and mockeries of the Jewish stereotype, centuries long ago. There was the Dickensian caricature of Fagin, the grasping, greedy and avaricious Jewiish moneylenders, Shakespeare's notorious Shylock, a nasty piece or work, a skinflint of the highest order, frugal and prudent as they come. Jews have always been on the sharp end of abuse, jealousy and resentment and even now the song has never changed.

At the moment Israel, Eretz Israel, our stunning jewel in the crown, have become the victims of shocking circumstances, Iran, now their target for complete destruction. Even Donald Trump's USA have vented their spleen and with every justification.. Israel have now faced down Hezbollah and Hamas with admirable persistence. The lovely Jewish people will always have their right to exist in perfect harmony and without a single bone of malice in their heart. And yesterday was the case in point, a confirmation of everything we've ever known and researched about the Holocaust. 

The Smith family whose brainchild this National Holocaust Museum was,,should never be overlooked in the pages and chapters of an often troubled and yet victorious Jewish history. We owe them an enormous debt of gratitude and we would shake their hands most vigorously if we were to ever meet them in the street for with them we know with a heart warming assurance, that the facts are out there and, more importantly, the truth.

Trump holds out the olive branch- and Jesus Christ.

Trump holds out the olive branch- and Jesus Christ.

For the last couple of days or so, American president Donald Trump has been behaving with all the obsessive absurdity and and  childish petulance of a child who simply can't get their own way. Eventually, all of that nonsensical trivia will just have to stop because things are going well beyond a joke. Even by Trump's standards this is not the way any public or political figure should ever conduct themselves. And yet the comments continue to resemble those of a man who is convinced he's running his own  chat show on primetime TV perhaps Fox or CBS although he may well have fallen out with both.  

There are times in a man's life when he has to do what he has to do. But this time Trump has strayed wildly beyond conventional boundaries and has now lost the plot. On his impromptu plane press conferences he just keeps digging the deepest hole for himself with degrading and sexist language to a female reporter and, recently, he dropped himself right into the most humiliating controversy.

Now we all know about Trump's propensity for making himself look like a complete fool. He may well have qualifications on the subject of foolhardiness but this one quite literally took the biscuit. Trump may have gone too far although he insists that his recent clanger was nothing of the sort and that his remarks were taken completely out of context and, besides, it was Trump's very own fake news and just open to misinterpretation. What Trump said was completely misconstrued and just a pack of lies anyway.

During the 1960s, when the Beatles were at the height of their fame, John Lennon was quoted as saying that the Beatles were more famous than Jesus Christ. But roll forward to 2026 and the President of the United States is at it again, posting the most blasphemous picture of Trump laying healing hands over a sick man and depicting himself as Jesus Christ or so we thought. For a minute or so, we stifled our giggles and guffawing because this was not only hilarious and laughable, it may have offended both the Church of England and the entire Catholic community. 

We all know now that both the US and Israel are at war with Iran and it looks, sadly, as if this latest conflict could go on for some time. There has now been a temporary ceasefire between the countries concerned but for Trump, this is the perfect window of opportunity to stir up an even more ferocious hornet's nest and just upset anybody who will listen to him. Trump insisted that the social media photo was simply designed to portray him as a caring and benevolent doctor but this was the not way it looked to most of us. Jesus Christ may have had his disciples but you feel sure that President Donald Trump would never have figured prominently on that list. 

Trump of course is a mass of contradictions, a man who will say one thing for a couple of minutes and then deny he said anything of the sort quite vehemently the next. Trump defies belief with his pomposity and self righteousness, blustering and blasting everybody who disagrees with him and never ever apologising for anything that the rest of the world considers highly offensive.

Wearing his most patriotic American baseball cap, he dismisses out of hand people he think deserve to be locked up in jail. Trump even fired the most unflattering reactions at UK Prime Minister Sir Keir Starmer for the British who has been nothing less than cowardly and reluctant to help Trump in his detestation of Iran. Starmer is weak willed, indecisive and just uncooperative. The truth is of course that, according to Trump, Starmer is just a waste of space. And so we go on. 

Trump, as we now know, claims quite grandiosely, that he's stopped about 50 wars in the last couple of years or so and deserves the Nobel Peace Prize. Hogwash? At the moment the Strait of Hormuz has been blockaded or not as be it the case depending on which media outlet you follow. Trump just wants the quiet life which is perhaps the biggest paradox of them all. If we can get those vitally important oil pipelines up and working profitably once again, then Iran may have to withdraw their line of fire permanently.

But then Trump just blunders across the Middle East like a Bedouin who may have lost his bearings and then resorts to those spiteful insults that have become his characteristic trademark. He accuses Iran of trying to plot the end of the world as we know it with nuclear and military ammunition that will blow the universe to kingdom come. Then he goes on record as saying that if the Iranians don't stop this relentless campaign of bullying and violent intimidation, then he may have to take drastic action and just bomb those beauties across the skies of Teheran and that'll be that. Job done and mission accomplished. 

We can never quite understand the Trump outrage or that strange hatred and invective that he uses whenever things don't seem to be going his way. He is quite literally that nursery child who just screams and throws his toys out of his pram because somebody has questioned his competence. Those incredible impersonations of a man playing a concertina or just splaying his hands in front of him, just attract derision and disbelief. 

At the moment the ceasefire does seem to be holding but it won't be long before Trump once again goes on his own personal warpath, undermining his so called allies and buddies with name calling and incessant stick. He is blunt and bombastic to a degree that none of us can quite believe. He still thinks he's the greatest US President of all time and that Abraham Lincoln, Theodore Rossevelt, Harry Truman, and John F Kennedy were all frauds and charlatans. None of them would have known a coherent foreign policy if it hit them in the face. 

One day Trump may well achieve world domination and that is surely both worrying and disconcerting. His face is beginning to look like a hot air balloon, reddening at the cheeks and then getting very agitated. Now the the whole Trump persona goes into overdrive with slanderous outbursts aimed at high profile organisations and companies who just aren't playing ball with Trump. He threatens to take the BBC to court over something and nothing and his latest grenade is directed at those who believe Trump knows far too much about the late and convicted paedophile Jeffrey Epstein and the seedy files on Epstein. 

Now President Netanyahu of Israel has seen eye to eye with Trump and, to all outward appearances there is a concord, a warm agreement and entente cordiale. Iran is very much the hot potato none of them would have wanted at this stage of the negotiations between both America, Israel and Iran. But you never know it might be the beginning of something good, positive and special. Trump wants to be seen the ultimate peacekeeper and conciliator as well as being a good old fashioned diplomat which he is not by any stretch of the imagination since the man has Republican blood coursing through his veins. 

But it does look as though progress may being made slowly but surely. President Donald Trump may be too opinionated and direct for some people's liking but the dogmatic and interfering tendency in him may not be easy on the eye. The next couple of weeks or months will become a fascinating study in human behaviour and if there are any anthropologists out there, looking to probe into Trump's character, you may be interested to know that the American president is always available for comment.

The Radox Grand National

 The Radox Grand National

Once again they came from all four points of the horse racing compass and sport's grandest of social gatherings finally made its yearly appearance. For centuries now, the Grand National at Aintree has attracted the kind of fervent following that has become its trademark. Wherever you go, in Britain at least, hundreds of thousands converge on the old course rather like good natured football and rugby fans who simply long and yearn for that early April cultural ritual that is now synonymous with the sport of horse racing. 

And yet for some of us horse racing remains one of those sporting attractions that fails to capture your heart or fire your imagination. You remembered the BBC and ITV coverage of horse racing because it slotted neatly into the weekly Saturday afternoon schedule. There was World of Sport's ITV seven, a rich amalgam of races from Market Rasen, Ayr, Sandown, Thirsk and Uttoxeter. The commentators were endearing and hugely knowledgeable figures who knew every thoroughbred, jockey, trainer and owner in the horse racing world. But it really didn't do anything for you but you doffed your cap in appreciation because the atmosphere, you feel sure, without ever being there at Aintree, has always been special.

There was John Rickman, the cheerful, avuncular and reassuring voice and face of horse racing while all the commotion and lively, off course banter was raging in the paddocks and stables of the day. Lord John Oakesy had become an established and highly respected jockey in his day and had now become a renowned journalist. Both men spoke about their sport with a heart warming affection and exuberant charm that became a by word for horse racing's logical evolution and progression on TV. They were articulate and well informed gentlemen who knew their horses and therefore proud men. 

Yesterday at Aintree, rather like a religious congregation, they turned up at the front of their church, shaking hands with the vicar before entering into the nave and transept and picking up their prayer books. The mighty multitudes were there in their thousands and thousands, deep in discussion, swapping fond reminiscences about Red Rum and Devon Loch, Aldaniti and Crisp, the horse who so valiantly strained every muscle and sinew but tired heartbreakingly towards the finishing post. And then Red Rum galloped towards the winning post and ensured immortality with multiple National winning honours. 

At Aintree, spring blossomed like the traditional cherry blossom while the magnolias, daffodils and tulips danced the samba away in the vast acres of lush green grass which always look so inviting and welcoming. Meanwhile, back in the paddocks and stables, the trainers, jockeys and owners were sharing last minute pleasantries and comparing notes. It is England at her most pleasant and civilised, England at her most well mannered and polite, England simply being decent and deferential. England can do this because, certainly at Aintree, it just loves to dominate TV's sporting landscape. 

Once again, horses from every part of Middle England, South and North and the Home Counties came together. They did so because they've always been there, unfailingly upbeat, relentlessly chatting and gossiping, assessing the odds and then deciding that this is the place they've always wanted to be. It is their spiritual home, the location which makes them feel comfortable and wanted. They love a flutter, a punt since this is the most satisfying of horse races, a thrilling and therapeutic experience that lifts them off their feet and transports them into a land of  money, family camaraderie and general good humour. 

So it was that the Radox Grand National charged forward into that extraordinary stampede that seems to go on for hours and hours but, in reality, lasts no more time that it takes to eat and drink afternoon tea in the corporate hospitality boxes. Firstly, there follows the cavalry charge flashing across our vision. Dozens of horses set out together like old friends who hadn't seen each other since perhaps yesterday or last year. These beautiful animals look so impeccably groomed that had they been humans, would have been showing off their latest pin stripe suit, clean as a whistle shirt, designer trousers and brogue shoes.

Together they proceeded at a stately trot for a while and then bunched together like neighbours over the garden fence. Now the tempo is picked up quite noticeably and suddenly this whole equine community lengthen their stride and go nose to nose, stirrup to stirrup, saddle to saddle. They spread out over the course like a huge blanket of sporting excellence, fiercely competitive and dedicated to the cause. Their heavy breathing, focus and concentration, is quite the most astonishing sight to behold. 

Suddenly, disturbing numbers of horses unseat and dismount their jockeys and just spend the rest of the race simply going nowhere. The fatality rate of the Grand National is now a tragic footnote to the race itself and the whole subject of the horses who have to be put down will continue to rankle with the moral majority who would willingly stop the Grand National tomorrow given half the chance. But, still the Grand National carries on regardless, despite the obvious undercurrent of jeopardy, danger and threat to life.

And so to the race. At 4.00 there was a kaleidoscope of colour, horses of breeding and good stock, racing away, nostrils flaring, powerful fetlocks hunting for victory, four legs cruising at first then getting faster and faster. They pounded across the ground, tails swishing enthusiastically, ears pricked in anticipation of the carrots and hay that would be their fitting reward for their exertions on the day. And how they deserve it apart from the regular buckets of water which wash their backs. The horses are in their element and how we enjoy the spectacle. 

 It is the most rousing and stirring of all sights, Britain engaging in an event that they have always been enamoured of for many decades and gets enormous financial pleasure from. This belongs in the right category for experienced punters but the public, for whom this is just a joy, it is the best jump race in the world. For this is the beginning of the jump season in horse racing and the precursor to so many more. And then the horses simply go for it, flying across Beechers Brook and the Chair as if their lives depended on it. Your heartfelt sympathy goes out to all those stunning horses who have so bravely and successfully negotiated nightmarish fences that must resemble the height of a mountain. They were the stars of the show. 

And now you leapt into the air in joyous celebration. Your horse I Am Maximus streaked away triumphantly to victory in the Grand National 2026. For the first time in a number of years, you finally cleaned up with notable fivers or tenners in your hand. You had won the Grand National if not personally. I Am Maximus, ridden superbly by Paul Townend, trained by Willie Mullins and owned by Claudio Michael, won the race from the back of the field, driving forward towards a stray horse and striving heroically to victory, powering past the finishing post. 

In joint second place was Iroko supported by the highly esteemed McManus family, John P. Mcmanus and trainer Oliver Greenall. Iroko was narrowly edged out by I Am Maximus but it was nip and tuck all the way. And then in joint second place Jordans battled and competed with the front runners, shrugging off all comers. Jordans, ridden by jockey Ben Jones, owned by Cheeky Pups Syndicate and trained so diligently by Joseph O'Brien, also entered the winning paddock circle. 

It was though I Maximus who won the honours on the day. In the background, the McManus family were having the time of their lives, hugging each other tenderly and fulsomely. But the Grand National had worked its magic once again. Aintree has now become acknowledged as one of horse racing's favourite and most prestigious of all horse races. It looks as though it could be around for many a year and century to come. So prepare those betting slips and tell your local bookmakers that we all love a bet. They'll be delighted.   

Death and my grandpa, my grandma, and great grandparents gravestones.

 Death and my grandpa and great grandparents gravestones. 

It was quite the most extraordinary of days, an unforgettably emotional day, heavy with deep and sombre reflection, silent contemplation, an overwhelming day with a powerful poignancy, very private thoughts and all under the panoply of one sun kissed day in early spring, where the sunshine certainly shone on the righteous. It was the moment I'd longed for so long and didn't quite know how to register at first but then basked  in the glory of it all. 

Death, as we all know, is the most sensitive and delicate of all subjects. And yet death has neither questions nor answers. It remains the last staging post of our lives, the moment of deliverance and judgment when death becomes finality, the final pause and breath of  our lives, that critical conclusion to the end of an epic journey, immeasurable and unquestionable, inevitable of course but extremely moving rather like a grand concerto at a classical music gathering when the drums roll dramatically for the last time and then we depart from this mortal coil. 

We all have different perspectives and reactions on the subject of death and all experience feelings of mortality when age does indeed wither us. But our loved ones, our adored ones, the family that gave us that first foundation stone and the comforting stability when childhood was fraught with mysteries, can often be the people who will always remain in our hearts and minds when the final candle goes out and rivers of tears are shed.

According to the great 19th and early 20th century American classic author and prodigious novelist Henry James, death is the most distinguished thing and that does have the most emphatic resonance to all who regard death as the most remarkable experience of them all. It is, of course both tragic, heart breaking and one of the most melancholy events in most of our lives because the mum, dad, grandpa, grandma, auntie, cousin or uncle you'd always doted on is no longer a visible presence at family gatherings, parties or special occasions. And that's how it felt for me yesterday. The loss of a loved one from seven decades ago still intrigued and stirred my curiosity. I had to find out about my grandpa. 

But on an early spring day in April with blue skies above us and the cherry blossom flaunting and showing off their finest finery on the handsome trees of the season, I wanted to know something that still held a warm sentimentality and personal significance that couldn't be defined. You found yourself in a world of calming spirituality, the smoothest connection to somebody who, although you never knew him, was fundamentally a part of you. In fact it was you because you were named after him. 

And so it was that some good friends of mine and I gathered at Edmonton Jewish Cemetery. My friend had repeatedly informed me that he knew where my paternal grandfather, my grandpa on my late and lovely dad's side, had been buried. We also knew that my grandpa and grandma and great grandparents had also been laid to rest in Edmonton. But for years and years I remained in the dark, occasionally frustrated but reassured that one day the magical day of our meeting would arrive. 

My paternal grandpa was one Judah Morris, a respectable and immensely industrious Hammersmith shopkeeper, one of Napoleon Bonaparte's small shopkeepers. To this day, the stock and merchandise that Judah sold to the public is somehow hazy in your mind but still recognised with much pride 74 years after his death. Reliable sources have told me that he was the manager of a utilitarian shop that sold garden furniture, mops, buckets, cloths, fly or wasp spray bottles, plugs, electrical drills quite possibly, nails and screws among an abundance of most of  the household essentials. 

And this is where my story gets very interesting. It did occur to me that with much nervous fear and trepidation that Judah's gravestone would be either subsiding, sinking into the ground or totally broken and cracked and condemned to obscurity, an unidentifiable gravestone that had now vanished without trace. So here's why I'd resigned myself to the worst case scenario.

Judah Morris has been dead for over 74 years and died in January 1952, a year before our late and much loved Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth's Coronation. It was an interminable wait but, at long last, my patience had been rewarded. How wonderful it was to see you Judah. My lovely dad was utterly traumatised and crestfallen when his dad passed away, his grief almost tangible for my dad. My dad said that when Judah passed away he simply became inconsolable and bereft, a man who never really recovered from his father's death. Their relationship was so close and deeply affectionate that I'm not sure how my dad really came to terms with the magnitude of his passing. But I loved my dad deeply and always will.  There was a plaintive and lasting sadness etched across my dad's face whenever he did mention Judah's name over the dinner table in our kitchen. 

But, just for one day yesterday, my friends and I walked across the moving landscape of row upon row of grey, sepulchral graves, standing in very disciplined order, some so old and ancient that you could hardly see the writing and eulogies on these vast monuments. Thrillingly though, and much to my enormous delight, both my grandpa and grandma's stones were in impeccable and pristine fashion. I had suspected the worst but then smiled widely at the upright solidity of their gravestones. 

So then I glanced across next to Judah's gravestone and discovered my formidable and resilient grandma Dora, an almost frail and emaciated figure with silver hair while she was alive but now proudly placed next to her loving husband Judah. Dora was an incredible, redoubtable woman whose strength of character and indomitable spirit could never be questioned. She did though keep going on and on until her death in April 1978 at the age of 90.

Regular visits to her cosy flat in Shepherds Bush flat would reveal a brave and honest woman, a strong and indefatigable Russian woman determined to overcome innumerable hip replacements and fires. Dora was looked over by an auburn haired woman called Bessie who would do all the cooking and cleaning for her. I can only assume that Bessie looked after my grandma. Sadly, Judah was 52 when he died with Bright's Disease which was then a malignant and incurable cancer. He was in hospital for a couple of months but tragically passed away without seeing his son married. I would never question why because my dad achieve eternal happiness in wedded bliss to my late and lovely mum for 44 years and that's special. 

Let's go a little further back. Abraham Shamansky was my great grandpa who died in 1909, now barely remembered but honoured by a great grandson who remains curious and inquisitive to this day. The lettering on Abraham's grave is only just legible but now flaking away quite alarmingly at the bottom of the grave. I have yet to find any more details about Abraham's background and what he did for a living. The names of his siblings are sources of mystifying conjecture but then again it was 1909 and we can only imagine what life must have been like back then. 

And finally there is Morris Stopnitsky, who passed away at 68 and the missing jigsaw piece in the puzzle. Why, I wondered, did I become Joe or Joseph when my paternal grandpa was a Judah? This is my logical assumption. Judah, in 1962, must have been considered completely inappropriate, unfashionable or the right kind of name for a boy. So the J in Judah morphed into Joe and the rest is history. Now Morris is obviously a reversal of the surname with a first name. So Morris Stopniski was carried through the generations and somebody decided to switch things around and Morris became my surname. 

What of the Stopnitskys? Were they staunch Leninists or Marxists? Russian, of course they were? Did they embrace the politics of the ages, the morals and ethics of the early 20th century? Did they have joyous vodka parties wearing Cossack hats, joining arms and dancing the evening away. Were they Bolsheviks or Mensheviks with leanings towards the left, right or centre? Or maybe somebody had told them about those wretched Communists who kept telling us that Russia was the best and most prosperous country in the world? 

And that takes me back to the present day and the morbid fascination with death on both TV and radio. At the moment some TV channels, of which some of us at the last count, probably nudged the five thousand mark, are forever referring to the whole subject of death. They tend to appear on the lesser known channels but here's my grievance. Why on earth does the conversation keep going back to cremations, funeral services and ashes being kept in family urns on mantelpieces?

Surely life has to be celebrated, elevated to the highest plateau, rejoiced in, cherished, sanctified and loved with the deepest tenderness. For yesterday, the gravestones of my wonderful grandpa, grandma and great grandparents meant so much more to me personally. It was day that will never be forgotten. It is a day I shall always remember.

   

Chelsea move into the FA Cup semi finals comfortably

 Chelsea move into the FA Cup semi finals comfortably.

On a day when the FA Cup finally faced the music and even Robbie Williams influence was hardly enough, Williams Port Vale were handsomely beaten by Premier League Chelsea. Stamford Bridge may have seen its fair share of classic Cup battles but this was not one of them. This was a stroll in the park for the home team. Chelsea were relentless, devastating at times and totally in charge towards the end of this FA Cup quarter final. Port Vale were cowering away sheepishly in their own penalty area hoping and praying that humiliation would be somehow avoided. And then they were thrashed convincingly 7-0 and that was that. 

Sadly Port Vale, now languishing at the bottom of League One and relegation certainties, had nothing to offer but blood, sweat and tears. Of course they fought Chelsea to the bitter end, but now Vale must immediately address the more pressing issues of avoiding relegation. It now seems highly unlikely but by half time yesterday afternoon, even earlier perhaps, the game was over. Vale had been battered and bruised, ravaged and ripped apart by a Chelsea side who, at least yesterday, suggested that their season still has legs and that a top four place in the Premier League may be within comfortable range for them. 

This has been, by Chelsea's standards, a disappointing season, after the kind of flying start to it in August which promised so much and eventually yielded a negligible return to form. Chelsea have failed to hit the ignition button at any point throughout the season although a recent resurgence may have papered over the cracks. The fact that Chelsea were three up by half time probably tells you all you need to know about this ludicrously one sided FA Cup tie. 

The huge and yawning gap in class between Chelsea and Port Vale was so embarrassing that you could have probably driven a tank through Vale's flaky defence and still scored a hatful. Chelsea have become a dab hand at the FA Cup in recent years, having won the competition several times in recent years. This season has been all about consolidation in the top half of the Premier League, improving form and achieving some semblance of consistency. 

All of  Chelsea's goals seem to come in an orderly procession. There was a sad inevitability about all of the home side's goals and after half an hour, the capitulation was complete, the white flag of surrender  waving limply. The boys in blue were imperiously strutting their stuff, almost effortless and models of haughtiness and assurance on the ball. Chelsea shuffled the ball across, wide and then punishingly quick in their close passing. Poor Port Vale must have thought they were victims of a persecution complex. 

With Wesley Fofana, a picture of stylish command on the ball, Andrey Santos revealing all of the delicacy and exceptional vision of a player who knows exactly what to do with the ball and Joao Pedro, linking up beautifully with Estevao and Petro Neto, Chelsea had Port Vale where they wanted them. Both Malo Gusto, Tosin Adarabioyo, Romeo were toying and tormenting the visitors with a cruel brutality and Chelsea were up and running. 

Within a minute, Chelsea went a goal up. A superb corner was plunged towards the near post, and after a collision of bodies, Joe Ahato rammed home from close range. Minutes later, Chelsea extended their lead deservedly. A flicked ball was curled over the Vale defence and Pedro turned sharply in the area before chipping into the net with consummate ease. By the half hour, Chelsea were dancing and prancing, pirouetting, twirling and pulling metaphorical faces at Port Vale, their passing movements like exquisite pieces of jewellery, football to be hugely admired like a classical mahogany cabinet from the Edwardian era. 

Chelsea were now three up. Gusto connected from another a stunning passing collaboration that reminded you of bags on an airport carousel, smoothly rolling around the white shirts of Port Vale. In the end a low cross once again caught Vale in twisted knots. Gusto claimed the goal but this was an own goal and for Vale, this seemed almost felt terribly unfair and a gross injustice. Chelsea approached the second half rather like sun worshippers on a Mediterranean island, occasionally choosing to take a leisurely walk to the bar but neither interested nor disinterested in rubbing salt into Vale's wounds. 

Estevao had now become the most delightful player of the match, an excellent and delicious ball player and his relationship with Joao Pedro was just exceptional, rather like Peter Osgood and Charlie Cooke from that vintage 1970s pomp. Chelsea added another with Tosin's firm header from another brilliant attack from the home side. Now Garnacho joined in with the frivolous fun and games and struck his penalty with venom and menace. A seventh goal almost felt like the last knockout blow for Vale and Chelsea had now reached another FA Cup semi final with much to spare. 

So the buoyant Chelsea fans drifted away in their ecstatic masses once again. Of course Chelsea have now become established residents in the top flight and there is still something of the arty and bohemian about the club that may never fade away. The Kings Road has always been the place to be seen, with both retro and current fashions always to the fore. 

You remembered the night when David Webb rose high to head home Chelsea's decisive winner in that gruelling, stamina sapping FA Cup Final replay against Leeds at Old Trafford. That one iconic moment seemed to represent the beginning of a golden era that never quite materialised. It is only within the last 20 years that Chelsea have accumulated a whole portfolio of domestic and European trophies.

There is surely a penny for the thoughts of one Jose Mourinho whose opinions have always been forthcoming. Blue maybe the colour but Wembley is once again their destination and football is definitely their game. Now both Chelsea and Leeds meet again in this year's FA Cup semi final. Oh for the magic of the FA Cup. Somehow it was fated to happen and how we look forward to it with enormous anticipation. 

April Fools Day.

April Fools Day. 

Today in 1957, most of us were probably going about their business in much the way they've always done so. They were clocking on at their local factory, chasing the train to get into the office as punctually as they possibly could and the kids were rushing into school, satchel in their hands and pursuing the perfect education. There were only two TV channels, the Light Programme was entertaining its rapt listeners and Kenneth Kendall was adjusting his dinner jacket and bow tie before presenting the BBC News. Kendall would sit in front of that huge and distinctive BBC microphone, conveying the news of the day in serious and official tones.

At the time the wireless, as it was affectionately known, was amusing their vast audience with Round the Horne and the wacky, hilarious Goons with Peter Sellers, Harry Secombe and Michael Bentine sending us all into hysterical laughter at home. Britain was still in a state of harsh austerity and rationing while Harold Macmillan was the Prime Minister and reassuring us that they'd never had it so good. 

On the BBC they were preparing their latest broadcasting project. In hindsight, it was all very casual and innocent and none of us were ready at all because we were much more concerned with earning a living or accumulating as many qualifications as possible at universities. In those days those erudite students just had to turn up for lessons without shelling out a single shilling. So we looked forward to the future and then discovered the 1960s. Now that really was a startling revelation. 

But it was the 1950s and Sir Cliff Richard was still Cliff, a fresh faced teenager with a penchant for producing feelgood records like Summer Holiday which was actually released a couple of years later. But he was still very much a 1950s rock and roll kid. So we turned on our transistor radios and flicked a switch on our black and white TVs, drainpipe trousers dry cleaned, polishing our winkle pickers or shoes and drinking from most of the coffee bars in London's Soho. We then picked out our favourite Eddie Cochran record on our jukebox and life was complete as it had been and always would be. 

Then on Monday evening, the BBC's Panorama, a news and current affairs programme, the voice of respectability and seniority, once again did earnest investigative journalism. But, suddenly, we were presented with the ultimate in April Fools Day jokes. The BBC must have thought they'd catch us unawares and we were entirely gullible. And we fell for it hook, line and sinker. We didn't know it at the time but the BBC must have thought we were just pre-occupied or just determined to relax in front of our goldfish bowl TV sets. They hadn't anticipated what would happen next. 

So here's the story as it unfolded. Richard Dimbleby, one of the BBC's most immensely respected and authoritative of all news journalists and broadcasters whose voice would become such an integral part of the BBC's coverage of the Second World War, spoke again on that unforgettable night in 1957. Now according to Dimbleby, there was a prolific growth of spaghetti on trees in some Italian idyllic haven. 

We were told, at some length that thick crops of spaghetti were now being picked in some small corner of Italy. And the editorial evidence was there for all to see. Groups of devoted workers were seen carefully separating strings of spaghetti from rows of trees. It had to be true because the BBC and Richard Dimbleby had told us so. It had to be right. But, this was just absurd, barmy, nonsensical, barely credible and just foolish nonsense. Indeed it was and we were duped, deceived, done up like a kipper. Spaghetti was growing on trees. This had to be the funniest of all April Fools Day jokes. 

And so to the present day. Apparently a procession of giraffes have been spotted wandering down the M1 or was it the M25, grazing casually along the hard shoulder and pinching sweets from excited kids in the back of their cars. Oh yes and orange snow is falling in the Scottish glens and highlands. It has just been reported that rhinos and crocodiles are also floating down the River Thames and the river police are on the case. 

Now the rumour is that the BBC have been turfed out of the Salford Quays media centre and will be announcing tonight's news from a church hall in Manchester. Local vicars and priests have been seen studying all of today's most important events and will all be required to read the latest news because all of the BBC's newsreaders are now sunbathing on some tropical island in the Caribbean.

And then there's the story of a herd of wildebeest stampeding across the Torquay landscape but that was part of an old TV comedy. John Cleese was the disgruntled, agitated and cynical hotel owner of a Torquay guest house called Fawlty Towers who once explained to the late Joan Sanderson that you should be able to see this farcical scenario everyday. April Fools Day has always delighted us for as long as we can remember but at times it maybe hard to distinguish fact from fiction. 

This has just arrived in our newsroom. Circus clowns and high wire trapeze artists have allegedly been elected as party political leaders in the House of Commons and were seen canvassing members of the public for their votes. With the local elections now a month away, gentlemen wearing red noses and cycling on a unicycle are now widely expected to win their votes quite convincingly They were unavailable for comment but it is now felt  that the clowns and trapeze artists will become prominent figures in the House of Commons. The Prime Minister's Question Time sessions will never be quite the same again.

It was rumoured that strange martians from outer space have been seen deep in animated conversation with members of their own family, discussing both the cost of living crisis and the phenomenal price of petrol. At a famous motorway service station, creatures with blue and green and rubbery faces, wearing silver suits and oval shaped hats, were exchanging pleasantries at a Costa's coffee and tea cafe. One was drinking a latte before greedily devouring a flapjack and then muesli for breakfast. The public were told not to approach these gurgling, chuckling and giggling individuals who have been creating a major disturbance with their mysterious whistles and loud, bellowing voices. 

And finally, 98 year old Lord Lucan was seen coming out of a bookmakers in central London, betting slips in his hands, smug and satisfied after his horse had won every race today. He was scrolling furiously on his Smart Phone and then smiling broadly at the public. He then walked arrogantly towards an as yet to be undisclosed supermarket, investing in another  expensive Apple mobile phone. And last night, shortly before midnight, medieval knights in shining armour were allegedly sitting in a famous junk food restaurant, eating cheese burger and chips and drinking chocolate milk shakes.

So it is that April Fools Day has taken its leave for another year. The identity of the Loch Ness monster has yet to be confirmed but, last week, sources  are convinced they saw the Loch Ness monster, brazenly smoking cigarettes and drinking gallons of brandy on some remote island. Now we are all aware of the silliness and tomfoolery which have always been associated with the day. But hey it was all good fun and none of us are foolish and will never be taken in again or ever. Fun and nothing but fun.  

       

Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience

 Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience.

It all took place at Wembley Park which was roughly half a mile away from Wembley Stadium where it all happened for the England football team last Friday and where it memorably happened 60 years ago against the same opponents and 60 years later. Effectively, the England fans were still scratching their heads on Friday at the new Wembley. But this time we were admiring some of Hollywood's most lovable and endearing cartoon figures at Wembley Park. That in itself was enough to send you down the sweetest memory lane and suddenly there it was. Nostalgia. 

The Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience is currently packing them in along Wembley Way and inside Wembley Park, it is a childhood haven. You remembered the old Wembley Stadium and could hardly believe how dramatic a transformation there had been since the days when the Twin Towers dominated the North London landscape. The new Wembley now has the most striking arch which immediately catches the eye and for those who designed the new stadium, this must have represented their crowning moment of glory. 

And yet Wembley used to look like a huge concrete piece of architecture with a basic concourse and hundreds of  burger, hot dogs and exotic food outlets. But Wembley almost divided opinion and when it was demolished at the end of the 20th century, some of us were more relieved than anything else. Now the new Wembley has endless art installations, both innovative and progressive looking, more restaurants and cafes than you can possibly imagine, donut stalls, mini children's playgrounds and so much more. Now Wembley is down with the kids, cool, sophisticated and forward thinking. 

Yesterday, my lovely family and I took the opportunity to visit the Mundo Pixar Immersive Experience. For those who may not know about Pixar, then here's a synopsis of what Pixar is. Pixar used to be called Disney,  as in the home of cartoons, and everything associated with our childhood although families were, of course, included. Suddenly you were back in your early years and it was a fantastic privilege to be among our children and grandchildren while at the same time appreciating the fun and enormous enjoyment they were getting from the day. 

So Pixar conjures up its own symbolic significance in the movie franchise market. It is a young boy perched comfortably on the crescent of a moon fishing the day away. It is the angle poise lamp that swivels around ever so cutely and then shines the brightest light. It is your childhood and now your grandfather's experience because we'd all love to recapture the spirit of our youth because it reminds us of who we were and what we might have been doing as kids, playing on our bikes, picking strawberries with mum and dad, buying vinyl albums and singles and dancing in nightclubs. 

But yesterday we went back to days of more recent vintage. Toy Story has to be one of the most imaginative, superlative, magnificent of children's films ever made. There have now been four Toy Story films and all of them have been just astonishing cinematic masterpieces. Woody, as voiced by Hollywood acting royalty Tom Hanks, is the Wild West cowboy with a natty Stetson hat, country and western checked shirts and trousers and the guy who made you laugh uproariously, smile amusingly and just make you feel good. 

Woody's best friend is Buzz Lightyear and Andy just wants everybody to behave themselves and be happy, lifelong friends without a single malicious word for each other. So Buzz Lightyear is the figure who just keeps everybody ticking over and always ensures that the whole gang at Pixar never step out of line. They're happy and they are united, like all families should be. There's Slinky, Jess and those adorable toy soldiers who sit on one of the tables and are just contented with who they are. 

You move around the whole Immersive Experience and wonder if you may be imagining this but it's true, undeniably so. There's Grumpy from the movie Up, who harbours a private ambition to go flying with balloons to South America and just pulls on our sentimental heart strings. There's Cars, cartoon figures with red bonnets who race each other quite earnestly and competitively because that's what motor racing cars do. Pixar transports us to the world that Disney would have dearly wanted us to join him on. Cars get very upset and annoyed when things go wrong and then they apologise and all is well.

Then, just for a couple of minutes or so, you cast your minds back to your first ever childhood movie. It was Jungle Book followed almost immediately by Bambi. And then there were your precious and beautiful children and now our grandchildren and everything in our world is complete. We are deeply and immensely satisfied. We take photographs of Woody and Buzz, pose unashamedly for the red Cars, smiling and laughing all over again. We buy the Pixar souvenirs and merchandise because the kids love of all that. And then it's time for a relaxing lunch and time to head for home. It was simply brilliant.