Vocational GCSEs at school.

 Vocational GCSE's at school. 

School exams, hey? Weren't they the high point of your academic itinerary? Just when it seemed that things could hardly get any more worrying or tougher, suddenly you were confronted with what seemed like the most monumental and trying of all tasks. For some, exams were simply an effortless breeze, the proverbial piece of marzipan cake with perhaps a small spoonful of custard. And yet for others it was the most difficult challenge we'd ever experienced. And now we find ourselves in another world entirely. Well, not quite but almost.

Now opinions may count for nothing in particular but for some of us exams were terrifying, emotionally oppressive, stiflingly nonsensical and just a glorified set of memory tests. Here we were all gathered in a soul-less assembly hall with rows and rows of tables and chairs and nothing but a few random, haphazard, vaguely memorable facts, figures and statistics whirling about our confused young minds.

But then you could be completely wrong because you emerged from your school with no qualifications, wondering why there was this urgent necessity for something that had nothing to do with the outside world. At best they probably give you a basic grounding in the ways of the world and then you're faced by all of those seemingly insurmountable problems you may have to tackle in later life. But do they serve any purpose? That's for you to chew and think about and then another moment of quiet reflection.  

Of course there is a bitterness and bewilderment on your part on reflection. But since when did algorithms, logarithms, calculus, geometry, tenon saws in woodwork and possessing a knowledge of the capital cities of the world have anything to do with being a City trader in high finance or becoming an eminent lawyer in the Highest courts of justice. Not a great deal you would have thought. There are some things that remain beyond your understanding and yet once again the government have come up with some new fangled idea that will blow us away. 

The great educationalists and teachers of the country may be scratching their heads. Yesterday the government announced a brand new set of ideas for the implementation of vocational based GCSE exams. In a sense it sounds like a logical extension of the conventional end of term exams system where the traditional subjects including English, Maths, History, Geography, Art, Chemistry, Physics and Biology are about to be added to with more hands on, practical tests. It is a welcome development but you do wonder whether the equally as taxing apprenticeships that used to follow your first five years of education, will now be either phased out, dumped in the rubbish bin of academic studies or just replaced with more of the same. 

The fact is that the proposed vocational GSCE's will be rolled out for public consumption very soon. The projects consist of building and construction, business management, child development and creative media production. Now this does sound highly impressive and well intentioned but the sceptics may well sneer at something they may have heard about a million times. Of course our children are fully deserving of the chance to become expert builders of properties and none should ever be denied the opportunity to become wealthy entrepreneurs and dotcom millionaires but we are in familiar territory. 

Still, we should be fully supportive and totally onside with Prime Minister Andy Burnham. Those first months for Burnham may well have tested his strength of character and mettle to the limit but this one sounds like a winner. We have to recognise and nurture the burgeoning potential of our current generation of schoolchildren for they are the next engineers, lawyers, landscape gardeners, economists and shrewd thinkers in the vibrant high tech industry. 

Our memories of school are now rather embarrassing from a personal point of view. But we did enjoy clambering up those climbing frames during PE lessons, jumping over pommel horses in our vests and plimsolls, shinning up ropes and then finishing the week by country and western dancing on a Friday afternoon. Then we moved onto secondary school where pottery classes were treated with all the amused derision of young kids who hadn't a clue what we were supposed to be doing. You then spent at least two and half years marooned in woodwork and metalwork classes getting all hot and bothered fashioning miniature bookshelves in woodwork and a shoe horn in metalwork. It now felt like a complete waste of time. 

In hindsight, school days should always be remembered with a fond smile and heartfelt pleasure but, to this day it all feels like some ridiculous exercise in futility. Of course you must have learnt far more of interest and long term benefit in a grammar school but that 11 plus exam in primary school was the pivotal turning point in our early education. You feel sure that the only reason you didn't pass your 11 plus was simply because it was a straightforward Maths and English test. It occurs to you that you passed the English part of the exam but failed Maths miserably which you just detested anyway.

The outcome was simple. You had to pass both English and Maths to meet the required criteria and, in the end you ended up in some allegedly inferior secondary school where the teachers did their utmost to teach you but only ended up shouting at the disruptive reprobates who just created havoc and made their teachers lives hell. Certainly, you began to withdraw so dramatically into a world of who cares indifference that it all feels terribly frustrating. 

You were convinced that becoming a brickie on a building site or working with children in a nursery environment was never for you personally. You could never see yourself setting up your business in the field of any commercial product on the market because the motivation would never have been there. And yet a creative media production course would certainly have suited you so much more because journalism and writing had always stimulated your imagination. 

Looking back through the years, you feel sure that an intellectually demanding degree at university would have proved far more satisfying.  You had thought of going to university to do a journalism degree but then couldn't commit to because it was a three year course and besides you were far too busy bringing up your wonderful children and the priorities were obvious. But you now realise that nursing, building or becoming a ruthless businessman making vitally important financial decisions would ever have been your cup of tea. 

In fact we had neither domestic science known as cooking, sewing and embroidery of any description but we were required to spend endless lessons drawing up crotchets and quavers in music. It all seems a long time ago and yet the memories are still painful. Why did we have to run around a dark room while lights were switched on and off for this was our drama class? You feel sure that Sirs John Gielgud and Laurence Olivier would never have agreed to undergo such ritual humiliation.

But schooldays still seem so far off location in our minds where the landscape was filled with the rich tapestry of life. We were successfully socialised with kids of our own age and playtimes would be dominated by pulsating games of football. And next to our playground was the adjacent car park where innumerable tennis balls and fully pumped up footballs would be fired into the middle of nowhere or an unsuspecting dinner hut that looked like a wartime Nissan hut. Had your shot been wayward, it may have bounced on the rooftop of a Methodist church hall, where history lessons were conducted. 

And yet one day the legendary DJ Noel Edmonds once paid a fleeting visit to our school, parking a hugely distinctive Land Rover in the car park. Our headmaster was Edmonds charming dad Duncan who was a hilarious story teller, a man with a glorious anecdote to tell his pupils in our assembly hall. Sometimes you are left with the impression that when you did walk out of your secondary school for the last time, it felt like walking straight into a very dark tunnel so marginalised did you feel by the rest of society. 

But vocational GSCE's may be the way forward and we must hope that the children of today can finally make their dreams and ambitions all come true. The next generation are our grandchildren or children of the future and we must never overlook or forget them. AI may have something to say and some of us are ever slightly concerned. But the children will get it right. We have every faith in them.     

Millwall and West Ham- points shared in Championship local derby.

 Millwall and West Ham- points shared in Championship local derby.

Football historians would tell us that both Millwall and West Ham was simply a grenade waiting to go off, an accident that had danger and threat written all over it. In fact this was supposed to be such an explosive, fiery and combustible local London derby that most of us were suitably cautioned in case the flames of fury and passion just engulfed us and we had to be rushed off immediately to Accident and Emergency. 

Let's get one thing straight immediately. Millwall and West Ham supporters hate each other and the feeling is mutual. The origins of this personal animosity can be traced way back to the yellowing pages of yesteryear. Truly Millwall and West Ham can't stand the sight of each other, wishing that each would just go away and never come back again. This is one of the most toxic encounters in the whole of the football league. The rivalry between the clubs has been festering and bleeding for ages and for a while yesterday it looked as though it was about to kick off big time on the seething terraces of the New Den. 

In a small corner of the ground, both sets of supporters were taunting and goading each other mercilessly rather like first year secondary school students who were just there for an ugly punch up and an eyeball to eyeball confrontation. To say there was hatred and enmity in the air would have been a gross understatement. You could barely keep these two teams apart and you could smell the loathing. So this really didn't come as a major surprise although thankfully there were no fatalities or casualties. 

And yet for the first time since 2009  Millwall and West Ham were thrown together by a cruel twist of fate. It was both unsightly and unpalatable, horribly unedifying at times and potentially, the worst kind of punch up in the school playground. Police on horses were hovering with intent in the background in case things got completely out of control but, by the final whistle, it was all good natured banter and bonhomie. Thankfully, there were no ambulances or paramedics so that was comforting to know. 

By the end of the game, the aggro and antipathy had fizzled out and a compromise had been reached by both sets of supporters. If you leave our manor alone, we'll leave yours without a single word of abuse. This was, of course the Dockers derby, two teams separated by what used to be some of the most productive shipyards in London. Strong, muscular stevedores would ply their trade, toiling away industriously at their day job and greasing the wheels of British industry at the beginning of the 20th century. 

And so it was that Millwall, always the bad boys, agent provocateurs and the devil incarnate, met their East London neighbours in the second tier of football. For this was the Championship, a shameful indignity for West Ham but now an ever present reality for Millwall. Both West Ham and Millwall have known contrasting fortunes for a number of years but here they were once again reunited as if somebody had told them that this would always be the case and both couldn't wait to get started. Swords please gentlemen. This was a nasty, evil, unpleasant encounter, a match played in acrimonious circumstances and no quarter given or allegedly. On yesterday's evidence though, this was just all hype. 

You remembered those days of  flying fists, flick knives, agitation and anguish, industrial language, the barely concealed anger. There were the railway stations thick with threatening football supporters, the vicious violence, the torn train carriage seats and then those growling chants born of something akin to some kind of weird tribalism. It was all totally unnecessary, unsavoury and deplorably unseemly. But then, to an outsider, there was perhaps something in there that had to be good and yesterday was that day. But there was an underlying current and that simply added spice to the occasion. 

After several exchanges of insults and the almost customary obscenities, Millwall, now near the top of the Championship and West Ham leading the pack at the top, came together rather like sworn enemies but just trying desperately to keep the peace. West Ham arrived at the New Den as leaders of the Championship with a glut of goals in their account so far while Millwall just thought of themselves as their equals although this may not have been the case as such. 

Millwall were always a club of folk heroes, meaty, beefy players, stocky and strapping characters who loved a good, old fashioned scrap. There was Barry Kitchener, Derek Possee, Gordon Hill, that force of nature on the wing and then Terry Hurlock, a fiercely competitive, combative and abrasive fireball of a player who rarely held back in the tackle. Millwall were one of those clubs who were always unfashionable but, often seen in the news as notorious thugs and villains of the piece.

West Ham, for their part, have now regained some of their old poise and flair. For a while it looked as if they were heading towards some distant wilderness where nobody has any time for you. Then four wins in a row including goal festivals against Wolves, and then three against Derby County, Bolton and quite emphatically Wrexham 6-0, stabilised the club and set their season in proper motion. For those whose emotional investment in the club knows no bounds, this now feels good if only because things had to get better. 

The 2-1 defeat at home to Charlton Athletic and a flat, listless 1-1 draw at Watford as well as the 2-2 draw at Burnley now feel like revolting smells rather than sweet perfumes. West Ham are now driving ahead at full steam, cruising and gliding rather than puffing and panting like an old steam train. There is a renewed appetite for the game, a genuine rediscovery of the kind of football most West Ham fans think they should be playing without any kind of prompting or reminding. Now it all seems to be coming together. And not before time.   

And so it was that Millwall came charging out of the block like seasoned greyhounds, flaring at the nostrils and going toe to toe with their London rivals. Jake Cooper, Jordi Osei Tutu and Mark Sykes were more than a match for West Ham's supposedly dashing aristocrats, not exactly foppish and full of their own pomposity but determined to make their mark on the game. All four stifled and smothered anything West Ham had in their collective locker. 

Then Millwall launched an ambitious cavalry charge against the visitors, flooding players into the attacking half and leaving West Ham baffled and bothered. The Lions roared vociferously, a meticulously well organised unit, full of running, chasing and gallantry. Their movements were purposeful, red blooded, masculine and often ruthless. For a while it also felt as if Millwall were too well co-ordinated in the middle of the park, a side primed for action, moving the ball quickly and precisely to feet and then bombarding the West Ham penalty area with a barrage of crosses. 

With Derek Mazou-Sacko, Camiel Neghli, Jenson Metcalfe, Zak Spurge, and the classy Tairyk Arcone lending an air of perfect synchronicity to Millwall's now rampant attack, Millwall opened the scoring. A long throw was launched into the West Ham box and, after a frenetic goal mouth scramble, Caleb Taylor was left on his own. Taylor swiftly latched onto a loose ball and thrashed the ball into the West Ham net with decisive conviction from close range. 

Then, remarkably, Millwall had the audacity to extend their lead. It hardly seemed possible and yet it did happen and we weren't imagining it. Shortly before half time another throw created havoc and confusion in the West Ham penalty area. This time the adventurous Camiel Neghli had joined the attack and as the ball came dipping into the box, another tangle of legs left Neghli to fire home mercilessly for Millwall's second. 

By the second half, West Ham had finally woken up. There was now a steeliness and firm resolution about their football that had deserted them in the first half. When Mohamadou Kante stepped forward as a substitute for West Ham, the game had now swung like a pendulum. Kante was forceful, much more aggressive and on the front foot than had been the case before the Frenchman came to West Ham's rescue. 

Now the whole balance and complexion of the game had changed irrevocably. West Ham were much more positive,  a model of fluency and fearlessness. Their football had focus, clarity and controlled aggression. Arne Engels, their multi million capture from Celtic, found himself strutting around the middle of the park like the most attractive of peacocks, finding his passing range and then measuring them rather like a tailor in a menswear shop. Divine Mukasa is slowly flourishing as a very competent and complete midfield enforcer and Manor Solomon, the Israeli winger who guided Leeds to the promised land of the Premier League, was slinky, slippery and breathtakingly stylish.

At the back both Kyle Walker Peters, Max Kilman and the ever influential Konstantinos Mavropanos and the superb Morato, were like minded individuals, Walker cutting in from the flank and then easing himself forward while Mavropanos has now given an important element at set pieces. Captain Jarrod Bowen, after a slow start to the game, began to pick up the ball and run with it, shuffling the ball between his feet deceptively before leaving his defender gasping in his wake. Bowen stretched Millwall quite frequently rather like an elastic band and the Lions could only admire the claret and blue scenery. 

The game now firmly camped inside the Millwall half, West Ham turned the screw and applied the necessary pressure. A delightful cross field movement involving firstly Solomon found Engels. Then the ball was switched to Pablo who neatly slipped the ball square to  Kante who fired a low, unstoppable shot past Millwall keeper Filip Marschall. West Ham were back in the game and flowing effortlessly. The claret and blue shirts were stringing passes together as if they'd been going through the same routine for ages.

West Ham's equaliser was another exquisite gem. A corner on the West Ham right was whipped in with some ferocity and, after Austbo, West Ham's summer signing from Norway, had finally crossed the ball  with a well flighted ball, there was Mavropanos leaping like  the proverbial salmon to firmly head the ball home for a well deserved equalising goal. 

That was that.  This had been a wholly fascinating, intriguing and thoroughly entertaining Championship head to head.. At times this was just riveting and engrossing, a London derby spectacle that had lived up to its hype. Sometimes you begin to question the logic of football played at Saturday lunchtime. But then who are we argue if this is to be the future of the game? And now both Millwall and West Ham took their feet off the accelerator and an international break follows. Football very rarely surprises you.   

Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur

 Kol Nidre and Yom Kippur.

So it is that we approach the half way point of the Jewish High Holy Days. Last weekend the vast global Jewish population welcomed in Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year but without those Auld Lang Syne traditional melodies ringing in our ears. Nor do we go through that now familiar rigmarole of linking arms, jigging in between swords in tartan or watching either Moira Anderson or Andy Stewart caressing our ears from our TV speakers at the yearly Scottish Hootenanny and then launching into a rousing rendition of I'll Take the High Road. But hold on both of the aforesaid are no longer alive but their spirit lives on. 

And, after all those Jewish festivities last week where the shofar was blown for the 5,787th time, now we have a completely different set of circumstances. For as long as any of us can remember now Yom Kippur has become the yearly homage to starvation, abstinence, asceticism, willpower, physical restraint and sheer dogged discipline. Yes folks it's that time of the year again, when the simple pleasures of eating, drinking, carousing and cavorting in bars, clubs and restaurants have to stop for at least 25 hours. 

Yom Kippur is that deeply solemn period of our lives when the lovely Jews of the world detach ourselves away from the frothy and frivolous moments of every day living that we often take too seriously at times. There can be no consumption of food and drink, no smoking or vaping, no raving to the modern day compositions of Ed Sheeran,  garage, funk or grunge music and no indulgence in anything that may have meat, milk or fish in its dietary requirements. In fact it may be advisable to just spend all day in synagogue(shul) praying, chanting and repenting our sins. Forget about the feasts just for a while. 

While we were growing up, some of us embarked on our yearly rebellion, storming the barricades, threatening to eat every piece of bread in our bread bin before stuffing our faces ravenously with various combinations of pizzas for lunch, tea, cakes and biscuits during the afternoon and then drinking every brewery dry of its lager, cider and spirits. As a child, you simply weren't interested in fasting, questioning your mum and dad all the time. It was both baffling and incomprehensible, 25 hours of pointless misery, unnecessary deprivation, struggle and hardship. 

But, from your barmitzvah age onwards, you knew that you owed to it your family, late and lovely mum and dad and equally as adorable grandmas and grandpas to fast. Of course there was a cussed reluctance to accept the status quo, a sudden recognition of some yearly and admittedly, uncomfortable ritual that had to be endured at the time but then just took for granted every year. Yom Kippur has never been a picnic, so to speak, but you have developed a resistance to food and water and it's now really pleasurable. 

In many ways Yom Kippur and its fasting connotations has now become hard wired into your autumnal mindset. Come Yom Kippur, mum, dad, grandma, grandpa, brother and uncle would stand together in unison, kindred spirits, deep in reflection and contemplation. Grandpa would wear that grey suit and smart shirt while dad would wear his navy suit or jacket, with blue or white shirt crisply laundered and tie. Grandma was always warm, full of loving tenderness, caring, solicitous, smiling and compassionate. Grandpa would spend the whole day in what used to be the Beehive Lane synagogue(shul) while mum, dad, brother and yours truly would head for the exits at lunchtime. 

It all felt socially awkward at the time because nobody had given me an adequate explanation of what exactly you were supposed to do or say. You'd started Hebrew classes(cheder) but those siddurims were like foreign language books that were just indecipherable, Hebrew words, sentences and paragraphs that were lost in translation. You could read Hebrew but you had no real idea what exactly the words meant in English. Mother was Ima, Dad was Ubba, Ma was what, Boker Tov meant Good Morning, Unai was I but that constituted your entire Hebrew vocabulary. But the whole of Yom Kippur was shrouded in mystery, some esoteric form of grammar that belonged to Biblical times rather than 1974.

As a family we would observe the same pattern of behaviour every year. The night before Yom Kippur was Kol Nidre, an evening full of sombre significance, a couple of hours of gravity, gravitas and deep respect. Then Yom Kippur would follow the next day and you must have spent at least half an hour pouring out your grievances, moaning, groaning and complaining about the Fast getting nowhere in particular. 

Personally, adolescence had been mildly traumatic but nobody was to blame. Here you were with doting family but no friendships with the wider Jewish community of your age group. Of course it was perhaps vaguely frustrating but at the time you probably felt as if you didn't really need anybody else in your life. But every time you looked upstairs to the seating gallery all you could see was a millinery shop of gorgeous women's hats and the kind of fashions that, as a kid, you must have regarded as just over the top and outlandish. 

And then it occurred to you. There were girls up in the gallery who were the same age as yourself but may just have well been complete strangers, none you'd known from your local Jewish youth club because they were having the most enjoyable time as early teenagers.  You, however seemed to be trapped in a self absorbed world of isolation and estrangement, on your own and nobody with whom any kind of social conversation could be struck up. Somehow though this was the way it was. Maybe you were just content with your own company.  

Anyway, every lunchtime and every Yom Kippur there would be the now customary exodus out of the shul and back home again. The prayer Yiska for the dead among your beloved ones, was the cue for a frantic surge out of the building and they would head straight for Valentines Park in Ilford, East London. Here families, boyfriends, girlfriends, young children would all be seen pushchairs and prams in tow. It was rather like any religious congregation, a gathering of the great and good, the teenagers brazenly smoking and drinking cans of Coca Cola while you surveyed the scene with a certain degree of amusement. 

The afternoon itself seemed to pass by fairly quickly because you just wanted to while away the hours in the hope that the day itself would pick up a head of steam and fly past. Every so often peals of laughter and local humour could be heard quite clearly. There was a sense here that although Yom Kippur was never your favourite day, you could still smile and wander around, becoming part of the crowd.

You remember vividly now some old friends who, in one particular year, tried to lead you astray. As you left Valentines Park, there was McDonald's junk food emporium in Cranbrook Road. Up until that point in your life, you'd always fasted dutifully and quietly, never dreaming of snatching even a burger or chips for that matter. But my acquaintances decided to drift through the front door of this junk food empire and buy the most horrendously greasy burger and chips you were ever likely to see. It was all a bit underwhelming and, when all was said and done, it really did nothing to stimulate my appetite. 

And so the masses would disperse in Valentines Park and you were left with the impression that Yom Kippur was simply a case of mind over matter. My late and lovely mum always maintained that the body could quite easily go without food or water for 25 hours and that it did no harm to your digestive system.  In a sense of course she was right because you immediately called on your Jewish resilience and survival instincts and just blotted food and drink out of your mind. 

For the whole of my teenage period, my wonderful dad and I would regularly return from synagogue(shul) ravenous and famished an hour before the end of the Fast. But mum acquired this lovely habit of reminding us of the feast that would follow the fast. Bless her, she would always cook her yearly concoction of fried fish and delicious salmon cutlets preceded by the sweetest cup of milky coffee. It is a memory that can never be forgotten. 

So to all of my Jewish family and friends well over the Fast if it is medically possible to do so. Last year and for a number of years, my lovely wife Bev and I have seen in the New Year and observed the Fast at the glorious Finchley Reform shul. Here Saracens rugby union ground would be the genial host for the High Holy Days. The remarkable sight of all those rugby trophies in their cabinets and those stunning paintings on the wall, may never fade away.

But this year Bev and I will be attending our new synagogue(shul) the Sinai reform shul in Moortown in Leeds. We have been overwhelmed by the warm Yorkshire hospitality and will certainly feel at home here as well. And at the back of your mind will remain one of my fondest Yom Kippur  memories. On Kol Nidre, my dad and I started walking towards Beehive Lane shul. At the bottom of the road, a gust of wind took my dad's umbrella on the kind of journey that Mary Poppins would have taken great delight in. And so to the great Jewish population fast well if you can but if not enjoy the Jewish holidays. Keep well and best wishes to you all.    

 

Ludek Miklosko-former West Ham goalkeeper dies at 64 and goalkeepers.

 Ludek Miklosko - former West Ham goalkeeper dies at 64.

It still came as a shock to hear that one of West Ham's most beloved and greatest goalkeepers died this morning at the age of 64. Ludek Miklosko was indeed that man. Goalkeepers, rather amusingly and facetiously, are often referred to as mad, crazy, eccentric. at times often idiosyncratic and, at others, simply flamboyant. But they are essentially the glue that holds together teams, the courageous heroes who put their lives on the line just to keep their team in the hunt for promotion or the man responsible for leading their teams to the Premier League title. 

Goalkeepers hold down the most unenviable of all positions on the pitch because they're the ones with the key to the lock, the safe and capable hands who catch the ball cleanly from teasing crosses from the by line or wing. But then there are the endearing characters such as former Spurs keeper Pat Jennings who had shovels for hands, a man so secure and unflappable that had nuclear war broken out, Jennings would still be there, a model of re-assurance, always reliable, never flustered and just infallible, a giant of certainty.

During the 1980s and 90s, Ludek Miklosko was one of the most respected and calming influences at the heart of West Ham's often sloppy and clumsy back line. Miklosko had it all worked out as a goalkeeper. His positional sense was, of course impeccable, the reflexes as sharp as a blade and his air of  business like authority could spread an almost quiet composure. In many ways you could both see hear and see Miklosko because he was that versatile. 

But thoughts of Miklosko and goalkeepers in general prompted memories of previous goalkeepers at West Ham United. When West Ham were promoted back to the top flight Premiership just over 30 years ago, the Czech keeper was at his most formidable and invincible, almost carrying the team at the time. But West Ham were promoted that season and have since experienced the fluctuating fortunes that have become almost customary at the club.

During the early 1970s, West Ham manager Ron Greenwood confidently predicted that Mervyn Day would become England's regular goalkeeper for the foreseeable future. What Greenwood probably failed to realise was that Day was young, immensely talented of course but human, flawed,  accident prone and to frequent errors. Day did rise to the occasion and became one of the youngest goalkeepers to appear in an FA Cup Final when West Ham beat Fulham in a London derby in 1975.

Back in the 1950s Ernie Gregory, who would later become one of the most influential figures on West Ham's coaching staff, provided wit, wisdom, humour and immense knowledge. But Gregory was an outstanding goalkeeper. Gregory was athletic, flexible, wearing the thickest gloves in civilisation, a thick top to keep him warm and was rarely caught out and beaten. He was an integral part of West Ham's promotion winning team back to the old First Division in 1958.

Then going back to the late 1960s and 70s, Scottish goalkeeper Bobby Ferguson took up frequent occupation in West Ham's goal. Ferguson was reliability itself,  fearless, cool, nerveless and imperturbable. Ferguson was, crucially, injured in the 1972 League Cup semi final against Stoke City, a match that seemed to go on for ever. In goal to replace Ferguson was the immaculate Bobby Moore but even Moore couldn't really follow that act. 

It was towards the end of the 1970s that West Ham really did push the boat out. With Mervyn Day just a distant historical footnote, Peter Grotier, an equally as able and soothing influence as a keeper, West Ham were looking for a goalkeeper who could give them a firm footing, stability and just solid protection. The man they were looking for could be found across West London at Queens Park Rangers. 

Phil Parkes was a tall, broad shouldered, moustachioed figure. Parkes had hands, rather like Pat Jennings that would hold the ball to his stomach and never let it go. Parkes made his West Ham debut at a very vocal and supportive Upton Park against Oldham in the old Second Division. But this was no ordinary debut because Parkes had just become the most expensive goalkeeper at the time. He signed for West Ham for, at the time, an astronomical £565,000 which is almost chicken feed by modern day standards. 

As Parkes emerged from the Upton Park tunnel, you could vividly spot what looked like a bathroom towel plus Parkes precious green gloves. He would jog towards the South Bank amid thunderous applause, clap the supporters before hanging the said towel over the back of the net. Football was full of oddities and quirks at the time so this wasn't entirely unexpected. Briefly, Parkes old team QPR introduced Astro Turf to English football and we know what happened next. Natural grass made a memorable comeback. 

More recently, West Ham have boasted Shaka Hislop and Rob Green, powerful looking and compact in goal but sometimes exposed for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Hislop was brilliantly consistent but could only gasp in amazement as Steven Gerrard sent an unstoppable rocket of a shot high into the net, equalising for Liverpool in the final seconds of the 2006 FA Cup Final. West Ham would lose this Final on penalties and once again the club were denied of silverware although the best would come to pass three years ago when West Ham held aloft the UEFA Conference Final trophy against Fiorentina.

And so we pay warm homage to goalkeepers. Former goalkeeper Peter Bonetti was affectionately referred to as 'The Cat' and that seemed highly appropriate. Bonetti's feline reflexes and reactions served England quite admirably. But he'll always be remembered for the butter fingers which allowed a shot from West Germany to squirm under his body and into the net. West Germany knocked out England in the quarter final in the 1970 World Cup. 

Back in the 1970s, the late and  much missed Ray Clemence and Peter Shilton fought out an amiable, good natured rivalry for the position of permanent England goalkeeper. As a child, Shilton would stretch his arms and legs on his parents staircases on some occasions and just swinging loosely from a great height. Shilton would play for both Stoke City, Nottingham Forest, West Ham and Leyton Orient with peerless distinction, becoming the most capped goalkeeper of his time.

Meanwhile, Ray Clemence served his apprenticeship at Scunthorpe. Clemence spent the whole of one summer before joining Liverpool as a seaside deckchair attendant. But then, with cap on his head, on late autumnal afternoons at Anfield, Clemence would fly kick his goal-kicks with some velocity and just stop everything that was thrown at him. Clemence though was exposed as a figure of ridicule when he allowed the ball to trickle under him for a Scotland goal at Hampden Park in a Home International match.

And so we return to the sad passing of Ludek Miklosko this morning. West Ham have always been a family club with strong emotional connections to the East End docklands. Miklosko became a legendary figure at Upton Park because he genuinely felt an affinity with the club's traditional values. His death this morning will be mourned respectfully because we know how the role of the goalkeeper has now become so thankless and daunting. Ludek will always be in the hearts of thousands of West Ham supporters. Of that you can be sure.     

9/11 - A day never to be forgotten.

 9/11- a day never to be forgotten.

9/11. It was simply a day that should never, ever be forgotten. Here was a day that sent the coldest of shivers down our spine. It was the most horrendous, tragic and the most brutal attack on our civil liberties. And yet it was just an ordinary autumnal day in New York. Thousands upon thousands of office workers, delivery vans, those famous and distinctive yellow cabs and pounding feet quickened their stride, anxious to get into work as soon as possible. 

An early morning in September would unfold in much the way it always had and yet we were not to know what would happen next. None could have anticipated the murderous savagery that would follow. It was a bright and crisp day in early September and the good people of Syracuse were about to have their lives completely turned upside down. By the end of that day, the whole world would bow their heads despairingly and, in a vast majority of cases, cry bitterly, weep openly, their eyes red with grief.

With more or less minutes to go before the day's opening hours, two planes, heading straight for the Twin Towers, would hurtle dramatically towards one of New York's most celebrated and iconic buildings. It was a handsome establishment, a place of high finance and business, a proud symbol of America at her finest and grandest. But that day would prove to be unlike anything we had ever witnessed. We were shocked, terrified, aghast, speechless and dumbfounded. We had lost the capacity to think and feel, react and rationalise.

Our thought processes had been paralysed, emotions thrown into utter turmoil and, at the time, our very existence threatened by an enemy that had yet to reveal itself. Those in the highest authorities privately knew exactly what had just taken place but they were yet to identify who they were. It was the day that the Twin Towers in New York was demolished, burnt to the ground, viciously attacked, killing thousands of ordinary, everyday, clean living and virtuous folk who were just getting on with the business of the day. 

But then, cruelly and grotesquely, thousands would die at the hands of despicable terrorism. It was the most appalling act of savagery, a bloodthirsty act of murderous intentions, a day of ineffable grief and pain, suffering and heartache on the most terrifying scale. Certainly none of us had never seen anything like this before and none of us could have foreseen what would happen next, the sheer magnitude of  the day's events.

Shortly before nine o'clock in the heart of New York, two planes crashed into the Twin Towers and one of America's most imposing of buildings, a stunning piece of architecture, was fire bombed and then left in charred ruins, razed to the ground. Shortly, thick black plumes of mushrooming black smoke would dramatically spread across the morning sky, vivid orange flames tearing through this most noble edifice. At first we thought it was just another plane that had lost control and that a terrible accident had claimed the lives of people who just believed that September 11th would simply be another day.

Within minutes, two planes plunged headlong into the Twin Towers. Then a haunting darkness and silence would fall grimly over this scene of  the most egregious crime. September 11th was suspended almost indefinitely, all civilisation seemingly gone because this couldn't have been what we thought it was but indeed it had been. The most evil of terrorists had launched the most disgraceful assault on humanity. They were merciless, heartless, callously indifferent to human life, man's inhumanity to man, woman and child.  

Meanwhile, back in the White House, President George W. Bush was still shaking his head in disbelief, processing the inexplicable, finding comforting words to those in heartbroken distress. And yet Bush, alongside British Prime Minister Tony Blair, came together in the most moving and sympathetic manner that they could find in their hearts. Both men were whole heartedly united  in heartfelt condemnation, obvious compassion coursing through their collective souls, fearless and determined to face those who were hell bent on causing chaos, misery, bedlam and executing the complete elimination of innocent citizens.   

It hardly seems like 25 years ago now but, with the benefit of hindsight, we can still remember where we were and what we were doing. We were catching the morning train to work, packing our academic bags for school, college and university, pursuing our dreams and ambitions. How or why were the foremost questions? What possessed the minds of seemingly rational human beings to commit the irrational, this most unforgivable violation, this suicidal attack on the most monumental scale? It seemed the most indiscriminate act of violence, barbarism at its most unimaginable. But we saw it and    winced, blinking, rubbing our eyes with stunned incredulity. 

And yet what has come to be known simply as 9/11 is now branded permanently in our memories because this was simply too outrageous for any of us to comprehend. At first we were reminded of that epic disaster film The Towering Inferno with the very distinguished David Niven where fire ripped through a hotel and left countless dead. But this, essentially, was real life not some imaginary Hollywood creation. It was September 11th 2001 and 25 years later,  America is still, quite naturally, grieving and inconsolable and still demanding answers to questions. 

The images are of course indelible; there was the sight of one person hurling themselves out of their burning office window and leaping to death, hundreds of people down on the ground scampering and scurrying away from the crumbling office blocks, hands over their mouths, coughing incessantly, desperately escaping from the massive conflagration. Still more were bent over and physically broken, frantically searching for some semblance of safety. 

The air of urgency and emergency can still be felt. People were running away, screaming and yelling helplessly, emotionally fraught, work suits and shirts caked in dust and dirt, thousands trapped in rubble and debris, fleeing for their life in case one of the collapsing Towers had yet to finally fall. As we would later discover,  Al Qaeda, a shameless band of Islamist terrorists, perpetrated this most villainous atrocity and they were the ones with blood on their hands. 

And yet 25 years later the world refuses to give into terrorism, genocide, suicide or, whether be it religiously motivated or not, we will stand tall, fearless, undaunted, ferociously opposed to these repulsive renegades, these outright purveyors of poisonous hatred. 9/11 was a stark reminder of what can happen when, just a brief moment of complacency at the very top of governments can be wickedly fatal. 

There were of course lengthy inquests, probing post mortems and innumerable court cases following 9/11. There were the extensive investigations into how Al Qaeda were simply allowed the air space and opportunity to carry out their dastardly deeds. Whole groups of men have gone on trial, extradited quite rightly from the country, held to account and severely punished by judge and jury. For years TV has given over saturation coverage and different camera angles. We have been inundated with documentary evidence of which members of families had lost their loved ones and would sadly never recover.

But today is not a day for firing off accusations at whomsoever and blaming any one individual. But we all shared an unwavering admiration for the fire services, the ambulances who came to the rescue almost immediately, the paramedics who carried out mouth to mouth resuscitation on the spot. We can still see that wonderfully heroic fire fighter, slowly descending the stairs, sweat pouring off his  forehead, face etched with panic and overwhelming anxiety. But he, quite miraculously, survived and for this, the world should doff its cap and thank him immensely. Bravery in the face of adversity. It was there for all to see. 

So this morning, by the Ground Zero Memorial built to commemorate those who had lost their lives that fateful day, millions of families will be quietly murmuring prayers and blessings. It'll be a day for sober reflection, agonised reminiscence, a day of sullen solemnity and, quite rightly, so. For we remember 9/11 and we will not allow our everyday freedoms to be stolen from us. We have the right to demand full and detailed explanations because we were the ones who could only observe from a distance. So wherever you are today and whatever you're doing, never ever forget the victims of 9/11. 

As a proud Jew we will be thinking of you today since tomorrow is our Jewish New Year and Rosh Hashanah and we are also on the side of justice and common sense. We will chant for your good health and happiness and we will tell our friends in  America that you have our unconditional love and support. We feel sure that today we will be praying for peace and reconciliation and we will not give up at all.  

Rosh Hashanah- A happy and healthy New Year to you all

Rosh Hashanah- A happy and healthy New Year to you all. 

It almost feels inappropriate, inaccurate, completely wrong, almost bizarre and incongruous.  But tomorrow it's the beginning of the New Year. Hold on, surely something has been lost in the translation. Oh yes it'll shortly be Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year. We love being Jewish and so do my family and I. So we'll be welcoming in the Chag, the festival that keeps giving with love and then bearing fruit on Succot.  

This Saturday morning, or Shabbat, the proud Jews of the world will be gathering together in a show of solidarity, camaraderie, cheerful harmony, defiance, stubbornness, steadfastness, loyal and devoted to our cause. It'll be a celebration of history, tradition, years of singing from the same hymn sheet, striving towards a world where peace, reconciliation and kindred spirits were always welcome and we all prayed for a healthy, happy and peaceful New Year. 

For this Saturday morning is the first day of Rosh Hashanah, our yearly religious congregation where forgiveness and repentance are uppermost in our minds and slates are wiped clean. Somehow the persecution that a vast majority of Jews have always felt has now been starkly highlighted. But this is a part of a much wider issue, a sense of alienation and rejection that most Jews have had to deal with and confront for long periods throughout their lives. 

As a grandson of a Holocaust survivor this one carries all manner of diverse and complex problems, a sense that Jews have always been left on the outside, snubbed and rejected, mocked and humiliated, never included and always marginalised by the mainstream media and, now, the social media. Perhaps this has everything to do with who Jews are and how most of the world regards us. Of course we're upright, honourable citizens, respectability itself and we do mind our own business. But we do polarise opinion and that can't be right.  

But Rosh Hashanah is much more than a joyous celebration of the New Year. It is all about acceptance, a real sense of belonging rather than being kicked about like a political football and then being punched below the belt, ordered to move on to a place where the environment is toxic and the language is both negative and slanderous. It is a scenario where hostility and violence are somehow overwhelming and ever present. The conversations can often be heard in Far Right, virulently antisemitic corners, whispering and muttering cruelly, spitefully, maliciously, wilfully and then, quite distressingly.  

Over the weekend a small corner of East Germany elected a Far Right organisation into a position of power, a party committed to blatant antisemitism, rampant racism, hate crime, exclusion and intolerance of, quite possibly, Jews. It would perhaps be too hasty to assume that the good people of Magdeburg will be subjected to a constant bombardment of insults including destructive and pejorative language. But there is every possibility that it could lead to a complete breakdown in society. You do privately fear the worst at times but of course everything will be fine.

Now the events over the weekend aren't necessarily causes for much graver concern across most of Western Europe and Eastern Europe. But this Saturday morning my lovely family and I will be sitting down once again in our shul (synagogue) and praying for a change in direction. We will clasp our hands together, wrap our tallit( shawl) over our collective heads and read from the siddurim and chumash. We will pray deeply for an end to these explosive conflicts where centuries of horrendous war and death have left nothing but bitterness and resentment in every corner of every land, island, city, town and village. 

For well over 5,000 years the vast global Jewish population has cried and wept openly at the grievous losses of life, the destruction of hundreds of thousands of properties, the evil murder of children, the horrific demise of families, shops, offices, restaurants and government buildings. And then we have closed our own eyes because we can barely believe the evidence in front of us because that hurts, that's excruciatingly painful, too much to bear, too traumatic for words. And yet it's the harsh reality and that can never be denied. 

But Rosh Hashanah makes us stronger, fitter, harder, fit to face all drawbacks and setbacks. And then we rediscover our resilience, our unyielding fighting spirit, our backbone, our tireless determination in the face of adversity, a kind of red blooded muscularity that refuses to give in. We will once again blow the Shofar(the ram's horn) with that traditional sound of melodious resonance. Our learned rabbis and cantor will be there for us as they always have been and we will acknowledge them because we love them and that's unconditional.  

And then we will look at our family and friends and find that they too, are supportive, immensely loving and enduringly affectionate. We know they'll always be with us, following us, smiling warmly, laughing at our jokes, our light hearted witticisms, the people we've grown up with, lived our lives alongside them and continue to share with ours. Rosh Hashanah is good for the soul, uplifting, richly redemptive, morale boosting, a period for quite reflection and, with the benefit of hindsight, we knew we could come through for each other. So we open up the Torah and just read those beautiful lines, sentences and paragraphs in both Hebrew and English. 

Shortly, Saturday afternoon will give way to those late glows of autumnal splendour. The light will slowly fade and then the evening will herald the wondrous revelation of an amber coloured sunset. Rosh Hashanah is full of symbolism and imagery. We will eat our familiar apples and honey and September will be full of sweetness and goodness as has the rest of the year. Life will be symmetrically correct, full of the finest textures and flavours, in perfect alignment and ready to embrace us heartily. 

Rosh Hashanah is all about the casting away of sins and wrong doing, for rectifying any of the mistakes we may have made and then looking forward with enormous anticipation to the forthcoming year. We are humans, flawed, vulnerable and wholly susceptible to errors of judgement. But as Jews we can accentuate the positive, maintaining both our cool and composure when things get rough and we will not be bowed or beaten, defeated or downcast. 

For a while we will once again lament the death of six million Jews during the Holocaust, remain aghast at the political grenade that is the Far Right in Magdeburg and then there will be a realisation that we are still at one with each other. We dearly want to see our precious grandchildren grow up in a world where the guns, bombs and bullets of war are no more ever again. We all want to forge a path to righteousness, to a comfortable civility where arguments can be settled quite easily and nobody raises a fist in anger. 

Now this may be wishful thinking on your part given the geo politics of the world and just how difficult it may be to just reframe our thinking. Perhaps we will, one day, sooner rather than later, gaze longingly at a world of Utopia where man, woman and child can just build a future totally free from threat and aggression. Rosh Hashanah is the Jewish New Year, the start of something fresh and exciting, a chapter of our lives with a clear and coherent dialogue, an inspirational message and a narrative that is deeply heart warming. L'shana Tova and Chag Semach, a happy, healthy and peaceful New Year to you all.      

Richard O'Sullivan dies at 82.

Richard O'Sullivan dies at 82.

Richard O'Sullivan, who has died at the age of 82, belongs in no one particular category of TV greatness and pre- eminence. O'Sullivan was just one small but vital component in the populist situation comedy machinery that produced so many stars and unmistakable celebrities that it may be impossible to pigeon hole him. What might have been perceived as funny by some may have been bland and forgettable to others. But we recognised and respected him for who he was and what he may have been representing to a much wider TV audience. 

And so today we remember this child prodigy who burst into our living rooms and consciousness in the hit 1970s sitcom Man About the House. Up until the start and middle of the 1970s sitcoms had been pretty conventional but always hilarious, destined to reduce us to belly laughter but then somewhat disappointing and formulaic when seen in the light of the social issues so predominant at the time. Man About the House had a simple premise; two flirtatious girls sharing a flat with a red blooded male student who always seemed so good humoured and philosophical when things went wrong. 

From a very young age, O'Sullivan had all the makings of a multi faceted, versatile and hugely talented film actor. In 1954 he appeared in a Sherlock Holmes TV series which, more or less, introduced  the slowly expanding TV audience to O'Sullivan's blossoming talents. He was in the Adventures of Robin Hood and Dangerous Exile during the 1950s then vanished from our radar completely before re-emerging in the early 1970s with Man About The House. 

As was the case with most of his contemporaries, O'Sullivan trod the acting boards as a precocious teenager. The works of Shakespeare provided him with the most stable of all platforms and springboards from which to branch out into a wider world of juicier roles on both the stage and finally Man About The House. Accompanied by the flighty Chrissy ( Paula Wilcox and the equally as vivacious Jo ( Sally Thomsett, Man About the House had a bubbly, upbeat exuberance that typified the sitcom of that age. 

And then set against a backdrop of simple domesticity and amusing banter about sex and relationships, there is a delightful grumpiness in the form of  Brian Murphy as the eternally cantankerous George Roper. Then there's the gloriously downtrodden wife Mildred played beautifully by Yootha Joyce. Man About the House essentially symbolised everything we've come to expect from the special world of British sitcom. And then there was the very comical Richard O' Sullivan, either cooking up rotten recipes in the kitchen and then adopting the persona of the confident man about town.  

The dynamic between O'Sullivan and the girls he shares with him in his flat is illustrated with perfect precision. There was an innocence and charm about Man About the House that almost felt just right. Robin Tripp, who was O'Sullivan, was also quite macho but unpretentious, mocking his own evening meals and then gossiping about the Ropers as the neighbours with whom he could never quite hit it off. And then when Man About the House came to a natural conclusion, somebody wanted to do a spin off of the series. 

Robin's Nest followed and by the end of the 1970s, O'Sullivan had become a familiar face on British TV.  The subject of This is Your Life, introduced by Eamonn Andrews, this was probably his last hurrah, bringing the curtain down on a much loved comic actor. O'Sullivan more or less disappeared into obscurity during the 1980s and by the beginning of the 1990s and the beginning of the 21st century, the work had dried up and retirement beckoned. 

Now O'Sullivan found himself in a home for the ageing showbiz celebrity. The world of stardom, celebrity and regular prominence on the theatrical stage, had now faded away and the man who had always made us laugh in a very understated way, was no longer in the limelight. It is quite a while since the TV sitcom could ever boast such a modest and yet extravagant talent. But Man About the House is still being shown well over 50 years later since its first showing on the That's It 2 retro TV channel and for this we must be so profusely grateful.