Birthdays

 Birthdays.

Ah yes. That subject. Birthdays! You knew it would be there in the forefront of your memories. It happens every year without fail as sure as day is night and vice versa. In the weeks leading up to our birthday we all, quite possibly, recoil with the kind of horror and terror that somehow seems foolhardy and totally unnecessary because it does, after all,  mark another year in your lives, something of a notable milestone, the anniversary of the day you came into the world. 

And so it is that today is my darling, beautiful wife's birthday and all ages are strictly off limits and by the time you reach a certain point of your adolescence, it hardly seems to matter. This is for private consumption and nobody need ever know. Let's just say she is my wonderfully loving, supportive rock and inspiration and nobody does it better than my wife. Birthdays though are not though our childhood narratives since neither of us eat jelly and ice cream, play Pass the Parcel or eat cakes full of wicked cholesterol.

Today is a day for thinking about our now adult children and our stunning grandchildren, the next generation, the people who will take over from us and inherit our mantle, breaking down more boundaries, setting new objectives for the future, carrying the whole high tech machinery victoriously into a new world. They will continue inventing and creating, being radically visionary and just guiding us through all those horribly nasty wars and revolutions with the minimum of effort. We know they'll get it right and we trust them implicitly. 

For the traditionalists though birthdays are something to be feared, almost dreaded because the advancing years may be flying past us too quickly. Recently, our gorgeous daughter Rachel got married to our equally as wonderful son in law Lior and you've never felt so blessed. But weddings will always be a cause for celebration, for eating and dancing the night away, drinking, if the mood takes you, prohibitively. Birthdays though also remain a permanent part of human existence, the raison d'etre for living life to the full. You still feel important, deeply loved and lavished with goodwill. 

Here my wife and I still think it's worth receiving a present or two, maybe a drop of the bubbly champagne but perhaps not, simply a day for shared rejoicing, a quiet meal with family and nothing but jovial humour. But generally speaking, you suspect, age becomes immaterial and totally irrelevant, just a number and nothing more. We have now mellowed with age and simply don't care how old we are. It is the passage of time and 12 months later, we still think nothing of showering everybody with birthday cards, e-cards, texted messages of congratulation and jubilation, wearing a silly crepe paper hat and blowing whistles because it just seems delightfully acceptable.

Then there are the landmark birthdays which always crop up with inevitable regularity. When we get to 21, most of us think that all bets should be off and it's just time to throw all our modest inhibitions into the nearest available dustbin. It's that first stage of our maturity, the transition into the business end of our lives when the sudden realisation of who we are may well be slightly unnerving and disconcerting but comforting at the same time. And yet what a great feeling. It's your birthday and you'll laugh if you want to. It's time to wake up and smell the coffee and get real. 21 today just feels like some outstanding day that  feels heavy with significance and an enduring sense of achievement. 

My lovely late day once said to me that, having reached 21, he woke up one morning and discovered that he was 50 with demanding bills to be paid off urgently and married to my wonderful mum. He now had onerous responsibilities as a married man and a mortgage to be paid off for the next 25 years. By the age of 21, we should be looking forward to a bibulous night in the pub, getting absolutely hammered and unashamedly drunk as a skunk but my dad was never like that. He was a man of moderation and common sense although surely a half a lager wouldn't have disturbed his poise and equilibrium.

Then we're faced with yet more daunting obstacles so much so that by the time we reach 40, slowing down becomes compulsory and the muscles in your body aren't quite as willing and responsive. You pretend you're young and vigorous, more than capable of running several marathons in one day before climbing up seemingly insurmountable mountains and bungee jumping from London Bridge. And then it hits you. Forget it. That's out of the question. You're 40 and not 14. You have to be joking. But you can and you will. 

By the time we get to 50, we are no longer  muscular, athletic, slim as a bamboo stick, no longer the Adonis types with stunning, well ripped and toned stomachs. But we still look good. The mirror in the bathroom told its own story. Well done everybody. We've got this one.  We've now made the valiant effort to keep fit in the gym, cycling ourselves into the ground on the pedal bike and then rowing the length of the River Thames only in our imagination. But at the age of 50 our wonderful son Sam took me to the National Museum of Football and that was the greatest surprise of all. 

But we are no longer possess suppleness in our fingers while massive feats of athleticism and agility are possibly beyond us.  We can no longer believe that one day that our country will come calling. Still, you never know. Maybe Thomas Tuchel will name us in his squad for England's forthcoming Nations League team or even the next Euros. Maybe the English cricket, rugby and tennis authorities will consider us for obvious inclusion in teams for the  big occasions. They may change their minds when they find out you were once a highly regarded, garlanded school or county champion in cross country running. 

Besides, the Aussies are on the way next summer, a cricketing summer and you're the fastest bowler and leg break spinner ever to appear at the age of 64. Historically, cricketers never seem to retire and birthdays should always be acknowledged. You are tireless. You just keep going regardless of age. Cricketers, at every level, must wake up on their special day, always flexing their knees, legs and arms, tying on their batting pads, tugging on their helmets, swinging their bat enthusiastically before bounding down the pavilion steps for another mammoth innings. 

And now you're 60, and by now, not 21, that much has now become patently obvious. You're not fit, svelte, no longer the energetic one who used to leap out of bed in the morning, embracing the day like a loved one and then deciding that it's your birthday and you're doing nothing. But it's your birthday and life is exceptionally sweet. Go on have a glorious day and enjoy yourselves. But this is not the time for re-capturing your childhood because that ship sailed ages ago. 

But today is your birthday, my wife Bev's birthday. But the youth you so valued and treasured, is no longer waiting for you when you open up your presents and now they may resemble woolly gloves and socks.  So here we go everybody wherever you are. Happy Birthday and treat yourself. You deserve this day and nobody can take it away from you. Put on your glad rags, paint the town red, party the evening and night away in that fashionable nightclub, demand a conveyor belt of the most exotic cocktails and just have the most incredible evening. Have fun. It's your birthday and you deserve it.    

Sunday, Sunday.

Sunday, Sunday.

Ah Sunday folks! What a day indeed. There can be none like it. It's that final day of the weekend, the punctuation point of the week when everything, in theory, should stop or shut down since logic tells us that we've been running around frantically for most of the previous week getting all hot and bothered about nothing in particular. We've no time for reflection, considered thoughts on the following week or ambitious plans perhaps that rarely materialise in the way we'd like them to and nothing concrete to show for it. 

But Sundays of course should be designed for rest and relaxation, the Sabbath day when a vast majority of the religious population converge on their local church or cathedral for just a couple of hours of prayer, worship, deep rumination on the issues of the day, idolatry in some cases and simple contemplation of both the temporal and spiritual before taking the family out for a long walk in your local sprawling park. This should be a day for taking it easy, cherishing free and quality time, forgetting about the news for a while. You've earned this day so let's make the most of it. 

And yet 60 years ago it was all so different, quite obviously so, very noticeably and joyously. Back in the 1950s and 60s, there were no electronic gadgets and screens, whereas today is all about  instant gratification. In the old days we had plenty of time to get things right if they were wrong but now we reproach ourselves if we can't achieve immediate communication with our friends and families. There was, in the past, nothing rushed or hurried, urgent or serious that needed instant attention. We could kick off our shoes on a Sunday morning, eat breakfast in our garden at leisure. At no point did we think that the world would come to an end if we didn't fulfil all of those long held aspirations we might have harboured in one day.  

When you were a child, the pace of life was much slower, the traffic on the road  far less hectic and congested while my late and wonderful  dad would sit in the garden listening to his idol Frank Sinatra crooning mellifluously to those famous standards such as I've Got You Under My Skin or My Way. Of course the male and female population still wash their cars with thorough attention to detail and the kids still play competitive football in the park or, on a much broader scale, Hackney Marshes. But Sunday was the day.  

And yet today we lament the passing of that era because nowadays there are a million cars on the road, weaving in and out of each other on long roads and motorways, fretting and fuming under our breaths and despising the car in front of us because they can't drive or so it would seem. Nowadays we honk our car horns constantly because that bloke next to us has jumped the lights and he should be prosecuted or lose their licence. But my family are brilliant drivers so you have not a bad word to say about them. 

When you went for a walk up to the shops and supermarkets, you were suddenly confronted with the closed sign and the shutters were up for the duration of that weekend. There was no trade, no money  changed hands because that seemed almost sacrosanct. Everything was shut and it probably felt like bliss because there were no raised voices about long and winding queues in supermarkets, no self help machines which meant that you could happily engage in pleasant small talk with the cashier or the person at the till and then pay for your goods.

You can hardly talk about Sunday without nostalgic memories from the past. A couple of years before you were born there was a grumpy and crotchety comedian by the name of Tony Hancock. Now Hancock was one of those 1950s comedians who never really found any kind of peace of mind because he was never satisfied or happy, a demanding perfectionist. So he drove himself to the limit, smoking like a chimney in a memorable TV interview and hoping that one day he'd become accepted as a mainstream, legitimate theatrical actor who performed Shakespeare to a captive audience. But we now know that Hancock was just being delusional since comedy was always his forte. 

Anyway, Hancock's Half Hour, his masterpiece, entertained BBC audiences for years and to those who only had two TV channels, this was a delicious treat, complete escapism for a public who were desperate for some light relief. This followed another hard week at the coalface, in the office, warehouse, shop floor or negotiating the nightmare that must have been the late and delayed train or bus to get to work. And then in one episode we were given another revealing insight into the frustrated mind of Tony Hancock.  

Picture the scene. Tony Hancock, an established national treasure, was accompanied by the equally as famous Sid James at their lunchtime table. Hancock, all moans, groans, grievances and heartfelt anguish, sat at the table with James. Sid James had yet to encounter the saucy but hilarious days of the Carry On era but was still recognised on the street. He'd played a number of gangsters or shady characters in films but now Hancock the comedian teamed up with Sid James the funny man as well. 

So cue action. Hancock's face starts crumpling with anxiety, the lines on his forehead becoming more and more pronounced and disturbing. Suddenly, Hancock goes off on an impassioned rant about boredom, Sunday lunchtime more specifically, which was like a desolate wasteland since what could you do? There was the Light Programme on the radio, Around the Horne, the Archers even but essentially it was tedious and mundane.

Meanwhile, Hancock's comedy partner Sid James was totally engrossed in the News of the World, that celebrated showbiz scandal sheet where everything was morally bankrupt and even vicar's daughters were indulging in debauched behaviour. But Sid James had his Sunday paper, the football results at the back of the paper and all was well in the world. He continued leafing through the paper casually and desultorily without a care. Our Sid was content with what he had while Hancock was agonising, questioning, complaining, rather like a bear with a sore head. 

This was the essence of a Sunday, a charming microcosm of what the world was like in those black and white days when the TV was your only company and even the Sunday roast provided only brief respite for those who wanted scintillating excitement all day long. And this was a perfect social commentary of 1950s Britain. You had to make your own entertainment and just look forward to the working week. You had to iron your shirts, ensuring without fail that your children's school satchel had been promptly packed with all the appropriate reference books, pens, pencils, rulers and rubbers. It all felt very methodical and well organised. 

There was an effortless simplicity about Sunday, nothing complex about it. It was all very straightforward, right and proper without any complications whatsoever. If the kids were bored, you could always enlist them with the scouts or a youth club where their minds had to be occupied. They could also run out into the neighbourhood roads and play football until dusk. They could gleefully throw their coats onto the ground because those trams or trolley buses, even cars and vans would not be coming any time soon. All vehicles were banned and forbidden. 

In those days kids could play for as long as they wanted and could be energetic, lively, moving their bodies with whole hearted enthusiasm. They could play hop scotch, chucking stones against walls, playing for princely shillings and then just go crazy in the healthiest manner. They could play football with footballs that must have felt like medicine balls, objects so hard and rocklike that you'd have ended up in Accident and Emergency if you kicked the ball with too much conviction. 

Sundays were a break from the toil and drudgery of cleaning, washing but not knitting or sewing because these were still activities that your mum or grandma would happily partake. Sundays were days devoted to listening to BBC Radio Two in the days of Family Favourites when Cliff Michelmore and Jean Challis would host a show involving the British armed forces in countries like Cyprus or West Germany where cousins and uncles were now based. It was time when wartime band music was very much the musical zeitgeist of the time. Your further music listening pleasure consisted of Glen Miller, Count Basie, Duke Ellington and Tommy Dorsey, jazz exponents of the most hugely talented order. 

This would be followed by Charlie Chester, a jovial uncle who always sounded as though he was the most cheerful DJ ever to grace the radio airwaves. Chester would continue to plunder the archives with requests for Tony Bennett, Sammy Davis Junior, the inimitable Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and 1950s titans such as Johnny Rae, Eddie Cochran, Pat Boone, Elvis Presley of course, Al Martino, Ella Fitzgerald, Paul Robeson, Bing Crosby and a thousand stellar acts who crackled at times on your radio but you were never incensed or upset because transistor radios were impressive looking and sounding.

And finally there was the Top 40, introduced by a DJ named Tom Browne. Now at the time you knew what most disc jockeys looked like. You'd seen the late and much loved Terry Wogan and both seen and heard of Jimmy Young, then two of the most consistent radio presenters on Radio Two but Tom Browne remained a mystery and, up until recently, unidentifiable. But Browne had that smooth, controlled delivery and he was very much the man who sounded like a DJ should but never over the top. 

During the 1970s some of us although certainly not yourself, would tape the Top 40 because you just loved that whole glam rock period where bands like Mud, Sweet, Queen, the Bay City Rollers, Sparks, the Electric Light Orchestra, Led Zeppelin, Tavares, the Detroit Spinners, the Stylistics, Roxy Music, Manfred Mann, David Cassidy and the Partridge Family, Wings and Black Sabbath were almost permanent residents at the top of the charts.

Meanwhile at home Sundays were reserved for seaside excursions during the summer when your lovely mum and dad would jump into the Ford Cortina with yours truly at the back, before racing up the Southend Road to either Westcliff or Southend. It all sounds idyllic and almost too hedonistic for words but families during the 1960s would think nothing of manoeuvring the car into action, dusting down the seats and packing huge quantities of egg sandwiches, cheese sandwiches, possibly smoked salmon but that may be a figment of your imagination. But what a day Sunday was. 

Your wonderful grandma and grandpa, my mum's parents, would also join in with the fun. We would sit along that seemingly interminable Westcliff esplanade, a gentle, benevolent wind blowing our hair and lunch was just a food paradise. Grandma would give me every encouragement to eat as many sandwiches as you could, while my now silvery haired but distinguished looking grandpa simply sat there in his grey suit heavy with formality. He would lie back in his deckchair, eyes shut and blinking in the sun while his grandson made tracks for the sandy beach and that commendable sandcastle building operation on his mind.

Sundays would end at tea time with a fleeting visit to Rossi's, still a thriving restaurant, a flourishing empire which was established and opened during the 1930s. Now the alternatives were both amusing and delightfully old fashioned. Next to the conventional tea, coffee and snacks signs over the counter was the cocoa Horlicks which almost feels as if it belongs to some late night drink you normally consume on a winters night in January at home but not the seaside. To this day you can still order a Horlicks but you wouldn't think there's a great deal of demand for it or perhaps a glass of milk for that matter. 

Then we would head home for another sandwich feast where my lovely mum used to make the most delectable egg and spring and onion sandwiches. These were eaten on the Rye seeded bread my wonderful dad had brought from the Jewish delicatessen five minutes away from home. My dad knew the owner of this deli from his Hebrew classes( cheder class) and often returned there with a regularity and frequency that  almost felt automatic. 

My dad of course dressed very smartly and properly for our Sunday seaside trips. There was something very elegant and courtly about the way people both looked and dressed during those days. My dad, complete in naval jacket with a shiny button, clean white shirt and tie, would think this to be the most appropriate attire during my childhood. On reflection he was absolutely right and yet now we prefer outlandish T- shirts with all manner of cheesy logos plastered all over them with beach shorts and crocs, flip flops and baseball caps more suited to the Boston Sox.

And so Sundays would approach the evening and night. In the morning, you had to be up with the birds and conditioned to school, the groves of academia, that place where education and enlightenment would go hand in hand. On Sunday night your mindset was still on a Southend beach with gulls descending from a great height and ice cream 99s with a flake dribbling deliriously down your shorts. Now you bid farewell to both the weekend and Sunday and the day felt like the realisation of every dream you'd ever had. Wearing your Sunday best does have a very traditional resonance to it. For this, we owe a deep and lasting gratitude to those we will always love.  

    

The Budget 2026

 The Budget 2026,

It almost felt like a storm in a tea cup and yet somehow Budget days in Britain must feel like the most unsettling of draughts, perhaps a disturbance in the night, something that goes bump on your floorboards before whistling past your front door and leaving a nasty shock in its aftermath. Somehow governments can never get it right on this financially impactful of all days. British Chancellors of the Exchequers always seem to get it in the neck whichever party holds the reins of power at the time. 

And yet yesterday's Budget still felt as though it should coincide with the first spring daffodils and daisies. Wasn't it that grand occasion when the country listened with terror and trepidation in case cigarettes and booze had gone up by an astronomical amount and you could no longer afford both? So an autumn budget seemed so out of character with the time of the year that you half expected a game of cricket to have broken out on a village green.

Sometimes everything catches you unawares and you're never really sure where you are in relation to the rest of the world. But it was all made abundantly clear yesterday. Britain is still socially divided, livid, furious, frustrated and needs an immediate answer to probing questions and ever present problems. It's all Andy Burnham's fault. It almost seemed inevitable that Burnham would be vilified and held to account by the great British public because he is, after all, the Prime Minister and you know what they're like. Just unreliable. 

One of these days Britain will elect a charismatic, engaging, personable and general good egg who will get hold of the country by the scruff of the neck and make the right decisions. That day seems so far in the distance, though, that maybe it'll never happen. Perhaps we should resign ourselves to the fact that all Prime Ministers are rotten to the core, clueless, indecisive and completely lacking in leadership qualities. Still, where there's hope there is indeed hope. Burnham looks, to all intents and purposes, a respectable politician with no skeletons in his cupboard and no chequered past so this may be time to give the Liverpool born Burnham the benefit of the doubt because nobody else is willing to do so. 

Yesterday Burnham sat patiently behind the Chancellor of the Exchequer John Healey and just smiled genuinely and agreeably. There were no sceptical gazes or bewildered glances in his direction because the Labour government are doing their utmost to steer the country out of the toxic turmoil the Tory driven government had so disastrously taken us or allegedly.  Poor Boris Johnson, Liz Truss and Rishi Sunak. They were rather like cartoon characters with funny faces, exaggerated caricatures from some old episode of Spitting Image.

Now though Ladies and Gentleman and wait for the drum roll. We give you one Andy Burnham, the former Mayor of Manchester and now Prime Minister. For those with a prophetic insight into these matters, you privately knew this appointment was in the offing. In fact so strong was the premonition that had you been a betting man you'd have put good odds on Burnham taking over at 10 Downing Street. But there he is in situ after that long, hot summer in Britain and already the disapproving and critical are ready to demonise, ridicule and tear him to shreds without a single moment of remorse. 

The Chancellor of the Exchequer John Healey stepped out of 11 Downing Street with that now famous red briefcase and just held onto it as if it were some treasured birthday present. In the old days, the briefcase used to be a battered black. Healey's namesake Denis once proudly displayed that very briefcase for the cameras almost exactly 50 years ago. Holding the purse strings to the country's financial resources is quite the most daunting task and John Healey smiled kindly and just hoped for the best. 

So here were the facts and figures. The standing charges on gas bills will be abolished, the cut on electricity bills will continue to be in place and there were so many other goodies. Chief among the more pressing concerns is a swingeing cut to the welfare bill which may well go down like a lead balloon to those who have to worry about heating their homes during the winter.  There will be a £100 one off payment to 20 million households throughout the country including favourable adjustments to the rate of your council tax. What do you think of that? You can never be sure just how well or badly Budgets go down in the eyes of the public because the reactions are so varied and contrasting. 

We are now in the middle of a post Brexit conversation and suddenly we've all become ecologically aware of our surroundings. There are discussions about fuel prices, net zero, global warming, energy rates and of course the cost of petrol at the pumps. A vast majority of motorists dream about the day when the price of petrol be it diesel or otherwise, will become so spellbindingly cheap that they may be tempted to take their car on a tour of the whole country. But petrol is now so exorbitantly expensive that for those who don't drive, you really do offer heartfelt sympathy. 

But the Budget is now out there in the public domain and for those young families who may be burdened down by a hellish mortgage to pay off, then the news may not have been good or pleasant. Taxes will always be taxing and the price of anything is so painfully high and beyond our understanding that we can only wince with disbelief.  Still, we can only assume that the country will be bombarding both social media networks and the BBC with some choice comments so be prepared. 

Now of course if you're a million pound dotcom entrepreneur with shares in oil, steel and uranium or some Bill Gates figure with so many billions in your bank account, then the Budget will never unduly bother you. Then again if you own some opulent country estate in Gloucestershire or you're some You Tube influencer, then once again you can rest easy in the knowledge that you may never have to worry about any bill of any description. 

It suddenly occurs to you that there were no tots of whisky next to John Healey as he delivered his Budget speech to you. Kenneth Clarke would never have lasted five seconds without his small glass of inoffensive alcohol to keep him company. But whether you liked it or not, the nation now knows exactly how to balance both shopping bills and the amount they may have left over for luxuries. Who would be Chancellor of the Exchequer? John Healey? He did put his name forward to the job and the next couple of weeks at Westminster could be both spicy and, quite possibly, problematic. Best wishes Andy Burnham. 

Harry Kane- winner of the Ballon d'or

 Harry Kane- winner of the Ballon D'or

So the lad from Walthamstow, East London finally stopped the rot for English football. As has been widely reported, the last time an English football won the world's best prize, the new Premiership, as it was known, was in its screaming infancy. The century was barely out of its nappies, the Internet was not about Inter Milan's closest neighbours and Harry Kane had launched out into the big, wide world with the kind of prolific goal scoring exploits that have now brought him immortality and a snug place in the history books.

Kane received his Ballon D'or with all the effusive gratitude that have always come naturally to him. There is nothing egotistical or self absorbed about Kane, none of those childish and petulant tantrums that used to be one of the unfortunate characteristics of certain England players we'd rather not mention. There is nothing false or contrived about Kane, none of those showy bursts of pretentiousness or pomposity that have so often led to his colleagues downfall at some point in their career. 

But last night in London's West End, it all felt as if everything had come together on the night and celebrations were very much the order of things. Nobody has questioned Kane's accomplishments because we know everything we need to know about Kane. He is one of England's greatest strikers of all time which, according to those in the know, may be one of the best accolades any footballer can ever receive. 

It is hard to believe now that this has taken so long to bear fruit. Besides, the first recipient of this blue riband trophy was a man who captured our hearts in 1956 at a time that post War Britain was still recovering from the catastrophic memories left behind during the Second World War. It was a time of ration books and make do and mend austerity. But Sir Stanley Matthews was renowned for being a pickpocket on the wing for both Blackpool and Stoke, a winger of beautiful balance, immaculate ball control and dashing duplicity, the most unstoppable of wingers. And Matthews was still playing at 50. 

And yet in the heart of the capital city in London, Harry Kane once again reminded us of his exceptional goal poacher's instincts and much more. Ever since he broke into Spurs first team as a young apprentice, all of the ingredients were prepared. As soon as Kane could kick a ball, an incessant routine consisting of endless garden kickabouts, we must have known that his greatness and remarkable goal scoring talents would be sealed in no time at all. 

But then there were the inevitable struggles, the desperate striving for form that he must have thought had deserted him. Things came to head eventually when the goals completely dried up and Kane was condemned to hours of intensive training well away from the Spurs first team. Kane was loaned out to Leyton Orient, a small and unfashionable club who had always languished in the lower Leagues and could only provide Kane with a significant opportunity to re-build his flagging career. 

The result was a complete change of fortunes and the resurrection would be played out to a Spurs fanbase who were so relieved to see their favourite son again they turned out in their excitable masses to greet home one of their own. For Kane, last night's presentation of the Ballon D'or represented the ultimate achievement, the zenith of his playing career thus far, an award totally befitting of that rarest  of England species, a striker who could probably score thousands of goals blindfolded. 

Suddenly there was a realisation though that in order to have been recognised as the most outstanding striker of all time, trophies and silverware had to be regarded as essential. Without the spoils of war, there was little hope that, certainly in Britain, Kane would be held in the highest esteem. After valiant if fruitless efforts to win any trophy at Spurs, the England striker sought greener pastures. By now of course Kane had established himself as a prolific striker for his country and England now dined out on Kane's spectacular output. 

In recent years of course that England career travelled into another dimension, goals flooding in from Kane's feet and head  on a frequent basis. We are all now familiar with the Kane goal scoring celebration, a twist of the body, the most triumphant of fist pump and that charming salute with one arm raised. Kane has now surpassed all records but the modesty is unfailing and the humility unmistakable. 

He is married to his childhood sweetheart and never ignores the multitude of children who idolise him. Yesterday night on a late October evening, he was in obliging mood once again. Moving swiftly over to a huddle of teenagers standing outside, Keane, all sartorial elegance in his smartest black dinner jacket, shirt and tie, walked over to those who continue to idolise him and scribbled a rapid turnover of autographs.

The lowest points in Kane's international career must remain the multiple attempts to win England's elusive Jules Rimet World Cup trophy again and two sadly unsuccessful defeats in consecutive Euros Finals against both Italy and Spain. But Kane is a goal machine par excellence and England can be so thankful for Kane's predatory presence in the penalty area. And yet it's never happened for him for either Spurs and England and nor is it ever likely to be because Kane has, undoubtedly, played his last World Cup for England or so it would seem. 

Those statistics will always be a hugely impressive. Kane racked up a phenomenal 89 goals for England, winning 124 caps for his country and a secure place in the Hall of Fame. He can still hold up a ball with considerable style, inviting his team mates for a special collaborative moment when the ball is brilliantly shielded before the ball is switched back to Kane, running heroically to meet  a first time cross from either right or left flank. 

There were goals headed in from corners with effortless aplomb, then there was the exploitation of space and then reading the thoughts of the players around him with a spontaneous dash for the far or near post. And then there were the goals, goals from every postcode, suburb, city, town or village. At Spurs, Kane scored an extraordinary 280 goals from 435 appearances but apart from one or two cameo moments, there would be no trophy, Cup or Premier League.  

So now Kane is gainfully employed by Bundesliga giants Bayern Munich who have won so prodigiously in German football at all levels, that the temptation for the former Spurs man became too great. Over 50 years ago Bayern produced one of the most lethal goal-scorers of all time. Gerd Muller scored vital goals which were instrumental in West Germany's ascension to glory. Muller dramatically changed a game that seemed to be ebbing away from his country. West Germany would win the 1974 World Cup in their own backyard. 

They say goal-scorers are born rather than any other particular reason. One of Kane's predecessors Jimmy Greaves scored goals for Spurs with wild abandon. Rather like Greaves, Kane's lightning turn of pace and frightening acceleration probably gave both men a head start. During one old First Division match against Manchester United during the 1960s, Greaves broke away from his Manchester United opponents as if they weren't there and from just inside the centre circle, Greaves would turn on the afterburners, driving towards the United goal, rounding two or three defenders and then slotting the ball past a helpless Alex Stepney in the United net. 

Kane though has similar attributes and how often has Kane been in the right place and the right time to score with a ruthless ferocity, a burning savagery, goals scored from every conceivable angle. Kane is deadly up front, a fierce striker of the ball from all distances. Rather like Wayne Rooney and Gary Lineker before him, Kane has never show any mercy or forgiveness at the first sight of goal. Everybody is aware of  Kane's capabilities and his no nonsense mood given half a chance.

So it was that Harry Kane won the Ballon d'or for England. He became the first Englishman for 25 years to win this golden, much coveted trophy. The last Englishman to win the Ballon D'or in recent times was one Michael Owen and he is now a much admired racehorse owner. It is hard to imagine Kane wandering around the paddocks and stables at Newmarket certainly for the time being. But there is something very grounded, realistic and genuine about Harry Kane. And we certainly wouldn't have it any other way.       

The clocks go back.

The clocks go back. 

Ah yes. Ladies and Gentleman. Now early this morning something strange happened to our body clocks. A  curious sense of bewilderment and disorientation crept up on us unobtrusively while we were still sleeping in our beds. At roughly two o' clock this morning, the clocks and watches of  Britain went back an hour thereby leaving us wondering where that hour had gone. It could be said that both our  minds and heads are now well and truly ready for the darkness to fall at four or five o'clock this evening. 

Every year that the clocks go back an hour we keep airing our grievances about those Scottish farmers whose fault this clearly is. Or perhaps not. Greenwich Mean Time is quite the most amazing phenomena, that moment in our lives when early this afternoon will feel exactly like midnight. The daylight hours get shorter and shorter, winter fatigue will settle in and for some of us the atmosphere will feel much the way it always has when autumn comes calling.  

This morning we did what comes naturally to all British people on a Sunday morning. The dog or dogs were summoned from their familiar hiding places and the family promptly ventured out on the most rewarding walk through endless miles of now autumnal parkland. It's time to get out into those mysterious forests that seemed to last for ever. Soon it'll be lunchtime and the family have now retired to the local gastro-cum-pub Toby Carvery for a lavish Sunday roast with all the trimmings. 

Now the cry goes up from all and sundry. You do realise that at some point we'll have to stop walking because the watery sunlight is rapidly fading and there is an impending gloom and darkness gathering itself in front of us. Mum and dad, grandpa and grandma, auntie and cousin, boyfriend and girlfriend have all been this way before and they'll have to get a move on. But there's no hurry or urgency because time will become our closest friend and the children are having the time of their lives. 

But then there will be a dawning realisation that winter is waiting patiently for us just over that ditch and the toll gate where even the cows and sheep look resigned to their fate. Dad chucks the ball amusingly for the amiable border collie to chase and then a spare bone awaits our faithful canine friend. The kids will run around ancient trees, giggling delightfully before hurling great clumps of brown leaves into the air in victorious fashion. Suddenly, in a couple of hours, it'll be time for afternoon tea and you'd be forgiven for thinking that it's time for an early night and bed. 

Soon the crackling of leaves will give way to a haunting silence as the magenta sunset sinks deep into the hollows, shapely mountain tops and a host of secretive valleys where a thousand stories were once told. Next week of course is Halloween, that age old pagan festival where witches and broomsticks dominate the thoughts of our neighbourhood. Now millions of children will knock on doors with innumerable requests for sweets. It's time for Trick and Treating and we'll all be scared for a minute or two because this is the time of the year when more important festivities will be pre-occupying our every waking moment.

Yes folks. It'll be Christmas for what may feel like the umpteenth time. But sooner or later we will just remain in the present, hunkering down for the rest of the year, central heating prepared for that warm toasty radiance and, if we should feel so inclined, tins of biscuits and chocolates poised to be consumed. Now is the time to withdraw ourselves into our living rooms, lights blazing away at five o'clock and the roaring log fire bringing comfort and cheer to those who just love the intimacy of family life. 

Yesterday though it rained heavily in most of Britain but then again who cares? Somebody once said that rain is highly beneficial to the crops grown by industrious farmers. The weather returned back to the conversation of the moment as it invariably does at the start of any season. But how often have we heard that old chestnut? What on earth are we going to do now? That's it. We'll get out our board games, play cards, chess, watch Christmas films on TV in October and just be grateful for our blessings. 

The interior dialogues that now begin in earnest turn to Halloween swiftly followed by Guy Fawkes Firework night. Now the kids can't wait for that to come around. They've been longing to set off fireworks and in a couple of weeks, their wishes will be fulfilled. It used to be the standard Standard box of fireworks which, with every passing year, seem to get noisier and louder. But with the recent arrival of drones, Guy Fawkes could well become unrecognisable as we know it. 

Our poor dog Barney may well disappear for hours, possibly weeks and months, terrified that the end of the world may come. He'll sneak very quietly under our dining room table, behind our clothes horse and by the end of November he may decide to come out of his voluntary seclusion. If we can persuade him to eat his plate of meaty morsels he may decide to emerge from his favourite hiding spot much sooner. Barney loves his privacy and there is a splendid isolation that doesn't seem to bother him. 

But now the darker nights are with us, this may be exactly the right moment to reflect on a fabulous summer in Britain. To say it was reminiscent of that summer back in 1976 would be a gross understatement. The sun shone warmly and constantly for as long as you can remember. There may have been a brief time back at the end of May and the middle of that month, when  the winds were at their most blustery, the showers became, perhaps too frequent and it didn't look as if the summer of 50 years ago would make any kind of comeback or repeat itself. But it did and it was fantastic.

That now tragic news footage of ferocious forest fires, hosepipe bans for a while and burning farmland, quite literally overshadowed the heatwaves. Another drought just seemed to suck all the joy out of those who may have been looking forward to those magical picnics in the park or the garden barbecues that have now framed our domestic family time. There were now, of course, bare, parched grasslands across the British countryside and it was rather like watching slabs of grey concrete so sparse was the grass if it all. 

Now though it's time to close the curtains and blinds and wait for the encroaching darkness, that hour of tenebrous bleakness, where we just want to be inside with our loved ones, both family and friends. Shortly it'll be time for the hot tomato or chicken soup season, a period of quiet reflection on the closing year before casting our minds forwards to auspicious Spring times when the bluebells and daffodils flourish and all is life is perfect and utterly renewed. So now that the clocks have gone back, this could be the time to just wipe from our minds completely the chronic traumas, trials and tribulations that may have left us lost at times. And yet let's embrace the seasons. They are, undoubtedly, the rich tapestry of life. 

Pele- the Brazilian emperor

 Pele- the Brazilian emperor.

Pele would have been celebrating his 86th birthday today but, sadly, we'll never know what he'd been doing nor what fate or destiny have awaited had he been living now. Perhaps he'd be a deeply revered ambassador for the game in some very high capacity or modestly guiding FIFA through its most troubled period. Besides, Gianni Infantino may have gone just a bit too far, dragging football down its lowest point, its most degrading nadir. Pele would have been immensely flattered by yet another set of tributes and eulogies because the man defied classification, categorisation or any genuine description.

So somebody of Pele's golden robed stature would surely have brought to the game the kind of revolutionary zeal so richly deserving of the man and his legend. Football would have held out the red carpet to him and we would undoubtedly have bowed down graciously at any reference to him His worldwide admirers would have been legion and there would have been all the appropriate reverence that would have been his just dues. So they would bask in his radiant glow, just honoured to have shared their moment at the highest of thrones, a star dusted pantheon

They would have worshipped at his feet, still idolising him, kowtowing to him, throwing yet more bouquets of praise at him, kneeling and genuflecting at his feet and ensuring that his legendary status would have been preserved ad infinitum. They would surely have unveiled the definitive statue in some wonderfully rural backwater, possibly a country estate or park.   

Pele, in the opinion of some if not the vast majority of us, should have been immortalised in the finest marble, mahogany, steel or simply a giant oak that none may ever topple. Pele was one of the 20th century's greatest footballers of all time. His immensely gifted contemporaries- who may well consider themselves to be  humble equals- can only be awe stricken by the man's legacy. Then he will now be carved and inscribed in the history books ad infinitum, perhaps some time capsule in the future that, once opened up again thousands of years later, would still have still been shining with the same lustre as the diamonds, rubies, amethysts and topaz that had always been there.

It is hard to elevate the giants of any sport to even the highest pedestal since they are no longer here to appreciate their anointment to sainthood. They are now a higher being, and Pele was a human being who had brought such a rare genius to the Beautiful Game that even the superlatives and analogies may never be enough. If somebody were to put the great man on a plinth or some Olympian podium then this will still be sufficient testament to the grace and majesty that only Pele had left behind him in death.

For the truth is that Edson Aarantes do Nascimento, to give him his birthname, was a sportsman and athlete of the most extraordinary talent, a man who was so desperate to tie on his first football boots at his only club Santos that somebody had to restrain him from starting the game much sooner than he did. Clearly Pele's natural gifts from childhood suggested that the precocious kid that he always was seemed fated to reach for the most resplendent stars and planets. And so it proved to be. 

We all know about Pele's remarkable footballing statistics, that almost suggestive body language, the supple and sinewy frame, that lithe, languid and leonine physique, the feet of the samba dancer, restless, easy on the eye, flowing and gliding across the pitch with effortless nonchalance. Pele had a whole geometry lesson in his head ready to be delivered to his star pupils. He was never programmed or rigidly structured because that meant he would have never have been the greatest player of all time. 

Rather he was the ultimate model of spontaneity, instant and instinctive movements, little in the way of hesitation or deviation and just an hour ahead of his opponents in thought and deed. There was something almost too analytical about the Pele brain that nobody could never really understand. Perhaps, he was studying to become a doctor in his spare time or some learned university professor who believed that everybody should be taught the rudiments of quantum physics. 

But Edson Aarantes do Nascimento unashamedly came from poverty, the favelas he could hardly wait to escape from because nothing could be achieved from that point onwards. So Pele, as must have been the way for many of his generation and peers, probably started dribbling with drink cans, punctured footballs, tattered and grimy newspapers that had been so lovingly rolled up into a ball and then just teased his friends, indulging in a thousand keepie uppies on shoulder and head, perfect ball control and the explosive finish. 

At the age of 86 Pele would certainly have long since retired from an illustrious career as Brazil manager, a motivational guru and inspirational force par excellence. He would have been given the freedom to exercise an influence on his Brazilian team with no interference from outside sources. He may well have won far more World Cups than any manager of his time and you'll always wonder why this was never allowed to happen. Pele was football's pioneer, pathfinder, the finest ball manipulator FIFA  would ever be associated with. 

But this is all guesswork and hyperbole and we can only imagine the rarefied heights Pele may have scaled had he still been alive today. Maybe the presidency of the country would have been awarded to him as soon as he had announced his retirement although that might have been the poisoned chalice. Perhaps he would have become one of Brazilian's most highly respected humanitarians, working tirelessly for charity or just playing football with his grandchildren on some dusty football pitch in Rio or Sao Paolo or almost certainly the Copacabana beach, Brazil's most famous football academy. 

So today we salute the incomparable Pele, the man who won the World Cup for Brazil at the tender age of 17, scoring in one of the most devastating displays ever seen from one so young. Sweden were the whipping boys that day in the 1958 World Cup Final. Even now we can see the nifty, shifty and nimble Garrincha coaxing along his young protege with those distinctive, twinkling feet. Garrincha was the bird while Pele was the kingfisher floating serenely from one position to another. 

And finally Pele may well have reflected on that astonishing year of 1970 when everything came to bear fruit at the same time, everything gelling harmoniously and Brazil were a piece de resistance, art nouveau at its most striking, an impeccably sculptured thing of beauty. When Tostao, Gerson, Rivelino, Carlos Alberto and Pele himself produced their most attractive watercolours and silkiest of skills, it wasn't long before a yellow carnival would wind its way all the way back to Rio. Pele had won his last World Cup for his country. But Pele has now found his comfortable place in heaven and we can only assume that even at 86, he would have still been mentioned in suitably glowing terms.    

National Apple Day.

 National Apple Day. 

Families will always provide us with the most secure foundation stone when crisis or adversity become the greatest obstacle most of us can ever face. But it was National Apple Day. Problem solved immediately. So it was that roughly a month ago, my wonderful family and yours truly gathered together for a day of sharing good times, revelling in the moment and just appreciating the warmth and love that will always be there even when things go awry and not quite the way we thought it would. It was quality time together. It was the greatest feeling of them all. Let's get picking.

Recently, our wonderful son and daughter in law went and my lovely wife went out for the day, precious quality time with the people we've always known and never tire of seeing. We tend take these moments for granted and maybe we become too blase and complacent but the day just unfolded like the unveiling of the most stunning landscape painting. 

Today, Ladies and Gentlemen is a National Apple Day and together as a family we visited a beautiful orchard near Liverpool and just picked loads of apples. It was simple, undemanding day where your precious grandchildren joined grandma and grandpa for a mass collective experience that was just cherishable. So with apple pickers by the ready that resembled those lacrosse handles with small baskets, we all wandered around Mother Nature's most prepossessing trees and scooped up as many apples as we could reach. 

This of course is the autumn harvest festival where the fruits of the forest can be found in abundance. But this was a day for accumulating as many apples as we could pluck from the trees. And, it was fun. Quite definitely. And so it is that the consumption of apples have always been an essential part of our weekly shopping. We go into our local supermarkets and, staring at us quite temptingly, are dozens of apples in varying shades of red, yellow or green with the finest textures, flavours and tastes that many of us have grown accustomed to throughout the years and decades. 

It used to be said that an apple a day would keep the doctor away which, according to medical lore, could be re-assuringly accurate. But then you discover that some apples had a core which could also be eaten. Then there are crisp, pure green apples known as Granny Smith's, an apple of the highest quality but still has a rich piquancy about it that is hard to define. So it is that apples are taken into the dining room bowl and there are the apples accompanied by their faithful companions such as oranges, pears, nectarines, bananas, peaches, strawberries, raspberries and grapes. 

Apple of course was famous for one of the Beatles record labels, a fruit that will always be synonymous with the Fab Four, surely one of the most popular, most adored and idolised boy bands of all time. For years you would like to imagine that both Sir Paul McCartney, Sir Ringo Starr and the late John Lennon and George Harrison would spend hour upon hour warmly cocooned in the Abbey Road recording studios in London's St John's Wood, biting  Galas, Bramley's, Granny Smith's and Cox apples with the healthiest appetite. 

Then John, halfway through Yesterday, Get Back, Hey Jude, Sergeant's Pepper or Paperback Writer, would call out to his enduring friends that at lunchtime, apple pie was on the dessert menu or even apple crumble or, quite possibly, apple strudel. Would they be tempted? But then Paul responded with his favourite which just happened to be apple pie with gallons of custard. Now George was a simple and unpretentious Beatle as were most of the band. He just wanted the simple toffee apple from the local seaside resort. Oh what a taste sensation. Apples have always figured prominently in our diets at some point in our lives and we'll just grab one for a train or bus journey.  

And then there was Isaac Newton, the celebrated mathematician, who, with his theory of relativity, had one of those light bulb moments when the humble apple dropped on his head or maybe that was just an urban myth. Newton may have seen the apple fall but its location is still heavily discussed by today's great academics. We love an apple after a light lunch, an apple of succulent sweetness, juices squirting freely into the middle distance. 

When we were kids there was the Bobbing Apple attraction at our local park fair or summer fete where children are innocently encouraged to dunk their heads into a bowl of water and just eat as many apples as they can. We tend to take apples for granted perhaps because they've always been available at market stalls and then converted into some delectable dessert after tea, dinner or lunch. 

But lest we ever forget the apple goes right back to the beginning of time when men and women had yet to be appear as sentient beings with feelings and personalities. Yes, Adam and Eve were right there at the head of the queue, the first among a worldwide humanity to sample the first apple. You can see it now. There was Adam, quietly going about his daily toils  and duties before Eve came calling and joined by his male friend. So there we were in the Garden of Eden all those millions of years ago and Adam gets peckish and then ravenous. It was the juiciest and most enticing of all fruits. 

Fancying a light snack Adam asks Eve whether she'd like a Golden Delicious and the rest, as they say, is biblical history. Their lives would never be the same afterwards. Today they would be avidly followed by the national newspapers and paparazzi for their considered opinion on that glorious apple. Adam would take that first tentative bite and Eve, curiosity aroused no end, insisted that the apple be shared kindly and generously. And that was the historical turning point. 

Soon we'd be using apples would be used quite frequently used for cooking purposes, enormous globular green fruits which would be excitedly cut up and then allowed to float in a vast pot, boiling away and bubbling quite for what seemed an age Perhaps an hour or later, the aforesaid apples would be ready to be delivered for Sunday lunch dessert. apple compote or apples with currants or blackberries, apples in fruit salads and apples in multitudinous forms.

Over 50 years ago there was a light hearted family quiz show on TV called the Golden Shot. Hosted by the late, effervescent and irrepressible comedian Bob Monkhouse, the idea was that a contestant would be phoned up by Monkhouse at random and then the fun and frivolity would begin. The contestant on the show would be asked what they did for a living and where they lived. There were no requests for their blood group or leg measurements but Monkhouse was a natural joker with always a dry, irreverent sense of humour and nobody seemed to mind. 

So how is the show went. Bob Monkhouse would introduce us to a crossbow and bolt mechanism which nowadays would have been dismissed out of hand is totally un PC and sacrilege. There was no need for violence and savagery on Sunday afternoon TV and this should have been totally forbidden and banned immediately. But we laughed and smiled because a harmless display of archery on London Weekend commercial TV couldn't possibly offend. 

Now this is when things took a thrilling turn for the wonderful. A gentleman, affectionately referred to as Bernie the Bolt would fit an arrow into the crossbow target. On our TVs would suddenly appear a cartoon board on the far side of the studio with, yes, you've guessed it- apples planted at strategic points. Suddenly the contestant would jovially ask Bernie the Bolt to move this lovely looking mechanism. Then right at the end when the contestant felt the time was exactly right to release the bolt. Suddenly a whole fairground of apples would explode where the bolt had impacted.

Today though is National Apple Day then folks. So if you haven't already wolfed down an apple for lunch or just fantasised about apple pie and custard, then now would be as good a time as any to just eat an unassuming apple. But please don't forget to rub the apple on your trousers to give it a silky shine or maybe we should make that doctor's appointment and explain to the good doc that a couple of apples for tea would strengthen our bones and muscles, stiffening our sinews and making as feel just as happy and satisfied as we'd always been.  Oh and don't forget those fruit machines on the one armed bandits in seaside amusement arcades. They were an integral part of our childhood and even now as adults. Make that two apple pies, please.