The new season and West Ham in the Championship

 The new season and West Ham in the Championship.

It really didn't come as a huge shock because we knew it would happen. There are some moments in the life of the dedicated football fan who can almost pre-empt a major calamity and it just becomes a self fulfilling prophecy. For some of us it was almost inevitable. You'd experienced the same sense of deja vu and here it was again, rather like predictive text on your phone. But then there was an underwhelming realisation that this is now a recurring theme, an annoying and infuriating sequence of events that got progressively worse before reaching rock bottom. 

And so it was that West Ham were relegated from the Premier League, the rich, mega million pound snobbish, bourgeois middle class toffs, to the Championship. West Ham are now among the lower orders once again, the downstairs scullery, the kitchen below stairs, the oppressed and downtrodden ones, those Upstairs Downstairs cooks and cleaners, the boot polishers, the proletariat class who get on with their jobs and just muddle along with the business of the day unheralded. West Ham have now been consigned to the now forgotten margins of society.

But on Saturday they return to the less greener pastures of the old Second Division, a position they have now occupied on an increasingly frequent basis. The damage of course had been done, if truth be told, at the beginning of this year. Struggling desperately to keep their heads above water in the Premier League with only one home victory to their credit against Newcastle at the London Stadium, the graffiti was on the wall. Relegation loomed over the London Stadium like an ugly listed building, a dirty and dilapidated old Victorian warehouse that was simply rusting away and decaying. 

At the end of the 1978 season in the old First Division, West Ham now fell through the trapdoor and crashed ignominiously into the Second Division for the first time in 20 years. Under Ted Fenton, their modest but ambitious manager during the 1950s, West Ham now established a firm foothold in the top flight of English football. Fenton, whose East End sports shop had yielded such substantial profits, guided West Ham throughout the 1950s but simply couldn't stop the eventual rot. West Ham would stumble, stagger and wobble precariously in the lower half of the First Division throughout the 1960s and much of the 70s and at times were the laughing stock of everybody.  

And you were there in 1978 to witness those last moments when the metaphorical guillotine chopped off claret and blue heads and the Hammers tumbled into the Second Division. It was a tight and claustrophobic moment since you were joined by school friends and we were jammed together like the proverbial sardines, huddled together in a small, confined space on the old Upton Park South Bank. It is only now you recall the warm intimacy that the Boleyn Ground had engendered when football was football. 

That day the likes of the now late and much loved Kevin Keegan accompanied John Toshack who were scoring goals for fun, free, independent spirits, tore open the fragility of a West Ham defence including Billy Bonds, Frank Lampard, Paul Brush and Alvin Martin. Bonds, another sadly missed but captain, was stubborn to the end but for West Ham, the mighty Liverpool, multiple League champions had demonstrated far too much class and footballing improvisation for West Ham's liking. 

Recently relegation appeared on West Ham's radar on two more notable occasions. When Gianfranco Zola and Avram Grant sent West Ham spiralling out of control from the Premier League it felt as if you'd been down this road a thousand times before. For what must have seemed an eternity, West Ham were a troubled club, worthy and well intentioned but never likely to be a genuine threat to the prominent headline makers at the top like Liverpool, Leeds United, Manchester City, Manchester United, Spurs or Chelsea. 

So it is that after 14 years of ultimate prosperity and resounding success in the Premier League and Europe, West Ham have slumped back from whence they came. The UEFA Euro Conference Final victory against Italian side Fiorentina three years ago, now feels like something that belongs in the days of the Bayeux Tapestry and Edward the Confessor. We tend to forget the good old days in much of a hurry but victory is only transient, a temporary high that just felt too good to be true if you happened to be a West Ham supporter. 

On Saturday afternoon, it may feel like 1978 all over again for the steadfast loyalists who regularly congregated on the old Chicken Run. West Ham will face Portsmouth in the Carabao Cup this Saturday afternoon and some of us will remember the opening day of the 1978-79 season in the blinking August sunlight and summer heat. Notts County visited Upton Park and were promptly ripped apart in a devastating 5-2 victory. That was then and this is now though.

A vast majority of very presumptuous West Ham fans were probably of the opinion that their team would bounce back to the top flight with much haste and perhaps immediately. What they couldn't have realised is that back then circumstances were very different. It took West Ham three laborious, punishing seasons to find their feet again and  re- discover their bearings in the First Division. 

West Ham begin their Championship campaign to fellow relegation sufferers Burnley at Turfmoor on Saturday week and the Clarets, too must be feeling that the carpet has been pulled from them on too many occasions for anybody's comfort. Burnley, seemingly as unstable and dysfunctional as West Ham throughout last season, are treading on leaden feet yet again. Football shows no mercy or goodwill to those in crisis and adversity. West Ham and Burnley are back on the same boat again. 

West Ham's very likeable and charming Portuguese boss Nuno Espirito Santo, must have felt the gallant captain in charge of a besieged and beleaguered warship. Every so often the portholes took so much of a battering that those on deck were probably longing to find shore as soon as possible. This is not the way he might have hoped things would pan out although Nuno has done a salvation job and administered resuscitation to Wolves who were sliding back towards the old Fourth Division not that long ago. Wolves, in Nuno's charge, were promoted back to the Premier League when they could have been shaking hands with Rochdale.

But both Mateus Fernandes and Crysencio Summerville, their two principal playmakers now with Spurs and a wealthy Saudi club Al Hilal in the Saudi Pro League respectively, it all feels like a long way back to the top. In the old days Fernandes would have been vilified and felt extremely persecuted for joining Spurs. But now rivers run deep and much water has passed under the bridge. West Ham and Spurs though, continue to despise each other. Summerville could be accused of feathering his nest and hoping to live in some opulent Saudi palace surrounded by a vast treasure trove of money. He will certainly achieve this obvious ambition. 

Now back though in their first season in football's second tier, West Ham are now back to the drawing board, one scratched and blemished with time. If you were to listen to some of the experts and aficionados, West Ham will flap and flounder around in the Championship like some desperate swimmer out at sea who may have encountered rough seas but will of course survive. Of course West Ham may indeed find dry land sooner rather than later. But at the moment there are 46 matches in front of them and next May may now seem like a distant lighthouse. We wish our happy Hammers well.         

Goodbye summer

 Goodbye summer.

So it is that summer bids a gradual farewell and autumn can be heard giggling, chortling, chuckling and laughing in the distance. You can hear the kids on their school summer holiday, shrieking and screaming loudly and thrillingly. It feels as if the final anthems and traditional soundtracks of summer are spreading across our neighbourhoods. Slowly but surely the sun may well be setting over the empire but that could be some historic anomaly. It was good to be in your company and quite a privilege because we do, probably, take you for granted. 

Every day, during this particular summer, sweltering heat and delicious sunshine has soaked our souls, seeping through our senses, charming and caressing our faces, tanning our arms and shoulders in a way that Britain may have grown unaccustomed to. Besides, this year has been another scorcher. There can be no doubt about that. There were one or two windswept, dull, overcast periods and sprinklings of rain way back in late May and early June from what you can remember but that seems an age ago.

But high above the cathedrals and church spires, across the recreation grounds and prettiest of parks of both London and Middle England, the North and South, this has been a rewarding, spiritually uplifting summer because warm weather during the summer might have forgotten to turn up roughly 20 years ago. But hold on who cares? Surely the farmers of England have always been in desperate need of rain for their crops, the acres of dry farmland now nothing but bleached straw and non existent crops. The grass has completely lost its impetus and all is gloom and doom.  It's just a pale shade of brown and white, lifeless and sorrowful. But autumn must spring eternal. 

Comparisons with the breath taking heatwave of 50 years ago when the heat seemed to last indefinitely from early May right up until the August Bank Holiday, are now totally inappropriate. Back in 1976, we awoke to blue skies every day and took up regular residence at Valentines Park Lido, Ilford, East London. We had no idea what to expect within the next six or seven weeks because we just assumed that the good weather would only last for a couple of days or so.

But once the sun came out it beamed down on us relentlessly every day from morning to night. Britain had boldly adopted some of the Mediterranean summer heat for the entire season. There was no need what so ever to worry about booking a touristy packaged holiday to the Spanish Costa Del Sol or the Blanca and Brava option. Majorca and Benfica had arrived on our doorstep and all that was missing was the obligatory sombrero, a flamenco dancer in a Brighton or Blackpool nightclub nor indeed a paella on the family menu every night. 

Roll forward to 2026 and the birch, fir, larch and beechwood trees are thriving as they always have while the rose beds, geraniums, begonias, crysanthemums  and gardenias are just flourishing. In the vast and beautiful parks and gardens, parents are taking their young children for lengthy walks in their pushchairs and prams and everything looks right and proper. Summertime is humming its familiar sea shanties and folk songs from yesteryear and Mother Nature has discovered its most melodious voice.

This is the season for the summertime carnivals, those music festivals that can be heard in every town, city, hamlet and village across the land. The kids play their improvised games of cricket with their school mates until the fading light of an August evening. They are the future of today's society, tirelessly energetic, chasing after each other, bawling and shouting good naturedly, pretending to be adults and then settling for teenage adolescence. 

Meanwhile, here in Leeds, the good folk of Yorkshire are celebrating their 400th anniversary and the rest of the county is simply beside itself with happy vibes, music, dance, art, theatre, fancy dress no doubt, face paintings for the kids, sweets and chocolates by the factory load, biscuits and cakes in huge abundance and the familiar sight of sponge throwing at summer fetes.

And then summer greets the seaside resorts of Britain and the rest of the world, with an air of cheerful conviviality. Suddenly, Brighton, Clacton, Bournemouth, Southend, Westcliff, Margate, Bournemouth, Scarborough, Great Yarmouth, Blackpool, Skegness become full time amusement arcades, pleasure gardens and fun filled fairground leisure parks. Once again the whole of Britain abandons itself to stomach churning but joyous roller coasters and permanent music from yesteryear's pop music charts.

Whatever your choice of British seaside resorts, a fish and chip lunch becomes compulsory and the ice cream parlour is heavily populated with young children demanding a 99 or some exotic flavour. This summer, bare chested men with tattoos printed garishly across their stomachs think nothing of flaunting their tribal designs. The women will be wearing the skimpiest of swimwear, bathing costumes that are both fashionable and feminine. And then if you're lucky, you might bump into a motorbike convention. 

The age of the Mods and Rockers now belongs very firmly at the height of the heady 1960s when both sets of bikers roared into Margate and Brighton and let off metaphorical steam. But summer is now rapidly approaching its end and even the happiest seaside resorts will shortly be closing its hotels and Bed and Breakfast accommodation just for the winter and we'll all let out a sigh of natural disappointment. 

Still never mind all of that candy floss and toffee apple frivolity will make its inevitable comeback at the beginning of next June. The gently foaming seas by the beach will be alive with kids building their timeless sandcastles while mum and dad will be setting up camp next to the esplanade front preferably next to the sweet shop. Summer will of course be wearing its simple but flamboyant clothes, Union Jack hats on their head, purple or green hair if the mood takes them and the Pearly Kings and Queens to make the day complete.

Summer is sinking into the horizon rather like a sweet bowl of red cherries. Then all eyes turn to the promenade or prom. Here, the celebrity TV acts normally hold court with their perennial end of pier entertainment while a machine tells you to hit a punch ball firmly with a plastic hammer. This in turn tests your strength and you walk away with no prizes but your vanity well and truly boosted. There's the claw machine which rewards you with a cuddly teddy bear should you be so fortunate to grab hold of the main prize.

And while you happen to be in the amusement arcade, there's the unmistakable two or penny machines where hundreds of small coins inch their way slowly forward, teasing you into the bargain. Patience may be a virtue here because it's hard to tell how many you're likely to get. The kids are playing on their electronic games of rifle gun fire, flickering, flashing screens with car steering wheels and hundreds of tickets flooding out of the two pence machines.

For this is England and summer has thoroughly enjoyed your company. Once again the hotels are slowly emptying and at the end of this month it'll be the August Bank Holiday. The Notting Hill Carnival is normally the last big summer event. And then all is quietness, peace and contentment, tranquillity, somnolent sunsets, dreamy looking fishing harbours with silhouettes of fishermen and women dangling their rods before depositing their cod, hammock and trout dinners onto stunning floral plates for the evening meal. Goodbye Summer. You can come back next year. We'll be delighted to see you again.      

So here we are in Yorkshire

So here we are in Yorkshire

My lovely wife Bev and I have now experienced that traditional Yorkshire hospitality Yorkshire folk are renowned for. After much hard graft, industrious lifting and heaving of boxes, sweat stained commitment to the cause and the final arrival in Moortown, a beautiful rural haven not a million miles away from Leeds, we have now settled down, the transition from South to North complete and everything is wine and roses. 

Of course it was always likely to be an emotional upheaval because we've both left behind the memories and images that were never likely to fade into obscurity. We were proud Londoners and the capital city  will always  have a magical aura but, in the end, London looked tired, exhausted and maybe a pale shadow of its former selves, an exaggerated caricature of the place that used to be but had now deteriorated beyond anybody's belief. But we'll never forget you because you were always there for us. 

 London had looked more crowded and congested than ever before, the traffic beyond horrendous and the old West End of London, although still vibrant, had now become a gridlocked battleground full of feuding cars, trains, vans and lorries. We'd had more than enough of fourth floor flats and lifts that broke down with alarming consistency. So farewell Manor House. We did love our balcony with its pretty collection of flowers and plants, strawberries and tomatoes. There was a Travel Lodge hotel across the road from us and a whole multitude of bed and breakfast hotels.

Of course there was Finsbury Park across the road from us with its long and winding pathways, active tennis and basketball courts with lush green trees that formed a picturesque canopy across your vision. There were the yearly music festivals at Finsbury Park, while five and ten minutes away from our former Manor House home there was the breath taking Clissold Park with a vast and imposing church overlooking acres of parkland. But that's as far as we could go.

We needed a dramatic change of scenery because we both felt stale, ever so slightly disillusioned and world weary, lost and bewildered, crying out for a an environment that was altogether much healthier. This is not to suggest that there had been an outbreak of scurvy, pestilence or yellow jaundice in the whole of London. But things were just not the same and it was with a heavy heart, that we have now decided to move up north to Leeds.

Of course we'll miss our wonderfully loving and supportive families because they really do mean the world to us. Our friends, it goes without saying, are more than welcome to pay us a fleeting visit even though the journey from Leeds to London does sound quite intimidating. But we love our families and friends. However, we just felt the time was right and, besides, our gorgeous children are now living within a far more respectable distance from us. And we have stunning grandchildren so this was a no brainer.

But as you all know by now, moving of course is essentially stressful, sometimes almost traumatic and not really the most pleasant of experiences. There are friends who think you've emigrated to some exotic island such as the Maldives or, possibly, Australia. Some of  our friends may not care at all but very close and good friends will miss you deeply and have nothing but your best wishes for a happy, healthy move.  A change though is as good as a rest, as they say and maybe they're privately delighted for us, wishing us well and a future filled with nothing but good health and happiness. 

In hindsight, you begin to look at your family ancestral patterns and discover that this nomadic existence had been quite common and we've been upping sticks for ages. During the Second World War, my lovely and late mum Sybil had been dragged from pillar to post. Fleeing persecution and horrific death during the Holocaust they were initially trapped in Warsaw surrounded by bloodthirsty and murderous Nazi stormtroopers who despised the Jews. Then the animosity became personal and hatred pounded through their cold veins. 

So, running through the forests of Western and Eastern Europe, my mum, who was just a small child, clung desperately onto her mum and dad's hands, terrified and then traumatised by the sheer volume and numbers of the six million Jews who had been so ruthlessly slaughtered in the gas chambers. And so they must have moved through Poland and, quite possibly Russia, always on the run, escaping to any country who would give them the most heavenly sanctuary. 

By the end of their remarkable voyage across Europe on the most uncomfortable and ramshackle train, my mum, grandpa and grandma stepped onto a Scottish railway station just after the War. From the Grampian highlands, timeless lochs and the noble tenements of Glasgow, my mum, grandpa and grandma discovered  a welcome on the hillsides even if it wasn't Wales. So they kept travelling and travelling, huddled together, swathed in blankets and desperate for a warm bed, as much food and drink as might have been available at the time and hope springing eternal in their hearts. 

Then, presumably, they must have changed trains to the still war torn London, a capital city broken and ruined by evil monsters with huge guns, rifles and lethal bombs in their hands. The East End of London could now be seen in all its heart breaking ugliness, a once thriving capital blinking and winking in the radiant lights of the famous Piccadilly Circus now tragically reduced to painful sighs, cries, sobbing and wailing despair.

But this represented freedom, another opportunity to rebuild, re-establish their right to live life free from hardship, discomfort, starvation and the ever present feeling of anguish, seemingly indefinite suffering. No longer would they be subjected to a constant bombardment of deadly explosives,  bullets rattling boisterously and apocalyptically across monumental continents, seas and oceans. But it all ended happily ever after with my mum settling at first in a well furnished flat in Whitechapel, in the heart of London's East End before moving to the salubrious East London suburb of Ilford. 

My grandpa and grandma found the safest and warmest of homes in Plashett Grove near Upton Park in East London before migrating to Gants Hill in Essex. And this is where their grandson and my mum's first offspring has now moved once again in much the same way. Maybe the human race has always been restless, leading a peripatetic lifestyle, constantly searching for a home that feels home. But Bev and I have now found ourselves in a part of the country that none of us could have foreseen but are now embracing Leeds like a long lost member of our family.

We have now been living in Moortown for almost a month and the verdict is an overwhelmingly positive one. The neighbours are chatting, laughing and joking as if we'd been here for a lifetime. They of course are fascinated by this Southern invasion. We now have our bearings knowing Moortown like the back of our hands, where the local kosher bakery is, our new Sinai reform synagogue( shul) and the identity of at least one of Yorkshire's finest seaside resorts in Bridlington.

There are yet to be conquered territories but with the Yorkshire Dales and Moors not that far away, it could be said the world is our oyster. Thankyou Yorkshire. We love your delicious Yorkshire tea, your celebrated pudding on a Sunday roast plate and of course the wonderful people of Yorkshire.    

1966 and all that.

 1966 World Cup and all that. 

So today marks the 60th anniversary of that fabulous, star spangled, wondrously fruitful afternoon when, for England at least, the world was our oyster and we were the centre of the universe. We didn't think it would ever happen to us because we'd convinced ourselves that it was just impossible, implausible, some miraculous event that would be a figment of our imagination for ever more. This was completely beyond our capabilities, our aptitude for doing the simple things without finding so many complications. 

But today in 1966, we got it over the line, stretching every bone, muscle and sinew, striving desperately to get the job done and then discovering that it was just a piece of cake. So what were we worried about? All that fuss and commotion for nothing. England had won the World Cup and nothing else seemed to matter. We'd crossed the finishing line, won triumphantly and monumentally. The critics had dismissed us almost patronisingly at times because they must have thought it was just some silly pipedream , a joke from the thousands of working men's clubs scattered across the country. 

And yet on July 30th 1966, when football used to be played exclusively on a Saturday at three o'clock in the afternoon, England marched out of the old Wembley tunnel to a thunderous crescendo of noise, colour and appropriate patriotism. Union Jacks and St George's flags were waving from side to side like mum's washing line at home. It was England's day of days, a momentous, mind blowing day that shook the world to its foundations because even the rest of the world couldn't believe it. But we had and we knew it. 

Sadly, that day has now been frozen in isolation by time because realistically, most of us have given up all hope of England ever repeating this astonishing feat yet again. The truth is that 1966 is now a single sepia tinted print or some historic engraving that may look appealing to the eye but we'll never see its like again. Or maybe we will and we're just totally disillusioned with the England football team and have now written them off as some flight of fantasy which, for a while, seemed vaguely entertaining but could never be all over again.

So today is a day of grievous commiseration and solemn introspection because the realisation has suddenly dawned on us. Here you find yourself getting older and perhaps even more philosophical. We are now mourning the loss of those empty years, the desolation and devastation, the sadness and sense of solitude because 10 of those players who graced those red shirts have now passed on and only the legendary Sir Geoff Hurst remains the only player still able to reminisce on how good it felt to be a World Cup winner. 

England may have won the World Cup but still the riddle confounds us, a mystery wrapped in an enigma. Why on earth have England never won the World Cup again since 1966. Anthropologists and sociologists have been tearing their hair out in sheer exasperation. Has this got anything to do with global warming, the current ecological state of the world or, put simply, perhaps the quality of the opposition proved too overwhelming? In the cold light of day, England, if truth be told, are just not good enough. 

The statistical evidence has been there for all to see. However you dress this one up, England are still technically short if only not quite to the same extent than might have been the case over 50 years. Then Wimbledon football club were devising their own unique brand of grotesque, long ball football that took the game right back to the age of dinosaurs. In a sense though, England have now redeemed themselves because Gareth Southgate came to England's rescue and the game is now progressive and forward thinking rather than stuck in a time warp when trams and trolley buses lived on our streets and roads.

Way back the game was a sight for sore eyes, an unbearably agonising watch that gave most fans of the old First Division the stiffest of necks. It might have been assumed that air traffic control towers might have been on stand by if the ball had gone any higher than it did. Football, according to that wise philosopher Brian Clough, was of course meant to be played on grass but at the time this sounded just an alien concept, totally anathema to those who preached the virtues of the simple, short passing game. 

But since the days of Don Revie, who seemed to last roughly five minutes as England manager, the British game has undergone the most radical transformation. Ron Greenwood, the former West Ham manager, was always an advocate of the more technical approach, the kind of controlled, patient and collective team ethic that had to start from the back and slowly work its way towards the opposition penalty area. 

By the time Sir Bobby Robson arrived as manger of England from Ipswich Town, the game, although not quite the finished article, was much more pleasurable to the eye. Under Robson players like Glen Hoddle, John Barnes, Peter Reid, Gary Lineker and Trevor Steven became far more comfortable with a football at their feet, polished manipulators of a football whose ball distribution owed much more to instinct and intuition.

England now enjoyed their best World Cup in Italia 1990, a side who not only reached the semi finals that year but were much more advanced in their thinking towards the Beautiful Game. Paul Gascoigne warmed our hearts with some of the most captivating displays we'd ever seen in an England shirt. Forget the high jinks, daftness and frivolity of those Gazza driven days because Gascoigne knew exactly which buttons to press. With David Platt keeping him company in midfield, England almost had it all. They had drive, direction, purpose and poise but then the Germans put a stop to all of those nonsensical visions of another World Cup victory for dear old England. And that was that. 

Graham Taylor was almost a victim of circumstances in as much that he, rather like the Wimbledon of the 1980s had no interest in the finer things in life. At Watford, he moulded an organised and methodical team who did enough to win matches but without the wow factor or any kind of sophistication. The enduring image of Taylor is tragically enshrined in a now infamous Channel Four documentary.

Facing a formidable Netherlands side in a 1994 World Cup group qualifier, Taylor, now England boss could only look on helplessly, a tormented soul who'd evidently made a complete mess of team selection and whose tactics were about as flawed as it was possible to be. Ronald Koeman's winning goal from a free kick just outside England's penalty area may well have haunted him. By the end of the game, Taylor was pacing his dug out like the angriest of all men, bleeding the ear of the linesman  with a constant bombardment of complaints and accusations before completely losing the plot.

Then there was Glen Hoddle, Spurs, one of Spurs classiest midfield players, took over as England manager. Now had Hoddle not admitted to spiritual help, then we might have forgiven him. But Hoddle never really found the right chemistry and balance that may have been the missing link. In no time at all, more outrageous statements were attributed to the former Spurs schemer and Hoddle eventually ended up strutting his funky stuff alongside fellow Spurs team Chris Waddle with a vinyl pop record.

At the beginning of the 21st century once Fabio Cappello of Italy and Sven Goran Eriksson had brought their homespun methods to the English game, the game in England, was still in its revolving door period. The football was admirable but neither Capello or Eriksson could pull any rabbits out of the hat. Neither were sorcerers, magicians or revolutionaries although it might have looked at times as if they were. 

The now late and much loved Kevin Keegan simply walked out of the England job because Keegan was too self conscious and felt entirely responsible for any of England's more glaring weaknesses. Perhaps he could have been slightly less self critical about his prowess for the job but sadly the last game at Wembley against Germany was the final straw for the former Liverpool and SV Hamburger striker.

And now we move right up to date with Roy Hodgson and Gareth Southgate. Hodgson was a vastly experienced club and international manager who knew all the wrinkles of the game. Hodgson had sampled Finnish and Swedish football over 40 years ago so was fully acquainted with the intricacies and semantics of football at every level. Club management beckoned for Hodgson with both Liverpool followed by Fulham and finally Crystal Palace. Hodgson was a superb and gloriously enthusiastic manager but most of us could empathise with Hodgson when England kept on running out of ideas.

So it is that Gareth Southgate was appointed as England manager. Finally England had discovered a psychologist among their ranks. Southgate had studied the minds of every single member of his squad of players and had, at long last, rumbled everything he needed to know about the state of English football. Southgate had cleared out all the sawdust and wood shavings in England's defeatist camp. England were free and liberated, mentally attuned to the job they were required to carry out. 

Now England may have lost out in two consecutive Euros Final against Spain and Italy while also going narrowly close in a World Cup semi final against Croatia in Russia 2018 and then the quarter final exit at the hands of a far too skilful French team. And, then Southgate finally announced that he'd gone as far as was humanely possible without being driven out of the England job. 

Today marks the most unwanted anniversary of them all. A week is, notoriously, a long time in the fiercely competitive world of politics. For the England team though 60 years is the most yawning and most humiliating of time lapses although at least there aren't any of those tedious General Elections to decide the suitability for any manager. Can you imagine those endless rows of ballot boxes in lively town halls across the nation? No, nor can we.

When England last won the FA Cup, this humble scribe may well have been far more concerned with the destiny of the family football. In a delightful garden in Ilford, East London, this child of nature was far more enchanted with his lovely mum's beautifully preserved bed of roses rather than the general direction of the ball you were playing with. Three year olds had never had it so good. And so it is today that one Sir Geoff Hurst will pour himself a reflective brandy, quite possibly light up a cigar and imagine that 1966 might be replayed over and over again. Regrettably, it is almost impossible to believe.

Since England last won the World Cup, Neil Armstrong has landed on the Moon and one step had been negotiated for mankind,  the Vietnam war had claimed far too many lives and the IRA have threatened both the security and stability of  world peace in Northern Ireland. It may be a long time until we find a Sir Alf Ramsey lookalike, a man of single minded strategies who knew that England would win the World Cup three years before its date. We must hope that somebody is waiting in the wings because, at the moment, it really does look a forlorn hope. Come on England, you can do it one day.        

National Milk Chocolate Day.

 National Milk Chocolate Day. 

You may find this hard to believe but today is National Milk Chocolate Day. So you can open your ears again because it's the truth and, besides, there is no reason why it shouldn't be. Besides, at some point during the year we all need several bars of chocolate and, for a vast majority of us, it's the one indulgence and guilty pleasure we've always afforded ourselves when the craving for chocolate just becomes too much. 

Ever since our childhood, we grew up convinced that there was no other sweet feast that would satisfy our voracious appetites. It was always there staring out temptingly in your local sweet shop-cum newsagent, tantalising your senses, heightening your awareness, intensifying your pleasure since every bite of chocolate was like a trip to paradise, an exotic island surrounded by mangrove trees and banana plantations. It was our first appointment with childish naughtiness, our happiest childish moments. 

And yet it all started so innocently as these things often do. As soon as we walked out of the school gates, clinging onto mum's hand tightly, we could hardly contain our excitement. We knew what was coming and couldn't disguise our feelings. Mum privately knew what we were thinking and therefore tried desperately hard to warn us as kids that chocolate was bad for you, rotting our teeth and then expanding our waistline.

In later life, adolescence arrived and suddenly we were completely besotted with chocolate, obsessed with chocolate, drinking it, eating it, dreaming about it, waiting for that glorious moment when the bell went at school and it was time to head for the sweet shop immediately. It's difficult to know how or why chocolate became a vital necessity in our lives. It simply was. Maybe this had been a generational thing. Chocolate was somehow hereditary, coursing through our blood cells, our corpuscles, simply passed down through our genetic pool. 

But school days have now become tucked away discreetly away in our fond memories, the kind of enduring imagery you can never forget. Throughout the decades and centuries, that first taste of cocoa beans and masses of sugar have been the ultimate stimulant, now an addiction. It keeps us going on mundane days in the office when there's nothing else to do but check our Facebook or X page. It's that half open silver foil bar that just lies there lazily on your desk performing no function but still there. 

During the 1960s, your late and wonderful mum inadvertently introduced you to chocolate and you were hooked for life. We had yet to add a washing machine to our domestic furniture but then my mum must have realised that all of that hard labour, cleaning clothes manually, had become too demanding and stressful. So she invested in a washing machine and suddenly the sun came bursting out of the sky. 

But before that momentous day, we had to be wholly dependent on our local laundry. Most conveniently, the laundry was situated around the corner from where you grew up. And so it was that every Sunday evening we would venture out, enormous shopping bags in our hands. Inside the bags was a vast accumulation of shirts, ties, trousers, skirts, school ties, pullovers, underwear and a whole host of  clothing that seemed in dire need of a soak and a thorough scrub. 

So as both mum and son- a mere five or six years old, sat patiently in the Ilford Laundry, we began to wonder if there was some rather less strenuous way of speeding up the operation. But it was while we were thinking about some magical appliance that would wash the family clothing in double quick time that we noticed something. In a small corner of the laundry was a drinks machine. Oh what a joyful discovery. 

You wandered across towards this remarkable looking machine and saw a button, that once pressed down, would deliver a hot chocolate drink. There was of course a pleasing variety of other hot drinks such as tea, coffee and maybe flavours you may have forgotten. Without fail, your eyes would  delightedly fall upon hot chocolate. The infatuation for chocolate would become lifelong. If memory serves correctly this hot chocolate was 6 old pence or five shillings in years to come. 

But rest assured, this was the iconic day when all of that Sunday relaxation and leisure had to stop. You'd eaten your mum and dad's lunch, perhaps spending languorous afternoons in the family garden kicking a ball about playfully and puncturing the said ball in mum and dad's beloved thorns and rosebeds. But at the back of your mind you were still looking forward with huge anticipation to that first cup of chocolate in Ilford Laundry. 

Meanwhile back at the school gates the kids flooded out of the gates, pleading with mum to make haste and get to the sweet shop as soon as possible. Mum of course insisted on chatting and nattering to other parents, perhaps exchanging pleasantries about the new BBC Two channel or how the Vietnam War just seemed to be dragging on and on interminably. Perhaps they were discussing the ridiculously expensive price for a loaf of bread or how dear a  pint of milk had become, complaining woefully about rampant inflation or how amusing and lovely their neighbours were. 

But then as soon as you stepped into this heavenly sweet emporium, you were stunned by the sight of hundreds of jars of sweets on groaning shelves. There were lemon sherbets, strawberry sherbets, jars of cholesterol, liquorice allsorts, pineapple cubes and things designed to leave your dentist speechless and dumbfounded. And yet what did we know, less care about? We were kids and we loved sweets. We just wanted to enjoy the sweet joys of life regardless of the detrimental consequences. 

Suddenly you noticed the sweets on the counter themselves. There was Fry's Turkish Delight, your personal favourite Bourneville, Galaxy, those astonishingly lovely orange and mint flavoured segments of chocolate that you bit into and thought you'd stumbled upon a pot of gold. There was Marathon, now Snickers, Opal Fruits, Pastilles, Love Hearts, Fruit Gums,  Fruit and Nut chocolate bars that were almost begging to be sold.

And then you saw those enduring institutions. On the second row of chocolate bars, there was the inimitable bar of Mars chocolate and then almost next to it, Mars, a Milky Way or Milky Bar. Mars became symbolic of our childhood years but beyond your mum's price range. A Mars a day, according to the extensive advertisement campaign, helped you work, rest and play. Inside a Mars bar there was that delicious combination of fudge, toffee, a thousand bags of sugar and what looked like tiny tablets of chocolate which looked like the cement you'd see in walls. But that was eight old pence. Goodness me, that was a bit steep and would the government of the day please bring down the price of chocolate bars?

Then adolescence kicked in and those long, transitional years of teenage life, giddy secondary school days and, of course hot chocolate featured almost constantly in our young lives. As we entered  an impressive looking building we were given a revealing insight into academic life. On the right were the showers, toilet and a place where PE related equipment would be found. Just outside our grand assembly hall was the drinks machine. Oh now we were talking. The hot chocolate- cum drink machine would become your second home, almost a spiritual home. 

Now there was a sight that would become familiar for most of your formative years. On most Sundays, mum and dad would take their young nipper down to Gants Hill Tube station in Essex. Our destination would be Shepherds Bush on the Central Line. My grandma Dora used to live in a flat in Shepherds Bush and that memorable train journey is now imprinted in my mind. But there was something else that caught my attention that now belongs in the archive of your memory. It was distinctive and made you salivate at the mouth. It would become one of your favourite sights.

So on the wall of Gants Hill Tube station there was a milk chocolate bar machine which not only sold the much loved Dairy Milk chocolate bar but Fruit and Nut chocolate, bars of Nestle chocolate bars and all for couple of sixpence or so. You would slide your money into the slot and then, as soon as the coins had gone in, you pulled open the draw and out would come the chocolate. Sadly, that chocolate bar machine, so dearly remembered for nostalgic reasons, is now obsolete and just condemned to history. But at the time it was somehow a boon to those who needed a sugar rush before boarding the train. 

Nowadays both Dairy Milk chocolate and a stunning array of other bars such as Twix, Yorkie, Whisper  After Eight, which once decorated my lovely grandma and grandpa's hostess trolley, are still available and simply irresistible. Sadly, the nutritionists and dieticians keep warning us about  the dangers of eating excessive amounts of chocolate and given its sugar content, they may be right. But we'll never be resist that first hot chocolate of the day and the way it makes us feel. Who can ever forget the honeycombed Crunchie bar? It almost felt too good to be true. 

The last word should go to my mum, a discerning expert on the subject of chocolate. It was chocolate that had an element of the sophisticate about it. Ferrero Rocher was once widely the subject of a Christmas advert campaign that would epitomise both class and style. It was eaten by the great ambassadors of the world and my mum if memory serves me correctly. Also top of her chocolate list was a Walnut Whip, a chocolate that had a small swirl on top of it and a generous helping of cream for good measure. 

So whatever you do today enjoy your Milk Chocolate Day because you deserve it. You've been working and studying, cleaning and washing to your hearts content. You deserve that special reward at the end of the day. You've been on your feet all day, diligently carrying out all of those necessary domestic duties and it's time to put up your feet, switch on the TV or radio and just snap off  some chocolate. And if it's your wedding anniversary or birthday, charge into your local confectioners and just grab hold of as many boxes of Dairy Milk,  Quality Street and Celebrations as you can possibly carry. And if you're reading this in the United States of America, don't forget Hershey's. Enjoy folks. 

 

Andy Burnham- the new Prime Minister

 Andy Burnham- the Prime Minister

So Andy Burnham became the latest Prime Minister and, not for the first time, the critics are sharpening their knives and the public are not entirely sold on the idea. In fact this record is so old now that we know exactly what tracks to listen to on both sides of the album. It was released last year and the same collection of songs is still doing the circuit. Maybe we should ignore all this white noise, this background confusion, the constant references to yet another sequence of General Elections. 

This could really become quite tiresome and repetitive, so much so that you wonder why we watch this farcical freak show, this hilarious circus whereby the high wire act and the clown keep bumping into each other. Maybe they should dispense with the tricycle and just blow raspberries at each other. In fact why don't we just cut to the chase and abolish the current political system once and for all. It clearly isn't working and, besides, those wretched politicians are just a waste of  time. 

And yet Andy Burnham became the 59th Prime Minister of the United Kingdom and some of us felt a deep sense of smug satisfaction and vindication. Months ago you predicted that Burnham had all the relevant credentials for the job, a man of hard, gritty common sense, plucky pragmatism, a neat line in eloquence and an abiding love for his hometown of Manchester. There is something of the working class trencherman about Burnham, a readiness to roll up his sleeves and get cracking on the running of the country. 

So it was that the outgoing Sir Keir Starmer stood bravely outside 10 Downing Street and wondered whether the job had been worth all of the trouble. He duly announced his resignation from the post of Prime Minister and by Monday it was all painfully official. What possesses a rational, coherent, exceptionally intelligent man to undertake one of the most arduous tasks anybody could wish to undertake? Surely the poisoned chalice would simply take its toll and two years later, you're gone.

Starmer was, admittedly, cheered to the rafters and made to feel that he was still loved and wanted by his devoted fans, his loyal zealots and disciples, the men and women who still believe in him implicitly. But there was a palpable sense of relief and an acceptance of the inevitable. Starmer had got it completely wrong, his weaknesses, foibles and shortcomings plain to see. He'd introduced a winter fuel allowance which he admitted was badly conceived and executed and then somehow lost his way. 

So the human rights barrister, a man of enormous intellect and academic achievement, was told to walk out of 10, Downing Street and never darken these corridors ever again. Starmer's wife stood there smiling and supportive as you would have expected her too. But this was no time for regrets because they might have been construed as counter productive. Of course Starmer's term of office had only lasted two years which, in theory, was longer than Liz Truss and Rishi Sunak but it just felt hollow, smacking of desperation, short termism at its briefest and sounding for all the world like the part time job of a temporary legal secretary who could only be guaranteed a six month probationary period. 

The vultures that had been hovering over the House of Commons in Westminster and now they'd wolfed down the carcass with ruthless relish. Andy Burnham was waiting in the wings, poised to strike like a lethal cobra, spitting vitriol but as diplomatic as it was possible to be. Burnham had always been privately aspirational, a careerist politician driven by fierce ambition and world domination. He was lusting after the Prime Minister's job and although he'd given little indication, it was still a nagging yearning.

As we all know by now Burnham used to be the Mayor of Manchester and is a fervent supporter of Everton football club. He would certainly have heard of the Messiah who was Howard Kendall and that League Championship trophy during the 1980s. He might have been aware of Kendall's magnificent midfield alliance with Colin Harvey and Alan Ball and quite certainly Kevin Sheedy, Paul Bracewell, Peter Reid and then Trevor Steven delivering inch perfect crosses for Graham Sharp and Andy Gray.

But, essentially, Burnham will always point to the commendable work he did for the grand city of Manchester and how he transformed this great industrial city into one of the most thriving centres of commercial excellence. Burnham was the one who sided with Manchester blowing the trumpet for the City, extolling its virtues before busting a gut to make it work and prosper. 

And now he wants to do the same for the rest of Great Britain because he cares for his country, his sceptred isle, the country that gave him the chance to lead the country and maintain its life force. But Burnham wants nothing more than to be trusted and believed in because for the last two years the Labour party in government may have been found lacking in those vital qualities. Starmer probably did his best but  he didn't quite step up to the mark, burdened by some mysterious force that none of us could put our finger on. 

So much so that the pressure became too overwhelming and he fell on that cliched sword. Behind him of course was one Wes Streeting who looked as if he was on  the Prime Minister but then found some sinister looking piece of military equipment and betrayed him just like that. It wasn't a machete that stabbed Starmer in the back because that would have been far too barbaric but, suffice it to say, Streeting made his objections abundantly clear. On one early summer morning, Streeting stormed out of 10 Downing Street and looked as though he'd just received an electric shock. 

Then last Monday morning the latest Punch and Judy show made yet another appearance on the political battleground that is Westminster. Some of us now regard the latest activities in the House of Commons as some freak show reminiscent of a local park fairground. This time though there are no flying tea cups, roller coasters nor is there the traditional goldfish which you invariably win if you can hit the coconut shy. This is politics in the 21st century and don't we know about it?

The difference this time is that Britain has a Prime Minister from up North, the Northern heartlands where the people are straight talking, wittty, forthright, no holds barred, never knowingly mincing their words. The people of Manchester are no nonsense, totally without affectation nor airs or graces. They come from a land where the miners from a long time ago would walk into dirty coal fields, their faces blackened with soot, dirt and grime, before embarking on a hard day's graft. Burnham knows that. 

Manchester used to be the embodiment of the Industrial Revolution when men were men and life was structured, rigid, programmed to last for ever. The men would clock on at their respective factories, spend every day and all day, lifting and heaving, screwing on the nuts and bolts of machinery, masking up at boiling hot furnaces and then becoming hot metal sheet workers determined to earn a decent day's pay to put food and water on the table for their families.

But, and as the cynics would point out, that was then and now is the present day. The Manchester Ship Canal still has an important role to play in the role of society but maybe not quite to the same extent. Now Manchester has its own vast media centre in Salford, a home now occupied by the august BBC while, around the city, huge IT offices, sumptuous warehouses, new and luxurious housing and a whole host of vibrant restaurants, cafes and high tech companies have throw open their welcoming doors. 

A while back my wonderful son took me to the National Football Museum in Manchester and of course it was stunning because you could personally relate to it. Lowry's match stalk men, kids and dogs are perhaps just a historical footnote but today's Manchester's paintings are equally as attractive. Andy Burnham has been entrusted with the kind of unenviable responsibility of putting the whole of the country back on the map of the world. But envy is a bad thing so perhaps we should just wish him all the luck in the world. He may need it. 

At the beginning of the week Burnham emerged into the London sunlight and parked himself outside 10 Downing Street. There were no wooden lecterns, no prompts and nothing to suggest that he was reading from the autocue. This was a natural, comfortable and easy going man who looked at his people with a charming air of  reassurance about him, nothing forced or contrived, just straight down the camera and engaging with a public he hopes he won't disappoint. But haven't we heard this song a million times? 

In 1964, the last Northern Prime Minister Harold Wilson, also made those now customary promises in his Labour party manifesto. He smoked his pipe for the next seven years and there was a reliability about Wilson that some must have found very soothing and comforting. Wilson was never one for impassioned rants on electoral orange crates, nor did he throw his arms about wildly just to emphasise the point he was making. 

Wilson was born and bred in Huddersfield, a Huddersfield fan but rarely mentioning the Terriers in any of his rousing speeches. But Wilson invented the Open University, he challenged the trade unions with verbal fist fights and then just got on with it. He once declared the White Heat of Technology to thousands of sceptical businessmen, women and economists who never believed that neither computers nor the Internet would ever have made a good idea at the time. 

Andy Burnham looks and sounds different. He may have gone to Oxford University but the positive proletariat in Burnham will use his job description to make sure that this time the wheels won't fall off the country and crises will be dismissed as a swear word. Burnham uses the language of the people not the flowery platitudes of his illustrious predecessors. He looks for all the world as if he may know what he's talking about which of course could be dangerous in the extreme. 

Realistically the jury may be out on Burnham's leadership for at least the next ten minutes. This may be seen as gross flippancy on your part but somehow you despair of those around Burnham who still think the Labour party are going to hell in a handcart. The electorate always speak from the heart and democracy knows where the country may be going. But this is the umpteenth Prime Minister in so many years and they just keep multiplying like rabbits. What to make of it all, though?

At some point in perhaps the immediate future, Burnham will shoot himself in the foot with some wiseacre remark or some some silly, facetious set of comments that will be taken completely out of context or blown out of proportion. Who's the next Prime Minister to make some ill advised statement about the British economy or some rash, tactless remark about  the bone idle, young unemployed? Surely not Burnham though

As soon as he walked through the front door of Downing Street, Burnham did vow to eliminate rough sleepers out in the street with nowhere to go nor live. Burnham has to get his head around the whole knotty issue of the homeless, the estranged, the forgotten ones, the unfortunate people who have yet to find somewhere they can call home permanently. Burnham knows all about the lucrative potential of oil and gas, rising energy prices, the cost of living predicament faced by over 70 million people. He also knows that the job of being Prime Minister is far from simple and that eventually he will get it in the neck.

Then there is the widening poverty gap, the traumatic hardships suffered by all of those sections of the public who just can't afford to pay extortionate bills or switch on their central heating during the winter. He may think of those isolated council estates where nothing happens apart from the number of disillusioned kids hanging about during the school summer holidays with nothing to occupy their days apart from maintaining contact with their friends on social media giants such as Facebook, X or Tik Tok. 

This is the point when Burnham should make his presence felt. On the day of his confirmation as Prime Minister, the former Mayor of Manchester seemingly got his fingers dirty. He was seen at a homeless centre at 7am chopping up vegetables and keeping his finger on the pulse of the nation. So there may be hope here. We watch objectively and impartially from the side lines hoping that it all works out for the best for Andy Burnham.

We will watch him board a plane to see USA president Donald Trump. Now of course this could either become one of those historic moments where it all clicks seamlessly into place for both Trump and Burnham. But as we know there is a disturbing underlying anxiety, a fear of the unknown. Most of us haven't a clue what suit, shirt and tie Trump may decide to put on for the day ahead let alone building relationships with Burnham. 

On Monday it was all about business as usual. Burnham was all delighted smiles, clapping his Labour party supporters with whole hearted approval and then thanking his mum with all the gratitude of a man who thanks the vicar on Sunday morning for an admirable service, hands closed together with a fleeting gesture of appreciation. It could be very much uphill and daunting from here onwards. But of course for somebody who made this prediction about Burnham's appointment at the top a while back, you'd rather let the lovely people of Britain  make up their mind.  

 

Kevin Keegan dies at 75

 Kevin Keegan dies at 75.

A couple of hours following the death of Kevin Keegan you were reminded of the fact that only 48 hours after the death of Sir Garfield Sobers, sport could only reflect on the mortality of another one of its most exemplary ambassadors. Over the weekend, Sir Garfield Sobers had made his own dignified exit from the world. And once again we mourn the loss of one of football's greatest and most fiercely committed of characters, a man so modest and gracious in both defeat and victory that it was hard to remember a time when Keegan was at fault for anything. 

Admittedly, Keegan did have his moments and they were memorable. In the 1974 Charity Shield between Leeds United and Liverpool, an admittedly fractious and bad tempered curtain raiser to the old First Division, Keegan, in a fit of pique and raging with injustice, got himself involved in a childish skirmish with the fiery and combustible Leeds United captain and talisman Billy Bremner. It was the most pathetic of punch ups particularly after it transpired that Johnny Giles was also losing his rag as well. 

But none could deny the magnitude of Keegan's contribution to both the game in Britain and his dynamic influence on the game both at club level and international level for England. Keegan was a fireball of energy, wit and commonsense, tireless and powerful, indefatigable and always heavily involved in all of the game's most contrasting nuances and pivotal turning points. And there was something about Keegan that had to be admired for all the right reasons because the former Scunthorpe, Liverpool, Southampton and Newcastle striker, always seemed to give his all, blood, sweat and tears ingrained in his DNA.

From the moment he achieved first team status at Scunthorpe, Keegan was destined for the big time. He was an all action, fiercely competitive, admirably conscientious busybody, darting into acres of space at Anfield for Liverpool, hunting and foraging for goals consistently and something of a demanding perfectionist. There was something of the whirling dervish about Keegan, an irresistible force of nature, scurrying and scampering all over the pitch rather like a first year kid at secondary school desperate to impress his PE teachers. Keegan was here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, always available for the ball. 

On a more personal level, you've nothing but fond recollections of childhood memories of the Doncaster born Keegan. It must have been an early primary school moment during, presumably, the summer holidays. Your late and wonderful mum used to have on subscription, the weekly listings magazine TV Times which was promptly picked up every Wednesday morning. Now, for whatever reason, there must have been some dormant artistic desire hitherto deeply hidden away. 

So setting up pad and paper on the dining room table, you strategically cherry picked a red pencil out of a pack of brightly coloured pencils. And then you embarked on your very first tentative attempt at modern art. Shortly and meticulously you would carefully scribble away, enthusiastically drawing an action photo of Kevin Keegan in his Liverpool pomp.  Every contour and feature from the flowing Keegan hair to the red Liverpool shirt to those equally as natty shorts would be keenly copied and, even in hindsight, it almost felt like an authentic reproduction of England's most hard working striker. 

During the 1970s once again, Keegan became the pin up poster boy for an excellent teenage football magazine called Shoot. Kevin Keegan, the chief football columnist for the magazine, would be prominently displayed in Shoot for quite some time. Then Keegan became the face of after shave lotion bottles accompanied by the unmistakable boxing maestro Henry Cooper. You simply splashed it all over.

But it was with Liverpool that Keegan would become the central figure of idolatry. Keegan scored on his debut for Liverpool against Nottingham Forest and there would follow phenomenal success with the Anfield club. There were successive and yet more old First Division championships before the first of many European conquests including the one against Borussia Monchengladbach on a joyous evening in 1977 when Liverpool lifted the old European Cup. 

The sight of Keegan bundling and brushing his way past Munchengladbach's brave and formidable Bertie Vogts is enshrined in football folklore. Keegan, in tandem with the inspirational Ian Callaghan, the balletic Steve Heighway on the wing and Terry Mcdermott scheming and beavering away in midfield, conspired to beat their German adversaries.

It was the night Tommy Smith, a man who just loved a good, old fashioned scrap, rose like the proverbial salmon to head home the opening goal for Liverpool from a Heighway corner while Mcdermott and Phil Neal from the penalty spot furnished a perfect night for Liverpool. But Keegan had made his statement and it was loud and clear. Keegan's international career for England would be his crowning glory. 

Keegan's footballing chemistry and almost harmonious relationship with West Ham midfield player Trevor Brooking would illuminate most of England's better and more prosperous displays. In the 1979 Home International against Scotland, Keegan and Brooking indulged in the most delightful one two inside the Scottish penalty area and Keegan swept home a picture postcard goal. Sadly, such moments were both sporadic and isolated at times but when it happened, you sighed with pleasure.

Then three years later, Keegan, once again, joining forces with Brooking, came on as too late substitutes in England's World Cup group match against Spain in the 1982 World Cup Finals. Brooking narrowly missed and Keegan was even closer to scoring with a header that only narrowly crept past the far post. But England, as has now become increasingly obvious in England's latest World Cup near miss in World Cup 2026, were simply not up to the task and just not good enough.

In 1979, Keegan, with the heaviest heart, left Liverpool for SV Hamburger in Germany. Now an afro haired Keegan enchanted the Germans who were spoilt by Keegan's naturally extrovert, gung ho personality. Keegan scored  a conveyor belt of goals that multiplied then proliferated with every game. Soon Keegan's name would be chanted in almost musical homage. But although Hamburger reached the 1980 European Cup Final, Keegan was stopped in his tracks, thwarted and deprived of another European Cup winners medal by Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest. 

But it was Keegan's Newcastle United years that enriched the Tyneside landscape with his hustle and bustle, surging pace and electrifying acceleration on the shoulder of his last defender that broke so many opponents hearts. Keegan, the player at Newcastle, was at his stunning best, scoring goals for fun as Newcastle were first promoted from the old Second Division to the First and then, much later, in a magnificently bejewelled managerial expedition that led to more trophies. 

And yet it was another tetchy, niggly and irascible outburst that blotted the Keegan copybook. During a remarkable season in the mid 1990s, Keegan's Newcastle suddenly collided with Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United in the most incredible Premier League title race. Seemingly racing away with the Premier League and 12 points ahead of Ferguson's United at one point, Newcastle had a rush of blood to the head. By the penultimate game of the season, that apparently insurmountable points margin was whittled away and now Ferguson was psychologically in Keegan's head. 

In the most astounding TV interview with Keegan, Newcastle were about to throw away that considerable points advantage. Wearing those now celebrated headphones, Keegan's face became twisted with the most contorted angry scowl. Once again, Keegan seemed to go off the deep end under the unlikeliest of provocation and was determined to play Ferguson at his own game. He promised that he would do everything in his powers to rub Sir Alex's nose in it.

Nothing would have pleased Keegan more if United had to go to their last game of the season against Middlesbrough, knowing that United had to win it to wrap up the Premier League title. United, though, did and Keegan was still erupting long after the game. The fall out to that melodramatic end to that season can still be felt all of these years later. But this was typical of the Keegan temperament, all Latin explosions when the mood took him.

When Keegan walked out on the England manager's job almost on impulse after the old Wembley's last ever match against Germany, it felt like the beginning of the end for Mighty Mouse. The Germans had already won and Keegan felt he could do no more to lift the profile of the national side. But the legacy had now been left in stone. Everybody loved Kevin Keegan even when he was falling off his bike at the BBC's Superstars TV show. Keegan was fearless, indestructible, hair dancing in perfect unison with his gold embossed feet. It had been the most magical of lives and of course we'll miss him.