Cricket season and cricketers

 Cricket season and cricketers

At this time of the year, cricket and cricketers are normally tasting the first sweet fragrances of the summer while the football season draws towards yet another eventful and enthralling conclusion. It would seem that Arsenal are in the driving seat at the top of the Premier League three points ahead of their now familiar and fierce contenders for the Premier League Manchester City. There are now four crucial and defining games which will determine the destiny of the Premier League winning trophy but this one could go to both the wire and the final day of the season transistor radio broadcast at both the Etihad and Emirates.

But whatever happens on that final day of the League season, the summertime sport of cricket will have already aired its lungs, pulled on its pads, adjusted helmets and then strode confidently towards the crease, arms swinging purposefully, eyes focussed intensely on every over to be bowled and a perfect combination of sixes and fours on their mind. Cricket and its cricketers have always been foremost on the minds of most Englishmen for a number of centuries and the seeds of the game laid down back then are still flourishing.

Cricket was always the game that legendary cricket writer, broadcaster and wine connoisseur John Arlott always went into lyrical raptures about. For Arlott, cricket was the purest art form, the most emotional of all poems, poetry quite literally in motion and a major part of any discussion on the village greens and recreation grounds of Britain. It is a game played with heart and soul, a passion and feeling that can never be truly replicated anywhere else in the world of sport. 

Cricket has a very specific identity, a geographical significance and nostalgic longing for decades now long since past when Hambledon in Hampshire became its birthplace and origin. Cricket loves to look back towards its golden ages when Sir Donald Bradman, Len Hutton, Denis Compton, Victor Trumper, Wally Hammond, Lindsay Hassett, Ted Dexter, Ian Botham, Sir Geoff Boycott and Fred Truman once stitched their monumental deeds onto the noble shield of cricket's hall of excellence. Cricket would have been lost without its bowlers, batsmen, its third men on the boundary, the players who breathed invigorating life into the game so many moons ago. 

And somehow we wish the game would last forever because it is, quintessentially, the game the conscientious farmers and blacksmiths would just play because it was a joy to behold, leaving behind them their agricultural tasks because all of its rules and regulations were so easy to understand. It was never complicated or rocket science since most of us could instantly relate to its leisurely sedateness, its lazy sunny Sunday afternoon innocence and all of the game's fundamental simplicity, a game that always insisted that cricket should be taken at its own gentle pace, a game to be savoured and relished rather like one of Arlott's extensive wine cellars, a good Chardonnay that had to be matured and then drunk with enormous pleasure. 

To those who still find cricket baffling and mysterious, then explanations may be needed and there are those who still find the game to be both painfully slow, unnecessarily long and, perhaps, unforgivably, tedious. They'll tell you that it seems to take several life times to complete the standard number of overs during the match, that there are too many drink breaks for their liking and nobody can quite grasp the steady accumulation of runs by one batsman alone. How long should it take to complete a half century?

And why does a cricket match take five or six days to finish when the boredom threshold may have been broken ages beforehand? But then the traditional lovers of cricket will regard the ones who can't stand the game as philistines or just ignorant. But of course this should never be the case and maybe we should try to sit down for a while and just describe the natural beauties of the game, the thrilling run chases, the one day game in all its intoxicating unpredictability.

The new fangled concept of the T20 Blast and the Hundred has captured the attention of most cricket's fans. Those who regret the cricket of yesteryear will slump into an armchair and simply lose themselves in the literature of Wisden, cricket's Bible. The emergence and astonishing success of the women's game is truly spellbinding. Finally, cricket has woken up to the realisation that women can also crack glorious sixes and fours into the pavilions of the game. And finally equality of the sexes should rightly be celebrated. 

So where are we? Nottinghamshire, the county who once gave us the graceful and imposing Harold Larwood back in the early part of the 20th century, are the current champions. Trent Bridge is still the hallowed ground in the once thriving coal lands of DH Lawrence country. But this year the Nottingham Oval will become just one of the three venues for England's Test matches against New Zealand. This season should give us a real indication of where the balance of power lies. 

For instance will Surrey and Yorkshire once again dominate proceedings in the County Championship. Yorkshire have always been a force to be reckoned with and Surrey just embrace the Oval with its prominent gas holders? Both Essex, Sussex, Worcestershire, Lancashire, Durham, Glamorgan, Leicestershire and Gloucestershire can normally be relied on to attract cricket's aficionados.

And yet in the apple orchards of Somerset where cider is blissfully supped, the leafy and bucolic country taverns of Hampshire and the shoe manufacturing heartlands of Northamptonshire, they will flock in their thousands. In the early hours of the morning, those two dependable umpires will trot down the pavilion steps, toss a coin in the air and then move towards the wicket like important statesmen about to deliver a rousing speech.  So cricket will continue to hold a timeless fascination for those who become addicted to its arts and crafts. 

For some of the more neutral observers cricket should always be mentioned in the same breath as the Ashes, that famous confrontation between England and Australia. Bradman became the most majestic batsman Australian have ever produced. Bradman scored hundreds of hundreds and batted for as long as the mood took him. He was powerfully built, with shoulders and arms built for the game and hands that held onto a bat as if his life depended upon it. Bradman, for many years, was the embodiment of cricket, a personification of everything that was right in the game, its most ingenious exponent, a batsman of rare nobility, handsome shots off the back and front foot and a hugely talented technician of the game. 

So it is that throughout those lazy, dreamy and contemplative days of summer, cricket will wrap a soothing and comforting arm around the shoulders of people who just adore the game. They will probably give us endless statistics of the collective careers of celebrated players, the bowlers who have taken thousands of wickets and the batsmen who may well have forgotten how many runs they've made. And this is perfectly understandable because cricket, after all, was always the summer game which set remarkable standards and values for the rest of sport to follow. Cricket was the democratic game that everybody could appreciate and rightly so. John Arlott was always right.  

Manchester City reach their fourth consecutive FA Cup Final.

Manchester City reach their fourth consecutive FA Cup Final.

And so it was that the attacking juggernaut that is Manchester City have chalked up another milestone. Eventually some team with the necessary streetwise intelligence, wit and ingenuity will stop Manchester City from functioning properly but at the moment it just seems like the impossible dream. There was a time during this gripping, see saw, delightful end to end FA Cup semi final where the underdog wagged its tail before realising where they were and the FA Cup was no longer capable of shocks.

For a while you could have been forgiven for thinking that we were still in 1976. But then again a half century ago does seem fairly distant now in the memory bank and, besides, the Southampton manager Lawrie Mcmenemy was so highly regarded at the Dell that at the time you felt sure that the status quo would always be maintained and no team from the lower leagues would ever win the FA Cup again. 

And yet four years later West Ham would emerge from their old Second Division wilderness and beat high flying, classy first division Arsenal. Southampton were hoping that some of those fading videos from 1976 would do the trick again. But the FA Cup is both odd, unpredictable and capricious, an object of some affection. We love its enduring ability to catch us off guard with its teasing finger of fate and then revel in its brief flirtation with glory and then shuddering defeat just when you thought you'd done enough. 

For this is the way Southampton must have felt as soon as the referee had blown for the final whistle. Southampton finally surrendered to the inevitable defeat against a Manchester City side who must have known that things were bound to turn out alright on the evening. Destiny seems to follow City around like some worshipping fan who turns up reliably at every pop concert or religious gathering. Manchester City did beat Southampton in this FA Cup semi final 2-1 but not after a few frights and panicky palpitations. 

Back in 1976 some of us could hardly have anticipated the most remarkable heatwave that would follow shortly after Southampton's 1-0 victory over Tommy Docherty's seemingly all conquering Manchester United. But then who would have thought a whole nation of housewives would have to pop outside their homes, buckets in hand because there was no water and a nationwide drought had forced them to resort to their standpipes?

On the day, Mike Channon, Peter Osgood, Peter Rodrigues, Jim McCalliog, David Peach and match winning goal scorer, the late and much missed Bobby Stokes had ensured that there was just a flame of romance still burning brightly in the inner sanctum of an FA Cup Final day. Southampton were a positive, eye catching team at the time and when Kevin Keegan took up residence at the old Dell, the south coast must have been alive with seaside jollity and fun. And of course Alan Ball would provide much needed World Cup winning experience as well. But 50 years ago Southampton would win their only FA Cup.

Roll forward 50 years and German manager Tonda Eckert looked on from the sidelines as the current Southampton boss and after the Saints had taken a wholly unexpected lead half way through the second half, a vast majority of Southampton fans were beginning to believe in magic, miracles and superstition. After the south coast side had broken the deadlock. those same supporters became a seething mass of red and white jubilation.

The Southampton midfield of Finn Azaz, Cameron Bragg and Caspar Jander had woven so many neat and attractive patterns in between the lines of City's slowly retreating defence that you wondered why it had taken Southampton so long to really assert their authority. There was a smoothness and silkiness to some of Southampton's passing that reminded you of 1976 but surely there could be no repetition of that day but it did happen again. 

At the back, Taylor Harwood- Bellis displayed all the hyphenated sophistication of a player of a far more advanced age. Both Welington and James Bree were completely at ease with what seemed a daunting task. How to throw a barbed wire fence over City's relentless forward march. It would prove to be much easier than they must have thought. Leo Scienza was almost unstoppable on the wing, terrorising the City defence with devious trickery and mischievous impudence into the bargain. He shuffled along the touchline, showing his defender one way before checking the ball back onto his other foot with marvellous close ball control.

Southampton duly opened the scoring after a dazzling exchange of passes across the edge of the City penalty area before a stunning break landed at the feet of Finn Azaz who shifted onto his favourite foot, curling a sumptuous shot into the roof of the net. For 10 or 15 of some of the sweetest moments in this game, Southampton were fantasising and hoping for the greatest David and Goliath act the FA Cup would ever see. And then Manchester City wrested back the game and just had too much know how for the Saints. 

Mattheus Nunes, the evergreen Bernardo Silva, the stately and controlling influence of Ryan Cherki, and the always confident Tijani Rejinders gave the City attack, an overwhelming mastery and craft that would pin back Southampton onto the back foot. There was a period during the second half when Southampton were almost camped into their own half rather like a scouting expedition who had decided to put up their tent too early. It was backs against the wall from that point onwards. 

When Jeremy Doku came on for City to tear open the decaying fabric of Southampton's back four with mesmerising and bewitching feet, the Saints, who had become paragons of virtue before then, were given the run around by Doku. Picking up the ball cleverly on the edge of the Southampton penalty area, Doku cut inside his defender delicately and fired a firmly driven shot which took a wicked deflection off a Southampton player and the equaliser dramatically changed the balance of the game.

Manchester City were now self indulgent, tapping the ball to each other so instinctively that it seemed as if a magnet had been attached to their feet. The ball was treated with all the care and tenderness of some valuable ornament on the mantelpiece, polished and precise passes that were almost telepathic. It was passing of short distance proximity of the finest type. Then City opened up Southampton, unfolding the Saints rather like some ancient document that hadn't seen the light of the day since the Middle Ages.  

Then, with the match seemingly destined for extra time, City unleashed their most lethal explosive. Slowly, Southampton looked more withdrawn and helpless as the City bombardment finally told. Doku, once again creating havoc wherever he went, was the central figure behind all of City's almost incessant creativity. Doku, it was, who busied himself on the edge of Southampton's now rapidly tiring back four. His smart, short ball was fed to Nico Gonzalez who moved into position and from at least 30 yards from goal, smashed an unstoppable shot into the roof of the net for City's decisive winner. 

And now the FA Cup Final will be between Chelsea and Manchester City. As was the case in 1970, Chelsea repeated the same dose of medicine against Leeds United. But this was at Wembley rather than Old Trafford where a bad tempered and acrimonious FA Cup Final replay ended with fists flying, Billy Bremner tangling with Norman Hunter and the whole shooting match resulting in a Dave Webb header clinching the Cup for Chelsea. But this year Chelsea will be facing a lighter shade of blue and Pep Guardiola will be going all out to achieve world footballing domination. It could be an FA Cup Final to savour for the purists. We must hope so.  

St George's Day- William Shakespeare's birthday.

 St George's Day- William Shakespeare's birthday

Mention St George's Day and your thoughts turn to idyllic England, chocolate box England, the England of symmetrical rows of hedgerows, charming forests and Stonehenge, mystical as ever. It should be the ultimate celebration of everything that is quintessentially English, its patchwork quilt of well manicured meadows, rolling fields, village post offices, homely bakers, butchers, farmers and blacksmiths, people wandering down heavenly country lanes, winding, twisting roads, the picturesque beauty of its glorious landscape. 

Then you think of England at it's most nostalgic, its most sentimental and a country that continues to be self critical, modest about its achievements without gloating about anything in particular. There is still something of the buttoned up reserve about the country, a stubborn refusal to be proud of itself , a sometimes endearing shyness and nervous reticence. But then England harks back to its golden age of steam trains, gorgeous country railway stations with hanging baskets of flowers and all of those historical traditions. But of course it should but there are no fanfares, festivities and frivolities to welcome in the day. 

So why is that that Ireland can indulge themselves in endless Guinness drinking in cosy, low beamed timber pubs and England has only Maypole Dancing accompanied by some rousing renditions of Jerusalem and Land of Hope and Glory  to show for years and centuries. It almost feels like a pitiful oversight, a sense that England is utterly ashamed of what it may have contributed to what should be a proper recognition of its astonishing multi culturalism, the vibrant summer fetes and mouth watering picnics. 

For England has given us literary luminaries such as the poetic genius of Thomas Hardy, the incomparable Charles Dickens, the outstanding social observer, essayist and novelist who broke down so many boundaries in English story telling that it hardly seems possible in hindsight. There was the realistic and earthy authenticity of George Orwell, the controversial, so called morally questionable works of DH Lawrence. But rather than praise the astonishing feats of our greatest writers we choose to think of such gifted men as just passing strangers in the night, important spokesmen but little more. 

And then we think of that turbulent political landscape and how England may have criminally overlooked its most dominant statesmen and particularly one who simply led us to victory and salvation during the Second World War. For most of those miserable and horrendous years of death and destruction, Winston Churchill stood firm, dependable, commanding, loyal to the cause, never beaten or defeated, a man fiercely committed to overcome every single obstacle. 

Churchill was the one man who convinced England that its identity and heritage would never be destroyed by the Nazi stormtroopers. Of course he could be grumpy and cantankerous, a crabby and crotchety politician who must have smoked a thousand cigars for the better part of six years. But for all England's struggles and battles throughout its illustrious and eventful history, England has never given up when all seemed lost. 

Now of course the political scenery at Westminster has turned a rather darker and more worrying shade of rampant patriotism. The Reform UK party have made their considerable presence felt now and there is something very dubious about the intentions of their leader Nigel Farage. Then there are the fiercely nationalistic noises being made by the Green Party. Given half the chance Zak Polansky would probably drive out of England every person who doesn't meet his party's criteria. 

The England of today is one of desolate shopping centres in the hardest hit areas of Northern England, chronic poverty and deprivation in decaying inner city council estates and much more. It is an England tormented by rising unemployment in some areas but not quite so in others. It is a land of colourful and imaginative graffiti on imposing buildings and brick walls. The commercial heartbeat can now be found in its fragrant cafes such as Costa, Nero and Pret A Manger with its wonderful varieties of coffee, tea, latte and cappuccino.  Sadly, the cheap bargain basement goodies to be found in Poundlands are not the prosperous havens they might have been hoping for. 

Still, England will always have its medieval castles nestling comfortably on ancient hilltops, those soaring towers, such stunning chapels and churches that it should take every opportunity to boast about but often can't be bothered to do so. England has its age old bed and breakfast hotels by seaside resorts that have been there since time immemorial, Blackpool, Bournemouth, Brighton, Scarborough, Skegness and Margate to name but a few. England loves its to prove a point, a case to state, forthright opinions from all four corners of the land.

Maybe one day England will once again pay tribute and glowing homages to its most classical music, its precious inventors and creators. It should shout from the rooftops its John Logie Baird and Alexander Graham Bell but rarely does, although from time to time extolling the virtues and inventions of radio and TV with gushing words and fulsome flattery. St George's Day has to be that special day of rejoicing. And perhaps it'll be acknowledged as such. 

 

National Holocaust Museum

 National Holocaust Museum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trump holds out the olive branch- and Jesus Christ.

Trump holds out the olive branch- and Jesus Christ.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Radox Grand National

 The Radox Grand National

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 Death and my grandpa and great grandparents gravestones. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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