The old music and the new music.
In the old days our parents told us that you could never understand the lyrics in old songs. It was all terribly muddled, totally incoherent and quite frankly a load of rubbish. My late dad, did once though shower praise on that legendary Welshman Sir Tom Jones. Jones, he said, had the most extraordinary voice, a voice so powerful that it almost echoed around the Welsh valleys and then carried resonantly across the Pennines. It soared melodiously across the lakes and rivers of Britain's fair and green land and then stayed in the British consciousness rather like some classical piece of art.
Our parents believed that the big band wartime sound of Glen Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Duke Ellington, Joe Loss, Count Basie and all the greats of that era were the greatest, most striking and stunning of all sounds. They played the kind of music that brought people much closer together and lifted the spirits of the world with a definitive style and flourish. Dad spent most of the war in the Hammersmith Palais jiving, cavorting and carousing and then romantically smooching with his dancing partners before gloriously finding my mum 20 years later.
When I came along in 1962, the Beatles arrived with a phenomenal flourish. It was Love Me Do, Hey Jude, Strawberry Fields, Sergeant Peppers, the remarkable Yesterday and a whole repertoire of experimental and epic compositions. The Beatles were one of the most gifted musicians and songwriters that the world would ever produce. Their music spanned the generations and frequently pushed back the cultural and musical boundaries. The Beatles were exquisitely inventive, good looking, smartly dressed and played music that had genius and lyricism written all over it.
And then the good old or bad old days came along and spoilt it all in some loud, crashing, thumping, pounding, unbearably loud mess. It was horribly noisy and excessively stentorian. It was as if you were ears being attacked by some wild and uncontrollable force of nature. It was the glam rock era of David Bowie, T- Rex, Sweet, Mud followed by the edgy and anarchic rebelliousness of late Seventies punk with the Sex Pistols, the Clash, Blondie, the Undertones and the Jam, groups with a sharp identity and growling, snarling defiance.
And then there was Eric Clapton with his faithful and magical guitar, a guitar that had its own voice, its own very unique expression and a fundamentally important message. Then there was Gerry Rafferty, a marvellous wordsmith with poetry in his soul, a genuinely warm melody in his head and Baker Street, a brilliant piece of artwork that brought the 1970s to a memorable conclusion.
Listening to BBC Radio 2's the Sounds of the Seventies introduced by the supremely professional Johnny Walker, it suddenly occurred to me another generational gap has once again appeared. The music that I'd listened to during the 1970s no longer bore the same kind of relevance, no longer mattered to today's 21st century movers and shakers, no longer seemed applicable to anybody in particular. It was music that was as far removed from today's Spotify and I- Tunes era as it was possible to be.
When Walker played Wings Listen to What the Man Said I began to think that I'd got terribly stuck in some stifling time warp. Listen to What the Man Said was released just over 40 years ago and although splendidly pleasing to the ear no longer felt musically appropriate. It may well just have been some medieval throwback or 17th century choral piece.
Then Walker featured Free and then Bad Compay. But most of us can still remember what seemed like the hard aggression of Meat Loaf, Led Zeppelin, the deeply imaginative and occasionally mystical Pink Floyd, wonderful remnants of the 1960s. And then by the contrast, mainstream music gave us the smooth Stylistics, the teasing Temptations, the permanently stylish Detroit Spinners and the cultured Four Tops, grouips who'd regularly decorated both the American and British charts with a gentle gloss of sophistication during the 1960s.
Now of course 2016 has thrown up yet another lively musical palette of both the sublime and the ridiculous. Groups such as Coldplay, Radiohead and Snow Patrol monopolise the music scene with an almost flawless control. Adele, Ellie Goulding, Beyonce, Lady Ga Ga, Michael Buble, Ed Sheeran and the very latest reality TV products are almost a million miles away from the golden grandeur of Glenn Miller and all of those wartime virtuosos. It was a world where trumpets and trombones and uplifting pianos were all thrown into one delightful mix of big band harmonies and instantly identifiable show tunes.
So there you have it. The heady, dizzy days of Frank Sinatra, Bing Crosby, Tony Bennett, Sammy Davis Junior, have now sadly departed to some jazz club in heaven. Their legacies and memories will never be forgotten, cultivated crooners with honey in their voices. You Tube though will always provide me with Tavares, Al Jarreau, the Whispers, Kool and the Gang, Shakatak and a whole gallery of the great and good. To quote Louis Armstrong. What a Wonderful World.
Monday 31 October 2016
Tuesday 25 October 2016
Strictly Come Dancing- Saturday nights on the BBC.
The Strictly Come Dancing Age.
It's Saturday evening, an autumnal darkness has set in, the central heating has been turned up full blast, the wintry tomato soups are ready to consume and the dog needs his or her daily exercise. What could be more comforting and relaxing? It is a domestic scene that perfectly captures the mood of the nation.
This past summer has given us nothing but the European Union, politicians spouting forth at great and repetitive length on Britain's political position- or now lack of it- on Europe and the number of pints Nigel Farage has drunk in the last five minutes. Out there in the big, wide world some of us are wholly indifferent and somehow pleading for an alternative discourse. The theme is the same, the voices are much the same and the narrative is enough to drive you crazy.
But fear not because Strictly Come Dancing has come to our rescue. Yes folks. Strictly Come Dancing, perhaps the one and only TV programme to provide us with light relief, an antidote to the horrors of daytime TV and a reason to cheer eccentricity and mediocrity.
At Saturday tea- time the BBC, in its best Saturday evening glad rags, gets all energetic and silly. It is a long time since the BBC has ever been able to boast with some pride a flagship programme that is both inspirational and hugely enjoyable. Strictly Come Dancing ticks all the boxes because it's pure escapism, cheesy perhaps but nonetheless riveting. It looks tremendous fun and reminds you of those halcyon days when dad got up at a family gathering and danced because he felt like it and didn't care what others thought.
Strictly Dancing is wonderfully accessible, inclusive and restores your faith in TV entertainment. It's all about men and women in glittering, sparkling clothes that look as though they've been borrowed from the wardrobe of a major West End musical. Strictly has a brilliant dance band with brilliant singers, scenery that resembles a West End musical and the kind of judges whose comments are both sharply honest and riotously amusing.
Roll back the years to 1976 and the BBC Saturday evening schedule gave us Bruce Forsyth's wonderful Generation Game, a glorious celebration of the game show at its very best. It was the kind of game show where anything and everything was acceptable - within reason- and everybody just fell about laughing on their sofas.
It was the one day of the week where Britain could kick off its shoes, throw aside its inhibitions and just become totally absorbed in something that took them away from their working world. The Generation Game had nothing but laughter, silliness, absurdity and the most perfect relationship with its watching public.
It had Sir Bruce Forsyth, that most polished of entetainers, introducing, indulging and engaging with his contestants from a card. Bruce made polite conversation, asked them what they did for a living and then creased up with more laughter and hilarity. Then he told them that the game they were about to take part in would involve loads of clay.
It was time for the Potters Wheel, flower arranging, painting landscapes in a matter of seconds or just pretending they were all in some posh and classy West End play. They would reel off their lines, forget those lines and then act alongside the great actors and soap opera celebrities of the day.
It was all splendidly nonsensical and just what the nation needed. At the time some regarded the Generation Game as somehow demeaning. But the Gen Game was just gentle and inoffensive. It was never intellectually stimulating because that was left to the likes of Mastermind, University Challenge and Brain of Britain.
But for what seemed ages, the Generation Game ticked all of the right boxes. It had corny gags, audience participation, irresistible tomfoolery and achingly funny games. At the end a couple from a quaint English village won through to the conveyor belt and just looked totally shocked. The wobbly doors would open and the couple were suddenly transported into another world.
Now they too could win cuddly teddy bears, a frying pan, an alarm clock, kitchen utensils, a bar of chocolate and some very useful table cloths- or maybe that might have been a slight exaggeration. Then the couple would be required to remember exactly what they'd seen and name as many of the star prizes as they could. Then Bruce in his checked jacket and tie would tell the whole of Britain that life could be just as exciting if you played the Generation Game.
Meanwhile back in 2016 Labour politician Ed Balls changed all of the TV dynamics and changed the complexion of early evening telly. Ed Balls, it has to be said, is the most wondrous dancer in the whole world. If truth is told and even by his own admission he may be wondrous but dancing may not be his calling in life.
Ed Balls wears loud and garish yellow jackets, prances around a BBC dance floor with all the co-ordination of a Max Wall and then stomps about the floor with an almost misplaced enthusiasm. Ed Balls would probably happily admit that he can't dance for toffee. But week after week he provides the nation with a golden opportunity to throw aside our inhibitions.
So there you have it. Strictly Come Dancing is back where it should be. For those who remember the original Come Dancing Strictly Come Dancing may just be a stunning variation on a theme. But for one marvellous evening Saturday TV on the BBC has once again come to life. We thank the BBC. We thank the BBC immensely.
It's Saturday evening, an autumnal darkness has set in, the central heating has been turned up full blast, the wintry tomato soups are ready to consume and the dog needs his or her daily exercise. What could be more comforting and relaxing? It is a domestic scene that perfectly captures the mood of the nation.
This past summer has given us nothing but the European Union, politicians spouting forth at great and repetitive length on Britain's political position- or now lack of it- on Europe and the number of pints Nigel Farage has drunk in the last five minutes. Out there in the big, wide world some of us are wholly indifferent and somehow pleading for an alternative discourse. The theme is the same, the voices are much the same and the narrative is enough to drive you crazy.
But fear not because Strictly Come Dancing has come to our rescue. Yes folks. Strictly Come Dancing, perhaps the one and only TV programme to provide us with light relief, an antidote to the horrors of daytime TV and a reason to cheer eccentricity and mediocrity.
At Saturday tea- time the BBC, in its best Saturday evening glad rags, gets all energetic and silly. It is a long time since the BBC has ever been able to boast with some pride a flagship programme that is both inspirational and hugely enjoyable. Strictly Come Dancing ticks all the boxes because it's pure escapism, cheesy perhaps but nonetheless riveting. It looks tremendous fun and reminds you of those halcyon days when dad got up at a family gathering and danced because he felt like it and didn't care what others thought.
Strictly Dancing is wonderfully accessible, inclusive and restores your faith in TV entertainment. It's all about men and women in glittering, sparkling clothes that look as though they've been borrowed from the wardrobe of a major West End musical. Strictly has a brilliant dance band with brilliant singers, scenery that resembles a West End musical and the kind of judges whose comments are both sharply honest and riotously amusing.
Roll back the years to 1976 and the BBC Saturday evening schedule gave us Bruce Forsyth's wonderful Generation Game, a glorious celebration of the game show at its very best. It was the kind of game show where anything and everything was acceptable - within reason- and everybody just fell about laughing on their sofas.
It was the one day of the week where Britain could kick off its shoes, throw aside its inhibitions and just become totally absorbed in something that took them away from their working world. The Generation Game had nothing but laughter, silliness, absurdity and the most perfect relationship with its watching public.
It had Sir Bruce Forsyth, that most polished of entetainers, introducing, indulging and engaging with his contestants from a card. Bruce made polite conversation, asked them what they did for a living and then creased up with more laughter and hilarity. Then he told them that the game they were about to take part in would involve loads of clay.
It was time for the Potters Wheel, flower arranging, painting landscapes in a matter of seconds or just pretending they were all in some posh and classy West End play. They would reel off their lines, forget those lines and then act alongside the great actors and soap opera celebrities of the day.
It was all splendidly nonsensical and just what the nation needed. At the time some regarded the Generation Game as somehow demeaning. But the Gen Game was just gentle and inoffensive. It was never intellectually stimulating because that was left to the likes of Mastermind, University Challenge and Brain of Britain.
But for what seemed ages, the Generation Game ticked all of the right boxes. It had corny gags, audience participation, irresistible tomfoolery and achingly funny games. At the end a couple from a quaint English village won through to the conveyor belt and just looked totally shocked. The wobbly doors would open and the couple were suddenly transported into another world.
Now they too could win cuddly teddy bears, a frying pan, an alarm clock, kitchen utensils, a bar of chocolate and some very useful table cloths- or maybe that might have been a slight exaggeration. Then the couple would be required to remember exactly what they'd seen and name as many of the star prizes as they could. Then Bruce in his checked jacket and tie would tell the whole of Britain that life could be just as exciting if you played the Generation Game.
Meanwhile back in 2016 Labour politician Ed Balls changed all of the TV dynamics and changed the complexion of early evening telly. Ed Balls, it has to be said, is the most wondrous dancer in the whole world. If truth is told and even by his own admission he may be wondrous but dancing may not be his calling in life.
Ed Balls wears loud and garish yellow jackets, prances around a BBC dance floor with all the co-ordination of a Max Wall and then stomps about the floor with an almost misplaced enthusiasm. Ed Balls would probably happily admit that he can't dance for toffee. But week after week he provides the nation with a golden opportunity to throw aside our inhibitions.
So there you have it. Strictly Come Dancing is back where it should be. For those who remember the original Come Dancing Strictly Come Dancing may just be a stunning variation on a theme. But for one marvellous evening Saturday TV on the BBC has once again come to life. We thank the BBC. We thank the BBC immensely.
Saturday 22 October 2016
The Donald and Hilary show
The Don and Hilary show
In a couple of weeks the United States of America will be asked to vote for the new President of their country. It is perhaps the most unenviable choice the United States has ever faced. In one corner we have Hilary Clinton, allegedly one of the most unreliable and corrupt politicians the Americans have ever had.
Clinton is, according to some ardent American observers, one of the most scheming, deceitful and conniving politicians America have ever had. To all outward appearances she looks respectable and trustworthy but dig into her recent CV and the skeletons continue to rattle in her cupboard.
There are the missing e-mails, the shady business deals behind the scenes and that rather disturbing air of cloak and dagger secrecy. There are the ever present hidden agendas and embarrassing flaws in Clinton's character. Above all the wife of the now notorious Bill, has yet to win the hearts and minds of the American public.
There are rumblings of discontent and worrying signs that all is not as it should be in the Clinton camp. Of course our Hilary looks glamorous and presentable but for all her on screen assurance and all of the positive noises, there can be little doubt that Clinton will have to mount the most astonishing charm offensive to win the Presidency.
Her opponent is of course one Donald Trump. Now this is where all sensible politics and intelligent thinking shuffles off the stage and giggles uncontrollably. Trump, it has to be the most ridiculous and comical figure ever to appear on any political stage. The statements, to date, are hilarious and his behaviour borders on the laughably outrageous.
At this moment you're reminded of the 1980s American soap opera Dallas where JR, that evil manipulator sniggered under his breath and revelled in others misfortune. Comparisons can often be misleading but when Trump walks onto the stage and opens his mouth, any resemblance to Larry Hagman may well be merely coincidental.
Donald Trump has done his utmost best to upset both women and anybody that either moves or speaks. Allegedly he is the most sexist, racist and most revolting man any of us can ever recall, He's antagonised women, Mexicans and most of the universe. But then again he may well be the most adorable and engaging human being ever to walk the Earth. Perhaps he's the most exemplary family man, a decent and honourable alpha male, a pillar of the community and a credit to both his wife, children and his surrounding entourage. But for all the world this is the not the way it seems to be.
Still he sneers, snarls, pouts and generally gives the impression of a the man who thinks he knows it all. To even the most impartial on looker he may be the most tactless and recklessly opinionated man ever to darken the corridors of American politics. Trump, his critics may tell you, talks unadulterated twaddle and the air of potty mouthed ignorance may just drag the American people down to the lowest of all depths.
Still America still has Hilary to fall back on by way of a consolation prize. Hilary Clinton, although probably the best of the most appalling bunch, waits in the wings for what seems the inevitable Novemeber victory. It's at times like this that the memory goes back to Nixon and Kennedy, Ford and Carter, Reagan and Bush senior and junior and finally Barak Obama. Rarely has America needed a greater sense of direction and leadership. Rarely has America needed a miracle. It is hard to know whether either Trump or Clinton will answer their country's prayers.
Feel free to leave your comments on any of my Blogs.
Thanks
Joe Morris
In a couple of weeks the United States of America will be asked to vote for the new President of their country. It is perhaps the most unenviable choice the United States has ever faced. In one corner we have Hilary Clinton, allegedly one of the most unreliable and corrupt politicians the Americans have ever had.
Clinton is, according to some ardent American observers, one of the most scheming, deceitful and conniving politicians America have ever had. To all outward appearances she looks respectable and trustworthy but dig into her recent CV and the skeletons continue to rattle in her cupboard.
There are the missing e-mails, the shady business deals behind the scenes and that rather disturbing air of cloak and dagger secrecy. There are the ever present hidden agendas and embarrassing flaws in Clinton's character. Above all the wife of the now notorious Bill, has yet to win the hearts and minds of the American public.
There are rumblings of discontent and worrying signs that all is not as it should be in the Clinton camp. Of course our Hilary looks glamorous and presentable but for all her on screen assurance and all of the positive noises, there can be little doubt that Clinton will have to mount the most astonishing charm offensive to win the Presidency.
Her opponent is of course one Donald Trump. Now this is where all sensible politics and intelligent thinking shuffles off the stage and giggles uncontrollably. Trump, it has to be the most ridiculous and comical figure ever to appear on any political stage. The statements, to date, are hilarious and his behaviour borders on the laughably outrageous.
At this moment you're reminded of the 1980s American soap opera Dallas where JR, that evil manipulator sniggered under his breath and revelled in others misfortune. Comparisons can often be misleading but when Trump walks onto the stage and opens his mouth, any resemblance to Larry Hagman may well be merely coincidental.
Donald Trump has done his utmost best to upset both women and anybody that either moves or speaks. Allegedly he is the most sexist, racist and most revolting man any of us can ever recall, He's antagonised women, Mexicans and most of the universe. But then again he may well be the most adorable and engaging human being ever to walk the Earth. Perhaps he's the most exemplary family man, a decent and honourable alpha male, a pillar of the community and a credit to both his wife, children and his surrounding entourage. But for all the world this is the not the way it seems to be.
Still he sneers, snarls, pouts and generally gives the impression of a the man who thinks he knows it all. To even the most impartial on looker he may be the most tactless and recklessly opinionated man ever to darken the corridors of American politics. Trump, his critics may tell you, talks unadulterated twaddle and the air of potty mouthed ignorance may just drag the American people down to the lowest of all depths.
Still America still has Hilary to fall back on by way of a consolation prize. Hilary Clinton, although probably the best of the most appalling bunch, waits in the wings for what seems the inevitable Novemeber victory. It's at times like this that the memory goes back to Nixon and Kennedy, Ford and Carter, Reagan and Bush senior and junior and finally Barak Obama. Rarely has America needed a greater sense of direction and leadership. Rarely has America needed a miracle. It is hard to know whether either Trump or Clinton will answer their country's prayers.
Feel free to leave your comments on any of my Blogs.
Thanks
Joe Morris
Wednesday 19 October 2016
My first children's book
My first children's book.
I'm not sure why it hasn't occurred to me before. This whole wonderful business of writing can spark off so may ideas, thoughts and images that to quote Forest Gump. You never know what you're going to get!
My three books have given me a healthy appetite for the written word, the descriptive phrase and a whole confection of sweet sentences. I've written three books that have taken me by complete surprise but were nonetheless wonderfully therapeutic, liberating and good for the soul.
Now though I face my latest challenge. In a sense it's probably the easiest assignment I've ever presented myself with. I'm going to write a children's book and it is in theory not only the most rewarding of challenges but one that reminds me of how much pleasure it was to bring up our two wonderful children.
All being well my children's book will be both amusing and heart- warming. It is my guilty pleasure and at the moment I'd like to keep it under wraps. But I hope you'll like it's gentle flow and rhythms, its sweet innocence, its feelgood factor, and its re-assuring light heartedness.
I can still remember reading one of JK Rowling's Harry Potter's classics to our son as a child and wondering at the time whether I could ever aspire to reaching that very exalted level of literature. I can't rightly remember which Harry Potter book it was. But subconsciously I think it must have resonated with me, galvanising me into getting something down on our PC.
It's hard to believe how dramatically different my childhood was compared to that of our daughter and son. I come from the pen, pencil, A4 paper, ink blotter age where school desks were completely defaced by smudges and pen stained desk lids.
My childhood was dominated by Enid Blyton's Famous Five, Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows, Rudyard Kipling's charming Jungle Book and a whole variety of schoolboy and girl adventure stories. If you'd told me what a children's book would look like in the 21st century I would have roared with laughter and scepticism.
What was a Kindle? What was an E-book? Childhood literature couldn't possibly translate into the modern electronic age. How could you possibly read Enid Blyton on a Tablet or an I- Pad. And yet it does look an attractive proposition. I'm probably an old fashioned fuddy duddy who cherishes the good old days but hey why not? All books are there to be remembered and never forgotten.
So it is that, very slowly and surely that I piece together my first childrens's story. It is like a jig saw puzzle but a perfectly straightforward jig saw puzzle, In a way I feel like the child who excitedly rips open the wrapping of his birthday present and finding something that will bring an enduring smile.
I'm not sure why it hasn't occurred to me before. This whole wonderful business of writing can spark off so may ideas, thoughts and images that to quote Forest Gump. You never know what you're going to get!
My three books have given me a healthy appetite for the written word, the descriptive phrase and a whole confection of sweet sentences. I've written three books that have taken me by complete surprise but were nonetheless wonderfully therapeutic, liberating and good for the soul.
Now though I face my latest challenge. In a sense it's probably the easiest assignment I've ever presented myself with. I'm going to write a children's book and it is in theory not only the most rewarding of challenges but one that reminds me of how much pleasure it was to bring up our two wonderful children.
All being well my children's book will be both amusing and heart- warming. It is my guilty pleasure and at the moment I'd like to keep it under wraps. But I hope you'll like it's gentle flow and rhythms, its sweet innocence, its feelgood factor, and its re-assuring light heartedness.
I can still remember reading one of JK Rowling's Harry Potter's classics to our son as a child and wondering at the time whether I could ever aspire to reaching that very exalted level of literature. I can't rightly remember which Harry Potter book it was. But subconsciously I think it must have resonated with me, galvanising me into getting something down on our PC.
It's hard to believe how dramatically different my childhood was compared to that of our daughter and son. I come from the pen, pencil, A4 paper, ink blotter age where school desks were completely defaced by smudges and pen stained desk lids.
My childhood was dominated by Enid Blyton's Famous Five, Kenneth Graham's Wind in the Willows, Rudyard Kipling's charming Jungle Book and a whole variety of schoolboy and girl adventure stories. If you'd told me what a children's book would look like in the 21st century I would have roared with laughter and scepticism.
What was a Kindle? What was an E-book? Childhood literature couldn't possibly translate into the modern electronic age. How could you possibly read Enid Blyton on a Tablet or an I- Pad. And yet it does look an attractive proposition. I'm probably an old fashioned fuddy duddy who cherishes the good old days but hey why not? All books are there to be remembered and never forgotten.
So it is that, very slowly and surely that I piece together my first childrens's story. It is like a jig saw puzzle but a perfectly straightforward jig saw puzzle, In a way I feel like the child who excitedly rips open the wrapping of his birthday present and finding something that will bring an enduring smile.
Monday 17 October 2016
October 17 1973
Ah, now let me see. 43 years ago on this day the England national football team suffered one of its frequent bouts of indigestion and discomfort. It is a day carved into football folklore for all the wrong reasons, an evening that was bitterly disappointing, deeply tragic and almost anti-climactic. In fact most of us were tempted to switch over to Gardeners World or University Challenge with Bamber Gascoigne such was the magnitude of the shock that registered with all football fans.
On October 17th 1973, England met Poland at the old Wembley Stadium, a fixture destined to haunt English football supporters for many a decade. It was the final World Cup qualifying fixture and the omens were so deeply encouraging, We had to win, We knew we could win. None could stop us. But then very few were expecting any kind of resistance to what seemed an almost routine qualification to another World Cup Finals.
That night I'd prepared myself for a night of unbridled and lucrative prosperity. All the bookies were convinced that England would grab hold of the Poles, tear them to shreds and then subject them to an almost heartless humiliation, a destructive blow to a heavily damaged morale. Nobody thought Poland would ever present any kind of problems or obstacles to England's easy qualification route to the World Cup of 1974 to be held the following summer in West Germany. The knockout punch would be final and Poland would fall like one of those big industrial chimneys in a controlled explosion.
Back in the September of that year, England opened their international fixture list with a friendly against Austria. The final score that night suggested more than ever that Poland would be lightweights ready to face their execution.
England thrashed Austria at Wembley with a 7-0 demolition job that some of us could never have anticipated in our wildest dreams. I can still remember watching high- lights of the game on my grandparents TV and wondering whether any team could ever match, emulate or surpass that magnificent score- line.
It was now only a matter of time before England would quite naturally deliver a royal command performance. Here they were England against Poland. It had been a tough and occasionally punishing qualifying group with Wales troubling England and all not quite as hunky dory as it might have seemed.
Still, most of England, was a hundred per cent certain that Sir Alf Ramsey's boys would triumph quite handsomely against one of world football;s serial under achievers. We all sat down to watch the game. There was the traditional introduction and pre-amble. There were the amusing adverts for Oxo Cubes, Fry's Turkish Delight, Black Magic chocolate, Opal Fruits made to make your mouth water and Steak and Kidney Pies, appetising and mouth wateringly palatable treats.
Then it was cue Brian Moore. It was cue, if memory serves, Derek Dougan, Bob Mcnab and the inimitable Brian Clough. They were our footballing second family, our very own footballing community, an amalgam of wit, humour and severely critical voices.
Until that point my footballing consciousness had been sharply heightened by stirring FA Cup Finals dating back to the 1971 FA Cup Final between Arsenal and Liverpool. Now dear old Wembley Stadium looked grander and nobler than I'd ever seen it before. The pitch looked big, wide, lushly green and gloriously spacious. The old Twin Towers gazed down on the crowd like radiant sun beams.
And yet it all went terribly and catastrophically wrong. It all fell apart at the seams and by the end of the game England were rather hoping that the ground would swallow them up. That night England bombarded the Polish with their heaviest artillery and ammunition. They threw everything at Poland in the hope that the whole of their fortress would just crumble and finally crash to the ground with the loudest thud.
There was Norman Hunter, the rock at the heart of the English defence ably accompanied by his buddy Roy Mcfarland. Both were footballing giants, grizzly bears with a mean, moody and menacing air about them. We had Tony Currie, a silky smooth midfield player who controlled a football with delightful ease. Up front we had Mick Channon, a classic goal scorer whose famous windmill goal celebration would illuminate many a wintry Saturday afternoon. We had Martin Chivers, a powerhouse of a centre forward who would bulldoze defences with his muscular presence, formidable goal scoring instinct and admirable nose for a goal. When all was said and done England had an attacking flair and match winning authority that even Poland would never challenge.
But they did and the match finished in a 1-1 draw. England had to beat the Poles to qualify for the World Cup proper and that job specification had not been fulfilled. They'd faltered, stumbled and collapsed at the final hurdle. England would not be going to the World Cup of 1974 because somebody had told the England team that Upstairs Downstairs had just started and their concentration had been disturbed irreparably.
Perhaps Sir Alf Ramsey had just been told that Mr Hudson had just told off Ruby in the first edition of Upstairs Downstairs. Maybe the middle classes of England had received a rude cultural shock. It was all very upsetting and instantly forgettable. Gadocha and Lato had led the England defence a merry dance and scored that heart breaking first goal. Allan Clarke levelled the game with a face saving penalty but it was too little too late and England were out of the World Cup Finals.
So there you have it. October 17th 1973 still sends a traumatic shiver down every England's supporters spine. It was the night Brian Clough called the Polish goalie a clown and Sir Alf Ramsey just shrugged his shoulders. There is something about English football and gallant failure that still rankles and that night even the Bellamy household dimmed its lights, For Upstairs Downstairs read down in English football's basement. Still we must look to the future with hope and forget about that October night at Wembley Stadium. We have to believe.
On October 17th 1973, England met Poland at the old Wembley Stadium, a fixture destined to haunt English football supporters for many a decade. It was the final World Cup qualifying fixture and the omens were so deeply encouraging, We had to win, We knew we could win. None could stop us. But then very few were expecting any kind of resistance to what seemed an almost routine qualification to another World Cup Finals.
That night I'd prepared myself for a night of unbridled and lucrative prosperity. All the bookies were convinced that England would grab hold of the Poles, tear them to shreds and then subject them to an almost heartless humiliation, a destructive blow to a heavily damaged morale. Nobody thought Poland would ever present any kind of problems or obstacles to England's easy qualification route to the World Cup of 1974 to be held the following summer in West Germany. The knockout punch would be final and Poland would fall like one of those big industrial chimneys in a controlled explosion.
Back in the September of that year, England opened their international fixture list with a friendly against Austria. The final score that night suggested more than ever that Poland would be lightweights ready to face their execution.
England thrashed Austria at Wembley with a 7-0 demolition job that some of us could never have anticipated in our wildest dreams. I can still remember watching high- lights of the game on my grandparents TV and wondering whether any team could ever match, emulate or surpass that magnificent score- line.
It was now only a matter of time before England would quite naturally deliver a royal command performance. Here they were England against Poland. It had been a tough and occasionally punishing qualifying group with Wales troubling England and all not quite as hunky dory as it might have seemed.
Still, most of England, was a hundred per cent certain that Sir Alf Ramsey's boys would triumph quite handsomely against one of world football;s serial under achievers. We all sat down to watch the game. There was the traditional introduction and pre-amble. There were the amusing adverts for Oxo Cubes, Fry's Turkish Delight, Black Magic chocolate, Opal Fruits made to make your mouth water and Steak and Kidney Pies, appetising and mouth wateringly palatable treats.
Then it was cue Brian Moore. It was cue, if memory serves, Derek Dougan, Bob Mcnab and the inimitable Brian Clough. They were our footballing second family, our very own footballing community, an amalgam of wit, humour and severely critical voices.
Until that point my footballing consciousness had been sharply heightened by stirring FA Cup Finals dating back to the 1971 FA Cup Final between Arsenal and Liverpool. Now dear old Wembley Stadium looked grander and nobler than I'd ever seen it before. The pitch looked big, wide, lushly green and gloriously spacious. The old Twin Towers gazed down on the crowd like radiant sun beams.
And yet it all went terribly and catastrophically wrong. It all fell apart at the seams and by the end of the game England were rather hoping that the ground would swallow them up. That night England bombarded the Polish with their heaviest artillery and ammunition. They threw everything at Poland in the hope that the whole of their fortress would just crumble and finally crash to the ground with the loudest thud.
There was Norman Hunter, the rock at the heart of the English defence ably accompanied by his buddy Roy Mcfarland. Both were footballing giants, grizzly bears with a mean, moody and menacing air about them. We had Tony Currie, a silky smooth midfield player who controlled a football with delightful ease. Up front we had Mick Channon, a classic goal scorer whose famous windmill goal celebration would illuminate many a wintry Saturday afternoon. We had Martin Chivers, a powerhouse of a centre forward who would bulldoze defences with his muscular presence, formidable goal scoring instinct and admirable nose for a goal. When all was said and done England had an attacking flair and match winning authority that even Poland would never challenge.
But they did and the match finished in a 1-1 draw. England had to beat the Poles to qualify for the World Cup proper and that job specification had not been fulfilled. They'd faltered, stumbled and collapsed at the final hurdle. England would not be going to the World Cup of 1974 because somebody had told the England team that Upstairs Downstairs had just started and their concentration had been disturbed irreparably.
Perhaps Sir Alf Ramsey had just been told that Mr Hudson had just told off Ruby in the first edition of Upstairs Downstairs. Maybe the middle classes of England had received a rude cultural shock. It was all very upsetting and instantly forgettable. Gadocha and Lato had led the England defence a merry dance and scored that heart breaking first goal. Allan Clarke levelled the game with a face saving penalty but it was too little too late and England were out of the World Cup Finals.
So there you have it. October 17th 1973 still sends a traumatic shiver down every England's supporters spine. It was the night Brian Clough called the Polish goalie a clown and Sir Alf Ramsey just shrugged his shoulders. There is something about English football and gallant failure that still rankles and that night even the Bellamy household dimmed its lights, For Upstairs Downstairs read down in English football's basement. Still we must look to the future with hope and forget about that October night at Wembley Stadium. We have to believe.
Wednesday 5 October 2016
Help me reach my target to just 70 books ,Joe's Jolly Japes
Hi there,
My name is Joe Morris. I have now written three books the first of which was called Victorian Madness Lyrics, a festival of words, a carnival of expression and a fairground of frivolity. Its bonkers but great fun.
My second book No Joe Bloggs is my memoir, my life journey, a funny, moving and warmly nostalgic account of my childhood, my parents, grandparents, and a book that waxes lyrical about my favourite music, sports, movies, books, comedians and lyrical descriptions of Ilford, Essex where I grew up, London, the East End, West End and the world. I think No Joe Bloggs is both heart-warming, uplifting and life affirming.
In my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes I've given my personal account of the people, places and events that England holds so dear. Joe's Jolly Japes is my nostalgic take on football, England's performances through the years, the victories and defeats, the players and managers, my take on the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, England on a Sunday morning, Alan Bennett and the rich tapestry of life.
I'm an author and married to my lovely wife Bev with two children Sam who's 21 and Rachel who's 19. Writing for me has always been a wonderful distraction, enjoyment and pleasure. I hope you'll like my books and gain as much enjoyment in reading them as I did in writing them.
No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes are still available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online while Victorian Madness Lyrics is available at FeedaReadcom.
Best wishes
Joe Morris
The whole of the United States of America is getting very excited about the outcome of the great President of the United States. This time it's personal. It's personal, childish, farcical and more incomprehensible by the minute, day, week and month.
Here are the contenders. Hilary Clinton, wife of Bill the ex President and Donald Trump. What a pair of cards they are. It is the most astonishingly tacky, grotesque and wacky spectacle you've ever seen. Neither are flavours of any month and both must be wishing that sooner rather than later this ghastly charade was over. Once and for all. And yet the whole of the Western world and civilisation and the rest of the universe is both fascinated and in the same breath revolted by all of the custard pie throwing and dreadful childishness. What a commotion.
Clinton has thrown insults and slander at Donald. Donald has given Hilary a dose of his own medicine. It all belongs in the circus and the fairground booth and maybe in the boxing ring. Here in Britain we don't much care for such vulgar behaviour. Or so it seems. In Britain we love America because in the United States everybody has an opinion and nobody holds back.
Maybe for the last four months, all we've had to put up with is that relentless name calling, the pathetic taunting and teasing, those gossipy comments and those sniggering cackles Will it ever come to an end?
In Britian we do things rather differently. We exchange awfully aristocratic pleasantries at Mayfair dinner parties, hold endless discussions about the European Union - or Britain's withdrawal from the EU and then wonder whether will England ever be the same again after the savage mugging by Icelaland in Euro 2016. The Engand football team almost became a Punch and Judy show, a pale shadow of itself or just a hilarious caricature. But I believe in the essential goodness and excellence of England and Britain. I love our self mockery, our modesty, our restraint, our politeness, our devotion to duty, our belief that everything will turn out for the best. Our politicians, in some eyes, are just accomplished comedians and clowns, wishy washy speakers and orators. They promise you the world but then give you just a slice of cake. They stand up and sit down in the House of Commons and then just continue as if oblivious of the consequences.
These are my thoughts and reflections but in a sense they're humorous observations. They're my witty asides, my comments. It's October 2016, autumn has now arrived, conkers lie helplessly on the ground and so endeth my sermon. Laugh out Loud. Joe Morris- author of Joe's Jolly Japes, now at Amazon.
My name is Joe Morris. I have now written three books the first of which was called Victorian Madness Lyrics, a festival of words, a carnival of expression and a fairground of frivolity. Its bonkers but great fun.
My second book No Joe Bloggs is my memoir, my life journey, a funny, moving and warmly nostalgic account of my childhood, my parents, grandparents, and a book that waxes lyrical about my favourite music, sports, movies, books, comedians and lyrical descriptions of Ilford, Essex where I grew up, London, the East End, West End and the world. I think No Joe Bloggs is both heart-warming, uplifting and life affirming.
In my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes I've given my personal account of the people, places and events that England holds so dear. Joe's Jolly Japes is my nostalgic take on football, England's performances through the years, the victories and defeats, the players and managers, my take on the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, England on a Sunday morning, Alan Bennett and the rich tapestry of life.
I'm an author and married to my lovely wife Bev with two children Sam who's 21 and Rachel who's 19. Writing for me has always been a wonderful distraction, enjoyment and pleasure. I hope you'll like my books and gain as much enjoyment in reading them as I did in writing them.
No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes are still available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online while Victorian Madness Lyrics is available at FeedaReadcom.
Best wishes
Joe Morris
The whole of the United States of America is getting very excited about the outcome of the great President of the United States. This time it's personal. It's personal, childish, farcical and more incomprehensible by the minute, day, week and month.
Here are the contenders. Hilary Clinton, wife of Bill the ex President and Donald Trump. What a pair of cards they are. It is the most astonishingly tacky, grotesque and wacky spectacle you've ever seen. Neither are flavours of any month and both must be wishing that sooner rather than later this ghastly charade was over. Once and for all. And yet the whole of the Western world and civilisation and the rest of the universe is both fascinated and in the same breath revolted by all of the custard pie throwing and dreadful childishness. What a commotion.
Clinton has thrown insults and slander at Donald. Donald has given Hilary a dose of his own medicine. It all belongs in the circus and the fairground booth and maybe in the boxing ring. Here in Britain we don't much care for such vulgar behaviour. Or so it seems. In Britain we love America because in the United States everybody has an opinion and nobody holds back.
Maybe for the last four months, all we've had to put up with is that relentless name calling, the pathetic taunting and teasing, those gossipy comments and those sniggering cackles Will it ever come to an end?
In Britian we do things rather differently. We exchange awfully aristocratic pleasantries at Mayfair dinner parties, hold endless discussions about the European Union - or Britain's withdrawal from the EU and then wonder whether will England ever be the same again after the savage mugging by Icelaland in Euro 2016. The Engand football team almost became a Punch and Judy show, a pale shadow of itself or just a hilarious caricature. But I believe in the essential goodness and excellence of England and Britain. I love our self mockery, our modesty, our restraint, our politeness, our devotion to duty, our belief that everything will turn out for the best. Our politicians, in some eyes, are just accomplished comedians and clowns, wishy washy speakers and orators. They promise you the world but then give you just a slice of cake. They stand up and sit down in the House of Commons and then just continue as if oblivious of the consequences.
These are my thoughts and reflections but in a sense they're humorous observations. They're my witty asides, my comments. It's October 2016, autumn has now arrived, conkers lie helplessly on the ground and so endeth my sermon. Laugh out Loud. Joe Morris- author of Joe's Jolly Japes, now at Amazon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)