Brad Pitt- Allied and the Second World War.

Allied- a Second World War movie with Brad Pitt and a bittersweet ending.

Let's face it. The Second World War left the world in such a dreadful state that every Hollywood film ever made since 1945 may seem just a loose distortion of the facts and figures. We know what happened in the end of course. The Nazis were trampled, crushed, humiliated, broken in half, gleefully beaten into the ground and then just destroyed. Adolf, you didn't stand a chance mate. You were fighting a losing battle from the moment you invaded Poland. Of course you wanted to wipe out the whole universe and you were a megalomaniac and psychopath. But come on Hitler you were never likely to win and history will tell us that you were, quite literally kidding yourself even if you thought you had us on the run.

 The Second World War was one of the most tragic, heartbreaking, horrendous and harrowing events of the 20th century. It left us with a sense of guilt, resentment, betrayal, loss, grief, permanent damage, seemingly irreparable destruction, blood and most gruesomely, death. Families were cut in half, millions of men lost their life in the horrid glare of bombs and bullets, blown to smithereens on the battlefields of Europe and the rest of the world. But we fought back valiantly and we made sure that the Second World War would never happen again. We had guts and tenacity and Hitler ended up pointing a gun at his head, surrendering meekly and killing himself. Now that's a victory.

 It brought ugly carnage and mayhem, burning buildings, houses, factories, ruined lives and the charred ruins of once thriving communities. War just left us demoralised, devastated, hurt, injured and bleeding.  It wiped out a generation and generations after that. But it did wonders for our morale and powers of resilience because Hitler we just battled back and roared back to something like normality again. So here we are in the throes of the 21st century. Just to prove that you hadn't won anything.

 We're fitter, healthier and stronger and happier than we've ever been.  Of course wars have followed since the Second World War but you couldn't break our spirit or scare us because we were better than that Adolf. We've got harmony, peace and sanity. You can't take that away from us Hitler because the class of 2016 will stick two fingers up at you and remember you as one of the maddest genocidal lunatics ever to draw breath.

Right, that's got that off my chest. This evening my wife and I went to see the new Brad Pitt movie Allied. Allied was of course a Second World War story and as you've probably gathered, war, I think is  utterly avoidable, unnecessary, counter productive and deeply contemptible. Now you could call me some crusading pacifist and maybe I am whistling in the wind. Of course war doesn't solve anything and never will. Millions of lives have been lost in the bloodiest of all wars so there can be no logic and commonsense in killing poor innocent babies and children, blowing up houses or just murder on the most brutal scale.

So here's the story. Allied, starring that ever smouldering American heart throb Brad Pitt, is a powerfully told story set during the Second World War and featuring all of the relevant and inevitable narratives. Allied had stunning photography, brilliant cinematic production values, unforgettable scenery and a highly dramatic conclusion.

Now I have to tell you I've never been keen on war films. All of that blood, gore, death and heartache does nothing for me. In fact by the end I found myself wondering why I'd set eyes on it at all. But there was a  raw earthiness about Allied that was both thought provoking, intelligently delivered and gripping. By the end of the film I was on the point of tears but then remembered that it was just a film , a simple piece of escapism, just harmless make believe and yet it might have happened and that was disturbing.

Max ( Brad Pitt) meets and falls in love with Marianne (Marion Cotillard), set against a backdrop of wonderfully designed sets and countries that look joyously picturesque. Both Max and Marianne are though  somehow destined to meet tragedy head on. It was a love that foundered on the rocks of the French resistance, secrecy and betrayal. It was hard to know where our emotions were going. You were somehow drawn into the story's fluctuating fortunes and roller coaster emotions. One minute there was the triumph of love and the next you felt as if you were on some fairground ride and didn't know how to react.

And so for the scenery that provides Allied with its central focus. The film begins in a desert with Pitt emerging from the sand rather like Lawrence of Arabia. Then we're taken on a breathless adventure, racing backwards and forwards through the hot, dusty streets of Casablanca and then hurtling through more back streets before eventually ending up in the soulful and salubrious surroundings of Hampstead. Hampstead is leafy, slightly rural and very posh. Hampstead seems the most unlikely setting for a Second World War film but it does work. Hampstead has got big, wealthy houses, cafes with an upper class air about them and of course a lovely Heath. Hampstead is undeniably classy and may always be.

So it is that Allied gives us outrageous flirtation, a wild, whirlwind romance, beating, throbbing hearts, passion at its most tempestuous. Max and Marianne settle down after the War but then all the secrets come tumbling out of the cupboard and you'll have to see Allied because it is very gripping and explosive, action packed and full of  those very human feelings that make most of us tick. It is about a relationship that may leave you sighing and a cast of characters that will either tug on your heartstrings or boo at because they just deserve to be booed. Remember my reference to Nazis at the beginning of this piece. Well, needless to say, they lose quite embarrassingly. I'd recommend Allied because it's a well made film and remarkably accurate. Get your popcorn now. You'll like it.




 

Sir David Attenborough- a broadcasting legend

 Sir David Attenborough- a broadcasting legend.

Clever chap that David Attenborough. In fact the man is a genius, a wonderfully informative man, worldly, exceptionallly well read, erudite and a thoroughly nice man. You must have seen him or heard him. He's been on our TV for the best part of 60 years now so you couldn't have missed him or maybe you have and wished you had seen him. There are very few of us who haven't seen at least one or two, maybe dozens of his supremely brilliant and masterful nature programmes over the years.

 How can any of us have failed to wonder at the sheer breadth of knowledge of the man? If he had been on our supper quiz table I'd have been the happiest man in the world. I'd have shaken the hands of the people who organised the supper quiz and just revelled in the moment. We'd have won that supper quiz in the blink of an eye. It would have been won convincingly by half time and we'd have done a lap of an honour around the tables, boasting about our expertise and showing off our trophy.

Last night though, my wife and I sat down to watch the latest instalment of the David Attenborough series. It has to be said it was a masterpiece. I'd even go as far as saying that it has to be one of the best TV programmes of all time, maybe the best for quite some time. You'd have to a long way to find a programme so compelling, so stunningly photographed and so visually entrancing. In fact I'm not sure that anything beats it, matches it or surpasses it. I was glued to the screen, transfixed and at times almost totally absorbed by the sheer quality of the programme.

Planet Earth 2 takes us on a wonderful tour of the world, the dreamily diverse continents, landscapes, vast geographical distances and heaven sent perspectives. It also explores those lovely animals who inhabit those lands, who prowl, swoop, hunt, forage for food and then, for reasons that seem quite inexplicable to the human eye, try to rip each other to pieces.

Back in the late 1970s, Attenborough and his merry band of women and men took their cameras to what seemed the most inhospitable of all jungles. Here he found some of the most adorable gorillas ever to walk the planet. Suddenly he was among his new found friends, rolling around with them quite amiably and then discovering that gorillas, apart from dogs, could also be man's best friend. For the best part of a couple of minutes, the camera showed Attenborough smiling and playing and generally forming what looked like the most moving of all relationships.

In Planet Earth 2 Attenborough once again captured the moods, mannerisms, and the sheer volatility of our planet. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe we're not the only people who kill, injure and generally create all kinds of mayhem. It was explosive, violently aggressive and, to be honest just a bit frightening and disconcerting. Those animals can certainly pack a punch. You began to wonder why any of us should resort to such barbaric methods just for a bit of decent grub. Why do we challenge each other to fight when we can't get our own way. Do we have to go to war and fight each other to the point of death just because we're hungry?

Planet Earth gave us everything. It gave us blood, guts, horror, violence, conflict and distressing savagery. And that was only last night's edition. Can you imagine what it's like when desperation sets in and the animals get restless and agitated? It was all very unsavoury, hard to believe at times and hardly possible. When starvation kicks in and the going gets tough it is, quite literally, the survival of the fittest.

In last week's episode we had those memorable grizzly bears scratching themselves quite blissfully against trees and then scratching even more hilariously when they thought there was a BBC camera on them. There was that great clashing of the male and female eagle who quite clearly seemed  intent on murdering each other. And what about those cute black crows behind the eagles behaving so provocatively and spitefully that it was like watching children winding each other up most deliberately.

In one of the final sequences last week there was TV gold at its most classical and sparkling. Suddenly a group of wonderfully disciplined flamingos started marching, strutting and swaggering forward rather like a well drilled army. It was hilarious, stupendously funny and has to be seen over and over again. Long thin legs quickly scurried along at a fair old speed and in perfect formation. I, for one, would watch it on I Player repeatedly just to make sure that I hadn't imagined it.


Last night did not disappoint. I thought I'd seen everything. But I hadn't. There were wild horses lashing out with their legs, kicking furiously and then thrashing each other brutally when they thought their enemies hadn't suffered enough punishment. There were the zebras clomping menacingly through arid desert lands, eyes piercing and forever watchful. There were the lazy, languid elephants who always seem to do things at their pace, large feet and bodies plodding along at a most leisurely trot. It almost looked as if they didn't care where they were going or their intended destination. As long as they got to where they were going.

Then there were the cute squirrels who seemed to do nothing but hide nervously behind rocks and then try to camouflage themselves when they felt threatened. It was nature at its most intriguing, revealing, secretive and yet very purposeful. Yes there was a definite sense that once animals make up their minds to do something they'll stop at nothing to do it. I kept hoping that Planet Earth 2 would continue for days, weeks and months unremittingly. On second thoughts maybe not. You do have to go to sleep after all but it was a shame that it couldn't have gone on for much longer than it did.

Finally there was another high- light last night. The BBC cameramen were determined to get their special and precious moment. They cleared the decks, lay in wait and pounced decisively when they'd found what they were looking.Cut, Action and Camera. The Beeb had got their prey. It was all very painstaking but worth its weight in gold. You had to see it to believe it, It was quite the most amazing spectacle.

Huge swarms of locusts came from all directions and I mean all directions. Suddenly it was rather like watching a vast black curtain unfolding in front of your eyes. It was like a thick blanket flapping across the skyline, Here they came, thousands and thousands of locusts seemed to be flying over endless acres of deserts, following each other devotedly and quite harmoniously. There was no needle or aggro, bitterness or bad feeling. Just locusts and more locusts. They seemed to be addicted to the thrill of the flight. In the end one victorious BBC camereaman started  waving his hands at the locusts trying, it seemed to round them up like naughty nursery schoolchildren.


By the end of Planet Earth 2 my wife and I were almost thrilled at what we'd just seen, euphoric perhaps and possibly privileged to have seen what we'd seen. This was the most definitive nature programme, We turned to each other and gazed at each other with astonishment. Planet 2 Earth has to be one of the most original and thought provoking TV programmes of all time. In fact I think it deserves to win all of the awards at every TV awards ceremony. No programme ticked all of the right boxes, no programme made you think deeply about the things that the human race does to both itself and each other.  But then you thought about those grizzly bears and flamingos and you had to laugh -over and over again. It was TV doing at its most spellbinding. And that can be no bad thing.  

Fidel Castro- a dictator or just passionate revolutionary.

It's hard to know where to place Fidel Castro in the annals of the history book. Castro, who died today at the grand old age of 90 was either a dictator or passionate revolutionary. Castro was undoubtedly charismatic to his finger nails and up until to his last days in power it still seems hard to categorise him. Was he a bully, a brutal dictator or just a political activist who spent the best part of his life rallying his nation and punching his fists triumphantly and then accepting all the high fives of praise and flattery when things were going well in Cuba?

I claim no in depth knowledge of any historical figure as such and would be deeply unqualified to pass any considered comment on the man. But throughout the decades it always seemed that Castro was determined to leave his military and political legacy wherever he went. It is hard to think of him as some bloodthirsty leader intent on wreaking havoc and wreckage on all and sundry.

Castro though always seemed to have the ear of influential prime ministers or presidents and was never short of opinion or controversial statement. He could be, I suspect, both fanatical, dangerous, dogmatic and according to some of his friends or foes, a dreadful and deplorable man. But that didn't stop him from leading his Cuban nation to greatness and then possibly failure. Castro must have been a contradiction in terms at times, ruthlessly powerful and a man who simply trampled upon those who disliked him in one moment then kind to those who liked him. But then I could be wrong. Maybe Cuba and Castro were meant for each other. Fidel Castro was a leader of many decades and seasons.

Grandstand and World of Sport - it's what Saturdays were all about, the 1950s,60s and 70s

Grandstand and World of Sport, Saturday's sporting gems.

It's at times like this that my nostalgia filled head begins to ache for those two outstanding TV sports gems. Grandstand, the BBC's jewel in the crown and ITV, with their sports magazine offering World of Sport were like two lovable uncles arguing  about the price of bread and milk. Ah yes I hear you cry. The good old days. They were the best were they not? That's it. You had Dickie Davies on one side and for much of my youth Frank Bough, occasionally David Coleman then the suave and genial Des Lynam with that almost soft and relaxed voice, a voice that oozed calm, poise and cool professionalism.

But those days are no longer with us because maybe they belonged to the 1960s,70s and 80s. The cynics insist that they are now well past by their sell by date. Sport on TV was somehow an essential way of life on a Saturday afternoon. You switched on the box, adjusted that wonky old TV aeriel, banged the top of the telly with all your might if the set didn't work and then hoped that the fuzzy picture would right itself eventually.

While I was growing up, my parents always rented our TV. We had this small wooden box in the corner with the most fragile looking glass which acted as a screen. The goldfish bowls of the 1950s had now been replaced by something whizzier and more technologically advanced. The size of the screen was so small that there were times when, I feel sure, my parents found themselves in desperate need of a microscope or a good pair of binoculars.

The sophistication of the big 26 inch colour set had yet to take Britain by storm. In fact for most of my childhood the monochrome beauty of black and white would take pride of place in the corner of our living room. Ours was DER and a TV that had quite the most incredible dial indicating the two channels we could only receive until the advent of BBC2 which crept into our world almost grudgingly in 1967.

From what I can remember the dial itself consisted of random numbers which bore no relation to the channels themselves. Amusingly there were the unnecessary channels which seemed to be swallowed up by black and white shadows, completely lacking in any kind of clarity. Anyway we survived the whole ordeal because the BBC were the Voice of the Establishment and ITV were the smaller boys in the playground, threatening the BBC's haughty superiority but then throwing in the towel because they just couldn't keep up with them. I'm sure they weren't playground bullies but they did challenge them in the audience ratings. Occasionally it was fisticuffs and pistols at dawn but then both agreed to disagree and from time to time they kissed and made up. It was like a French entente cordiale, a gracious reconciliation.

And then so it was that at the end of the 1950s Grandstand one day arrived.. The BBC had given birth to a bonny, bouncing baby. It had red cheeks, a wonderful set of lungs, a voice that could be heard the length and breadth of Shepherds Bush and White City and the brightest of futures in front of it. Sitting proudly behind the desk was the very polished, public school and plummy Peter Dimmock. Now Grandstand would grow into an handsome child with strong white teeth and Dimmock was that assured father figure with impeccable English and quite the most upstanding of English manners.

For almost the whole of a Saturday afternoon Dimmock would claim bragging rights over ITV. There would be horse racing from Ascot mixed in with  juicy sporting snippets including a football magazine programme with Sam Leech and then spicy helpings of athletics and then the rugby. I can still remember the rugby union because although I was partial to a moderate amount of rugby it didn't really hold my attention for much longer than perhaps it should have done.

I can remember being captivated by the magically enthusiastic tones of the great Bill Mclaren but rugby just faded away rather like one of those Radio Luxembourg broadcasts. I did like though the then Five Nations tournament which always started at the beginning of February. Mclaren somehow brought rugby union to life with those rich Scottish vowels and consonants. Mclaren decorated the game of rugby union with those vivid splashes of colour and phrases that were somehow invented for the game of rugby union.

 When Mclaren waxed lyrical about line outs, rucks or scrums, Grandstand viewers knew where they stood. They believed they were actually at Mclaren's native Murrayfield or thumping over an oval ball between the posts at Twickenham. The Welsh of course were of course like an instinctive force of nature and when Gareth Edwards, Phil Bennett and Barry John were in full flow, Mclaren quoted Rabbie Burns. Yeats and Wordsworth. Wales were like a royal procession and then produced some of the most breathtaking hand to hand rugby the Scotsman had ever seen. It was as though the Grandstand viewers were being transported to some far off land of sweetness and light where sport was perfect.

Then right at the end of the day when it all became very serious and businesslike Grandstand gave us the classified football results. Here David Coleman would stand very formally in front of a huge board featuring all of the old First, Second, Third Division and Fourth Division. For a while it would become the regional North and South but all the while we'd all scrramble around for our football Pools coupon in the hope of striking it rich with the requisite eight draws.

 There was a real sense of personality about this time, an edge and piquancy about it. The classified football results was very much male territory, something that symbolised the role of husband and father. Of course the mums took a passing interest but Grandstand had a masculine trademark all of its own and all mums were interested to know was whether dad was still on speaking terms with the rest of the family. Football defined men and still does but Grandstand more or less determined dad's mood for the rest of the evening.

While the results were trickling in steadily, Coleman pointed to the teams on the board and then began to highlight the significance of the League tables. The scores were stuck almost dutifully onto the scoreboard and the whole of Britain would be satisfied and put at their ease. Then a now prehistoric looking teleprinter would chatter away to its heart content. Every so often this strange mechanism would print the results on to an endless sheet of paper and the ribbon would tap out the results with an almost metronomic charm. In thick black capitals Northampton 4 Grimsby 2 would roll across the TV screen furiously like a greyhound chasing a hare on a dog track.

Meanwhile on the other side ITV were giving us their version, a sporting variation on a theme. Now what can you say about London Weekend Television? I think I must have discovered World of Sport on one very innocent Saturday afternoon when the Saturday film on BBC 2, had become more or less part of the TV furniture. Then as if from nowhere World of Sport unexpectedly strutted onto the big stage like some fancy peacock flaunting its feathers. If the BBC could give us a rich diet of sport then ITV could do that just as well and perhaps even better.

Sport is now a wealthy, well packaged global commodity but for ITV World of Sport must have seemed like some glamorous cabaret artist who hadn't quite hit the big time. World of Sport then materialised like some pretty comet in the sky or some distant star that kept winking at you flirtatiously. But World of Sport was mean, moody and menacing and ready to face up to the BBC.

Suddenly there was Dickie Davies, a complete unknown but towards the end of the 1960s Davies would appear in a TV studio in his immaculately pristine shirt, suit and tie. Before becoming a TV sports presenter Davies had lived life on the ocean wave as a ship's entertainer. Now he would establish himself on the main deck with an afternoon of sport, wit, whimsicality and happy go lucky humour. All that World of Sport was missing was the on board game of quoits and breezy blarney, a TV figure for all seasons including the football season.

Oh yes we thought our Dickie was our Saturday afternoon treat. He made you feel good about yourself. He sold sport rather like the most persuasive salesman you'd ever met. He was a nice guy rather like a cheerful market trader who never gets down. He smiled almost permanently for the camera and then dispensed those homely words of wisdom that warmed the hearts of millions.

World of Sport gave us On the Ball, an informative football magazine show with the estimable and admirable Brian Moore. It was the lunchtime snack that kept on giving full of nutritious flavours and good, wholesome meat. And then World of Sport seemed to go off on this wonderful journey into the unknown, a land of mystique and familiar terrain.

The ITV 7 was ITV's horse racing spectacular. The ITV 7 would whisk the country away on some giddy and euphoric merry go round. There was Sandown,  Redcar, Uttoxeter, Haydock Park, Towcester and all points north, south and west. Nobody thought ITV had a chance. They were just dreaming, whistling in the wind if they ever thought they could compete with the BBC coverage with the likes of Dimmock, Coleman and the very capable Frank Bough. It was though a real and plausible contender to the BBC throne.

But undaunted, ITV knucked down hard for the fight and competed ferociously. They followed the horse racing with stock car racing, caber tossing from the Highland Games, log rolling, cheese chasing and cliff diving. World of Sport took us on a dizzy merry go round of the mysterious and the eclectic. They gave us darts with its ever growing and fanatical fan base, snooker which was just hynoptically fascinating and the outrageous wrestling, a sport that was unique but appealing. The critics must have thought it was somehow degrading and demeaning but my grand-dad loved it so who am I to pass judgement. And then there was chess, squash from time to time, no cricket much to ITV's regret and no rugby which was the BBC's property anyway.

And here am I on this late November afternoon reflecting on the desolate wasteland that is TV Sport. There's a pitiful apology for a BBC sports show which seems to last for roughly twenty minutes and seems like a withering insult rather than a sports programme. Meanwhile on ITV there is nothing at all or seemingly nothing at all. I'm inclined to think there's a conspiracy going on here. I think there's a sinister hidden agenda here. Those TV executives are not telling us something. We have a right to know. We still have our two weeks of Wimbledon tennis on the BBC but even the golf has vanished in the Sky and even the horse racing seems to be flip flopping between the channels.

 Maybe sport is no longer that valuable asset it used to be. Perhaps it's quite content to lurk on the sidelines rather like a substitute in football limbering up on the touchlines. Sport just seems to be like an ethnic minority rather than the popular majority. There is something very heartbreaking, even poignant about the lack of proper sport. Maybe TV has just forgotten about sport, cold shouldering, boycotting and ostracising it as if it had committed some heinous sin.

 Sport deserves something much better, something that is far more enriching and life affirming. It needs to bring back Grandstand or World of Sport or even both. Those TV executives have got a lot to answer for. I think this should be properly debated in the House of Commons, legislation passed with a full hearing at the Old Bailey. There is a terrible miscarriage of justice and the powers that be must examine their conscience. I hereby claim a guilty verdict on those who refuse to bring back proper TV sport. They should be ashamed of themselves.

But then we look back to those golden years of Saturday sport on the TV when it had colour, joy, individuality, Brian Moore wearing a thick brown sheepskin coat and sitting on a cold, wintry TV gantry on a Saturday afternoon. We remember its soul, its feeling, its nervous tension, John Rickman doffing his trilby hat at the horse racing, its spontaneity, its glittering presentation, that plane in the sky which introduced World of Sport and then its blissful disregard of rules, regulations and boundaries. How I miss World of Sport and Grandstand. We miss the activity, electricity, the magic of it all, the unexpected novelty of it all, the thrilling anticipation, Wembley Stadium on Cup Final day when it all came right or wrong. Above all we miss sport.  


        

Happy Birthday me.

Birthday yet again.

Oh well I might as well admit it. It's my birthday today. There I've said it. Not for the first time because I've already mentioned it 54 times so maybe it begins to sound as though I might be repeating myself. But then again it does seem a convenient excuse to make the same statement over and over again in case anybody needed reminding. Mind you birthdays and the passing of years do begin to assume a lesser importance as you grow older.

I can still remember the Hornby train set that my parents gave me for one of my early birthdays. How my dad and I delighted in setting up the rails, train carriages and goods wagons for ages. What glorious fun and simple, innocent pleasure. I was always grateful for birthday presents because to be honest that's the way I always felt about presents. I was never demanding as a kid and can still remember the Lego sets, Etch A- Sketch and Frustration I was given as well. They were great and heady days because as a kid I was just happy to receive whatever my parents could afford.

So here am I 54 years later and it only seems like yesterday. It was on a snow bound, wintry November morning at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel that yours truly arrived just in time for breakfast. My mum tells me that it was 5.30 in the morning and the winter of 1962 would prove to be one of the coldest winters of all time. In fact for the best part of six months my parents were marooned in their Evering Road flat in Stoke Newington, North London. The heating was constantly on, the flat itself seemed to shiver and a sad alcoholic by the name of Betty almost set fire to the place.

Back in those now far off days of 1962 we may have had nothing but we never complained. There were no tin baths in the living room just a simple piece of carpet, a two bar heater and a cosy little telly. We were though content with the basic furnishings and the simple practicalities of life in the early 1960s. Everything was worth shillings, tanners and crowns and the standard of living could hardly have been more different. Johnny Haynes, Fulham's favourite son was pocketing 100 quid a week. Of course we were happy. Life had contentment and we were together as a family which was all that mattered.

It's at times like this that you begin to think back to those early birthdays. That frozen winter of 1962 and the day of my birth reminded me of those first couple of weeks. My mum never tires of telling me of the week after my birth. Setting out for what became the most rare of shopping expeditions she parked her pram outside a sweet shop in Stoke Newington and promptly acquired both her groceries and all of the bare necessities of life. Her son though had been accidentally neglected and almost regarded as an afterthought. But mum I forgive you.

 And yet for one brief and inglorious moment I suddenly became a minor consideration. She walked out of the shop and promptly forgot I was there. How could she have completely cold shouldered and jettisoned  her first born screaming at the top of my voice and desperate for attention? It may have been a minor moment of absent mindedness and the most unforgivable of all indiscretions or maybe she just didn't know that she'd just given birth just a few weeks earlier.

Still you're forgiven mum. I can only assume that you must have been so cold that even the birth of your first child had lost its lustre and that warm radiant glow. Maybe she was more concerned with sprinting back through the snow and rushing back to the warm sanctuary of our first home. This may have been a mitigating circumstance and she may have been slightly embarrassed and sheepish when reminded of this unfortunate lapse of memory. But the truth remains that I was just overlooked and ignored and not at the forefront of her busy mind. And yet I'll never hold a lasting grudge against you, mum so I'll let bygones be bygones. I'll never remind you again.

So here I find myself on my 54th birthday and reflecting on the whole symbolism of your first day on Planet Earth. What exactly do birthdays mean to us or the whole meaning of celebration? I think there comes a point in our life when we feel that birthdays simply become just another day, date, month or week in the year. It represents the full circle of your year, the completion of another 12 months of living, a major celebration of our achievements, perhaps a cautionary tale of what happened when you took things for granted but above all the high point of fruition when families gather around a pub, shower with you presents and re-assure you that you're a jolly good fellow or lady. Now what could be better than that. I've just enjoyed the loveliest plate of fish and chips with my lovely wife and we're having a quiet night in. How I love birthdays.

Let it rain let it rain.

Rain- let it rain, let it rain.

Yesterday it rained quite heavily. Yes, my friends it rained. It rained because we saw it, you saw it and I saw it but didn't quite feel it. The BBC, ITV, Channel 4 and 5 newscasters told us about it, confirmed its existence, made it headline news. You couldn't avoid it even if you'd tried. It followed you on the way to school, university, the shops, work and everywhere north, south, east and west. It hammered down on the rooftops and bounced off the chimney stacks with an almost comical inevitability.  Sadly it led to torrential flooding, crashing down onto pavements categorically and  overwhelming us. It was just unavoidable. You must have seen it. It was great fun to watch.

Oh the English weather. There can be no other all consuming topic that so dominates our lives. It's either hot or cold, lukewarm, not warm enough, too cold or it just keeps raining. But hey hold on. We love the rain privately. How can you not like the rain? It makes us laugh occasionally. It gave something Gene Kelly something to dance about and Morecambe and Wise something to send up and satirise.

Sadly though the rain is something that seems to be synonymous with the English climate rather like roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and veg satisfies our Sunday lunchtime hunger. If it stopped raining we'd wonder why and possibly conduct an inquest on the subject. But rain remains one of our most charming pre-occupations because the British can't get enough or less of it. We'd like to see less of it but even if it stopped for a while we'd soon wonder what had happened to it.

Today was consistently dry but it felt for a moment that the rain was just waiting for the right moment. But last night my wife and I were watching the TV and suddenly the wet stuff began to fall persistently and then seriously. We heard it. The streets outside sounded like some distant car wash, the rain washing against our windows and then increasing its strength, pounding down eventually  and then stopping for a while to take stock of what had just happened. At the Weather Centre they call it persistent precipitation but I think of it as good old fashioned rain.

Across the road the first Christmas decorations were beginning to show, But it was the rain that seemed to have fallen. It was quite possibly the first rain some of us had seen since - well, since June or August. Or maybe it had rained and we hadn't been aware of it. Perhaps it was just a rumour or some optical illusion. Still I'm inclined to think rain should be celebrated rather than lamented. At some point during the year the weather has to adopt its traditional patterns, its regular cycles.

But when the rain arrives our reactions or more or less predictable. We pass comment, we observe, we remark on its frequency or rarity. It always rains and in Britain it never stops. It rains on our birthday, summer picnics in the park, barbecues in the garden and always, always, during the summer. Do we ever get any respite from the rain? Once it starts raining it just keeps going. It rains on hedges. It rains on flowers. It rains on cars. It rains on buses. It rains on trees, It rains on everything, It disrupts Wimbledon tennis, cricket Test matches and then it just feels as if it's destined to rain until the end of time. It's just boring though and repetitive I hear you say. But then remember summer brings with it the potential for hot, warm and sunny days. Terribly sorry though it's Britain we're talking about, not Spain, Italy, Greece, the USA, the Caribbean or some paradise island where the palm trees always sway.

In Britain it rains on hills, on country lanes, on poor sheep, cows, cats and dogs, wind turbines, cafes, buildings, restaurants, the meadows of our green and pleasant land, the post office down the road, the ditches, walls, the valleys and vales, the rivers and those little thatched cottages next to another thatched cottage.

The rain never discriminates or makes any concession to the time of the year. It rains during the winter, summer, spring, or autumn. There are warnings but there can be no knowing when or why. One day you can fling open your curtains or blinds and the clouds will stare darkly at you and you've no resistance to it. But rain is marvellously refreshing and invigorating. Rain though has always been  top of the news agenda because it's newsworthy. A world without rain would be somehow much less exciting and possibly much the poorer.

To be honest rain induces a marvellous sense of  comfort and warmth. We look outside our windows with a pleasant sense of relief. We're watching Strictly or David Attenborough's wondrous new production on the animals of the world. How good does that feel? There is something soothing and calming about the sound of rain, something that is strangely relaxing about that gentle, incessant tapping against our window panes. It has its very own music, tempo, rhythm and insistence about it. It is, particularly in August, quite poetic and literate, verging on the romantic. Maybe this is due to the fact that August is on the threshold of autumn and although it shouldn't rain it does and in a way it is poetically welcome. First it comes down in brief showers and then it just comes down in buckets.

The world of literature lends itself very neatly to rain. George Orwell, that great 20th century social commentator once said that it always seemed to rain in Norway which does come as surprise to the British because we thought we had a monopoly on rain. It's our rain and it's something we're rightly proud of.

Then there was the delightful Somerset Maugham, a man whose short stories were so vividly and beautifully descriptive that even rain was written about with love and care. Maugham's short story, if I remember correctly, about rain was just astonishingly lovely. No-one has ever written about rain with such feeling and affection. It almost felt as if he might have been writing about a precious ornament or a day in the country.

And yet the rain continues to stir our senses, influencing our mood or day which maybe it shouldn't but probably does. If it rains we can forget about hanging our washing on the line or popping down to Southend for the day in June. Rain, we think is a inconvenience, a hindrance, a preventative measure,  but probably quite amusing because you can throw your umbrella up in the air, rush to the bus stop, pull your coat over your head, throw your inhibitions away and then take off your hood just for the sheer fun of it.

Children take enormous delight in jumping into puddles which they couldn't if the sun was out. Rain takes you through the whole gamut.of emotions. There is the sorry realisation that it's here and then an immediate  recognition that without it the crops would never grow and besides it hadn't rained for I don't know how long. There is the inherent  dread and fear that it'll carry on for the next six weeks and six months - probably for much longer than it should but then it always rains at this time of the year.

Oh I don't know. Let it rain. Let Michael Fish come out of retirement and make another accurate prediction without quite the devastating impact of 1987. No, we can take the storms, the thunder and lightning and those despairing deluges. I still miss though those old BBC weather forecasters such as Bert Ford, Barbara Edwards, the aforementioned Michael Fish and sundry others. Ford, from what I can remember seemed to live at the Weather Centre and always seemed to get the weather almost right but not quite, a man of great foresight and vision but never quite sure even if he privately was.

In the old days of course it didn't rain quite as much as we thought it had.  According to Randy Crawford it was always a 'Rainy Night in Georgia'. It certainly didn't rain exactly 40 years ago because in 1976 we had the most sweltering, gloriously warm and tropically delicious heatwave. It had been of the balmiest summers Britain had ever enjoyed.

The memory tells me that, finally on the August Bank Holiday, the first cracks of thunder and flashes of lightning returned to British shores. It lashed down  with meaning and intent. It almost felt at the time that we would never witness rain in any kind of form ever again. In Britain maybe our rain is dramatic in its intensity, deliberate in its ferocity. Wow did you see that rain yesterday. But it always rains in England and hey it'll stop in a minute and Nigel Farage will stop drinking pints of Guinness and Theresa May will look comfortable when she steps onto a stage and Donald Trump will actually look and sound like an American president. And then finally somebody will actually add Brexit to the English dictionary and we'll still be none the wiser.

Rain is though has almost come to define the British culture. It's woven into the social fabric of our way of life. Perhaps it is annoying and infuriating and unnecessary, Perhaps it should be forbidden and banned for ever more, Perhaps it should be outlawed, banished to somewhere else. Maybe there should be some embargo placed on it, Maybe it should be taxed, held to account, driven to another city, county or state, punished, reprimanded, told to stay behind after school and hold its head in shame. Perhaps the rain should be driven away, excommunicated, tried in a court of law, extradited, exposed on one of those crime TV programmes, ridiculed, attacked on Question Time or just told to stop once and for all.

The fact though remains that rain is here to stay. There it goes again, slanting and sweeping across your face as you wrestle with that wretched umbrella again. There is an enchanting regularity about the rain because if it gets too hot and humid we'd probably miss it. Oh yes I think most of us would readily admit that if it didn't rain we'd probably ask questions and somehow miss it. Don't we love it.though. Now let me dig out my raincoat again. Let it rain, let it rain, let it rain.    

Premier League managers- who would be the head honcho

Premier League managers- now who would want that job?

Now let me see where was I? Oh yes the Premier League and the mid November re- percussions. Who's top of the Premier League and who's in the middle of it and who's propping up the bottom. The usual suspects it seems but this season normal service has been resumed.

You see last season Leicester City did something they'd never done in their hitherto mundane history. They won the Premier League title or the old First Division as we traditionalists used to call it until the big boys of commercialism came along and supposedly spoilt everything. Leicester were just terrific and a breath of fresh of air.  Up until that point the Premier League had been dominated by the Monopolies commission. It was Manchester United who won the League ad infinitum, Chelsea who just followed suit under Jose Mourinho, then in between Arsenal who played and still play some of the most scintillating football ever seen.

Then one day somebody found Richard the Third in a Leicester car park or rather the remains of Richard the Third and then Leicester City, by some bizarre coincidence, won last season's Premier League. Last season Leicester were like an express train, racing through the countryside and just unstoppably relentless. In fact they were so fast that even the good people of Crewe didn't see them for dust. When Claudio Ranieri's men lifted the Premier League trophy last season, the people who championed the underdog whooped with delight. If Leicester could do it then so could they.

But come this season and Leicester are beginning to realise that last season was just a fabulous dream, the stuff of Hollywood film makers rather than pragmatic reality. Now they languish near the bottom of the Premier League after yesterday's 2-1 defeat at Watford. It all seems desperately unfair and yet when they polish off their Sunday lunch they may reflect on those heady days with just a touch of fondness.

The top four sounds much more like the the customary supporting cast. It's Liverpool, followed by Manchester City, Chelsea, Arsenal and Spurs. For the nostalgic among us, it looks much the same as it did a couple of seasons ago and there is a vague resemblance to the 1970s. Sadly both Derby, Leeds and Nottingham Forest are nowhere to be seen but their back stories have been well documented. For Dave Mackay, Don Revie and Brian Clough, read Jurgen Klopp, Pep Guardiola, Antonio Conte, Arsene Wenger and Mauricio Pochettino. The faces are startlingly different but the mannerisms are much the same.

Liverpool now top the Premier League and it almost feels like the 1970s and 80s all over again. Now though under Jurgen Klopp they are now a team re-invented and re-juvenated. There is a buzz and vibrancy around the newly re-furbished Anfield that feels very comforting. Nobody will ever forget the extraordinary deeds of Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan but it now feels as though the present day Liverpool are beginning to believe that the glories of the old days can now be resurrected and brought up to date.

So Jurgen Klopp. What is there to be said about this smiling and happy-go lucky German. He may have won a League title with Borussia Dortmund but now Liverpool is his new project, his new challenge and assignment. So far so good for Klopp. Apart from the defeat at Burnley, Liverpool look irresistible and a side beautifully designed. They may be cursing the lost years since their last League title but Liverpool look the business this season, a side fit for all purposes.

Klopp is an anthroplogist's dream. The body language is just intriguing. Jurgen Klopp sits in his dug out thoughtfully, glasses neatly perched on his nose and gazing out at his new domain. The Klopp beard is a darkish, greying creation. The hair is much the same, a chaotic arrangement of grey and black that just seems to sway in the breeze from time to time.

But it's the Klopp appearance that is most revealing. He sits there in his dug out, track suit tightly bound and hood neither off nor on. Every so often Klopp leaps out of his dug out like some animated Lottery winner, punching the inevitable fist when Liverpool score and then retreating reluctantly into his seat as if a teacher has just told him to sit down. When Liverpool score though Klopp becomes a man possessed, running up and down the touchline and grinning wildly from ear to ear.

There is something of the art student about Klopp or some energetic rock icon, possibly one of the unknown members of the 1970s band Kraftwerk, It would be easy to stereotype Klopp as some beer swilling hedonist from Munich. But Klopp shows a genuine zest for life and if Liverpool do win the League again they may have street parties on Merseyside or beerfests in Dortmund. But I like Klopp because he just seems convinced that one day his achievements will be recognised all over the world. Perhaps he'll appear on TV and tell everybody how proud and honoured he is to be manager of Liverpool. You can hardly blame him for doing so.

Behind Liverpool and Klopp are Manchester City, a team now bankrolled by millions and billions of Middle East money and recent winners of the Premier League. City, of course used to play to thousands in music halls up and down the country. Just over 25 years ago City were staring at the black hole of obscurity. They were teetering on the edge of the cliff, perched precariously on the precipice. Wow, City almost went flying over the edge helplessly only to be pulled back from the brink in the 90th minute. One minute they were in the desert of the old Third Division and now they're flying high in the new glitzy Premier League with two recent titles in the bag.

Whenever City are discussed in pubs and clubs the memories will be dug out like those old fashioned holiday snaps we used to take with our Kodak Instamatic camera. In those misty far old days the names of Malcolm Allison and Joe Mercer would be remembered with a warm reverence. Allison and Mercer picked City off the floor, brushed them down and converted them into one of the most stylish teams in the country. The names of Bell, Lee, Marsh and Summerbee are rather like hymns in a prayer book. They were chanted and idolised  by the Maine Road faithful and then acclaimed as League champions, Allison, for ever the outrageous party animal, would take off his fedora hat and Mercer would just sit patiently next to him rather like a lovable uncle with just a hint of wordly wisdom on his face.

Now though City have got Pep Guardiola, the former Barcelona manager and one of the most well respected coaches in the world. Guardiola is very much the modern manager. He's hip, cool and mainstream. Guardiola is just a dynamic force who may one day conquer the world. He looks as though he might win the World Cup with Spain for the next 30 years. The face is sickeningly unlined, he looks as though he sips Tequillas every night and, to all outward appearances, is admirably fit. He marches out to that Etihad Stadium dug out like a man who's just arrived from an art exhibition or some glamorous film premiere.

Guardiola is very much the product of his generation, a smart and debonair man who takes everything in his composed stride. The Guardiola hair is severely cropped but perfectly combed. His suits are cut to perfection and there is almost something presidential about him that demands respect. He smiles agreeably at his adoring fans, milks the applause and then shakes the hand of his rival manager with an almost commendable politeness.

You know what they say about football managers. It's always their fault when things go wrong. They're either stone faced and uncaring or just incapable of doing their job. But when their teams go out onto the pitch and win handsomely then everyday is Christmas, their birthday and everything is well with the world. Give that man a great big whacking pay rise, a holiday in the sun and the freedom of the City. Don't you just love it when your team win the League and then keep winning it because it's perhaps a habit? Sadly though none of them can get it exactly right. It would be great if they could though.

Guardiola though looks totally concentrated, a man of rampant ambition and tremendous charisma. He reminds you of the chairman of a company who sits at the top of the table and then radiates confidence, professionalism personified. Guardiola drinks capuccinos rather than coffee and a gentle salad for lunch. He wears sartorially elegant tank top pullovers and Armani shirts and trousers. Above all Guardiola looks the part and never out of place.

The new man at Chelsea is Antonio Conte, an Italian with all the enthusiasm of a child with his first railway set. Conte charges up and down his Stamford Bridge touch-line as if he can't believe just how lucky and privileged he may be. His predecessor Jose Mourinho was almost too good to be true and it's hard to know whether Conte should see Mourinho as a role model or not.  For now the feeling and vibe is a good one and Conte is settling into the Chelsea hot seat as if it were the easiest and most straightforward job in the world.

Conte is dark skinned, swarthy and endearingly restless. If only he could keep still for a minute. Maybe he ought to listen to some relaxation tape. There is none of Mourinho's alleged arrogance about him but the man is forever skipping and jumping up and down with a vaguely obsessive air. Once again Conte is booted and suited and you're inclined to think that Conte lives in Saville Row. Occasionally his body language borders on the hilarious but there is a lovely excitability about him that leaves you breathless.

And then there is Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger who seems to have been at the club for ever. 20 years ago Wenger replaced the now sadly forgotten Bruce Rioch. What, the critics, said, did he ever achieve with Arsenal. Zilch, nothing, rien. Oh well it could have been worse I suppose. When Wenger arrived at the old Highbury nobody had ever heard of the Frenchman. Arsenal fans must have thought it was some April Fool's joke. In time though Wenger would come to be hailed as Caesar, a giant of a man, an all conquering serial winner who won Premier League titles and FA Cups as if they were going out of fashion. The trophies were on the table and the spoils of victory were his.

Regrettably for Arsenal fans, the Premier League has not decorated the Emirates Stadium for quite a while but Wenger remains undeterred. This season it all looks as if that 10 year trek through the wilderness could be coming to a joyous end. Arsenal, once again sit poised like a lethal cobra, ready to strike with a vengeance. Arsenal remain one of the best organised and the most skilfully run of all Premier League clubs. They're structurally correct and a side with the strongest of foundations rather like a five star hotel in Park Lane.

Wenger continues to look as he's always looked. The face is gaunt, haggard and well chiselled. He still looks as if he's seen a thousand ghosts and at times looks totally drained of all emotion. The cheek bones are more prominent than ever, the eyes both hollow and lost. Maybe the stresses and strains that football frequently imposes on football managers are beginning to catch up with him. The rest of Wenger's body looks in a total state of revolt and insubordination.

He leans forward in a track suit that looks as though it just wants to be free of him. In fact keen observers of the Wenger persona will have noticed that the said track suit refuses to zip up when Wenger tells it to. Then his body hunches forward, tension in his eyes, cheeks and now a strained forehead. He looks like a tormented soul who would much rather be pruning his roses than managing a football club. But Wenger is still as thin as a rake, a professsor of the arts and sciences, a connoisseur of a fine wine. Wenger is also fashionably devoted to the tank top but the shirt, suit and tie never desert him. Above all though Wenger is a brilliant manger whose record now may never be challenged.

Last but not least there is Spurs boss Mauricio Pochettino. Spurs are one of football's great romantics, always harking back to the glory, glory days of the Double at the beginning of the 1960s. For years Bill Nicholson was adored by Spurs fans, a man with wisdom and foresight in his CV. In fact some Tottenham fans were inclined to believe that Nicholson was born with these inherent qualities.

But times move on decades roll by and the class of 2016 has given Spurs Mauricio Pochettino. Pochettino is a much quieter, more restrained figure than any of his contemporaries   Pochettino rarely looks flustered or bothered by anything. The coat collar is pulled up sharply and there is something of the Maigret about him. This is not to suggest that he is a devious spy or cop but Pochettino watches everything with an eagle eye. The stubble on his chin though does give him an air of mystique, Perhaps this is a good thing.

So there you are. A list of the great and good of the Premier League managers contiunes to remain a wonderful source of fascination. My study leaves me with some wonderfully enduring images. There was the tight coat of Ronald Koeman at Everton who seems to have buttoned up securely for the winter, the worried frowns of Sunderland's David Moyes and Mike Phelan at Hull, the designer coated sophistication of Claudio Ranieri at Leicester City and the totally disenchanted Jose Mourinho who looks like a man who may have lost thousands and millions at the casino tables. Football management hey. It's a thankless and unenviable task.

Not another relegation battle.

West Ham - not another relegation battle.

As a disgruntled West Ham supporter for over 40 years, I should be used to disappointment by now. I'm sure it's in the bloodstream coursing through my veins and creating havoc with my blood pressure. There can be no medical cure or antidote for all those years of long suffering and purgatory, the years of standing and shivering stoically on  the South Bank on the once beloved Upton Park.

 What, I expect, would those hardened Irons supporters give for a good old fashioned cavalry charge when Brooking and Devonshire mesmerised opposition defences with their direct running and immaculate playing skills. Alan Devonshire was the sorcerer and cut throat rapier, darting and dashing across Upton Park with all the cavalier brilliance of D'Artagnan in his pomp.

Then there was Trevor Brooking, clever, cunning and smooth, a player endowed with all the gifts of the learned and academic. The overwhelming impression is that Brooking would have made a wonderful lawyer or City stockbroker had he decided not to pursue a notable and distinguished career in football. Brooking was full of invention and originality, a player who glided and swayed across the pitch with all the studied grace of an Olympic gymnast.

 When the immensely knowledgeable West Ham manager Ron Greenwood once told Brooking to shield the ball away from opponents and then pass the ball it was thought to be one of the most revolutionary ideas ever to cross an old First Division managers mind. Brooking quickly changed the shape of his body and then in one incredible manoeuvre, Brooking would shield the ball before elegantly rolling his body again. In a flash, the ball would be instantly released to a team-mate as if by magic and West Ham were instantly transformed into an attacking force.

But what now for the Hammers, the Irons and manager Slaven Bilic. The Hammers heart- breaking 3-2 defeat to their so called sworn enemies Tottenham at White Hart Lane is another sharp reminder of how fortunes can so cruelly change within the space of just one season and now almost half way through the next. The wheels have fallen off, the engine has just stopped working and all of the derring do of that last season at Upton Park is now some glorious and distant fairy tale.

Where exactly has it all gone all so sadly wrong. We checked the gears and carburettor just before the season and everything seemed to be functioning normally. But the old problems had re-surfaced once again and oil seemed to be dripping everywhere. So we just assumed that it was just a blip, a stumble, a temporary setback or two. But oh no this was a trip back to the mid 1970s when West Ham seemed to be permanently anchored in the bottom half of the old First Division without so much as a decent explanation. Don't think we weren't tempted to take the Hammers to court for these unforgivable lapses in defensive concentration. Alvin Martin and the immovable captain Billy Bonds were always attentive and conscientious central defenders but when Pat Holland and Geoff Pike weren't on duty it all seemed to go up in calamitous smoke. It was defeat after defeat or goal- less or score draw over and over again. So irritatingly frustrating and yet the theme was a repetitive one. I was tempted to throw my claret and blue programme into some far corner of the South Bank.

I first jumped onto the claret and blue bandwagon in circa 1978 and this was a revelation. My initiation ceremony was quite painful. The first Upton Park matches were profitable ones with wins against Stoke City, Bristol City, and Manchester City. Then it all seemed to go horribly wrong. True there were occasions when everything went delightfully right but there was never a happy medium. West Ham simply refused to obey their attacking principles. The script always looked an attractive one but in a matter of 90 minutes it all went to pot and ragged tatters. If I didn't know better I could have sworn West Ham did this deliberately if only to test our emotional reflexes. How deeply cruel and unfair but the truth was that they had only themselves to blame.

Finally and dreadfully but perhaps inevitably the Hammers were relegated at the end of the 1978-79 season by Liverpool, who almost seemed to win the old First Division by several country miles in those days. I can still smell the despair and disillusionment in the air as the Hammers tumbled out of the top flight almost compliantly. Not so much as a whimper. It seemed somehow fated and pre-ordained and to this day I can still see myself turning to my school friends, who variously supported both Liverpool and Leeds and just looking perplexed. Why did my team West Ham have to be relegated while Leeds and Liverpool were still rubbing shoulders with the jet set, the big boys?


Roll forward to the present day and the excuses for this current state of turmoil are pretty weak. How to explain this very uncomfortable and stomach churning malaise. If only West Ham could have exceptional seasons every year and perhaps finish seventh every season for ever more. Wouldn't it release the burden of  anxiety and make the season that much more bearable. But then maybe the supporters would wonder why things were going so well. There must be a reason for this seemingly split personality. If only West Ham could go through an entire season without worrying and struggling, looking nervously over their shoulders as defeats became more common than victories. But then perhaps our supporters would miss that thrilling battle of relegation, that perennial fight against the drop into the Championship or the old Second Division. In a way perhaps this is the scenario that best suits the club when reality sets in.


So whose fault is this? Who are the Hammers to blame for this depressing slump, this almost yearly rendezvous with defeat and defeat.   The enormously gifted Dimitri Payet is a pale shadow of the creative playmaker of last season, Manuel Lanzini, the impish Argentinian with a cloak of purple genius around his shoulders, has yet to re-discover the dazzling artistry of last season and the defence seems to have taken an early holiday in Mauritius. Definitely not paradise surely.

Now the new London Stadium, once the Olympic Stadium and the Hammers new beautiful home, is questioned and crticised. The reality is of course that West Ham are rather like the proverbial fish out of water. From the rather cramped and claustrophobic Upton Park, West Ham now find themselves  the tenants of some grand country estate. But the swagger of last season has now been replaced by some very awkward body language. The proper channels of communication have broken down and West Ham are all wooden, leaden footed and Morse Code.

There can be no obvious reasons for panic but after recent crowd problems at the London Stadium during the League game against Watford and the ELF Cup victory against Chelsea, the immediate future begins to look distinctly less than rosy and encouraging. Ouch defeats hurt for West Ham. Surely things will get better and once adjustment to their new surroundings has been achieved maybe the Hammers can take off again and once again do their Thames Ironworks ancestors proud once again. Before the League Cup game against Accrington I did a quick tour of the new London Stadium surroundings and noticed a large bell outside one of the entrances. There must surely be resounding victories on the horizon. Time for the Hammers to hit back. Come on you Irons.

Oh for the joys and not so joys of red tape

Red tape and bureaucracy- don't you just hate it.

Last night on BBC's Question Time with David Dimbleby, four people sat around a table and discussed the same old topics, the same old issues. Suddenly it all began to sound like the proverbial cracked 78 record, a repeat version of last week's episode and in the end none of us had learnt anything and some of us were just grateful for a welcome night's sleep.

What we were faced with quite the most wretched hour of hot- air, political platitudes and familiarity breeding contempt. Somehow Question Time has just become bogged down in a  dull and annoying predictability. The confrontations and arguments are almost tiresome, the audience seem to get hot and bothered for no apparent reason and as if on cue the bear- pit turns into a battlefield.

But here at home my family and I are beginning to wonder whether anybody really cares. Our son is stuck in a rut and we're all beginning to wonder whether help will ever be forthcoming. At times like this the knee jerk reaction is to blame the Government for our problems and complications. And yet the truth is that at the moment, our family are just at a complete loss as to what to do.

Our son, whose university graduation ceremony my wife and I attended during the summer, is now out of work, with little in the way of money and is naturally concerned about his welfare. He lives with his girlfriend and is trying to make ends meet as best he can. But the dark shadows of red tape and officialdom are beginning to lengthen.

I'm sure things will. all being well, sort themsleves out but you begin to wonder whether those in positions of authority really do have our best interests at heart. Or will they just remain these faceless, incompetent bureaucrats in the House of Commons who sit on their backsides all day and just play on Facebook?  Our son and his girlfriend are struggling to keep their heads above water and no help or guidance is forthcoming at all. It is now that they need a compassionate voice and sympathetic shoulder.

Our son did our family enormously proud with his teaching degree but then the cold realisation set in with a vengeance. For personal reasons he decided not to become a teacher. Now he is cast onto some horrible scrap- heap. The Job Centre, which almost became a 1980s creation in Britain, has made it abundantly clear that they can do nothing to make his life any easier than it should be.

This is not an impassioned rant against the Government but are we ever going to be released from the chains of Brexit and Donald Trump? How much longer are we going to be subjected to the rantings and ravings of barely tolerable politicians who keep reading off the same auto- cue? When will those men and women in sharp suits ever stop delivering ropy old rhetoric, ageless grievances about the state of the nation and then just blame each other for their atrocious ineptitude.

My son is in need of proper guidance from people who care about people. But there are embarrassing deficiencies and anomalies in the system. The benefits system is not helping our son and the Job Centre may just as well not be there so ineffectual is it. Surely there is somebody or some organisation who can reach out and lend a helping hand. Whatever happened to the warm- hearted benevolence of a society who cares and believes in the human touch? Surely this is not too much to ask for. Does anybody know how anybody can live on £8  a week without a time machine?  

Joe's Jolly Japes- my current book

Joe's Jolly Japes- Jolly Good Fun

When it came to writing my current book Joe's Jolly Japes I wanted to explore different ground with my writing. Hundreds and thousands of books have been written about the British class system but I wanted to approach it from a different angle.

I wanted to give what I felt to be a humorous and quirky account of Britain's many and diverse national treasures, the events, those familiar cultural dates on the English social calendar. I wanted to express my opinion on the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, England on a Sunday morning, Alan Bennett, the great social observer, the day Hyde Park was reserved for the likes of Chrissie Hynde and Billy Ocean and what happened in between their acts. It is a description that might make you chuckle, giggle and laugh. There's my potted history of the England football team through the decades, the victories and defeats, the players and managers.

But above all Joe's Jolly Japes is fun, nostalgic and lyrical. It may read like a social commentary but it's not. It's my take on all of the above social occasions but with what I think is an amusing turn of phrase. Joe Jolly Japes is a kind of pen portrait or character sketch of the upper and middle classes. It isn't a parody of the class system but it does shine a light on people and their behaviour. In a way it's joky, idiosyncratic and very light - hearted.

In Joe's Jolly Japes I also portray some of my favourite things in a way that I think is affectionately told and explained from my perspective. There are the references to pop culture, the late and much missed David Bowie, the lively Sir Cliff Richard, Sir Elton John and there's also an analysis of West End department stores such as Selfridges illustrated in a very quirky fashion. Then there's the showbiz fraternity of Sir Bruce Forsyth and British seaside resorts when the shop shutters go up and winter arrives.

I also devote a chapter or so to the sporting heroes of another age. There's Jackie Stewart, James Hunt from the exciting world of F1 motor racing, footballing icons, Wayne Rooney and all of his contemporary icons, stars of stage and screen, a homage to the late and great Sir Richard Attenborough and a short piece about Kenwood and the magical classical summer concerts.

We all have an opinion about anything and anybody. You may or may not agree with some of my views and portrayals. But then it would be a pretty boring world if we were in perfect accord with each other.

This year in particular, the nation has become very animated about two issues in particular. Britain's withdrawal from the European Union and Donald Trump's imminent appointment as the next President of the United States has turned Britian into one of the most vocal and talkative countries in the world.

But Joe's Jolly Japes is far from being serious and a complete re-hash of all of those beloved English institutions that I spoke about in the first paragraph. It's very jolly and jocular, extremely descriptive and a reminder of the funnier side of life.


Joe's Jolly Japes is my latest book and is a kind of logical progression from No Joe Bloggs my second book. The difference this time though is that this time there is much more emphasis on my picture of the world around me. Towards the end of Joe's Jolly Japes I offer more observations on lovely Ilford, Essex where I grew up but largely speaking Joe's Jolly Japes is my observation on society, the class system and the wonderful people who make that society tick.

Joe's Jolly Japes is available at both Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online.  

The end of another year- but all is tickety boo.

Mid- November and all is well.

Oh well. Here we are again in mid November and all is well, The end of the year may be rapidly approaching but what a year hey! It's been a momentous, epic, monumental and incredible year. In fact I'm still catching my breath. Did all of those events during 2016 really happen or was it a figment of my imagination? I may have to take stock of 2016 and wonder why and how the things that took place really did unfold before our disbelieving eyes.

And yet here we are now in the middle of November and the same old concerns and cares are beginning to make their presence felt. The supermarket shelves are groaning with huge islands of chocolate boxes and the tills are ringing like those old church bells in the local village. Yes folks its Chanukah and Christmas. That time of the year! As a proud Jew I love Chanukah. You get to eat those sweet, sticky doughnuts, shamelessly indulging yourself in the pleasures of the palate and cholesterol. It's bliss I tell you. Sheer bliss.

Then we light the Chanukah candles and the children have a wonderful time. Then there are latkes, the glorious potato cake confection that stimulates the senses and satisfies the craving for more sweet and savoury things, the things that are supposed to be bad for you and help you put on weight. Then we begin to reproach ourselves cruelly for eating too much and drinking too much. It's almost a self fulfilling prophecy and it's been like this for as long as I can remember. It's a well entrenched tradition and a familiar way of life.

November though is like a preparation and rehearsal for the December revelry. Next week I celebrate my birthday, the inevitable passage of time, an appointment with the passing of another year, the celebration of your specific day. I'll be a  year older all being well, wiser hopefully but the years are passing very dramatically and my body is no longer as able and willing as it used to be. Thanks to our wonderful daughter I've followed my new fitness regime with an almost meticulous attention to detail.

 I now feel much fitter than I used to be and every so often break into painstaking jogs and then gentle running. It is, I have to tell you, dedication beyond the call of duty. I don't have to run but I now feel  a renewed surge of energy that I thought had deserted me. The bones may be creaking and protesting but the heart is ticking like a carriage clock on a mantelpiece. In fact I think it's pounding away like a well tuned Formula One racing car. Lewis Hamilton would be so proud of my heart. I feel re-vitalised, ready to climb mountains and swim rivers,- even run a thousand marathons rather like those enthusiastic London Marathon runners.

Anyway back in Sainsbury's people rush around the aisles with all the urgency that normally manifests itself in November. Perhaps it'll begin to quieten down at the beginning of December but I somehow doubt it. November has this predictable lull before the storm air about it.  Most of us are filled with an unspoken fear and foreboding and it's roughly now that steady panic overtakes the shoppers of Britain, a mindset that insists that we must buy everything, a frantic necessity to empty the shelves. But hey it's November and it's almost December and you feel almost obliged to join in with the fun.

How much festive fare can we pile high into our ever expanding shopping trolleys? And yet we wouldn't have it any other way. On second thoughts I love this time of the year. There is a crispness in the air, an atmosphere that is simply magical and a wonderful  anticipation of another year's ending. Seriously I love this time of the year. It may be winter outside but in my heart it's spring. Everybody has got a spring in their spritely step and all are buoyant. People are great, dogs and cats are brilliant and the world is just rich and abundant. But then that should always be the case anyway.

I don't care about the falling temperatures, the early morning frost, the hint of a chill in the air. Everybody is looking forward to the festivities and I may be tempted to dive into the Serpentine on Christmas Day. Or maybe not. Families are huddling together around a roaring log fire, Donald Trump will be the new President of the United States and the new Lord Mayor of London looks suitably dignified. It doesn't get any better. November means that the end of  the year is almost upon us but not quite. It may now feel dark and wintry outside. but we're snug, comfortable and life is very smooth.

Of course the trees have shed their leaves and the bleakness outside may be too much for those who cherish warm summer days. But it's good to be alive.  The branches though have a very bare and naked desolation about them. It almost seems as though somebody has stolen their clothes or robbed them of their worldly possessions. They look nervous and exposed, somehow wishing that spring could come back as quickly as possible. They look, dare I say it, inconsolable and bereft. November is here but winter still seems like another country. The first day of  Chanukah this year falls on Christmas Day. You couldn't make it up. Bring it on.

No Joe Bloggs- my old friend.

No Joe Bloggs- my old friend.

Privately I've always felt that maybe I did have a book in me. I've always written and always written for fun and pleasure. Long ago my literary exploits were confined to pen and A4 paper. On reflection they may seem primitive materials but I've no doubt that they were the most essential tools for a life in writing.

Now though I have three books to my name and they're publications I'm immensely proud of. My story is not a rags and riches but I do think is one that is both worth telling and I hope ultimately upliftingly salutary.

I wrote No Joe Bloggs three years ago quite by accident. I'd just recovered from the  most horrendous mental breakdown and didn't quite know what to do with the rest of my life. I was now 50 with the loveliest wife and loveliest children but more or less at a crossroads in my life. In fact I'd hit a painful brick wall and and didn't quite know what to do next. I knew that I'd written in the past but only occasionally and tentatively and certainly without any of the seriousness or consistency to trouble any modern author. I used to glance at the heartfelt confessions of the celebrity market and wonder whether I could do any better or indeed any worse than them. I decided to give it a go.

I have nothing but respect for the wonderful world of the TV celebrity and I'm sure their thoughts are well considered and very enlightening but at the back of my mind I knew there was something deeply rooted and worth sharing with the rest of the world. In a sense No Joe Bloggs more or less evolved naturally and as the words started flowing I knew I could turn a simple tale about my grandfather's career as a barber into something that began to feel very profound and descriptive. But I did have a claim to fame. My grand-dad cut the hair of England's fabled 1966 World Cup trio of Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters.

 I knew there was a story and as I continued to write the more I felt compelled to keep on writing. Slowly but surely there was the moving account of my grandparents and my mum as Holocaust survivors, the nostalgic accounts of my dear lovely and deeply missed dad, his enduring love of the bright lights of the West End of London, the family Sunday afternoon jaunts to Piccadilly Circus and Trafalgar Square and my very metaphorical descriptions of London where I tried to give a very sweet flavour of London during the 1960s as I remember it from my childhood. If you like language, poetry and vividly descriptive word pictures then this is the book for you.

This may sound very pompous and vainglorious but No Joe Bloggs is  my personal life journey from the beginning of my life in 1962 to the present day but essentially a story.  There are no precise chronological details or diary notes from the beginning of my life, just an honest, respectful, flattering account of my wonderful neighbours; the people I grew up with; the roads and streets I played on with my childhood friends and then the struggles that came with maturity.

No Joe Bloggs is about what happened to me and what happened to the world around me. There was the sudden sense of isolation and alienation, the shyness, the feeling of emptiness, the sense of drifting, that horrible social awkwardness, the awareness that I'd lost touch with both society and children of my age. Then there was the enduring sensation that I was now on my own. How to explain the autism that I was later diagnosed with

But No Joe Bloggs is certainly far from doom and gloom. There are my accounts of London which are I think vibrant, vital, full of energy and vitality. There are my tastes in music during the late 1960s and then the glorious 1970s, the bands and singers, the movements and trends, the pirate radio stations, the characters from those halcyon days, the politicians with their hilarious mannerisms and lifestyles, the Winter of Discontent, Edward Heath, the power cuts and the pop culture associated with the 1960s and 70s.

Then I talk about my favourite things that are probably your favourite things. Football in Britain during the 1970s had its own atmosphere, players who made us laugh and sing, managers who just invited comment and then the teams themselves. In No Joe Bloggs I've tried to give a very humorous and affectionate slant on a collection of teams both old and new. These are  character sketches or pen portraits of clubs such as Arsenal, Spurs, Liverpool, Manchester United, Manchester City, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Leeds United and Chelsea.

Deep into the middle of No Joe Bloggs there is I think a very enteratining fictitious story about a father and son relationship before the 1966 World Cup Final. Then I move onto the classic authors who unconsciously gave me the inspiration to write and the resurrection of Thomas Hardy. Here I give an imaginary depiction of a meeting with Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens for lunch.

There is an account of my dad and his East End cousin and the afternoon the whole family got together for tea on a Sunday afternoon for cosy chats and lively banter that followed. There was the afternoon my dad and I were taken down to my uncle's toy warehouse at the back of the house and showed  his yellow dusters. In retrospect it was both amusing and charming.

Then there's my dad's fictitious trip to Las Vegas where he plays pool with Frank Sinatra and then the casinos. There are the references to my dad's lifelong heroes such as Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett and a whole galaxy of the great and good.

I've also included my favourite TV programmes while I was growing up. Here I mention Peyton Place, Lost in Space, Sunday Night at the London Palladium, Starsky and Hutch, The Man from Ironside, That Was the Week That Was, The Frost Programme. I then give a short story about the Apollo space missions and my take on them. I give my take on showbiz figures such as Norman Wisdom, Bruce Forsyth, Tommy Cooper, Dave Allen, Billy Connolly, chat show host Michael Parkinson, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones and all of the important newsreaders from the 1960s and 70s such as Richard Baker, Alistair Burnet, Reginald Bosanquet and then my favourite sporting figures.

In no particular order there's Muhammad Ali, Bjorn Borg, Ken Rosewall, Pele, Garrincha, Chris Evert, the great cricketers from yesteryear such as Sir Donald Bradman, Essex cricket club, Graham Gooch, John Edrich and Denis Amiss, Alan Knott, sadly and tragically George Best, Dixie Dean, Len Shackleton and Sir Stanley Matthews.

At the end of No Joe Bloggs there's a return to Ilford, Essex where I was brought up.  Then there are the stunning shops and department stories that made Ilford such a warm and welcoming place to be brought up in. At the beginning of No Joe Bloggs I tried to catch the mood of Gants Hill, Gants Hill Tube railway station, the noises and sounds of the trains, the tourists who lit up and still light up London, the queues outside Madame Taussads, the Science Museum, the art galleries, the art movements and Aquarius the arts programme on a Sunday afternoon with Humphrey Barclay.

There are my memorable movies that I was very lucky to see as a child and teenager. There's my take on Saturday Night Fever, Grease, Fiddler on the Roof, Star Wars, Jungle Book and Bambi. No Joe Bloggs is I think an entertaining, funny, warmly nostalgic and very lyrical account of my perspective on life. I hope you'll find something that'll tickle your ribs and make you smile. There's loads of pop cullture from the 1960s and 70s, something that'll remind of where you were at your time of life. If you like your books that describe special events and moments in our lives then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you.

If you'd like to read No Joe Bloggs my book is available at both Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online. To quote the legendary Barbara Streisand. Memories like the corner of my mind.  

England against Scotland- much more than a football match.

World Cup qualifier, England beat Scotland.

Last night England beat Scotland in a World Cup qualifier 3-0 at Wembley Stadium. But this was far more than a football match. It was a huge collision of egos, a personal battle, a grudge match of the most acrimonious kind, a bloodthirsty dust up, a fiery, passionate contest, a historic sporting confrontation and the most fiercely competitive game in the whole world. There is an underlying current of bad feeling and childish animosity that borders on the outrageous. There is a spite, malice and pettiness that just beggars belief.

On an early November evening at Wembley, England in white shirts and red socks played a team in pink shirts. England, it has to be said, reminded you of Don Revie's incomparable Leeds United of the 1970s. True there were no Norman Hunters, Billy Bremners or Peter Lorimers on the pitch but at times the match did have a distinctly nostalgic feel about it.

Shortly before the match itself, Britain paid admirable homage to those soldiers who gave their life during the First and Second World War. It was a moving and solemn moment both impeccably observed and warmly acknowledged. Nobody, it seems, does tradition and formality better than England and for a few precious and poignant minutes Britain bowed its head reverentially and thought deeply. It was England doing things with style, class and a noble sense of occasion. At times it felt wonderfully nostalgic and splendidly appropriate.

Back on the pitch it all seemed quite peculiar. For decades and centuries the Scottish football team have always played in a dark navy colour that had somehow come to symbolise who Scotland are and where they've come from. It was the nation who turned up at the 1974 World Cup Finals as the team to fear and reckon. Willie Ormond was the manager and the country rallied behind them as never before. Scotland would win the World Cup with their eyes closed and their hands tied behind their backs. Scotland returned back to Britain after a brief tour of West Germany. They were not sun tanned but they all felt humiliated.

Then four years later Scotland put themselves through more agony and torture. Ally Macleod, a cheerful and perhaps misguided manager, buried his hands in his head when those famous world beaters Iran held Scotland to a 0-0 draw and were then thrashed by an infinitely superior and technically gifted Peru 3-1. Scotland were back home and the nation grieved. In every corner of England there was a chuckling, sniggering derision that had to be seen to be believed.

Now though the present day Scotland lined up for the latest instalment in pink. There can be no questioning or criticism of pink football shirts but at first sight it did look unusual  I have to admit it did come as a shock to the system. In the Scotland technical area, manager Gordon Strachan performed a very convincing impersonation of Ally Macleod. When England's second and third goals went in, Strachan's face turned a grey shade of stone. He threw his note book away, glared at the ground in frustration and then, seemingly waved the white flag of surrender.

Strachan's playing days and credentials were faultless. At first Aberdeen and then, quite notably, Manchester United, Strachan was one of the most whole- hearted and committed midfield players in the country, He was tigerish in the tackle, wise and intelligent in his choice of passing and tireless in his pursuit of perfection. Strachan, was fearless, focussed and determined to leave his legacy on a game. He was a winner and never a quitter but at Wembley as Scotland manager the dynamics were different and the job description has so many demands and requirements that, for the moment at least, seem to be weighing Strachan down.

Still Strachan's face betrayed the anxieties of a man who looked as if he'd rather be the manager of Fiji or Thailand than the tartan hordes. Throughout the match last night Strachan kept fidgeting, swaying back and forward restlessly, smiling occasionally but then curling up into a ball as if slightly embarrassed at the match before him. He then rocked backwards and forwards like a man whose pre-match strategies had gone up in smoke. Poor Gordon looked at the ground and then when substitutions were made Strachan walked towards the edge of the pitch like a bank manager wishing his customers well. The suit, shirt and jacket were immaculate but the result was shabby and dishevelled, ragged and misshapen.

In past meetings with the Auld Enemy England and Scotland fixture had the familiar themes. There was the rivalry, tribalism, some would say nationalism, and feelings of so called superiority. Last night there was a raw and earthy feel about the game. Since the end of the Home Championship between both Scotland, Northern Ireland and Wales, England have rarely crossed swords and last night's re- acquaintance felt like passing strangers in the night.

So what about that past. Some of England's most recent encounters have often passed off without incident and thankfully free of the trouble that afflicted others. They were honest, hard, rugged  and no- nonsense contest that broke most of the laws and on one horrendous occasion the match spilled over into a full scale riot.

In 1977 Don Revie's England met Scotland at Wembley. There had been nothing in the air to suggest that  violence was about to erupt. At the end of the game Scotland bathed luxuriously in victory and their fans promptly created havoc. Scotland had beaten England 2-1 and this was the cue for wholesale hooliganism and the destruction of both the Wembley turf , the cross bar and posts. It was obscenely ugly and repugnant. The sight of broken crossbars and drunken Scots sends a dreadful shiver down the spine.

Ten years before Scotland emerged triumphant once again. In 1966 England delivered its finest hour with a World Cup Final victory over West Germany. Privately the Scots must have been seething with envy and in 1967 there was an air of glorious presumption. England would take Scotland to the cleaners and rub Scotland's noses in it. England would win by a cricket score. No problem whatsoever.

That year Scottish football had witnessed one of its greatest moments. The Scotland side of Gemmell and Murdoch had delightfully won the European Cup. Scottish football had a vintage quality about it and its short passing  style had once again borne fruition. At the beginning of  the 20th century Scotland loved to keep the ball and the possession game somehow defined them. And yet for one splendid afternoon in 1967 Scotland reminded England of the battle of Bannockburn and Culloden from many centuries distant. Victory for Scotland against England was sweeter than ever before.

Then there was the year of 1975. My team West Ham had one their second FA Cup for the first time since 1964 and England would meet Scotland at the old Wembley Stadium. It would prove one of the most satisfying and pleasant afternoons for any England supporter. England beat Scotland 5-1 emphatically and handsomely. England captain and stylish midfield player for QPR, scored with a thunderous drive from outside the area, Colin Bell, who used to run several marathons, chipped in and by the time the game had finished Scotland's heads were spinning.

Since then Scotland's players have often been more than the sum of its parts.  There was the commanding Jim Baxter, the under-rated but hugely effective Asa Hartford, the magnificently charismatic Archie Gemmill, Peter Lorimer with that explosive shot, Billy Bremner, a tremendous battler, grafter and dedicated to the cause.

When last night's England- Scotland latest instalment had finished it was time for yet more sober reflection. England had won and won conclusively. During the first half it was all a bit messy, laboured and predictable. England it seemed, were probably suffering a hangover from the Sam Allardyce incident. In the second half England wrapped up victory nad Gareth Southgate the caretaker manager locked up the gates, put the broom away and looked forward to another day in the English sun. Noel Coward would have loved it.        

What becomes of the Big Apple and the great American dream.

It's Donald and the nation scratches its head.

Oh dear. It hardly seems possible. Or maybe it's the dream ticket. Who knows? None of us can predict the future but the only certainty is that Donald Trump will become the 45th President of the United States of America. At the moment the country is either traumatised, relieved or just plain overjoyed. There can be no way of gauging the prevailing mood of one of the most powerful nations on earth. The rest of the world can only look on with stunned amazement.

When the votes were counted across Florida, Ohio, California, Los Angeles, Philadelphia, Texas, Detroit and most influentially Washington, it became abundantly clear that America were sick to the back teeth of the Establishment and just wanted clear blue water from the struggles and injustices  they must have felt were strangling the country by the throat.

For a good number of years, they've seen their country run by the man who seemed to have the country's best interests at heart but only succeeded in falling very short when it mattered. Barak Obama was, by turns, criticised, attacked verbally, but rarely insulted. The fact was that Obama didn't quite meet up with the almost irrational expectations set by his people. True he did look good and the intentions were worthy but when he looks back at his time in office at the White House, he may think he could have gone that extra mile.

So now it's time for the Donald Trump era. The outrageous statements, the almost shameful admissions about his relationships and women in general, must have aroused so many concerns and suspicions that come January and his inauguration ceremony as President some of us may wonder what exactly is up his sleeve.

His complete lack of any political experience has been well documented and only time will tell whether Trump can produce any of the relevant cards at the right time and place. Here across the Atlantic in Blighty politicians and pundits have had their say but the jury will firmly remain out on a man whose huge vanity project has almost overshadowed events around the world.

There's the blond thatch of hair that looks like a direct descendant of Boris Johnson, a family that looks united but rarely comfortable in the limelight and a loyal set of advisers who may have their loyalties severely tested if things go wrong. Then there's the alarming body language; the extravagant body gestures, a suit that looks desperate to escape from Trump on more than one occasion and the 10 year old son who stood next to his father in a state of complete bewilderment and confusion.

Now America look to one of the richest men in the world to lead his country to its highest peak of economic prosperity since - well, since possibly records were first kept. It is hard to know what anybody thinks will happen next. It is hard for instance to imagine what George Washington would have made of the current American generation. But then who knew Bobby would come back to life in a shower in Dallas. America we salute you.

Andy Murray, tennis's world No 1

Andy Murray- a man with a mission and a man with a purpose.

It may have taken the best part of 75 years now but Andy Murray has done it for British tennis. By several country miles Murray is undoubtedly the greatest tennis player Britain has ever produced. In fact he's not only the greatest, he's almost the most down to earth, grounded and rooted tennis player Britain has ever given us. He is an outstanding sportsman, a superb exponent of his craft and surely one of the most single minded tennis players in the world.

But now Murray has reached number 1, numero uno, the summit, the pinnacle, the Olympian heights, the very definition of expertise, competence and sheer brilliance. He is by far the most impressive, pre- eminent, the hungriest, the most determined, the most dogged, the most capable and the most assured of all champions.

The news that Andy Murray is No.1 in the world rankings is hardly a surprise and perhaps entirely expected. In Britain we tend to assume that our sporting champions have to be warmly embraced because maybe they're not good enough. At times it almost seems as if England's World Cup victory in 1966 may come to be regarded as our only contribution to world and cultural history. If you search through any encyclopaedia you may find that tennis was never Britain's strongest point. You could say we were useless and incompetent but then again that sounds like an insult. The blunt truth is of course that we were just kidding ourselves that we could play tennis to any standard.

We know the facts and figures. Britain's last major and recognisable tennis stars were Bunny Austin and Fred Perry. Both Austin and Perry are now largely forgotten and relegated to some historical footnote. They belonged to an age of dapper gentlemen and elegant ladies, an age of honour and good posture, of the Charleston and Flappers. Austin and Perry played in long trousers, with impeccably combed hair and perfectly soft tennis hands. They had a fine bodily strength, a wonderful muscularity, a marvellous sense of style, faultless manners and charming courtliness. They had an air and presence and the most upright carriage. They also had guts, grit, daring and were bloody minded perfectionists.

Fast forward to 2016 and Andy Murray. Oh Andy. How we've prayed, hoped, yearned for and then desperately went down on our hands and knees. Please Andy Murray. Can you please end the 70 year old drought and please you could become the first men's singles Wimbledon champion since the dark ages and prehistoric dinosaurs. Is there any chance that you could march onto the Centre Court and just blow away all the opposition? Could you please blast all opposition at Wimbledon into the ground and win every match by straight sets in roughly half an hour. Not much to expect surely.

And yet until the Olympic year of London 2012 it all looked as if it would never come true. We kept fluffing our lines, stumbling on the Wimbledon tramlines, lunging at cross court volleys and ending up in a crumpled heap by the net. It all began to look very amateurish, cackhanded and humiliating. It was all very unrehearsed and painfully laborious. Maybe it was just unprofessional, careless and contrived. But then Andy Murray came along, like an angel from heaven, a paragon of virtue. And not before time too.

First he won his first Wimbledon and this year he's done it for the second time. Now how did that happen? That certainly wasn't in any script. British sportsmen and women just don't win on a frequent basis and maybe we've been spoilt. But Murray is different. In fact he's unique and special, a man who wakes up in the morning, flings open his blinds, sprints onto a tennis court in any part of the world with one over- riding objective on his mind, one target on his mind and one task. He wants to play tennis of the highest quality, the highest standard and then fire down ace after ace down the centre of the court with all the ferocious power of the finest tennis player in the world.

We are all familiar with the Murray journey by now. There were the seemingly impenetrable obstacles. They were in no particular order Rafal Nadal, Novak Djokovic and Roger Federer. All possessed grace, finesse and polish.  They all studied the grammar and vocabulary of their sport. There were the delicate drop shots, the astonishing serves, the immaculately flighted lobs from all angles and the deceptively whipped forehands that were heavily loaded with power. But Murray took it all in his stride and picked off his rivals with all the leisurely ease of a butler serving drinks at a Victorian garden party.

Now Murray is at the peak of his profession, standing at the top of the tennis mountain with the flag proudly standing and a man with a notable page in the history books.  Murray holds one of the most of distinguished positions in tennis history. He now wins the big tournaments at Wimbledon, the US Open,  and all four points of the world compass. He trains vigorously and obsessively, he works at his game with meticulous attention to detail and he attacks his matches as if his life depended on it

And so it it is the No 1 crown sits snugly on Andy Murray's shoulders. No longer are Britain the meek, submissive and almost apologetic runners up in world sport. No longer are we those pitiful and remorseful characters who just accepted defeat. Britain are fighters, battle hardened warriors and all conquering characters who want to win and win because they think they deserve it.

Andy Murray perfectly embodies that will to win, that insatiable appetite, that fabulous winning mentality. Oh Andy Murray how the nation has pleaded for you to walk out of the shadows and turn our sporting fortunes on its head. How we've waited patiently and longingly and then thought that at the beginning of July we might have a hero to celebrate. Andy Murray has reached No.1 in the world's tennis rankings. The lad from Dunblane has lifted British tennis to the most elevated plane. It's time for British tennis to feel very good about itself, to indulge in self congratulation and pour itself a well deserved glass of wine. Cheers Andy.