Stepping Out. a West End musical gem with a laugh and smile.

Stepping Out - A West End musical gem with a laugh and smile.

According to those in the Hollywood hierarchy it isn't how you start it's how you finish. From start to finish Stepping Out, now at the Vaudeville Theatre in London's West End, is a rib tickling, hilarious, foot stomping, thigh slapping, rattling and ripping yarn and musical that will leave you begging for more and emerging from the theatre grinning like a ginger cat.

Stepping Out, set in 1983, captures perfectly the whole mood and style of the early 1980s with both razor sharp precision and almost uncanny accuracy. It's one of those dazzling West End productions that is both tongue in cheek, witty, beautifully paced and has only the occasional moments of seriousness and drama. But here again the West End excelled itself in the only way it knows. Stepping Out was almost victoriously impressive in the way it handled even the most delicate relationships between some of the on stage performers.

Still here was Stepping Out, a story about a wannabe and aspirational dancing troupe who throw themselves whole heartedly into their rehearsals, conquering all the setbacks that life had presented them with. It was the kind of musical that reminded you of those hazy, crazy but far from lazy days of the 1980s when all of those wonderful new inventions and gadgets suddenly appeared overnight.

Starring former East End stars Tracy Ann Oberman and Tamzin Outhwaite with the ever fragrant Amanda Holden providing her incomparable touch of showbiz class to the proceedings, you began to believe that Hollywood may have had a point when it claimed there was no business like show. Holden, of course is one of our most established of all celebrities and seems to be so popular and fashionable that there may come a day when she'll appear on TV and the West End stage at the same time.

So it was that Stepping Out closely followed the 1980s script to perfection. Of course the 1980s were both ground breaking, revolutionary and innovative without ever pausing for breath. You must remember it, that very creative period when everything seemed to happen overnight. There was the mobile phone that uncannily resembled a brick, the London City traders on the Stock Exchange floor with their red braces and their materialistic desires and dreams, pointing fingers and shouting furiously on their mobile phones, those vast computers that churned out sentence after sentence of green letters and weird numerical sequences. It almost seemed as if the Internet could only have been considered as wildly unthinkable.

The story of Stepping Out reminded you of that other 1980s TV phenomenon Fame where the cream of America's fleet footed dancers called themselves Fame. The opening credits showed young hoofers jumping over New York taxis and generally creating the kind of spectacle that transfixed every ambitious hopeful who could only have fantasised about tripping the light fantastic.

A group of young girls with an intense passion for dancing, giggling, joking and gossiping. simply gripped the audience with their dry, often biting humour and joshing as well as their frequent jibes and cutting remarks. Throughout Stepping Out we follow the lives of five women desperate to hit the big time but never sure how to get there. Amanda Holden is splendidly pretentious, prissy and puritanical without ever going over the top.

All of the girls argue and fall out, openly criticise each other's personal faults and deficiencies, carefully analysing each other's idiosyncrasies without ever completely pushing aside or alienating one or any of the other. In the privacy of a local hall they don their flashy leotards with an almost total disregard of fashion sense. Then there were the pop socks in purple, yellow, red, orange or green, a rainbow of footwear that somehow illustrated and epitomised the 1980s in two and half glorious hours of West End musical gold. The dancers then go through their paces with quite the funniest of self deprecating one liners.

The more sceptical of critics would probably have described this as the height of cheesiness and kitsch, a cavalcade of candy floss frivolity. But Stepping Out does hit the right notes at the right time without ever descending into over sentimentality. It has a rich gloss and varnish which, while never superlatively outstanding, did leave you feeling enormously emotional and appreciative. Here was the West End doing what it does best.

Stepping Out was one of those all singing, all dancing spectaculars that took you right back to those halcyon days of Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, of a thousand tapping feet that never seemed to stop tapping. And that was followed by another dizzying climax of high kicking and cane twirling where everybody believed in the impossible. Then it was sadly and regrettably over and everybody had to go home because it was late and you had to get up for work the following morning. But this was dancing at its quickest and best, a terpischorean treat with twinkling toes, shining mirrors in the Vaudeville Theatre lobby and those sweeping staircases where royalty once rubbed shoulders with high society. Stepping Out certainly took a huge step back in time and maybe you'll feel considerably better for having seen it. I'll give it a thumbs up.  

Time to leave Europe.

Time to leave Europe or time to sign articles.

Hey ho! I think it's time to leave Europe. Here we are on the eve of Britain's first step on the road to EU departure. Before you go Britain don't forget to turn off the lights and lock up after you. There could be impostors in the building, those Remoaners or Remainers or whatever they call those stubborn know alls or dissidents these days. There are always people out there who just can't accept the status quo. They will kick up a fuss you know and with every justification.

 But seriously this is the end of the road for Britain and her relationship with our hitherto European buddies is now history, a thing of the past and completely and definitely no longer viable or open to negotiation.  Forget it Europe you've pushed us too far this time. Oh for the entente cordiale. In tatters and ruins. Goodbye Europe. You're cramping our style. You're a major impediment to progress and Britain would rather you not speak to them again. If it's all the same to you Europe you can keep the Eurovision Song Contest because quite frankly Britain has reached the point of silence and indifference. Britain is distinctly unimpressed and would rather conduct its trade on bigger stages.

Here we are though on the eve of Britain's first stages of its permanent estrangement from a Europe it seemed to grow tired of. For ages Britain has become disillusioned by those interfering officials in their Brussels ivory tower and it's time to just get out before it gets any worse. Slowly but surely Britain will turn its back on a Europe that kept telling us what to do, laying down the law, being petty and totally unreasonable. But then I couldn't possibly comment because as an entirely neutral member of the Manor House community my feeling is that Brussels is still one of Europe's loveliest cities and those waffles are just impeccable. Oh and I musn't forget the lace and the chocolates, those out of this world chocolates and the fun loving friendliness. My wife and I were there many years ago and we were very reluctant to leave it.

Now though Theresa May, our fine, upstanding Prime Minister, is about to sign article 50 which will hasten our fond farewell from the European community, the brotherhood and sisterhood of this European conference room. Here those bossy bureaucrats will spend endless hours in private rooms, scribbling away at forms that will finally exclude us from the great European debate, completely nullifying our influence and involvement at the big table of decision making.

The truth is though that for better or worse Theresa May is now entrusted with so much responsibility that it may take her sometime to recover from what looks like a make or break ordeal. It almost feels as though Britain is cutting off all links from a vast body of European neighbours who will now just pretend that Britain just doesn't exist anymore. The EU, in the eyes of Britain, is just some bloated leviathan- a huge overpowering presence that stifles and complicates everything.

When Edward Heath took us into the Common Market over 40 years ago the common opinion was that we were signing up for a basic trade agreement that would do everything to enhance our profile in the rest of Europe. We'd eat plenty of Dutch and French cheese, drink loads of French wine, gorge ourselves on Spanish paella, buy an absolute showroom of German Volkswagen cars and then finish off our lavish feast with generous helpings of Italian pasta and spaghetti. The world, on a suitably gastronomic theme, was our oyster.

But now over 40 years later the garden doesn't seem quite so rosy. In the eyes of Great Britain, Europe is just some stuffy, conservative, petty and paternalistic body of nations with nothing of any constructive value to offer apart perhaps, somewhat trivially, the Eurovision Song Contest which in itself is the funniest joke in the European book of gags.

Now, in the light of one of the most controversial and hot blooded arguments in the history of politics, Britain is still squabbling and bickering over the terms and conditions of that final parting of the ways with our European friends. And if things couldn't have been more muddled and incoherent, the Scots have joined in with their own personal contribution to one of the greatest bones of contention since Bannockburn or Culloden.

Nicola Sturgeon has made it abundantly clear that she wants another referendum on their country's continuing quest for independence. Then we are somehow expected to make head or tail of why they want another referendum or whether the whole Brexit hot potato is worthy of yet another listen. There are some of us who are beginning to whether there is anything else to talk about in the world. The news agenda has now been monopolised by the kind of incessant waffle and political prattling that becomes more and more wearisome and nonsensical by the day, week and month.

Sometimes you get the impression that somebody out there is deliberately tormenting us with the Truman Show where Jim Carey wakes up everyday to the same set of events in the same order. This is just staggeringly repetitive and at times totally demoralising. Here we are on the eve of signing a potentially life changing political document and nobody or very few of us, have the faintest idea of what we're signing or any of the long term ramifications of signing that article.

Now here we stand at a critical moment in political history where everything around us is about to undergo the most radical transformation this country has ever seen. It is hard to imagine what's going through the minds of our European allies - or maybe that statement is no longer applicable. Will those in the stuffy, conservative boadrooms of Brussels just moodily turn their backs on Britain or will there be simply a very uneasy tolerance of a nation they thought were both reliable and trustworthy?

And yet the negotiations will begin and all relations will now become very cold and frosty. In fact it is almost certain that the buttons will be pushed and the very mention of Britain will be mud. You wouldn't be surprised if the whole of Europe just blanks Britain, ignores us, sneers at us with a disdainful snarl and pretends that Britain is somehow beneath them. How dare Britain fall out with us and if they want to get personal - well two can play at that game.

 But Britain won't care because Britain can now consolidate our global alliances. Britain can look to Japan, USA, the Far East, Australia, Africa and all of those countries we may have taken for granted, countries we can now do proper business without being bogged down by France, Italy, Spain, Germany, Hungary, Romania and Poland. We can now build up the order books in those exotic parts of the world that are no longer the dream holiday destinations that always seemed naggingly elusive to us. Now though the map of the world has changed and Britain has opened the door to gritty globalisation and worldwide trading. It sounds very glamorous and wonderfully profitable so let the good times roll. Seriously it's time to roll up our sleeves and become very earnestly industrious.

So it is that the the European Union will slowly fade into the mists of the news archives, a dusty and decaying moment in time, moving further and further from our consciousness. One day we'll be allowed to discuss something else rather than Donald Trump and Brexit in the same news bulletin. Round and round the carousel we'll go and eventually the broadcasting channels and media networks will run out of the aforesaid issues and maybe we can get back to whatever it was we were doing beforehand.

Oh yes. It's here. The new pound coin has just hurtled into our consciousness like some meteorite from outer space. It has 12 sides and it's very groovy. We'll have to wait until the autumn before it becomes national currency but I can barely control my excitement. There is a new fangled hologram on the front of the coin. A hologram hey? What about that? You must remember the hologram. Back in the 1980s the late Sir Laurence Olivier was used as a hologram in the West End musical Time and we all held our breath at the sheer mind blowing novelty of it all.

Some of us can still fondly remember that wonderful old crumpled green one pound note which always occupied a very comfortable corner of our wallets and was deeply appreciated. In the late 1950s it represented wealth and affluence, easy living and good times. Now a pound is something that has been dramatically converted into a high street shop, a corporate brand name perhaps, where the ownership of a pound is looked upon with pitiful contempt. It is easy to forget just how precious a pound is to those in the world of poverty, starvation and the homeless, the underclass suffering in the shadow of the upper classes.

I couldn't help but notice today that in Finsbury Park the good old fashioned fair is about to be launched into action in readiness for the Easter holidays in a couple of weeks time. At the moment it does look a bit on the flat side. At any moment I half expected a whirling, spinning and flashing wheel to leap out at me, beckoning me towards it seductively and then pleading me to have a go on the horses. Yes folks ladies and gentlemen. children, aunties and uncles it's all the fun of the fair. I can now see the bright pink buds of cherry blossom heavy on the well wrapped trees of Finsbury Park. There is a spiritual awakening, runners galore, children on swings, a rich, healthy, red cheeked vitality bursting into life.

And guess what? That great empire of consumerism Sainsbury's in Stamford Hill is alive and well. You can now see a collision of religions at the front of the shop. In one corner I give you a veritable castle of Easter eggs with its ramparts and portcullis stuffed to breaking point with good old fashioned chocolate Easter eggs. It seemed a tragedy to so much as pick one up for fear of a supermarket fiasco. It could have had terrible economic consequences so it is to be hoped that nobody disturbs this Easter egg oasis of tranquillity.

Finally in the other corner there is the Passover or Pesach display of goodies and cholesterol heaven. As a proud Jew it fills my heart with delight to see the yearly tower of matzos, accompanied by a plethora of plava and macaroons. But now we find on ourself poised to enter April and hopefully free of those torrential showers that the song never tires of telling us about.

If we can only get to that first day of Easter without even so much as the slightest reference to Europe and Donald Trump. It may just be the day we've all been waiting for, a day free of European anxieties, constant background chattering and yet more angst and apprehension. It's enough to drive you to the point of ear splitting exasperation. I'm not sure we can take a great deal more of this and yet we seem to be gluttons for punishment. Eventually we may just succumb to helpless laughter at the sheer absurdity of it all.

Mind you I did like that moment when Donald Trump gave German leader Angel Merkel the coldest of cold shoulders. Did you see that? There was loathing, antipathy and sheer hatred between both parties and it was the kind of body language you'd expect to find in two boiling and seething boxers before a big fight. Trump made his feelings abundantly clear with a look that was colder than ice and Merkel gave Trump the hardest of glares offering a handshake but knowing full well that Trump would have willingly given her a dagger rather than a handshake. It is the best of times and the most extraordinary of times. It's at times like this when you feel as though you should be watching Coronation Street. This is much more than soap opera. It's real life.    

A walk in the park as England beat Lithuania in World Cup qualifier.

A walk in the park as England beat Lithuania in World Cup qualifier.

In the end England could have beaten Lithuania with their eyes closed, blindfolded, their feet tied together, a seemingly impenetrable fortress in front of them and even the whole population of Lithuania against them. In fact the game was so desperately one sided that if  this had been a heavyweight boxing fight then the referee would probably have flung in the towel within seconds of the start of Round One.

International football has become so farcically easy for England in World Cup qualifiers that by the end of this nonentity of a football match the whole spectacle assumed the air of a five a side practice match. England were so ludicrously superior to Lithuania that some of us were tempted to dip into a book, skim through a magazine, sip twenty five cups of tea and then balance a couple of pound coins on our nose.

Regrettably this was just a no contest and by the end of the game most of us were pleading for the referee to blow the final whistle. You began to think that even if England had stopped playing for an hour or so then maybe Lithuania might just have woken up and quite possibly made a game of it. But England did what they had to do and overcame the kind of opposition  who simply gave the ball to England and never even looked remotely like scoring.

Gareth Southgate's new generation of England players were so far ahead of their opponents in thought, deed and intention that if the match had been played at mid night England would still have seen enough of the ball to score several barrowloads of goals. But there was a sense of leniency, understanding and even compassion about England that just beggared belief. This was rather like watching a technically inspired Hackney Marshes 11 just strolling around with casual nonchalance and then helping themselves to outright possession This had to be the most unequal match in international football and it really was boys against men. .

But here we were at Sunday tea time in  Wembley Stadium and some of the more religious of Britain were still reflecting on another day of church, pub lunches with the family, the ironing of shirts and preparing ourselves for the week ahead. And therein may lie the problem. England were playing their international football on Sunday when they'd just finished praying, singing their hymns and contemplating the week's films on TV.

Sometimes Sunday football in England sounds almost sacrosanct and maybe sacriligeous, maybe forbidden and, possibly, should be banned permanently. Still the great TV dictators call all the shots and whatever they say is final. We all know now that the FA Cup Final will kick off at 5.30 on a Saturday and a vast majority of Sky games are now played at any random time of their choosing. Be prepared for next season's Premier League matches kicking off at 6.00 in the morning on every Tuesday during the season and Wednesdays at mid-day when most of us are still chewing our egg mayonnaise sandwiches. Oh yes and don't forget the midnight epics between Manchester United and Liverpool and the nine o clock morning confrontations between Spurs and Chelsea. Crazy.

But here we are once again with international football and England, World Cup  qualifiers. With every passing minute of their routine victory against clearly inferior opposition I had one of those most unforgettable Tony Hancock moments when the monotonous predictability became too much. I sighed and sighed again. There had to be something else I could do. Perhaps I could complete a jig saw puzzle or sit outside a Costa with latte in hand. But this was too much for anybody to take. This was intolerably ordinary, quite definitely a walk in the park, a walk in the Yorkshire Dales, the Lake District, the Pennines, the length and breadth of Land's End and John O' Groats and back to London again.

Still we did have the Wembley Stadium arch to look at and admire. Where once there were white towers to behold now we have the arch. It is admittedly a remarkable piece of modernist architecture and at night it does look a treat, simply amazing and mind blowingly impressive. Inside the stadium three huge, yawning tiers of seating stretch far and wide across the sporting landscape. The red and white are appropriately symbolic and the hint of blue reinforces the British air of patriotism.

I'm beginning to get used to the new stadium's dynamics and acoustics, a simple acceptance of new chapters and new beginnings. But the new Wembley stadium is now 10 years old and you find yourself thinking that when in Rome and all that. But quite obviously we're not in Rome so you've got to become accustomed to both the unique size and dimensions of the relatively new Wembley.

For the romantics among us you began to wonder what the legends of yesteryear would have made of the new Wembley. Would I wonder Sir Stanley Matthews, Tom Finney, Bobby Charlton and Martin Peters have made the transition from those lush light green acres that were so wonderfully spacious to the newer, more lightly manicured grass of the 21st century? The colour of the grass now is also a much  darker shade of green and the quality of football would have been completely incomprehensible to those from a far distant generation.

Now though a TV audience is subjected to an almost frightening, unnerving, unsettling, psychologically distressing and cruelly disconcerting spectacle. For almost the whole of this Wembley World Cup qualifier we were inflicted with a constant bombardment of flashing and flickering advertising boards around the edge of the pitch. At times it reminded you of one of those old black and white TV sets whenever the picture became blurred, fuzzy and obscured by lines. It was totally unwatchable and at times beyond a joke so we turned off our DER set, banged the top of the set amusingly and then moved that very primitive aerial repeatedly and insufferably.

In the old days it used to be one staple diet of Radio Rentals, Visionhire with an occasional homage to Benson and Hedges cigarettes and baffling commercial blandishments. But we thought the game was great and besides the football, although dreadful at times, was still, strangely, far more palatable. England footballers such as Martin Chivers, Mick Channon, Alan Ball, a wonderful remnant of Sir Alf's 1966 vintage and the stylish Gerry Francis epitomised that bejewelled period for English football. All of the above players were natural entertainers and although some of the football left a lot to be desired, none of us complained because there didn't seem any point in complaining.

Anyway back to the present day. England almost played the whole of the game in the Lithuania half and at times seemed to set up camp in the opponents half. It hardly seems possible but there were at times when England's football was almost delightfully pleasing on the eye. Their passing had a South American or German simplicity about it that bodes well for the foreseeable future. Admittedly Lithuania looked so out of their depth that it seemed  a horrible shame to  allow the game to just peter out. Lithuania were pitifully ineffectual, sub standard, maddeningly mediocre and would have been better advised to stay at home and just spent the afternoon fishing in a local river bank. Their afternoon would have been infinitely more beneficial. At times the whole afternoon almost seemed to just pass them by. Maybe they had imagined it after all.

But at long last England look a recognisable force on the international stage. The defeat in Germany was perversely much better looking than it might have seemed. And now in this World Cup qualifier they toyed with their opponents mercilessly and callously. The ball was shifted around into tiny pockets of space, intricate, geometric passing patterns that wouldn't have seemed out of place in either a German, Spanish or Italian shirt.

It seems to the impartial outsider that England have now learnt the phraseology and grammar of the world game. The verbs are pronounced with clear diction, sentences beautifully constructed and the narrative is altogether more articulate. England are now playing the kind of sweet, short passing game that Scotland thought they'd invented at the end of the 19th century. But it's England's turn to give their own personal interpretation of what is now known as the high pressing game where attacking players cluster around the opposition like birds around a piece of bread.

For much of this game new England manager Gareth Southgate looked so calm and at peace with the world that if he'd dropped off for a quite nap nobody would have noticed. The body language is of  a man about to partake of a glass of brandy and cigar. This was a piece of cake, an effortless exercise. Here was a man who knew he was going to pass his driving test and then put up his feet up on a seaside deckchair. Easy business this international football malarkey.

The players were perhaps incidental to the plot but their displays were ample proof of a blooming, burgeoning growth period. Adam Lallana looks a very polished gem at the heart of England's midfield, Eric Dier is all assurance and finesse in a white England shirt and Raheem Sterling, although too flashy and flamboyant at times, is beginning to find his uncertain bearings on the international stage. His running with the ball and close ball control is so mesmeric and compelling that you find yourself wishing he would do it over and over again.

Frustratingly though Sterling does become too over elaborate, too clever and perhaps too pedantic. But the truth is that he does look an international winger in much the way that Peter Barnes and Steve Coppell hugged the flanks during the 1970s. But then again Gareth Southgate is no Don Revie and has yet to express any desire to manage in Saudi Arabia. There is indeed hope for the England team. Sterling is a bustling, hustling player who just seems to float through retreating defences as if they were just figments of the imagination.

Then there is the Spurs midfield star Dele Alli. It is hard to believe that Ali learnt his trade at MK Dons since his astonishing elevation to Premier League football is nothing short of miraculous. MK Dons are a decent, modest up and coming team but  Alli is now a White Hart Lane favourite. Alli has also progressed rapidly and wonderfully to the England senior team and at Wembley did much to suggest that the meteoric rise to fame is nothing less than fully deserved.

And yet on the debit side Alli does stray into the nastier and more lurid areas of the game. His temper is disturbingly short, the tears and tantrums increasingly noticeable while the rest of his game is an annoying set of contradictions. One minute he's a choir boy with an angelic temperament the next he looks as though he's poised to step into a boxing ring.

But there are positives to the Alli character which make you feel more and more convinced that one day he could yet confirm his presence on the much bigger world stage. Alli is strong, powerful, emotionally involved in every England attack and to those who predict that he could be the next Steven Gerrard, here was the most prominent hallmark of quality.

Then there is Kyle Walker, his Spurs colleague, a player whose burning pace from full back has been likened to Gareth Bale. Walker once again impressed hugely with his barnstorming surges, lightning quick overlaps and exemplary link up play. This was an England performance that overall that gave broad hints that a cultural revolution could well become a glorious reality. England are actually passing the ball and passing the ball with delicious accuracy and cleverness. They look like a football team with a collective ethos and are wholly dedicated to a radical change of direction.

And then there were the goals which on the day itself seemed almost an irrelevance. After a delectable piece of neat passing outside the penalty area, the ball was fed through to Sterling who powered his way to the by line and crossed to Jermain Defoe who defied his 34 years to score England's opening goal with all of the composure you'd expect of a natural goal scorer. Then half way into the second half Jamie Vardy finished off another cameo of complete passing football with England's second and what seemed insignificant goal.

So it was that the Wembley crowd drifted away after another almost businesslike victory against very poor and mundane opponents. Nobody seemed to go home any the wiser but England had done what was supposed to come naturally to them. The groundsman locked the gate, the players went home in their luxurious coach and any sense of anti climax was redeemed by the knowledge that England had won again. And that's got to be a good thing.

 

Joe's Jolly Japes- my latest book

Joe's Jolly Japes - my latest book.

Joe's Jolly Japes is my latest book and is available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online. It is, I think, funny, nostalgic and lyrical. Its full of insight, social commentary about the English middle classes, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, my account of Alan Bennett, showbiz stars, and to begin with my account of the England World Cup football team with their triumphs and disasters, the players, managers, the victories and defeats in recent times.

I've also given my view on English seaside resorts, an afternoon spent watching a BBC Hyde Park music concert on the TV with the likes of Chrissie Hynde and Billy Ocean on the telly, my perspective on West End department stores and lots of observations on everyday life told with I think  just a hint of humour. I'm not a comedian but I'll think you find some of my descriptions to be both amusing and insightful. If you like reading books about the lighter and brighter side to life then Joe's Jolly Japes is definitely the book for you.

Joe's Jolly Japes is designed to make you giggle, chuckle and chortle. It's a book of language and description, a book that'll make you smile and laugh in equal measure.

Thanks everybody

Ah yes it's spring again.

Ah yes it's spring again.

Oh yes it's spring again. Cue the street festivals, trips to the local garden centre in search of tulips, rummaging around the attic for photos and family albums, dusting shelves and neglected window sills, spring cleaning, plumping up sleepy cushions and venturing out into the big, wide world with a whistle and smile.

Thankfully the winter blues have now turned a distinct shade of yellow and orange with dark green coating those frozen tree branches. Everything looks good now. In fact it's beautiful in Manor House and may well be the same where you're living. This is the time for opening the living room windows and just inhaling the air for a few golden seconds. There is a sudden awareness that no longer do we have to be trapped inside the claustrophobic darkness of winter.

And winter itself wasn't quite as bad as we thought it was going to be. We could still watch Strictly Come Dancing on the BBC because that made us feel  good as well. It was rather like having a ballroom in your living room, glittering and glitzy celebrities tripping the light fantastic, not caring one iota about the final result and just wanting to entertain the public no matter how foolish they must have felt at the time.

So here it is spring. Tonight the clocks go forward which means we'll all wind our clocks and watches forward and our bodies will try to make a suitable re- adjustment. Time waits for no man even though that does sound blatantly sexist. Anyway tomorrow morning we'll all get up and subconsciously dread that loss of an hour in bed or maybe you're an early riser in which case you'll probably think the day is inordinately long. And you still haven't eaten your breakfast and it's now time to crunch that first piece of toast and jam. Oh how utterly confusing.

Now let's see. Let's have a look at those blinds or curtains in the living room. Now it's time to get out the vaccum cleaner and give the whole of your home a thorough spring clean. It looks as though the whole world is finally emerging from its winter hibernation, bleary eyed but relieved. We can finally get down to the housework or indulge in a spot of shopping. A bit of retail therapy never did anybody any harm.

This morning in Manor House the weather is just stunningly gorgeous. The yellow sunshine is beating down purposefully from the blameless blue sky. The blackbirds and gulls have yet to be spotted in that graceful swoop across the rooftops rather like that waltz on Strictly Come Dancing. It is an uplifting and therapeutically heart warming sight and you can't help but be enchanted by the whole vista. Time to wave goodbye to winter and it's time for spring with its bumper harvest of Easter eggs and Pesach matzos in a couple of weeks time.

It may be approaching the end of March but I think March has given a fairly respectable account of itself. We've had one or two biting cold snaps, a couple of snowflakes which promptly melted in the rain and that fine sleet which didn't really go anywhere. All things considered March has behaved with a well mannered decorum and admirable restraint. It could have been rude and obnoxious but the winter months seemed to have passed fairly quickly without any real incident.

Deep in the heart of the English countryside farmers are gathering the sheep and cows together while the patchwork quilt of rolling fields and sluggish meadows yawn and stretch with a lazy and lethargic air about them. At this time of the year, the early morning mists quickly lift and nature shortly comes to terms with the changing seasons.

It's time for those hens and chickens to project their voices at full volume. Suddenly they're surrounded by the lush green grass, acres of grass liberally sprinkled with dancing daisies and all of the pomp and pageantry of early Spring. Now I know this may sound excessively lyrical but you can't help but be astounded by those tiny buds and that first cuckoo. There is a sweet lyricism about Spring that winter and autumn could only look on with envy at.

Here in Manor House, everything looks perfect and serene. There is an indefinable loveliness and goodness about life. The great poets of the 18th century would have had the most apt of metaphors, similes, adverbs and proverbs for Saturday in Manor House. The sun is just glowing and here to spend the rest of the day, It's roughly 63 out there and if you look closely the cherry blossom has now come out to play in some fabulous display of colour and artistry. If only I had a painting easel, a couple of brushes, a palette of reds, blues, greens and yellows and just a small jar of water. If only I could paint or draw as well as those very talented people on that Sunday tea time programme on the BBC. If only Hilary Clinton had been allowed to become the next President of the United States or Jeremy Corbyn told to just give up on politics and never darken anybody's corridors again. Oh it's all hypothetical and guesswork.

I suspect that the Woodberry Wetlands reservoir looks out of this world. I can only imagine that those yachts on the water are bobbing up and down playfully while around them people wander around for hour after hour. This has to be the perfect day for looking out across North London and just losing yourself in some poetic daydream where the sun always shines. This has to be the idyllic weather for swans to strut their funky staff, nature to be ever so slightly flirtatious and the world to kick off its shoes. The coats are slowly disappearing, the hoods now surplus to requirements and even the pullovers are no longer needed. It feels as though we've all been released out into the open air after that oppressive winter confinement. No longer does everything seem to be bleak, dreary, dull and doleful.

In Manor House this morning even the advertising hoardings looked brighter and cheerier while all around us there is a keen sense of hope and anticipation. The pigeons are still on the hunt and prowl, pecking away endlessly at the pavements in the hope of finding food. But quite clearly they're wasting their time. Nobody is about to drop several loaves of bread on the ground just to satisfy their insatiable appetites so maybe they should fly off to somewhere where bread is on the menu.

For a number of years a group of tramps in shabby clothes huddle around a bench deep in discussion about what ever they talk about  during the day. They sit on a bench before pottering around the streets and then hanging around quite contentedly next to Manor House station. It reminds you of some Dickensian street scene or something you've always seen but were never able to understand.

Down in Manor House station, it was very much business as uusal, A gentleman in a dark blue London Transport uniform looked slightly pre-occupied. Maybe he was reflecting on England's narrow 1-0 defeat in Germany, or looking forward to the new cricket season, perhaps hoping that Sir Andy Murray can retain the Wimbledon trophy. Perhaps he was looking forward to his Saturday night of fish and chips with a swift pint of lager just to wash everything down. He could have been looking forward to that pub quiz or that joyous karaoke. Nothing like a good, old fashioned sing song. It could be that he just wants to go home as quickly as possible because there might be something gripping on the TV tonight.

Meanwhile at home it's all getting very heated and argumentative again. That Scottish politician Nicola Sturgeon is rather hot and bothered about nothing of any global significance. The rumour is that Sturgeon is not a happy woman because all of that kerfuffle in the wake of the Scottish independence referendum has blown up again for public consumption. It's hard to tell what's going on. Apparently a huge cross section of the Scottish people want the whole thing to be done again. It almost feels as this current political news agenda is some deliberately early April Fools Joke designed to give us a good old laugh.

Theresa May, the British Prime Minister, it has to be said, is gradually getting the hang of  being Prime Minister. True, this has to be the most stressful and unpleasant period of her time in office but that's what it says in the job description. Still, she  looks like a downtrodden sixth form teacher  trying desperately to keep her class in some kind of order.  The whole charade of this pro Brexit aftermath is beginning to get on our nerves. Or maybe we enjoy being subjected to this relentless hot air and babbling rhetoric that just seems to go on and on rather like some boring House of Commons discussion about the price of brandy at the bar and that infernal noise at Prime Minister's questions.

After the horrific events at Westminster things seem to returning to normality. The pigeons at Manor House and Stamford Hill are now as hungry and ravenous as ever. The tramps still slouch around the bench outside the newsagents with a rather torn and weatherbeaten air about them. They then all meet up with each other for what seems like the most secretive meeting you'll ever see. It is hard to know whether you should sympathise with them or just stare at them with utter contempt. Are they hatching some bizarre plot for world domination? You're inclined to think that perhaps they only have themselves to blame for their dire predicament. But then you realise that this is the existence they're content with and would never dream of an alternative lifestyle.

Here we are on the first Saturday of spring and with the atrocity at Westminster still fresh on our minds it is time for sober reflection. Our hearts and minds go out deeply to the families and friends whose lives were ripped out and then totally wrecked by events they had no control over whatsoever. London is still a city in mourning and grief, the dark cloak of terrorism covering a thousand sins. But none will just give in, throw in the towel and just relinquish our hold on our way of life.

And yet London will remain open and will never be deterred or beaten. London will continue to do its lively trade in souvenirs, hold open its doors in its palatial hotels, ride on the new Routemaster buses, drop off  splendidly at Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, walk through its wide, spacious and handsome parks, shop in the West End and then in the afternoon cruise on a boat down to Hampton Court.

 Londoners will eat in their cosmopolitan restaurants, go for a spin on the London Eye and  then watch a West End musical. Londoners will dig their heels in and refuse to succumb to the iron fist of terrorism. London will do it her way and behave in the way it's always conducted itself. London will have its individuality, ravens at the Tower of London, the Changing of the Guard and, above all, it will just carry on valiantly before falling asleep on each other's shoulder on a London tube train. It will have its buskers in Covent Garden, buskers playing the concertina inside the London tube train station and then it'll rest its head and do the same thing again day after day. Because that's what Londoners have a natural flair for, never surrendering because that might be an admission of weakness. London is determined to move on and surge ahead marching towards our destination

So it is that Saturday is now moving into the afternoon, the sun still shining incessantly and satisfyingly over this wonderful corner of suburban London. There is continuity and leisureliness that Saturdays have always been renowned for. Of course the shops and department stores are open all hours and working feverishly into the early hours of the evening. We will drink formidably from the cup of good living, dance the night away and then wake up on Sunday morning with the greatest hangover of all time. But we'll never apologise for our boozy excesses because Manor House and the nearby West End are just doing fine thankyou. Yes folks spring has arrived and all in the world are having the time of our lives. It's spring and time to put the clocks forward. Anybody for a meal in Chinatown. Now that's a brilliant idea.        

England against Germany the most stirring of football matches

England against Germany- the most stirring of football matches

Oh how the English love to meet the Germans in football. It is undoubtedly one of the most stirring and dramatic confrontations in any sporting arena. But throughout the years both countries have locked horns like two antagonistic stags or two red blooded lions with the needle to each other. There is something very raw, primeval and amusingly silly about the sheer loathing that both Germany and England have always held for each other.

But hold on. This can't be true because this is rather like sibling rivalry where the two brothers just scrap and scuffle for territorial rights, a tooth and claw conflict that only occasionally threatens to spill over into outright hostility. In fact if anything it just stops short from descending into a bloodbath if only because both teams would rather claim moral victories over each other. They come face to face with each other, square up to each other and just stare amusingly at each other.

Last night in Dortmund it seemed to be the latest instalment of this epic European soap opera featuring England, dressed somewhat strangely in naval blue and the Germans just doing what the Germans do so calmly and composedly. At times both England and Germany conform so closely to their national stereotypes that the match seems to bear an uncanny resemblance to past encounters.

England, now under the very youthful and imperturbable Gareth Southgate, are a team that seem to be opening up and blossoming like a very disciplined row of spring daffodils. Southgate looks the unlikeliest of footballing managers, too nice and polite to pass any kind of dogmatic judgment on anybody in particular. With his smartly tailored suit and dark blue waistcoat Southgate learnt his playing apprenticeship at Crystal Palace whose present boss is ironically the man who lost his job as England manager in the most acrimonious and disgraceful circumstances.

When Sam Allardyce was briefly in charge of England it was widely felt that the quality of football he'd always advocated at various spells with Bolton Wanderers, Newcastle United and West Ham would drag the game into some dark age where football was played above sea level. But Southgate looks prim, proper, methodical, idealistic and visionary, a man with a plan. He stood in his technical dug out rather like some university student about to embark on a post graduate course. But here is a man who looks the real deal, somebody with an innate footballing intelligence and plenty of streetwise know-how.

But unlike his predecessors, Southgate does seem to come without any emotional baggage. There is nothing of the apparent secrecy and suspicion that seemed to haunt Don Revie during the 1970s, the rather unfortunate whispers and scandal that eventually drove Glen Hoddle out of a job and poor Kevin Keegan who seemed to impulsively walk out on England when ironically the Germans had just beaten England in the old Wembley Stadium for the last time.

Southgate seems to revel in his new found celebrity and status and the comparisons with previous England managers do invite some comment. You could never draw any parallel with Terry Venables. Venables was mischievous, cheeky, daring, for ever scheming, wheeling and dealing.  But if you were to find any common ground with Ron Greenwood then Southgate, I suspect, would be enormously flattered. Gareth Southgate looks like one of the game's studious thinkers and Greenwood was immensely well informed, learned and one of football's most erudite of academics.

At the moment Southgate seems to observing his team's evolution with the most detached of perspectives. He seems to be developing his team's tactics, formations and strategies rather like some very forward thinking scientist in a laboratory. There is something very shrewd and perceptive about Southgate that quite clearly reminds you of the late and much loved Sir Bobby Robson. Southgate is canny, hugely intelligent and admirably analytical. Better to be safe than sorry as they say.

 Southgate will not be hurried into a rash act that might backfire on him. Southagate rubs his bristly chin, looks on very thoughtfully and gives every impression that eventually some special chemical formula will work for him. Here is a cool, clever, calculating man who measures his words and carves out his well planned manoeuvres like a military general who knows exactly what he's doing. In Dortmund he began to formulate what would now seem like the most cherished of victories. In the end it didn't quite work on the night but tomorrow, as they say, is another day.

And so we return to England's 1-0 defeat against the one and only Germany. Exactly a year ago Eric Dier, Spurs rugged centre half, rubber stamped a famous victory over the Germans and left English football supporters with a rather smug smile on their faces. This is neither personal, childish, spiteful nor is it vindictive. By now England and Germany must be heartily sick of each other, fed up to the back teeth whenever anybody mentions the 1966 World Cup Final, the 1970 World Cup quarter final, the 1972 European Championship, the 1990 World Cup penalty shoot out fiasco, the 1996 European Championship penalty shoot out calamity and the 5-1 thrashing England handed out to the Germans in a 2001 friendly.

These are the historic statistics. mere detailed footnotes and quite obviously well documented facts that seem to be raked over again and again just for emphasis or clarification. The recent England football story is so moving and heartbreaking that any Hollywood script writer would probably jump at the chance of bringing it to the silver screen. But Gareth Southgate looks a man in complete control of his destiny. There were no furious hand gestures, irate fist pumping or all of those hysterical histrionics that have so often characterised some England managers from the past.

The sad passing of Graham Taylor may have taught Southgate some salutary lessons in how not to take the game too seriously. The image of Taylor ranting and raving on the touchline as England were given their marching orders in a World Cup qualifier in Holland, remains a disturbing reminder of what happens when it goes wrong for England managers.

Last night England were rather undeservedly beaten in a friendly against Germany. It's not the end of the world and nothing unsavoury happened. England look a work in progress, a team still in the experimental stages rather than at an advanced point where World Cups have to be given serious consideration. Gareth Southgate looks almost too young to be an international manager but age has yet to influence any major World Cup match- apart perhaps from a 40 year old Dino Zoff who lifted the World Cup with Italy.

On Sunday England play an important World Cup qualifier against Lithuania which shouldn't, in theory, be too taxing but then how long have we been following England for anything to be considered as straightforward?  Last summer poor Roy Hodgson could hardly believe what he was watching when his England team were humiliatingly beaten by Iceland in the European Championship. Most English supporters are still in a state of shock and bemusement, a team traumatised by the most improbable result in the history of  English football. Even the Americans thought they'd seen everything in the 1950 World Cup.

The whole of the England side last night in Germany played both impressively and for long periods creditably. For much of the game England gave a passable impersonation of an international team who know what they're doing, a side confident in both their style and methodology. Now there is a real structure, shape and framework to an England side that genuinely looked as though they were enjoying their football and had none of the inhibitions or social awkwardness that might have ruined their game in past years.

Occasionally Joe Hart does look the most uncertain of England keepers but some of us can still remember the Peter Shilton gaffe on that famous Wembley evening in 1973 when Shilton allowed the ball to squirm under his body against Poland in that infamous World Cup qualifier. Hart still exerts a reliable presence and there is a commading air about him that doesn't bring you out in a cold sweat when Hart comes out decisively for crosses.

The relatiively new  back three consisting of Michael Keane, Chris Smalling and Gary Cahill are beginning to develop a very dependable empathy. Your mind goes back to the days of Mick Mills, Phil Neal, Emlyn Hughes and Phil Thompson and everything looked secure and completely assured. It may be the defensive foundation of this England team may be in good hands, oozing stability and know how.

 Eric Dier is gradually emerging as one of the best holding midfielders in the Premier League and may just have the relevant  credentials for continued success on the international scene. It's hard to make any real assessment of Dier's prowess both on the ground and in the air but for Spurs he seems to have established a valid case for a regular place in Southgate's team.

Once again Kyle Walker, his Spurs defensive colleague, has emerged as a player of real character and authority. He also possesses the kind of lightning turn of pace as an overlapping full back that English football may have been dreaming about. Walker moves like a cheetah and would probably give Usain Bolt a run for his money, a fast, athletic player with little in the way of fear and uncertainty.

Ryan Bertrand, one of Gareth Southgate's Under 21 products certainly looks as though he could take full responsibility for the senior team if given a lengthy run in the team. Bertrand has a marvellous awareness of where his team mates are and very rarely looks unruffled by a potential crisis. He also looks as though he could be a future Mick Mills which may be the best of all compliments.

Dele Alli, Adam Lallana, Jake Livermore are rapidly turning into the type of England player that are no longer afraid to express their inner feelings without feeling as though something is holding them back. Alli, in one eye catching moment, executed the most remarkable of drag backs, turning his opponent inside out with complete maturity and a lovely cameo of skill. There is an audacity and natural dexterity about Alli's football that in several moments during the game had shades of Paul Gascoigne about it. It is to be hoped that Alli does not follow in the unfortunate footsteps of Gazza's private lifestyle. Alarmingly though Alli has revealed a prickly side to his character which has to be of enormous concern to England manager Southgate.

Adam Lallana, Jordan Henderson and Ross Barkley look a midfield collective that could flourish with time and patience. Barkley has an exquisite talent that  frustratingly disappoints on the international stage. But there is a sense that Barkley could yet emerge as one of the most inventive English playmakers ever to pull on the England shirt. Judgment has to be reserved on both Livermore of West Brom and the excellent and exciting talent of Nathan Redmond. Both Livermore and particularly Redmond look very positive and ambitious on the ball but at the end of the Germany game, the England football team trooped off the Dortmund pitch beaten but not entirely defeated.

We still have the tireless and lethal Jamie Vardy, all perpetual motion and frightening speed. Vardy's career has now reached the point where, rapidly approaching his 30th year, he may not represent England's long term future. When Marcus Rashford and Jessie Lingard of Manchester United came on as the England substitutes you began to think that these are the players who may figure more prominently than Vardy as we approach the World Cup in Russia next year.

Still  though  England certainly passed the ball with much more conviction and accuracy than would ever have been imagined possible, say ten years ago.  There was a readiness to try out different  techniques, neat passing movements and intuitive touches on the ball that looked almost as if it belonged in the German textbook or in another era, a Brazilian foot. There were sleek, symmetrical patterns that none of us thought England were even remotely capable of. But we were surprised and we were almost breathless with wonder. Yes England could play football again and when the final whistle went in Dortmund last night a young man by the name of Southgate had finally injected life back into the England football team. It was the sweetest of nights. We may hope that the Germans have had their moments of fun. It's time for the English cavalry to launch their counter attack.Come on Gareth. We have to believe.

London - the victim of another terrorist attack.

Terrorism hits Westminster and London looks on in horror.

London once again looks on in complete horror and disgust. Once again the capital city of Britain could only bow her head in shame and disgrace as terrorism cuts the ugliest slash through the heart of a peaceful, law abiding city. It is the most grotesque attack on our civil liberties, a violation of our freedoms and a reminder - if it were needed- that London is still fragile, vulnerable, exposed and silently threatened by the forces of evil.

Westminster, the heart of the political establishment, could only express its shock and astonishment as, at the time of writing, four people are now confirmed dead and an increasing number of injuries have now been identified. It all seems horribly familiar and humanity has to wrestle with its conscience. The knee jerk reaction is to simply utter our revulsion and point the finger of condemnation but the truth is that the whole world has to be at its most prepared and equipped for both the ferocity and violence of terrorist outrages and their grisly aftermath.

After the terrorist attacks that have disfigured both Paris, Brussels, last year and Tunisia, the world has to be ready for the worst of all scenarios. Sadly, inhumanely and all too frequently now, Paris has suffered terribly from the appalling assaults on both its people and city. Terrorism is now stalking the streets, cafes and restaurants of a world that can hardly come to terms with the sheer cold blooded savagery of murderous minds. But London must reveal a stubborn defiance and backbone that will never buckle in the face of adversity.

And now London finds itself at the centre of events, a seething metropolis that simply wants to get on with the business of going about its every day life with civility and rational thinking. None of us could possibly have legislated for the sheer brutality of today's dreadful act of bloodthirsty terrorism. But it happened once again and now is surely the time to show the rest of world that London must never ever give in to the forces of despicable manslaughter.

But at another critical point for world peace it is time for both London and the world to show that we will never succumb to violence, death and deplorable aggression. It is now time to stand firm against those whose sole objective is to kill, maim and injure. It is a time to demonstrate British strength of character, sheer indomitability of spirit and a raw determination to carry on and never be deterred when faced by hatred and prejudice.

In the aftermath of 7/7 we all believed that London had been hit hard and abominably by terrorists. The trains and bus that cruelly claimed so many lives on that fateful day will leave the most repulsive legacy for years to come. The defence of London, the security measures and reinforcements that have always been put into place, are a cautionary metaphor for just how ready London has to be in the event of tragedy and disaster.

We must have thought that we'd seen the worst of all terrorist catastrophes when New York was horrifically traumatised and emotionally destroyed by the destruction of the Twin Towers on an early September morning in 2001. We have to believe that the forces of  good will triumph over the cruel face of racism and intolerance. It is time for the reasonable voices of peace and harmony to express themselves, turning their back firmly on the dark face of racism and anger.

 We have to rise up against those who would deny the right to live our lives and live in a civilised democracy. We have to believe that London, Paris, Brussels and all points of the global compass will be victorious and will win the war against terrorism. It may sound simplistic and logical but without the calm voice of reason the world will continue to shudder and tremble when the bomb, bullet and grenade are the only options.

The world has to combine forces and make the loudest and boldest of statements on world peace for ever more. We have to believe that humanity will never tolerate the latest atrocities that have broken into our wonderful world. We have to live as a united and harmonious world population and never let the murderers win their disgusting and nefarious battles.

Fairgrounds, wind turbines and the Moscow State Circus on the M6 motorway.

Fairgrounds, wind turbines and the Moscow State Circus on the M6 motorway.

It was another Sunday on the M6, one of Britain's finest motorways. My wife and I were travelling back after meeting up with our son and his girl friend. It was a journey accompanied by the familiar British weather. There was torrential rain which sent our car into a frenzy, windscreen wipers frenetically smearing water from side to side before finally fizzling out when the rain stopped. Then within a matter of minutes the mood changed to one of jubilation as the British weather discovered that a few bursts of sunshine could give us an encouraging signpost to that first day of Spring.

The clouds had that look of the charcoal sketch which had illustrated early February. There were flecks of silvery grey that just remained exactly where they were for what seemed like the rest of the journey. It was hard to see what was going up there in the heavens but when the rains subsided half way down the motorway you could sense one or two signs of encouragement. It was when we got to Birmingham that the weather kindly obliged with some suggestive hints of sun followed by a ten minute sunlit upland and glimmers on a distant hill with what seemed like weak shadows of spring sunshine.

Anyway it's time to return to our journey back to London on the M6. The return visit from North West England was both eventful and quite ordinary. But I couldn't help but take note of the intriguing sights that caught my eye and things that otherwise we'd probably take for granted on a British motorway. As we hit the full stretch of the M6 we were surrounded and overwhelmed by a now traditional piece of road furniture. If you hadn't seen it once you'd have probably seen it a million times but to be honest it's beginning to look like one of those art installations you'd normally expect to find at the Tate Modern in London.

Yes folks. My wife and I had yet again entered one of the most sacred pieces of land in Britain. It should now be commonly known as Cone City. For what seemed like over hundreds of miles of  English motorways the roads are fully decorated with cones. Nothing but cones. Hundreds and thousands of cones. There are cones where there shouldn't be cones. There are endless rows of cones which seem to just sit by the side of the motorway as if they've just been introduced to each other with no hope and no future, solitary creatures who look absolutely devastated and wet. .

There are cones which by now should rightly be considered as endangered species, cones that seem to be multiplying and breeding and forming their own colonies. There are cone communities that probably have their own characteristics and mannerisms. There are even cones that seem to have inexplicable sandbags draped very languidly over them, exhausted looking and ready to put their heads down for the night.

But there they were red and white cones strung together like a pearl necklace uninterrupted and heartlessly exposed to the lashing rain that poured from the heavens like a crying angel. It occurrs to me that nobody seems to care about these poor old cones. Now they too they have been cold shouldered and banished to the margins by human society. This has to be the most humiliating snub since Brian Clough was overlooked as England manager.

Still life has to go on and those road cones brave all the elements and never complain so it probably says much for their hardiness and strength of character. Cones are indestructible and bolshy, stubborn and determined, cones with tremendous reserves of stamina and endurance. But mile after mile and county and county British cones restore your faith in human nature because nothing ever seems to get them down.

And so our journey continues without anything notably out of the ordinary- apart from the cones which, after a while became almost dizzyingly hynoptic and totally unremarkable. Day light is fading and the road ahead is almost boringly uniform with no variations on a theme. But there were the occasional curiosities and oddities that did capture my imagination. There were few sights that held my attention for any great length of time but I did notice the kind of things that on another day would have been regarded as perfectly normal. But there was something strange in the air, something wonderfully unusual.

You're not going to believe this. I did see it and it wasn't some surreal dream. I blinked once or twice and tried to convince myself. It was true, it was substantial, it was visible and it was happening. So here goes. Ladies and Gentlemen there was a fairground by the side of the motorway and no I wasn't imagining it. There was a genuine fairground by the side of the M6. Maybe I'll wake up and one day and pretend that I was just hallucinating but it was a fairground and what an exciting discovery it was.

Now let me hasten to add that it wasn't the kind of fairground you'd expect to find by the seaside but it was a fairground in its most original and impressive glory. Quite how it found its way to the side of an M6 motorway in England is quite beyond anybody's belief. There it stood brightly illuminated and presumably whirling, spinning, lights flashing, a kaleidoscope of colour that spun and whizzed around at frightening speed and remains one of the most bizarre sights you'll ever see on any British motorway.

My wife and I didn't stop to make a more thorough examination of  what can only be described as English eccentricity at its craziest.  Who on earth thought a fairground would enhance this idyllic piece of English landscape? If anything it almost looks as if it shouldn't really be there because somebody rightly or wrongly believed that if  you plonked a children's adventure playground next to a frantically busy motorway hundreds of tourists would flock to the fairground in record breaking droves. Sadly to a neutral outsider it looks completely out of character and just some amusing diversion that simply looks silly. Still maybe there are millions of children who have been nagging their parents over and over again to see the M6 motorway fairground.

So who would travel from any point of the world compass to see this wish fulfilment of a child's dream? How to explain the sheer irony of dodgem cars bumping and crashing into each other next to a real life motorway? What about those splendid ferris wheels slowly, steadily but surely soaring into the air and just yards away from speeding lorries on the M6? You couldn't make it up could you? The fact is though that a wonderfully enterprising piece of business has been done and it's certainly different. There had to be a gaping gap in the market and maybe that's what they mean by showing initiative.

 But my friends this is real life and it's a permanent fixture. A fairground is up and running, a viable and presumably profit making concern to amaze and astonish you. There's a stomach churning roller coaster, the coconut shy that everybody loves to knock down and that stall that guarantees you a gold fish if you can get three hoops over their respective hooks.

There was though one rather recurring and disturbing theme that kept cropping up. Wherever you looked there were  hundreds of trees which dominated the motorway scenery. But the trees looked almost bare, lifeless, broken and defeated. They seemed to be shivering and trembling in the gusty wind and rain, sadness and despondency on every branch and limb. Yet it was very distressing to watch and it was only now that I could rub my hands together with glee at the prospect of tomorrow's first day of Spring.

Shortly the gleaming green of Spring will revitalise these giant wonders of nature. At the moment they look desperately sorry for themselves and must feel very hurt and rejected. Soon though the leaves with clothe them in the ultimate act of redemption. Soon the M6 will forget all about those wretched cones and just concentrate on the business of looking healthier and brighter.

Oh before I go we did see something else that did made me privately chuckle. Why was the Moscow State  Circus on the M6 and why do you always see huge Eddie Stobart lorries on an English motorway? These are the pressing issues that need to be addressed and the nation should be deeply pre-occupied and concerned. Besides where was the Moscow State Circus going and why did they turn left at Northampton when they should have kept going until they saw signs leading to Luton?

And then my wife and I finally arrived back in London relieved that the M6 was now history. At times it makes you almost glad to be British. As we approached the end of journey we saw the most incredible sight. Great big  wind turbines which looked like aircraft propellors without a fuselage just kept lumbering awkwardly around in the air. Are these the most ugly blots on the English skyline or essential to the British environment? It has to be said that the M6 motorway once again excelled itself.  Both my wife and I couldn't keep our eyes off it. Are we there yet?

Carole King- Beautiful, the musical, a tapestry to treasure.

Carole King- Beautiful, the musical, a tapestry to treasure.

It's true you know. There's no business like showbusiness, like no business I know. Oh for the roar of the grease paint and the glories of a West End musical. Can there be anything more delightfully satisfying or rapturously brilliant then a foot tapping, thigh slapping, rocking and rolling West End showpiece, a masterclass of theatre. the good old days, nostalgia and flawless perfection? I'm almost sure there isn't.

Carole King's wonderfully unforgettable Beautiful musical at the Aldwych Theatre in the heart of London's glittering, glistening West End. ticked all of the right boxes. You almost feel that  the whole concept of the West End musical should be bottled for posterity and never ever lost. Because if it did I, for one, would be deeply upset and privately very disappointed. There is something very special and  unique about the atmosphere that just envelops a West End musical. I think it should always be carefully protected and preserved in case it sustains any kind of long term damage.

And so for the show. When Carole King fell in love with Neil Sedaka at high school during the 1950s the whole of America would fall in love with Carole King. It may have been the briefest of crushes but the relationship between Sedaka and King would turn into much more than a slow burning infatuation with the  wider America public. America just embraced Carole King and immediately took her to their hearts.

But in the ornate. chandelier winking splendour of the Aldwych Theatre the story of Carole King made you feel good all over. It was life affirming, heart warming, feel good, pulsatingly entertaining, funny, intelligently observed and lyrically nostalgic. It was quite the most outstanding West End production that I've seen this year and those production values were almost too good to be true.

From the moment the curtain opened to show a purple spotlight over a solitary piano, Beautiful took us on a captivating journey through King's furiously productive if turbulent career. There were the inevitable highs and lows, the peaks and troughs that invariably follow those vastly talented singer song writers.

Of course Carole King knew heartache and tragedy but the private life of one of America's most consistent of songwriters has sadly haunted most of King's contemporaries. Throughout Beautiful there was an almost continuous thread of triumph and success with a generous helping of argument, confrontation and then a sad parting of ways when things didn't work out.

When Carole King met her husband Gerry Goffin at a very young age, the two seemed to develop the most passionate of all relationships. There was an almost instant chemistry between the two and King just fell into the arms of Goffin as if they were kindred spirits. But as the years progressed the simple lust of their teenage years would explode into something that became almost dangerously combustible.

But Beautiful provided us with a wonderful behind the scenes backdrop of the late 1950s and 60s. King, as became patently obvious, was hugely influenced by the heady, dizzy years of American rock and roll. Then she just immersed herself in the sounds and sights of that life changing period of popular music. Shortly she would swallow up that culture, gleefully incorporating her kind of music into the new and rapidly evolving styles of popular music. King would develop her own very clear identity and a most intoxicating blend of easy listening music blossomed overnight.

Soon the transformation would be complete. Soon King would find herself drawn into the whole 1950s zeitgeist. It was a world of wild rock and roll, jumping and jiving juke boxes and coffee bars that played nothing but Eddie Cochran, Buddy Holly, Duane Eddy, Bill Hayley and the Comets and of course the remarkable Elvis Presley. But Carole King seemed hell bent on something that was  altogether more sedate and relaxed. She was, and still is, a very individual and independent woman and singer song writer seeming to prefer songs that she must have felt were more tuneful, easier on the ear and elegantly evocative of the great American song book.

And so we were given the Drifters, the Sharelles 'Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow'. 'Natural Woman, a bold statement of powerful femininity as pioneered by the superb Aretha Franklin and then fleeting references to the great and good of America's songbirds. Carole King became an overnight convert and the most perfect exponent of the smoothly crafted song.

But it was the early 1970s that would prove to be the decisive turning point of King's career. When she released what would become one of her most successful albums 'Tapestry' America knew they'd discovered a talent that had to be nurtured. 'Tapestry' would become a phenomenal million dollar, best selling, album that everybody knew the lyrics to every track on the album.

Now the hit singles would almost flow organically. Apart from and including 'Tapestry', there was 'It's Too Late' a poignant heartbreaking reference to her doomed relationship with Goffin, 'You've Got A Friend', an instantly catchy song that James Taylor would also popularise and then Little Eva's Do the Locomotion' marvellously played out to an infectious beat on stage. The Aldwych were now tapping their fingers, knees and hands as if transfixed by what they'd just seen.

And so my wife and I left the Aldwych with that incredible sense of well being and euphoria that only a West End musical can translate into real life. If you haven't seen Beautiful then you've got to rush down to the box office, grab a bite to eat before the performance and then abandon yourself to a an afternoon or evening of complete enjoyment. You will remember why you just couldn't resist the spellbinding temptations of the West End musical. Personally I think its essential entertainment and the kind of show you'll always remember and never forget. Carole King's tapestry was far by the best I'd ever seen. It's a show stopper of the highest class. My wife and I would give it ten out of ten. A feast for the eyes.

If music be the food of love play on.

If music be the food of love play on.

The great Bard William Shakespeare got it absolutely right. Music has to be the food of love served with a seasoning of Beethoven, a garnish of Mozart and rhapsody of Chopin. Music provides us with the first soundtrack of our lives, it lives on in our soul like the sweetest melody and the tune we simply can't get out of our head no matter how hard we tried.

For a number of years Manor House, along with most of our now household London Tube railway stations, has been the venue for one of the most stirring classical music. Now quite how this came into being has never really been clarified. There is something culturally gratifying about those wonderful classical composers caressing our ears with some of the most familiar overtures  and concertos.

But as if by magic Manor House now quite clearly resembles a rather more muted version of the Last Night at the Proms. True there are none of the rousing Union Jacks or that deeply patriotic singing that has so characterised Royal Albert Hall extravaganzas throughout the ages. But if you'd like a revealing glimpse into the world of the London Tube railway station you could do worse than spend a couple of minutes absorbing Strauss waltzes, Mozart in his pomp, the mellifluous strains of Debussy or  Elgar's epic Pomp and Circumstance, a truly amazing piece of classical music that stretches the whole of the classical music emotional spectrum.

So whose idea was it to lift the profile of the good old fashioned London tube station? Years and years ago, it has to be said, it was a bit on the dull side. In fact some of us were just grateful to get to our destination without any major incident. But then those avid train enthusiasts would probably shoot me down in flames so in defence of those with trains in their blood I do offer the most sincere of apologies.

Still when classical music suddenly made its debut on the London Tube system it felt as if your mind had been taken by complete surprise. When that grey train rumbled out of the tunnel and on to some expectant platform most of us simply cherished its arrival. It was London at her most grand and imperious, an engineering marvel that made you feel proud of your capital city.

But then something strange and unexpected happened. Somebody came up with the inspired idea to liven up the old Underground train experience. For years the only antidote to complete boredom on the platform was a Nestle chocolate bar from that great old machine on the wall. Ah, now this was  nostalgia in a Dairy Milk chocolate wrapper. This was my childhood and maybe yours as well and how disappointed we were when Bourneville chocolate had been almost dreadfully overlooked.

Anyway now we can listen to music on the Underground. We can hum and chant along melodiously to some of the finest of all classical music. We find ourselves almost privately conducting the piece with our imaginary baton. We pretend that we're fully acquainted with every chorus, stanza and verse. We try to believe that our imagination has been completely transported to some sumptuous 18th century ballroom or posh Victorian saloon where the rich danced endlessly until deep into the night.

And then we remember that we're still at Manor House Tube station and patiently waiting for the train that never seemed to arrive. We check our watches, walk up and down the platform staring at our I-Pads and then resigning to ourselves to the fact that we may never get into work at all. But then we remember that minutes earlier our ears had been subjected to some of the most calming music we'd ever heard. We then relax, take stock of where we are and just soak up the sonatas.

Now there are some of us who would have preferred Led Zeppelin or Pink Floyd or in complete contrast Stevie Wonder, Earth, Wind and Fire or Sir Elton John to brighten up our early mornings. The truth is though that our musical tastes are completely ours and very subjective. Heavy metal rock practitioners such as Iron Maiden or the Clash would never have had the same kind of appeal or resonance to those who like their early mornings to be soothing and soft.

The inescapable fact is that classical music is here to stay on at Tube stations across a vast majority of  stations. I pass through Manor House station every day and was once again startled by the sheer triumphant majesty of the music. It does seem totally unreal and incongruous to hear classical music at a railway station but who thought we'd ever communicate with each other with a miniature, pocket sized phone with more Apps than you could ever imagine. It hardly seems possible now but admittedly, we perhaps take it for granted.

Then you stand still for a moment, look around at the newsagents inside the station and then the timeless grandeur of those escalators that seem to have been there since the age of steam. Suddenly I was stopped in my tracks. I must have heard a whole series of some of the greatest symphonies that have ever been written.

It is easy to criticise the London Tube network when things go haywire. But when Beethoven bombards your senses with a resounding sense of melodrama and pathos you begin to believe that the marriage of classical music and trains could be a harmonious one. There are times when the match doesn't seem to be the right one. Then again how better to be woken up in the morning when your football team has been thumped emphatically the previous night. Let music be the food of love. I think our greatest playwright would have loved Manor House Tube station. Anybody for a Strauss waltz? Just the thing for a Monday morning.      

Sunday morning joggers in the park

Sunday morning joggers in the park.

I don't think I've seen anything quite like it. Clissold Park in North London was absolutely jam packed with joggers and runners, quite the most magnificent variety of dogs and a general hive of activity. It was a drizzly old morning in North London and almost the entire population- or so it seemed- was doing something. But the scene before me on my own run told me so much about the Sunday morning pursuits of London suburbia.

Almost the whole of Manor House is undergoing a dramatic gentrification. The old Manor House has now been replaced by the new Manor House. The dark brown bricks and masonry of the old Woodberry Down estates have now been supplanted by the fresh, new and brighter colours of modern dwellings.

There is a notable difference between the old currency and the new because suddenly Manor House has now been taken over by the professional middle classes, the kind of people who used to sip their capuccinos in Kensington and Chelsea rather than downtown Hackney or Manor House. Isn't it funny how things change over the years? Manor House, a quiet and unassuming North London suburb next to the predominantly Jewish community of Stamford Hill, looks very cool and sophisticated with the most up to date in architecture and an overriding sense of ambition. It's go ahead, attractive and desirable. By all accounts it's also ridiculously expensive which would seem to make it totally undesirable but if you've got the thick end of almost a million in your bank account then this is the place for you.

So where was I? Clissold Park was simply bubbling over with energy and a wonderful sense of dynamism. Those joggers, runners and, in my case, trotters, were all pounding away, models of glowing good health and perhaps practising for this years' London Marathon. The London Marathon is not that far away now so they may have to put the finishing touches to their final preparations.

Still here they were, the very embodiment of athleticism, taking everything at their own personal pace and never even remotely looking out of breath. There was very much a raw intensity to their running and they all looked fighting fit, red faced and puffing perhaps but still engaged in the whole process. But they were totally committed and dedicated to the cause and you wished them well on their way. Britain is so much more health conscious than it was just over 40 years ago so it's pleasing to see people pulling on their T-shirts and shorts as well as the I-Pod for musical company.

But I do have to ask one question? Why do today's joggers and runners insist on throwing a rucksack on their back when quite clearly this looks so physically uncomfortable? Is this a new fangled fashion accessory for runners or do they think they're the great mountaineers or explorers of the future? I'm not quite sure why you would want to saddle yourself with a weighty bag on your back while running when it looks as though it should be surplus to requirements. Whatever makes you happy I suppose.

I took up jogging and running well over 30 years ago and I'm not sure whether Valentines Park was ready for Britain's next Olympian. Then it suddenly occurred to me that I had neither the pace, inclination and desire to match the phenomenal middle distance feats of Brendan Foster or Steve Cram so I had to settle for the consolation of Valentines Park stupendously pretty surroundings.

At first I have to tell you that I felt a bit of a fool. Nobody else was wearing themselves out for no apparent reason. Running seemed a pointlessly futile activity that left me feeling temporarily good about me but it was somehow lacking in  mass participation appeal. In retrospect I began to realise that the teenage sports I should have been taking part in such as table tennis, football and badminton hadn't registered with me. Running was very much my replacement sport for of all the above sports so looking back now it does seem that I'd chosen to be isolated and totally marginalised by society rather than picking the much more rewarding ball games I should have been taking part in.

Anyway the fact is that my present athletic exertions are now confined to gentle jogging rather than the strategic 800m and 1500m achievements of a Coe or Ovett. Most of us were just entranced by the cat and mouse tactics adopted by both of these very polished Olympians. For me though the sheer act of jogging and completing several circuits of a local park is enough to keep the blood vessels in peak condition, the muscles supple and active.

The London Marathon, of course is next month and remains one of London's most popular and iconic of sporting events. In its first year of 1981 it might have been regarded with a good deal of ridicule and suspicion. Here was a 26 mile foot race that stretched the length and breadth  of London but made you wonder whether it would last the course, so to speak.

But the London Marathon has survived quite brilliantly and around the globe the Marathon has gone from success to success. The first 1981 race ended in an honourable tie and to this day remains one of the most hilarious of images in any sport. An American gentleman dressed as a waiter and holding a tray was accompanied by another international runner. Both lunged for the finishing tape and shared first place. Oh for the wonderful democracy and sportsmanship that the London Marathon has so successfully engendered.

Anyway here in a far off and small corner of North London, an ageing Jewish athlete with 1950s football shorts and the most natty of T-shirts threw myself at the park entrance tape. Briefly and amusingly. I felt like Sir Roger Banister on that unforgettable May afternoon at Oxford. No I hadn't run the four minute mile in record time but I had conquered a picturesque piece of greenery called Clissold Park. There were no cameras or enraptured journalists to capture my moment in history but I did stagger round a couple of ponds and a couple of fascinated dogs who, it has to be said, looked totally perplexed.

It's time to soak my battered feet in a bowl of warm water and reflect on my latest athletic triumph. As the years now pass inexorably I'm now beginning to question the wisdom of this painstaking struggle against the odds. Sooner or later my ankle muscles may just collapse or just refuse to co-operate or maybe my joints and tendons will just wave the white flag of surrender. All of those reflexes I used to take for granted will just cry out with pain and I may have to take up dominoes or perhaps that new sport called walking football. Now that just sounds ideal. Sunday in the park hey! It's got a ring to it. Time for a nap or perhaps or should I make a concerted attempt at the Tokyo Olympic Marathon in three years time. On second thoughts I think I'll stick to Clissold Park. Bliss.

My second book No Joe Bloggs

My secomd book.

Roll up Roll up Ladies and Gentlemen. Let me introduce to you my second book. In no particular order, there's No Joe Bloggs, available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Barnes and Noble online.

No Joe Bloggs will make you laugh and cry, laugh and cry again. It's my funny, moving, poetically lyrical, deeply nostalgic and very descriptive. It's my life story so far with loads of pop culture about the 1960s, and 1970s, my neighbours while I was growing up, my Ilford upbringing, my parents, grandparents, my grandpa who cut the hair of the England 1966 World Cup winning trio of Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters.

I tell you about my favourite music, bands and singers, the fashions and trends, my favourite radio stations, movies, soccer, my mum and grandparents as Holocaust survivors, a story about the family they could have had were it not for the intervention of the Second World War and the kind of jobs that they might have held.

There's my very lyrical description of London and the West End, Piccadilly Circus and everything that left my late and wonderful dad just breathless with admiration. I tell you about English soccer clubs in a very quirky and respectful style. If you like language, simile and metaphor then I'm sure you'll like No Joe Bloggs.

Above all if you like heart warming, uplifting, singing and dancing prose then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you. There is a crazily fictitious but warmly exuberant passage about my dad's visit to Las Vegas and his Las Vegas pilgrimage.

No Joe Bloggs is I feel sure the book for you because it's a tender, heartfelt story written with affection. I know it would say that but my book No Joe Bloggs will bring a broad smile to your face and fill you with the feelgood factor.

Friday- the end of another week

Friday- the end of another week

Fridays have always had something of a raw deal. There it sits at the end of the week like some remote location in the wilds of the countryside. Every Friday most of the working nation sprints out of their office doors, races towards the pub, loosens its tie, jostles and pushes their way to the front of a crowded bar and then demands eight pints of the amber nectar and a liberating libation for Pete from accounts. Friday has to be the best day of the week because all of the weekly deadlines have been met and you don't have to worry about that outstanding project that could take months or even years.

So it is that Friday is our punctuation mark of the week, the final word on the subject and an emphatic end to all work, drudgery. pressure, anxiety and nerve shredding panic. But for most of the nation Friday represents the pinnacle of everything we've striven after but didn't quite have time to finish. It may even be the perfect release of stress, tension and suffering. In some respects we just hug Friday afternoons because suddenly there is a dawning realisation that maybe it hasn't been that bad a week anyway and besides it could have been far worse.

There must come a moment half way through Friday afternoon when you just want to stop staring at your screen and count the hours to the end of the working day. You look at the clock, gaze glumly at the passage of time and find that the clock has become your worst enemy. It's time to tap your pen and pencil on your desk, flick through your e-mails on your I Pad, catch up on all of the latest Apps and scroll down the bewildering number of games that you hadn't played yet. And then you try to unwind and relax but know that you might have forgotten to attend that vitally important meeting or time has just become  deliberately slow and therefore very spiteful.

That's it. Friday has run out of batteries, grinding to a halt at roughly 3.00 in the afternoon because it just can't be bothered to do anymore. Then it just throws a tantrum, folds its arms defiantly and gets very tetchy and irritable. Suddenly you have a strike on your hands. There is an anger and militancy in the air as Friday puts down its keyboard, strides past the filing cabinet and just hides in a dark room. Friday just wants some space and privacy because quite frankly the week has been too long and it's time to put on your coat  regardless of those tumultuous events around the world that have just surrounded and overwhelmed us.

It just seems that Friday couldn't have come quickly enough because you can only take so much and your tolerance threshold is at breaking point. Sometimes it just seems that however hard you've tried to make an impression on your boss there can be no satisfaction and resolution on some trivial problem. In many ways Friday afternoon is rather like that special moment when the referee finally blows the final whistle and your team has just won the FA Cup at Wembley. This is a release, a therapeutic blowing of the cheeks when the whole world seems a much better place than it was on  Monday morning.

And that's the puzzling conundrum. Why do we dread Monday mornings and then almost cry out longingly for Friday afternoon? Some perhaps gain enormous job satisfaction and this may never be questioned. But for those whose work schedule becomes a terrible grind and imposition then suddenly everything becomes excruciatingly unbearable. In many ways there is a hidden conflict in our mind that never gets a chance to be addressed. But of course there are those people for whom career and promotion at work are deeply rewarding.

Of course from a personal point of view the whole working experience quite literally drove me to a perhaps unfortunately premature retirement. So in many ways Friday was a metaphorical end of my working life. I think there must have been a point when Friday was not only a blissful relief but a welcome break from the humdrum and mundane days when nothing seemed to go right.

Now I think I ought to say that any personal criticism of  work is completely unintentional because I know you may love your job and every day is wonderfully exhilarating. This is undeniably true and if this is the case then I apologise for passing judgment. But there are people who work long hours for whom the hours after work are just spectacularly memorable. So you slump on the sofa with that delightful pizza, switch on the TV and then rummage around for that brilliant DVD. Then you pour a bottle of sweet wine into your glass and Friday is some paradise island with swaying palm trees and lazy hammocks, the lovely smell of hibiscus in the air. Then Fridays assume a more pleasant character and then everything seems just perfect.

So here we are. It's Friday evening and the weekend is about to stretch before us rather like some golden sunset. You've performed your ritualistic duties, made all of the decisions that had to be made, perhaps regretted things that at work that could have been done differently and then just gratefully accepted that you still had time to finish things off on Monday morning.

You've put down your tools at work, closed down your computer and resigned yourself to whatever fate might bring you. You become philosophical, realistic and privately ecstatic. You begin to recognise that nothing disastrous has taken place and there was nothing you could have done under the circumstances. So it's time to look at Friday straight in the face. It's good to see you old friend. It's time to unwind, talk about the world, family, friends and relationships, time to congratulate each other for being there  when the rest of the week just became intolerable.  Friday, you're a diamond.

The Budget that never really gives

The Budget- an English spectacle that never really gives.

It's as English as tea, the Queen, Buckingham Palace, red post boxes, country fairs, Maypole dancing, warm beer, roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, the Trooping of the Colour, vicars standing outside beautiful medieval churches and pubs on every corner of your street or road.

The Budget never takes us by complete surprise because most of us can normally see it coming from miles away. It normally arrives with the first show of daffodils on some heaven sent day at the beginning of March. Some of us can almost hear those distant bunny rabbits that herald the first signs of Easter. The Budget seems to fall at roughly that moment when most of us find that our pockets aren't quite as full as they used to be. The Budget loves to play games with our emotions because money is always at the forefront of our minds.

And yet here we were again. The Chancellor of Exchequer,  resplendent in smart suit, shirt and tie and the famous red briefcase now takes centre stage.  The said briefcase used to be black but is now red because somebody in the higher echelons of Government fancied a change of colour. It used to be black but somebody in the wood panelled lobbies of the House of Commons had a sudden change of heart. Besides that black suitcase was beginning to look a bit battered and bruised perhaps the result of constant wear and tear and general misuse.

So it was that the black Budget briefcase soldiered on throughout the years permanently scratched and desperate for some tender loving care. Maybe it had been dropped repeatedly on elegant Downing Street staircases or just thrown carelessly into the back seat of that prominently black car just before the Budget.

Amid all the pomp and pageantry of British life the Budget features in the political calendar rather like some important business document that has to be dealt with most efficiently. Some of us have never been affected by the Budget because none of my family either drink or smoke and taxes are something that the taxman takes great delight in tackling.

Philip Hammond today stood in Downing Street rather like the very model of officialdom. Hammond looked very trim, proper and athletic looking. He reminded you of the sixth form teacher who tells you that you need to study and swot up on a thousand French verbs. Hammond looked confident and businesslike which we've come to expect of previous Chancellors of the Exchequer. And inside that red briefcase were all of those financial secrets and mysteries that only become abundantly clear on Budget day.

Much to my shame and embarrassment I could never get my head around money, balance sheets, lists of figures or all of those essential values and prices that are very much the jargon of the City high flier. I hated Maths at school and in later years could never understand the complexities of algebra or logarithms or algorithms. But when somebody mentioned Maths or money I cowered away shame facedly in the corner barely able to fathom the intricate workings of finance.

But the Budget is the one day in our lives when we all wrestle with our disposable income, assessing the merits or drawbacks of smoking, drinking and driving in roughly that order. These are three fundamental domestic concerns on Budget day. Do we kick the fags into touch, knock  booze on the head or just give up on any of the indulgences that make our every day lives so worth living? Do we keep drinking, smoking and driving because we can still afford all three of these vital pleasures or do we just wake up tomorrow morning and decide that all of them are just too expensive?

Under the colourful stewardship of Margaret Thatcher there was never a dull moment. Thatcher became the Milk Snatcher who deprived all children of their daily fix of calcium. Or so it seemed.  No Milk Today was the prevailing message from a Prime Minister who seemed to divide the whole of Britain. Then three million unemployed confronted Mrs T with what must have seemed an insoluble problem. Then she took on the full and formidable might of the mining industry and won seemingly conclusively.

But Thatcher did give us three very charismatic Chancellors of the Exchequers. There was Leon Brittan, Nigel Lawson and the indomitable Kenneth Clarke. All three men would boldly open up that black door, display either the red or black briefcase to a hugely expectant Press and public always smiling broadly for the cameras.  None of us held our breath because we just knew that by the end of the Budget annoucement a majority of us would be sighing heavily or cursing under our breath.

Every year we seem to get the familiar barrage of complaints about the rate of capital tax relief, National Insurance contributions, taxes on everything that breath or move and a general list of everything that seems totally unfair. There are those staggeringly complicated statements about the rising cost of living and the unavoidable price hikes on everything from garden hoses to bicycle pumps. On second thoughts this may not be the case.

Then there are Britain's motorists, increasing rapidly by the minute, month and week. British motorways and roads are perhaps more congested and full to bursting point than ever before. And yet every year motorists understandably get hot and bothered because they, quite literally, can't move anymore. The road arteries are clogged and almost suffocated by huge and hulking lorries, millions of cars constantly stopping and starting in endless traffic jams.

And quite inevitably motorists always seem to get it in the neck. Petrol stations around the whole of Britain privately dreaded the fall out of the annual Budget. The price of petrol had been unbearably hiked up to some crazily extortionate sum. Men and women all over the UK throw their hands up in horror, gnashing their teeth and seething with fury at the unbelievable injustice of it all.

As a non motorist and somebody who never really embraced the Top Gear culture I  have nothing but the deepest sympathy for you all. Quite apart from all of the regulation costs of maintenance of your car it seems like a constant battle against the odds. But year after year it does seem to get worse and possibly unmanageable.

Still year after year the price of petrol soars through the car roof and temperatures begin to rise exponentially on the roads. How to look after your Toyota, Volvo or Mercedes when the very fuel that keeps it going is just unfeasibly dear. I have nothing but unqualified admiration for today's motorist.

When Ken Clarke was the Chancellor it became readily apparent that Clarke simply couldn't function on Budget day without his trusty whisky by his side. When Clarke began to sweat under the whole burdensome weight and intensity of the day, he would swig back his alcoholic friend and re-assure the whole of the nation that booze was still morally and spiritually refreshing. Clarke was nicknamed  the Hush Puppy slipper Chancellor because he always looked relaxed. Now how was the Budget for you? Alcohol hey! Mine's a shandy lager. On second thoughts make that an orange juice.