Anthony Joshua- heavweight British champion downs the great Klitschko

Anthony Joshua- heavyweight champion of the world downs the great Klitschko

Wow! What a fight. World Heavyweight boxing has rarely seen a night like it. Throughout the history of heavyweight boxing Britain has always cried out for somebody- anybody- to batter into submission an opponent with a fragile chin and nothing to offer in return. The fighters have come and gone. They've stepped up to the plate, glared at their adversary and then threatened to knock them into another country.

Last night Anthony Joshua of Great Britain, beat a mighty and seemingly immovable Ukranian by the name of Vladimir Klitscho in a world heavyweight boxing match at Wembley Stadium. It was one of those ferocious and bloodthirsty boxing battles that wound itself up by the minute and then exploded into life in those final, gripping rounds. Eventually it reached the most memorable of climaxes and the whole of Wembley, 90,000 strong, simply shook the ground to its foundations. It was a reeling, rocking, barnstorming, rip roaring, tooth and claw encounter that went the distance and sent the  Joshua supporters into delighted delirium.

When we look back though the  British heavyweights over the years, the list is endless. There was Joe Bugner, of  Hungarian ancestry but, who, once he stepped into the ring, was as British as steak and kidney pie. Bugner was one of the great technicians of the prizefighting game but he did invite ridicule. Some of Bugner's harshest of critics insisted that he carried far too much timber around his waist. The truth was that Bugner knew how to deal with his opponents and although he might have looked a touch overweight and portly this disguised a strength, steel and determination that more often than not won the big fights that counted.

Then there was our Henry Cooper. Our 'Enry' was the most highly respected, lovable and engaging heavyweight boxer Britain has ever produced. For those who were there on the night when Cooper sent the then Cassius Clay toppling onto the ropes in 1963 for a few brief seconds British boxing flirted with greatness only to have its hopes dashed by a Clay onslaught that not only fell Cooper but also launched the career of Muhammad Ali. From there Ali soared into the boxing stratosphere, became world famous and then wonderfully outspoken which may or may not have been the best of his qualities but did reduce us to hysterical laughter.

But Henry Cooper was one of those battle- hardened, valiant, gritty, gutsy and explosive fighters who always knew how to rise to the occasion. His numerous encounters with both Cassius Clay and the home grown Brian London will be forever etched on our memories because they reminded Britain that it could still produce brave, gifted, courageous fighters. For a few glorious years, Cooper and London would slug and scrap their way commendably through 15 rounds of blood and guts. They were boxing's noble exponents who loved the noise and atmosphere of fight night.

Then there was Frank Bruno. Poor Frank. Oh what a terrible shame and decline. If any boxer deserved to win the heavyweight title of the world then Bruno was that man.  But then his private life intruded and it all fell by the wayside. Oh Frank if only boxing had been kinder to you, more considerate, more generous and possibly more thoughtful. But Frank Bruno was a lovable, sensitive soul who just wanted to be loved and highly acclaimed by his peers. To a certain extent we did fall for that vulnerable, flawed character who boxed with enormous heart but could never quite hit the dizzy heights of boxing legend.

True the British public couldn't get enough of Bruno and they warmed to him almost instantly. Bruno did experience tantalising moments of glory. There were the nights when boxing was good to Frank Bruno and the heavyweight belts fitted him to perfection. But then there were the nights when the Bruno chin was exposed and the man I once spotted coming out of an Ilford gym, dropped to the canvas like a tree. Bruno took the most savage of blows to both head and body, such relentless punishment that at the end of the night Bruno seemed to be gasping for the fight to stop. After the lights had gone down and the roars ceased, Bruno became a pantomime figure heartlessly caricatured by the celebrity world and then giggled into obscurity. Oh for the fame and short lived notoriety of fame.

In more recent times Britain suddenly discovered Lennon Lewis. Lewis was Canadian but was brought up in London's East End. Lewis was suddenly elevated into boxing's big time and had all of boxing's essential tools. He moved around a ring with shrewd, calculating fists, an innate understanding of the sport's demands and then flicked those fists with electrifying speed and power. Like Bruno, Lewis was highly regarded and adored by fight fans but Lewis had those nights when it didn't quite seem to work. So he worked his opponents, forcing them into helpless corners and then delivering destructive blows that could be felt and heard, quite possibly, in China.

And now Britain has a certain Anthony Joshua, a strong, muscular and mighty boxer with fists like missiles and the kind of jabbing that simply sends his opponents tumbling and toppling, crashing and crumpling to the canvas without a single moment's hesitation or remorse. Joshua spent most of last night's measuring and assessing the right moment to hit Klitshcko into outer space. Joshua was undoubtedly patient, clever, careful and ultimately lethal.

As the fight progressed Joshua made all of the technically correct movements, dancing and bouncing around the ring almost persistently, sharpening his fists all the while, then dodging and then driving forward for the punch that counted. This was boxing of the highest class and pedigree, a furious flurry of fists that were almost too good to be true. For those observers by the ringside who thought they'd seen it all this was living proof that the heart and soul of boxing is alive and flourishing.

It was in the fifth round that the fight really did reach the hottest of fever pitches. This was boxing at its most breathless and enthralling, boxing to treasure and cherish, boxing with a lavish helping of brutality and bullishness, boxing that swung back and forth and kept going incessantly or seemingly so. Well, the fight did end but for the fans who have followed Joshua everywhere this was one of the best.

Joshua jabbed and jabbed and hooked and hooked fiercely, lengthening his reach with every minute of every round. In the first round both fighters flung their cautionary punches with menacing intent. It was a fight that for the first couple of rounds seemed reluctant to come out of its shell. Both fighters were locked in a grip and never sure when to land that decisive blow.

For his part Joshua seemed to have developed his very own strategy and style that might have taken Klitschko out much sooner rather than later. There were the dangerous warning signals, body shots that rendered Klitschko a helpless onlooker and then rocketing rights to the body that slowly and consistently sucked the life out of the Klitschko resistance movement. It was now the beginning of  the end for this Ukranian man mountain who looked as if he'd been brought up by grizzly bears.

By the fifth round Klitschko was wobbling and staggering, a man reduced to a quivering wreck, falling away into his corner and barely able to find any semblance of a counter attack. Klitshcko, who looked remarkably like of one of Rocky's opponents, by now had no coherent answer to this tattoo of punches by a man called Joshua. But wait this contest was not over. Far from it. Suddenly the Ukranian revealed miraculous powers of recovery and Wembley Stadium began to sound like a certain afternoon in July 1966.

Klitschko was back, bigger, better and more resilient than ever before. He forced the whole fight into a completely new direction, one that none of us had seen coming. Now it was time for this rumbustious Ukranian to fire off his fusillade of fists. He heaved his body forward, pushing and shoving and shrewdly maneouvring Joshua into his own area of discomfort. The punches were by now raining in on Joshua and by the beginning of the final round this was anybody's fight.

And then it happened. Suddenly as if fate had intervened Klitschko was rocked back on his feet by a Joshua fightback the like of which British boxing could only have dreamt about. It was almost as if some supernatural force had just possessed Joshua and the whole tone and dynamic of the night had changed in the snap of a finger.

In the final round Joshua, by now reformed and revitalised, charged his way back into the fight once again. Sometimes boxing has this rare capacity to make complete fools of us. When you think the game is up. one moment of magic can transform the whole evening. Joshua astonishingly, lashed out, fists flying, lunging rights that simply knocked the Ukranian into a cowering corner. By now Joshua had found his range and then peppered Klitschko with the kind of body shots that were almost loaded with fire and fury.

Now Klitschko began to look like a man who had reached the summit of his profession and found that the way down was far from being his most pleasant of life experiences. The pain and suffering was over for him but for Joshua this was a night when British boxing finally looked much healthier and happier than we could possibly have imagined. This was a victorious night for Wembley Stadium. Maybe one day football will savour its moment of sporting significance on this wonderful ground. For the time being this was boxing at its finest.

100 days and counting- Donald Trump and American presidency.

100 days and counting - Donald Trump and American presidency.

So there you have it. Donald Trump has been American president for 100 days. It's time for street parties, jelly and ice-cream, Stars and Stripes flags fluttering from the top of the White House roof, cheerleaders on every street corner, burgers and doughnuts to every American citizen and a huge slice of self congratulation. Our Donald couldn't have done it without you. He'd like to thank all of you from the bottom of his heart but the bitter cynics would probably tell you that he hasn't got one. So let's hear it for Donald. Three cheers for Donald. Hip Hip Hooray!

This has been one of the most astounding periods in American political history. Don't let anybody tell you that it hasn't. Rarely has one man so divided and provoked a nation in the way that Trump has. If somebody had told you that an uncontrollably opinionated, controversial, sarcastic, facetious and single minded man could take control of one of the most globally important roles in politics you'd have probably sniggered and sniffed, probably laughed and then you'd have been told that it could never happen. But it did and we were wrong.

We've underestimated Donald Trump at our peril and the man who looks as if he's just stepped out of an American soap opera has got a century under his belt. Days of Our Lives! You've got be joking. It feels like centuries or perhaps that's a slight exaggeration. But the simple truth is that Donald Trump has been President for 100 days and if all goes according to plan then he should still be there in the 22nd century or maybe even longer. It is hard to put a time frame on this one because the American public, while not mad about Donald, do believe that the man should be given space, a chance to leave his indelible legacy, a once in a life time opportunity to make an impression before it all gets complicated.

But you've got to hand it our Donald. This has been the craziest, wildest, most outrageous and barely believable moment in time for America. Still they knew what they were getting and they were given ample warning. We did know that he was almost certainly politically ignorant. richly comical and a man who should never have come even close to running the USA. But here he is 100 days in and none of us are any wiser or more enlightened. We should have known but didn't.

Here was a man who, if all the reports are anything to go by, was the most corrupt, devious, crafty and disturbingly untrustworthy businessman in the history of the world. He may run one of the most striking of hotels, he may have billions of dollars in his account and he may know how to hire and fire his staff. The fact remains though that Donald Trump is a fresh faced new President of the United States and this one is completely beyond our comprehension. As they say you couldn't really make it up.

What hasn't Trump done so far? How has one man so disgusted, horrified and alienated the globe and make it look so easy. We've had Mexican walls, travel bans, veiled threats, a deep suspicion of North Korea, Russia and anybody else who tries to upset him. He bellows out his distaste of and aversion to any country that goes against his principles. Then he has the audacity to stop talking to those countries who swear at him, curse him or are simply downright offensive or blasphemous. How dare they challenge Donald's supremacy because he's in charge so we may have to get used to the idea whether we like it or not.

These are tumultuous times for America and for the last 100 days Donald Trump has spoken out so forcefully and at times seemingly aggressively about everybody and everything that it is hard to imagine how or why this has all happened. But the unquestionable fact is that Trump will continue to speak his mind and nobody can stop him now he's in full flow. From a distance it may look very stage managed, shallow and superficial but for Trump this is the way it should be. It's all very shocking and terrifying but this is it for the next four years and America can only hold its breath.

Here in Britain we all look at our American friends across the pond and try to fathom the unfathomable. None of us can really believe how one man has so mastered the art of media manipulation and conquered all obstacles that might have been put in his way. He is, as our American cousins would say, one cool dude, a shrewd publicist and the most persuasive of schmoozers.

 He's charmed his way through difficult days and months. He's taken advantage of the oxygen of publicity, slammed the boo boys, dismissed the negative vibes around him and as for that fake news. Well you can just ignore that because if he does hear any unfavourable gossip, Donald will tell you exactly what he thinks of that. It's all lies and propaganda, fabrication and perjury and where's that Hilary Clinton? We all know what our Donald thinks of her. The woman is a loose cannon, an evil villain, a political grenade ready to explode at any moment. When the American election was all over our Donald felt very smug and extremely pleased with himself. Justice had been seen to be done.

So now that he's reached his century it's time to take our hats off to Trump, his stamina, staying power and his amazing longevity, his bravado and bravura. Nobody gets the better of Donald Trump on any level of any discussion or argument. That body language will remain his party piece, his distinctive method of communication. There are the finger gestures which continue to baffle, the semi serious looks at his inquisitors and then that whole argumentative delivery. Then you move away from this bizarre scenario and wonder how this all came to pass.

We all know that an American president should be talking like an American president. And yet to all intents and purposes Donald Trump looks as if he's simply reacting furiously to anything he disagrees with. We may be wondering what Trump's policy is on the issues that should be of concern to any country. What, for instance does he think of America's housing problems, America's educational system. its vast pockets of unemployment, its unforgivable racism and above all its foreign policy. Well we probably know what he thinks of the rest of the world. That much has become abundantly clear.

But here we are 100 days in and it all seems like some unusual play by Chekhov. At times it  looks  very dark and sinister, a touch problematic and cloaked in secrecy. There are underlying currents, hidden agendas, strange goings on, possibly sharp malpractice and a good old fashioned air of mystery just for good measure. Trump though has got it all under his control and won't let go. There are whispers in dark corridors, men with walkie talkies muttering under their breath but our Donald has got it all worked out.

It's at times like this when you begin to wonder what a psychologist or human behaviour expert would make of all this.  What to make of a man who so confidently believes in what he's doing that there's no point in contradicting him because he's always right. What a self righteous man he is or so we're led to believe. How can he possibly believe his own ego, his own vanity, his own self aggrandissement, that unwavering belief that this is the man for all seasons and occasions This is the man who can lead the world to the Promised Land. Unquestioningly. So get ready America.

However Trump has done it and done it with his very own brand of bluff and counter bluff. He hasn't fooled himself into believing that it's been easy but he does know his mind and he does know what he's doing. While all are losing their heads elsewhere Trump is the coolest man in the room. He's shrugged all of the doubters and all of that ferocious opposition. The future for Trump is almost wholly dependent on the behaviour of the people around him and the rest of the world. He will, as they say. refuse to suffer fools gladly and the chances are he'll probably win most of those heated battles.

It's 100 not out and in Britain the reward for such a notable achievement is normally a thunderous round of applause at Lords and a wave of the bat. But Trump is triumphant which sounds almost right and proper. What happens for the next 100 days or any point in the immediate future remains to be seen. If he manages to see out the rest of the year without any notable blemishes or mistakes then this could be the start of something very good.

For now the year is unfolding rather like an awkward and disobedient deckchair. You get all tangled up in complex knots to begin with and then eventually find a clear resolution to your problem. But Donald Trump is no deckchair attendant although some of his blunter critics have cruelly compared his hair to candy floss. It's time to focus on the continuing saga of Donald Trump, America's 45th President. Your audience is ready to pass judgement President Trump.

 I've yet to find out what happens in the next chapter but for the next few months we could be in for a treat. The script is intriguing and hardly credible so let's see how things develop. The element of surprise is much greater than we think. America- it's time to surge forward and jump onto the Donald Trump bandwagon. We're looking forward to it. We await with bated breath.

Curry's and PC World- truly an eye opening store.

Curry's and PC World- a truly an eye opening store.

There was nowhere else to be on a Thursday afternoon in North London. You had to be there because these are the kind of places you normally visit on  Thursday afternoon a couple of days before the May Bank Holiday. Throughout Britain there are hundreds of industrial parks heavily populated with all the shops you could possibly ask for. These are those giant commercial operations with the emphasis on buying in bulk or just loading up for the summer barbecue season.

 You must have popped in to them on a frequent basis because they really do stick out like a sore thumb. In fact such is their high visibility that you can hardly miss them. They beckon you into their palaces of commerce with the most seductive of fingers. Time to buy, buy and buy. Time to make those essential transactions that make our homes so complete.

This afternoon my wife and I strolled into Curry's and PC World which used to be known as ordinary Curry's until some enterprising capitalist decided to merge with PC World and this is the result. Now it isn't often I sing the praises of an electrical store but here goes. Curry's and PC World is just sensational, a vast emporium of everything you could possibly want in the heady world of high tech.

Can you imagine what the local high street must have looked like 50 years ago? Is it possible that one day we would have so much disposable income that we simply wouldn't know what to spend it on? There were no I- Pads, no Tablets, no Internet, no TVs the size of stately homes and no appliance that resembled something you'd find in some futuristic spaceship. The whole of the world now is so far removed from days of yesteryear that you have to blink twice before realising that you're still living in Britain rather than some distant galaxy.

Most industrial parks find that, generally speaking, a Homebase is a vital necessity in case you need the traditional lawn mowers, shears, watering can, a greenhouse, trusty tins of paint and. of course the obligatory plants for the hall or an ornate ornament for the mantelpiece. You could also add a plentiful supply of compost and manure before shutting the car boot with a heavy thump. You couldn't really squeeze anymore into one car and yet you still feel an enormous sense of achievement. Oh don't forget the bags of charcoal for that barbecue.

And then you could seek out Curry's and PC World because everybody needs a sophisticated gadget that buzzes, hums, makes childish noises and then chants with all the fervour of a choir boy at Sunday mass. Today's electrical appliances are  so clever and accessible that they almost seem to spark into action as soon as you pick them up.

Curry's and PC World is the perfect answer to all of your high tech problems and complications. It has everything from fridges, cookers, TVs, red, purple, and pink kettles that sit together on one shelf like a well drilled regiment of soldiers and a whole variety of gizmos and paraphernalia that go pop, crackle and snap But these are no ordinary kettles because they can whip up proper cups of cappucino, kettles that have dramatically changed our whole approach to hot drinks and beverages.

Then as you look around  you are suddenly confronted with more stuff that goes ping, things that  flash from a distant screen, rows of freezers, ovens, and DAB radios that are so small that they're almost totally inconspicuous. And you may have missed something but never mind there's always the Bank Holiday on Monday. Hold on they're shut on the Bank Holiday so we'll have to do without a fridge over the weekend. On second thoughts we've got to eat so it's time to jump into the car and converge on the conservatories. Those cupboards and draws look so inviting and we do need those irresistible orchids. Oh we mustn't forget the sheds and the latticework for those blooming roses. Now they look a bargain.

Anyway it's time to finish our whirlwind tour of Tottenham Hale industrial park, a huge estate of food and drink, shelves stacked with monumental goods and produce, an exciting combination of the practical and the logical, and of course the things you feel drawn to and have to get. This is the mindset of the 21st century shopper in industrial parks. You are terribly spoilt for choice and maybe in this age of immediacy and urgency you have to satisfy that insatiable thirst for more and more. We now live in a age of almost ravenous materialism where everything has to be bought, shown off to the neighbours and proudly paraded.

So before we left our local industrial park we had to pay the briefest of visits to the one and only Argos. Yes that inimitable British institution called Argos had to be worth a fleeting glance or two. Now came the bombshell, a bolt out of the blue and a distressing revelation. The Argos catalogue is small, much smaller than it used to be surely. On closer inspection, it was indeed tiny, rather like a miniature sized version of the Argos catalogue but with even smaller pages. I began to feel almost short changed, deprived of my big book of Argos toys, games, clothes, furniture and classic prices for the people who just adore Argos.

But I'm sorry that Argos catalogue is seriously disappointing. In fact this is totally unforgivable. After all the pizzazz and extravagance of Curry's and PC World I was expecting much more from our friendly Argos, the only shop where you can actually see a conveyor belt behind the main counter and catalogues with shiny pages. There is something incredibly unique about Argos because very few shops can offer a whole library of catalogues in the front and those cute terminals where you can pick and choose at your leisure. This is a British shop that quite clearly stands out from the rest and is almost instantly identifiable if only for their conveyor belts and the staff with those lovely Argos badges. What a store.

That's it. We'd taken back a sound amplifier for our TV to Curry's and PC World. It was mission accomplished and it was time to plan our next expedition to an industrial park. Oh to be in England at the end of April. St George's Day has now passed into history and William Shakespeare's birthday seems to have been conveniently forgotten again. But to quote Al Jolson. Those April showers have come our way today. There was a milky white colour to the North London sky, an emulsion white paint look. And then very late April had its final weeping session. The clouds darkened and the rain fell steadily but not heavily. Maybe it was bidding a fondly emotional farewell to April. Do you know what I've got high hopes for May. Roll the drums.  

Let the great General Election race begin.

Let the great General Election begin.

They're under starters orders and they're off. Everybody knows what's happening don't they? The runners and riders look fitter and stronger than ever before. Those well bred thoroughbreds are champing at the bit and ready to bombard the British public with an artillery of arrogance, a bombardment of brashness and a whole load of pomposity.

Oh I can hardly wait. The General Election in Britain may be over a month away now but you can still hear the political battalions stampeding through our market towns, pleading pathetically for your votes, grasping at every adjective, proverb and cliche they can possibly think of and then thrusting their face in front of a TV news camera with the most appalling grin on their faces.

Yes everybody its time for that well crafted repertoire of words and phrases normally associated with politicians come General Election time. Even now the vocal chords are being oiled, the babies in mothers arms will do their utmost to avoid any politician and those orange crates of Britain will have to be ready for a terrible buffeting. Be prepared orange crates you're about to be crushed by the feet of Conservative, Labour and Lib Dem feet. I can almost share your terrified trepidation because I'm not sure whether you'll be able to take seven or eight weeks of constant shouting, bawling and wailing from our friendly members of Parliament.

Where are we so far? Theresa May, although a non smoker, could be forgiven for thinking that it's all over for Labour as she lights up her cigar, lounges in her chaise longue, sips a drop of brandy or two and just relaxes. This has got to be the easiest, worry free, hassle free, untroubled run in to any General Election. May will look across London from her Downing Street window, smiling broadly, rubbing her hands with presumptuous glee and counting down the days to one of politics greatest of all coronations.

May, a vicar's daughter, is such an overwhelming odds on favourite to beat Labour's Jeremy Corbyn that maybe the bookies may have stopped taking bets. We all know what happened in America when the underdog wagged its tail. Donald Trump just blasted his way to prominence, snarling and growling ferociously to victory and after 100 days of his presidency he probably thinks this Presidency gig is the best thing sliced bread. But there the similarity ends.

The whole of Britain will give Theresa May the ultimate endorsement and now seems certain to give Jeremy Corbyn the bloodiest nose in the history of General Elections. There are victories and there are humiliations and if Corbyn has got any sense he'd do well to have an early night. It could be a very nasty night for the Labour leader.  Already the big guns are firing off their bullets and the snide remarks are mounting by the second, minute, week and month. The missiles are about to be launched and Corbyn may need the service of a nuclear bunker just to avoid the fall out and shrapnel.

Eventually the British electorate will become so heartily sick and tired of these tedious soundbites and pitiful platitudes that some of us may have to lock ourselves in a dark room well away from the maddening chattering, the mindless maelstrom of endless campaigning and those forgettably childish insults.

What is it about General Elections that they can so naturally generate both hot air, silly jabbering and the kind of nonsensical promises that may have been uttered for at least the 250th time in the past month? But here we are on the verge of a General Election and the opposition is so fragile that rather like a village fete tent, it may be blown away in a gust of wind never to be seen again. There will never be a General Election night like it. The holes and deficiencies in Labour's campaign will become farcically obvious and even Corbyn's most loyal aides may be telling him to wave the white flag now.

The Labour Party are rather like some very wounded animal if not fatally wounded animal licking its wounds and cowering away in the corner, a pale and gaunt figure that will simply rot away. In a way this is what happened to the Labour Party after the hapless Michael Foot almost melted into the wilderness with that shabby duffel coat and his faithful dog.

Now though circumstances have dictated that over 35 years later history has come back to haunt Labour mercilessly. In fact it's bitten Labour so painfully on the legs that you can still see the scars. After those prosperous years under Tony Blair as Prime Minister, Labour have been punctured by a torpedo and are about to sink under the waves. The decline is horribly alarming to those long term Labour devotees who can only hope for a large slice of damage limitation.

If you were to believe all the reports the Conservative party hold such a commanding lead in the polls that Labour may just as well be invisible. When Neil Kinnock was blundering and stumbling towards defeat to a rampant Margaret Thatcher, the whole of the Labour party suddenly fell into a such a state of immobility and stagnation that some of us felt genuinely sorry for them. Kinnock plunged into the darkness like a man whose living room lights had just been abruptly switched off.

The problem for Jeremy Corbyn now is that his complete lack of any popularity may never be retrieved, at least for the foreseeable future. At least Mrs Thatcher, for all her faults and foibles, good points and wholesome qualities, still had the decency to leave Downing Street when her Cabinet told her to even when she was tearfully reluctant to do so. But now the political landscape has just changed out of all recognition.

There are new poliitcal heavyweight alternatives on the block. They may not be sufficiently threatening as such to challenge Theresa May but they are biting and they will make noises. In one corner there's the persistently eloquent Nicola Sturgeon who keeps nagging the British government for another referendum in Scotland and won't let it drop. This is one woman who refuses to accept the inevitable status quo which is probably where Thatcher came in.

Now the Lib Dem leader Tim Farron is trying desperately to defend himself against his stance on gay sex. Now, I may have missed something but, of all the most pressing and important issues that should be discussed before a General Election gay sex doesn't seem to bear any relevance to anybody. The whole moral tone of this election is descending rapidly towards a brick wall and gay sex seems like the kind of subject you'd expect to hear in a sixth form school class.

So what about the Lib Dems? It does seem like a rhetorical question because none of us can understand why they keep taking part in the General Election when we all know that most of us have got more chance of winning. It's a dreadful shame because they do mean well and they are well intentioned. But if anybody expects them to even come close to Downing Street triumph then forget it. You can almost smell the gallantry, the heroism and valour. Of course the Lib Dems will finish third or maybe fourth because now UKIP are breathing down everybody's neck. Somebody ought to mint a special medal for the Lib Dems because they're always generous runners up.

So what of UKIP? Any political party that would choose to be referred to by their initials has to be taken as a credible force. Maybe UKIP feel as though those initials give them a certain status and clout. There is a clear emphasis and clarity about UKIP as opposed to the United Kingdom Independence Party which will probably take half an hour to write on our Election voting slip although it'll probably get you 5,362 on a Scrabble board.

Anyway let the good times roll Britain. Your politicians are asking for your vote in a General Election and you might as well join in because we've all done this a thousand times before. It's believed that if it rains on General Election day then Labour might win or maybe that's just something I heard on hearsay. So everybody Thursday is the day and Thursday is General Election day. It's time to clear your diaries, forget about the washing and cleaning, forget about the daily chores and just vote for your country. In fact you may want to stay up all night and watch David Dimbleby just drop off to sleep. This could be the most riveting TV programme of all time. I've already set my clock.

Another repeat FA Cup Final- Arsenal and Chelsea.

Another repeat FA Cup Final - Arsenal and Chelsea.

Oh well here we go again. I'm going to call it Repeat FA Cup Final syndrome. Arsenal will meet Chelsea in the 2017 FA Cup Final which is a repetition of the 2002 FA Cup Final when the same teams contested that year's FA Cup Final. I'm beginning to feel a sense of deja vu because it all sounds very familiar and although far from being bitter, it occurrs to me that this recurring theme is turning into a predictable plot.

Now of course the historians and fact finders will doubtless remind us that Arsenal have also been involved in two other Repeat Cup Finals. There was the Gunners 1979 FA Cup Final meeting with Manchester United, a five goal thriller finally decided by the very 1970s looking Alan Sunderland, all natty moustache and afro hairstyle with almost the last gasp winner. In that Final the magnificent midfield trio of  David Price, Graham Rix and the extraordinarily talented Irishman Liam Brady had all conspired, schemed, prompted and probed in the middle of the old Wembley Stadium before bringing the FA Cup back to Highbury.

Then 12 years ago Arsenal met up with their fierce adversaries Manchester United again as if somehow pre-ordained by fate. This was to be the last Cup Final played at the Millennium Stadium at Cardiff and by the end of extra time both Arsenal and Manchester United had fought each other to a standstill. Now exhausted and battle hardened the two teams took their respective penalties. When Arsenal captain Patrick Viera stepped up to take the winning penalty, Arsenal fans must have been wishing that Manchester United would never darken their corridors again. It was too much and maybe familiarity had begun to breed contempt.

The Premier League meetings that were to follow both at Highbury and Old Trafford would be strangled with tension, hatred, personal vendettas and serious rivalry. Certainly Sir Alex Ferguson could barely abide Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger and it all got horribly out of hand at times. Still both shook hands graciously if somewhat grudgingly at the end of a match. But Arsenal and Manchester United had that rich spice of conflict that even an Arsenal and Spurs or Manchester United and Manchester City game would have been hard pressed to match.

When Arsenal were paired with Liverpool the games had a genuine footballing air about them. But both have now encountered each other more times than they would care to remember. In 1950 Bob Paisley, then a Liverpool player and later on in life to become their much loved and deeply appreciated manager, found himself on the losing side to an Arsenal side who, although a respected and much heralded old First Division team, were yet to make any real impact on the FA Cup.

Roll forward though 51 years to the 2001 FA Cup Final and fortunes were reversed. Now Arsenal were a side of pedigree and stature. Players like Thierry Henry, Robert Pires, Patrick Viera and the stylish England midfield player Ray Parlour had hitherto given Liverpool a run for their money. For most of that Cup Final Arsenal had outpassed their opponents and were very much the dominant force. But then it all unravelled quite distressingly for Arsenal and when Michael Owen wheeled away to score Liverpool's winning goal, it seemed that the scales of  injustice had swung back in Liverpool's favour. And Liverpool went on to win the Cup Final.

Exactly 50 years earlier both Arsenal and Liverpool had come head to head once again in the FA Cup Final.  It was to prove one of Arsenal's most spectacular of seasons. Liverpool, who would shortly win every conceivable trophy, slugged out one of those FA Cup Finals that would be discussed and analysed in every pub and club in Britain for many years.

It would be celebrated and eulogised by most of the game's passionate pundits. It was a game that ebbed and flowed from end to end, constantly in the balance to its breathless end. Arsenal attacked and then attacked once again with a dash and zest that seemed to light up the afternoon. Eddie Kelly, Peter Storey, George Graham, Charlie George and Frank Mclintock battled doggedly with their Merseyside counterparts in rising tidal waves of ruggedly relentless football.

Then Liverpool with their notable and illustrious team of Steve Heighway, Brian Hall, Chris Lawler and the smoothly skilled Ian Callaghan, peeled back the layers of a seemingly indestructible Arsenal defence and scored the opening goal. Steve Heighway, a tall, elegant winger, picked up the ball on the edge of the Arsenal penalty area, wriggled, shimmied, jinked and teased the Arsenal defence before thrashing the ball past a helpless Bob Wilson who had been a sturdy Arsenal keeper up until that point.

But now it was time for the gallant Arsenal comeback which seemed miraculous given the fact that Liverpool looked as if they'd taken control of the game. Arsenal swarmed forward in search of the equaliser and were not to be denied. Suddenly in a confusing melee in the Liverpool penalty area, the ball squirmed through for Eddie Kelly, who may have been credited with the goal but then found that George Graham had got the last touch for Arsenal's equaliser.

Once again Arsenal surged forward to claim an FA Cup and frequently knocked on Liverpool's now firmly shut defensive door. But  Arsenal charged forward almost consistently and with the game now  reaching its boiling point the Gunners produced one major and what would prove a last constructive attack. The ball was moved swiftly across the Liverpool penalty area via John Radford and co. and Charlie George, Arsenal born and bred, controlled the ball and with one movement, drilled the ball past Liverpool goal keeper Ray Clemence. Soon mayhem ensued.

Charlie George, the Arsenal poster boy and devoted Arsenal fan, slumped to his knees, glanced up at the late spring blue sky and then discovered that his winning goal had been decisive, With greasy, lanky hair now drenched in sweat, George stayed on his back for what seemed ages. Arsenal had achieved another FA Cup Final victory again against Liverpool, a story that could never have been made up because it was true and was happening.

So folks there you have it. After another exhausting League season and all the fun of the fair at the top of the Premier League, Arsenal have seemingly salvaged something from their season. It is hard to imagine what might happen if Spurs win the Premier League and Arsenal are beaten by Chelsea in the FA Cup Final. North London could be a very interesting place this summer. Still all being well I'm hoping to catch up with some cricket this summer so I'm not sure whether I care one way or the other. The balance of power, as they say is finally poised. Every so often the BBC devote some of its schedules to the repeat season. Now seems as good a time as any. Well done Arsenal.

The London Marathon- a marvellous sporting spectacle.

The London Marathon- a marvellous sporting spectacle.

They came from far and wide. They lined the streets for the best part of several hours and London once again excelled itself. Here we are in the last stages of April, the spring sunshine is playing peek a boo with us and the London Marathon captivated us in a way that it's always done. It is now 36 years old and is still a much loved, well established sporting favourite. It is written indelibly on the sporting calendar and London keeps delivering the goods. What a race and what a spectacle! It should be bottled for posterity and always remembered.

As soon as the cuckoo lets out its first chirruping note, London gets all busy and prepared for what is now regarded as one of the most iconic and revered of sporting occasions. Every year since 1981 the club runners, the Olympians, the record breakers, the professionals and the wonderfully eccentric dig out their designer trainers, check the spikes on their shoes and then gird themselves for a 26 mile marathon that continues to enthrall not only Britain but the entire world.

With every passing year the race gets bigger and better, expanding in numbers while the whole of London sits patiently in front of its TV keenly anticipating its very own homage to the capital city. There can be nothing like it and how Britain bathes in the spotlight. This year over 40,000 runners  will take part  in one of the best long distance and endurance race with differing objectives and personal challenges.

There they stand at the start at the Marathon with watches on their wrists. numbers carefully and lovingly sewn onto their vests and the most charitable of hearts. They'll be running for Multiple Sclerosis, the British Heart Foundation, Breast Cancer, Leukaemia Research and a whole variety of benevolent causes. Because this is the London Marathon, the one sporting event that transcends everything in our lives, makes us feel proud to be associated with sport, to cheer from the terraces, to encourage our heroes to victory, to wave the national flags and then celebrate the sheer joy of just being there.

 The London Marathon is without doubt one of the best organised and most compelling of yearly sporting events. Ever since the late and much missed Chris Brasher fired the gun to start the first London Marathon all those years ago, thousands of club runners, thousands of fun runners and all those with hearts of devotion to the cause have pulled on their shirts, eaten their pasta the night before the London Marathon and just thrown themselves whole heartedly into 26 miles of heart thumping, foot pounding and striving to be the best. It is achingly arduous but endlessly fascinating, pitilessly punishing but, to all intents and purposes, enormously rewarding particularly when you cross the finishing line.

The London Marathon is all about the people, humanity at its bravest and courageous, humanity at its most emotional and sentimental, humanity at its most caring, sharing and considerate. So what is it that drives 40,000 runners, what is their motivation, what makes them jump out of bed on Marathon day and sparks off that infectious enthusiasm, that willingness to break every record and conquer the summit that is 26 miles.

When the London Marathon first started the sceptics, critics, the cynics and the naysayers convinced us that those taking part were crazy, foolish, zany and totally bonkers. And yet how wrong they were 36 years later because the London Marathon is still alive and well and functioning, still warming our hearts and still holding Britain in thrall.

And so it is that in every town, village and city throughout the country, Britain casts its eyes on London and rubs its eyes in sheer amazement. They are the ones who also train religiously on dark and wet evenings, pushing their bodies to the utmost, puffing and panting but clocking up the miles with commendable  single mindedness and total commitment to the cause. Finishing the race represents the ultimate achievement and maybe that's all that matters.

These are the people though who just don't care how long it takes them to run the London Marathon because for them 26  miles of running along the streets of London means much more than a conventional jog around the streets of London. It's about competing, joining in with the spirit of sport, of running on behalf of their charity and just having the time of their lives regardless of time.

As somebody who's now caught the running bug again I have to tell you that my admiration for these seasoned, long distance runners is boundless. I did once complete a local half marathon a year or two after the completion of  the first London Marathon and it has to be said it was the hardest and toughest challenge I've ever been set. I can still see myself ploughing along the country lanes of Hainault and Chigwell and asking myself over and over again why and what possessed me to get involved in the first place. Surrounded by thunder, rain and lightning, I did complete the 13 mile course with immense difficulty but finish it I did and well done to me.

Still I now look at the London Marathon with a very detached and objective eye. I can remember running regularly through the parks and streets and questioning myself constantly. But now the London Marathon has got me hooked, possibly transfixed me but sometimes leaves me completely perplexed. And yet what an event, the perennial battle of mind over matter, 26 miles of stamina sapping agony. But every year the masses turn up at a London park, steadily trotting towards the starting line before assessing and calculating. This day is undoubtedly their day because this year is always their year.

So it is that the London Marathon for both men and women wends its way through London's back streets, Lambeth and Blackheath, Docklands in all its high tech splendour, more of London's old and new roads winding, turning, twisting their way to Buckingham Palace before the final lung bursting push to the Mall. It is one of London's most intriguing, unique and phenomenal of events bringing a lump to the throat and leaving you permanently energised, revitalised and wonderfully enthused. The London Marathon can do that to you because it means so much to so many people which can be no bad thing at all.

For the record- and there were all manner of those which were broken today- the winner of the 2017 London Marathon was Daniel Wanjuru of Kenya in 2 hours 5 minutes and 48 seconds. Aren't stopwatches great? 48 seconds hey? I take it that means Greenwich Mean Time. Wanjuru was closely folllowed by the great Ethiopian long distance runner Keninsa Bekele who remains one of the most legendary figures in Marathon history. Bekele, they tell us, is the most incredible runner world athletics has ever produced  and will take some beating, But this year he finished as runnners up which is very creditable all the same.

Then our very own David Weir, Britain's finest Paralympian at the moment, burst triumphantly over the finishing tape as winner of the wheelchair race, Mary Keitany broke Britain's pride and joy Paula Radcliffe's world record and then won the women's race. It was too good to be true. It was all such dizzy, heady fun, a joyful demonstration of Marathon running at its most carefree  and charming.

And then there were the fun runners jogging jauntily, pacing themselves and then smiling for the BBC cameras. For these are the Marathon's humble and unassuming ones, the ones who stretch every sinew and then dress up in the most ridiculous costumes. They are never the ones who want to be famous or acclaimed, grab the limelight or indeed look for publicity and adulation. They are the toilet rolls, the John Smith pint of beer, the people who dress up as trees, the running trainers in orange and green, the Buzz Lightyear lookalikes, or the lovably silly who just want to be stopped half way around the course for a chat about the weather.

This is the London Marathon. This is London at her most democratic, inclusive, humorous, competitive and non competitive. In the tragic light of recent events in London this was London at her most therapeutic, united, harmonious and glad to be an integral part of London. In a sense the London Marathon is all embracing and overwhelmingly feelgood. Maybe that's all we need in our often hectic and frenetic lives, a place to unwind and do something entirely out of the ordinary.

Now that London Marathon is over we can now turn our attention to another Marathon in some remote and exotic corner of the globe. Once again we'll be subjected to a street festival, a combination of the sublime and stupendous, an occasion that renders the impossible possible. After 26 miles of pain and suffering London found its perfect medicine. Perhaps London should do this more often- over and over again. Now where's that Bruce Springsteen record?  Born to run? Personally I'll have to pass on that one.  

Chelsea reach the 2017 FA Cup Final as Spurs get the blues but still honourable losers.

Chelsea reach the 2017 FA Cup Final. Spurs beaten but still honourable losers.

This was FA Cup football at its purest, most enjoyable and scintillating. Chelsea may have reached yet another FA Cup Final but this was football with a gold, silver and bronze sheen. The FA Cup of sweetness truly overflowed with the finest vintage wine and only the most hardened and cynical of football supporters could deny that this was a cracking, end to end game of football. And there were so many twists and turns of fate that by the end of this FA Cup semi Final between Chelsea and Spurs many of us were crying out for more of the same such was the game's shining lustre and quality.

Chelsea may have run out deserving 4-2 winners against a splendidly skilful Tottenham side but this was a game that swayed and titled from one end to the other without ever pausing for breath. At times you almost felt you were watching Brazil in their glorious 1970 World Cup pomp, Argentina at their dizzyingly hynoptic 1978 World Cup best and more recently Germany at the last World Cup in the Maracana of Brazil. Surely there can be no greater praise such was the lavish brilliance of this fizzing, whizzing, rip roaring, shimmering, sizzling FA Cup semi Final.

This was a thrilling, intoxicating and remarkable FA Cup semi Final and the Wembley Stadium arch has rarely seen such an important game graced by two such technically refined Premier League teams, two teams contesting football on two fronts and never flinching for a moment in their sense of destiny. We were so breathless by the end that the Spurs supporters who drifted away in their thousands at the end, must have felt that they were both robbed and ransacked by an unwelcome burglar.

And so it was that the FA Cup threw up one of the best FA Cup semi Finals of recent years. Here we had the richest of football aristocracy among us. Spurs were all dainty delicacy on the ball and Chelsea, for large parts of the game were quite possibly outplayed but still carved out some of the most precise and incisive football ever seen on a Wembley pitch.

It was rather like watching a landscape artist and sculptor at work. Both Chelsea and Spurs were artists of the most sophisticated kind. Chelsea approached the game in a state of mild turmoil after recent Premier League setbacks at home to Crystal Palace and at Manchester United last weekend. But you would never have thought for the moment that their composure had ever been disturbed because their performance against Spurs was cut from the silkiest cloth, made to measure and beautifully designed by a Chelsea manager Antonio Conte who looks as though his clothes were similarly well tailored.

Conte once again wore all black, dark cardigan, dark shirt, dark tie and all Italian swagger. For Chelsea this victory over their London neighbours was brushed, burnished and decorated with football's brightest colours. For long periods though Chelsea looked misshapen, sloppy and slovenly, their football and passing clearly affected by recent jolts to their system and never really finding their feet or any kind of real shape to their game.

But here was a game for the connoisseur, the purist, the footballing aficionado, the expert, the football supporter who studies the game as if it were some great literary work. Here was a game played on  the highest of plateaus, a game of sumptuous passing from both sides, movement on and off the ball that was richly imaginative from first minute to the 90th minute and had a dash of Cup romance.

For those who were looking at omens it would have been easy to turn back the clock. Exactly 50 years ago Spurs, with the ever charismatic Jimmy Greaves up front, beat Chelsea in the 1967 FA Cup Final. It was hard to tell whether Chelsea were looking for revenge in today's FA Cup semi Final but here was a game that had much of the the 1960s art and artistry about it. Chelsea of course are desirable occupants of the Kings Road and we all know where we were back then.

Still revenge it was for Chelsea of sorts. When the tirelessly influential Willian gave Chelsea the lead from a stunning free kick and Harry Kane equalised with the deftest of headers from a free- kick, we had an FA Cup semi Final of magical properties and epic proportions. This was football from Mount Olympus, football garnished with football's tastiest ingredients and varnished with vigour, vim and verve. It is quite some time since an FA Cup semi Final had both gripped, captured your attention and made you glad that the game's heartbeat is quicker than ever and its soul still in good order.

Then Chelsea came good again just before half time. By now Pedro, Kante, Willian, Victor Moses were beginning to stitch their passes together with an almost telepathic understanding. The football Chelsea were playing showed the instinctive cohesion of a side managed by Jose Mourinho or even a Dave Sexton. Occasionally there were throwbacks to Didier Drogba, Frank Lampard, Claude Makelele, Arjen Robben, Charlie Cooke, Alan Hudson, Dave Webb and Peter Osgood. But then we opened our eyes and we were watching footballing fantasy of the 21st century kind.  Chelsea were ahead from the penalty spot shortly before half time after a needless push on Victor Moses.

And yet Spurs were still performing with all the flair and impromptu originality of a Bill Nicholson push and run side. Their passes flowed and flickered across the Wembley pitch, fluttering like the pigeons in the Wembley sky, quick and sharp, accurate and articulate, a side of high culture and breathtaking breeding.

In Mousa Dembele, Kieran Trippier, Victor Wanyama and the hugely assured England defender Eric Dier, Spurs had players with educated feet, uncanny awareness of each other in possession and the ability to pass the ball to each other without even thinking about it. At times it was rather like watching the team of Danny Blanchflower, Cliff Jones and Jimmy Greaves in a kind of nostalgic kaleidoscope. Then you thought of Alan Gilzean, Ralph Coates, Steve Perryman, Martin Peters and Martin Chivers and you knew that today's Tottenham had found obvious role models.

When the supremely talented Delle Ali lashed home Spurs equaliser from quite the most heavenly through pass from the ever immaculate Christian Erikssen, Spurs looked destined to strengthen their hold on the game. Chelsea were beginning to look leg weary and ragged and Spurs tried to remember those glorious of glory, glory years. It was rather like looking back at an old photo album from the attic and pretending that Spurs could once again prove to be unbeatable and invincible.

But this was not to be Spurs day and for all their daisy chain passes in intricate order, Chelsea grew in stature and when Eden Hazard came on as an inspired substitution for Chelsea you somehow knew that a glittering chandelier had been switched on at Chelsea's high society party. Hazard is the most outrageously inventive player the world game has ever seen. He is yet to hit the heights of a Neymar  but some of his dribbling skills are blessed with genius. He runs with the ball, runs at defenders with a frightening turn of pace and then scores goals that have the hallmark of quality.

Within minutes of Hazard's entry into the game he was on the score sheet. He danced  around the Spurs penalty box, hovering and scheming with intent before blasting home Chelsea's fourth with a shot that flew past Lloris. Spurs keeper. Now a fascinating, fantastic, breathless and pulsating game of football had reached its spell binding conclusion. It was an afternoon that promised much and delivered handsomely. Spurs may have been downcast but they were far from broken and admirably spirited. Their football still had an air of nobility about it and there were times when it suggested much more than spirited resistance.

Slowly Chelsea's triumphant fans whooped, jumped and celebrated deep into the North London evening. Their evening had been complete, masses of blue scarved football supporters grinning joyfully from ear to ear and then you thought of Tottenham. Now Tottenham's season could potentially end on the highest of notes. You can sense a crescendo in Tottenham's season because the Premier League could be theirs for the taking. But then the drum missed a beat and suddenly the Tottenham choir began to sing in the wrong key. Suddenly Spurs had taken the wrong turning and Chelsea took full advantage of Spurs defensive weaknesses. And then finally Wembley saluted one of its greatest goals. Nemanja Matic settled himself on the edge of the penalty area and let fly with an unstoppable 30 yard shot that soared into the roof of Spurs net like a rocket. A goal worthy of winning any game.

When the final whistle finally went and Chelsea had reached the FA Cup Final, whole columns of blue and white Spurs supporters streamed along Wembley way. They looked like a defeated army but when Premier League rivalries are resumed and the gunsmoke drifts over both North and West London, Spurs and Chelsea will enter the final straight for the Premier League title with the heartiest of flourishes.

With five matches left of the Premier League season left it looks as if this Premier League title chase may yet play havoc with the nerves of both Chelsea and Spurs supporters. Sometimes football should come with a government health warning and if indeed Chelsea do win the FA Cup and the Premier League double they may have justifiable cause for delight. Spurs, of course can only hope that a horrible repetition of last season doesn't rear its ugly head. Football- what a wonderful game. It has to be the best.  

They're fun, fun and more fun. Check out my books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes.

They're fun, fun and more fun. Check out my books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes.

Writing my books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes was so much fun to write that at times  I couldn't stop  just smiling and laughing while putting words and text to my computer. And now still available at Amazon and Waterstones online market place are my stories of triumph over disaster, of hope and redemption over despair and rejection. It's about growing up, struggling, striving, labouring at times and then realising that you can beat the odds, you can be victorious, you can be happy, you can be proud of who you are and life can offer that silver lining.

No Joe Bloggs is my life journey so far and it's a story about my painfully awkward teenage years, the stifled adolescence, the shyness, the pursuit and achievement of a better and more extrovert adolescence and the belief that it could all work out for the best. I know that I keep promoting my books but if you want a read about a member of the public with a story to tell that I think embraces the whole spectrum of emotions then No Joe Bloggs will definitely put a smile on your face. I'm no JK Rowling, Stephen King, Lee Child or James Patterson but this is my book and my story and I'm proud of my books.

No Joe Bloggs is about my childhood, growing up in Ilford, Essex, my parents, grandparents, my grandparents and my mum as Holocaust survivors, lyrical descriptions of Ilford, London- a chapter which really made me feel good- my favourite music, pop music bands, singers and celebrated names from showbusiness, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, TV programmes from those eras, my late dad's fictitious journey to Las Vegas with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior, Tony Bennett, soccer and pen portraits of Arsenal, Liverpool, Leeds United, Manchester City, Manchester United, Spurs, Aston Villa and Everton, favourite radio stations, the West End, Piccadilly Circus and plenty of language and description. So hold on, strap yourself in and prepare yourself for a rib tickling, eye popping, funny, deeply nostalgic and I think very moving book by yours truly. It's a fairground roller coaster of a book that is fun, fun and more fun.

Meanwhile in my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes I give what I believe to be  amusing descriptions of the English class system with references to the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, England's World Cup triumphs and disasters, victories and flops. Then I give my take on Alan Bennett, one of England's most perceptive of writers, John Arlott, cricket, showbiz celebrities, what happened on one summer afternoon at a Hyde Park when Chrissie Hynde shared the same bill as Billy Ocean and then more pop culture. I talk about the West End department stores, my childhood home Ilford again and then guide you through a world where all the things that make me laugh and chuckle will hopefully make you laugh and chuckle.

If you like descriptive language then No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes are definitely the books for you.

General Election time in Britain- let the fun begin.

General Election time in Britain- let the fun begin.

Guess what everybody? It's General Election time in Britain. Now who saw that coming? Certainly not me but yes folks it's time for Britain to go to the polls on June 8th. This morning Theresa May, the Prime Minister, announced the date for a snap General Election outside 10 Downing Street. It has to be said she looked very smug and privately thrilled. You can hardly blame her. Now here's a woman who knows exactly when to time her political pronouncements to the precise second without a shred of doubt in her voice.

Now of course miracles do crop up every so often and stranger things have been known to happen but can you really see the most monumental upset in General Election history since- well, since the beginning of time? If the Conservative party lose then some of us may be tempted to stand on our heads with a tray of water on the said head. This is like the fulfilment of a dream for the Tories, the best thing that could possibly have happened at any time because Jeremy Corbyn, the rather sheepish but defiant leader of the Labour Party, is looking at a severe hammering when the nation goes to the polls in June.

There have been Labour leaders, even Labour Prime Ministers but there has never been anybody quite as bad and quite possibly weak, as Corbyn. From the moment he was elected as the new leader of the Labour Party, the Tories launched into one long period of celebration and exultation the like of which Britain had rarely seen. The reasons became obvious and poor Jeremy is beginning to look like that wonderful Olympic swimmer who couldn't really swim but took part anyway and was delighted to finish last.

The one notable difference though between that Olympic swimmer and Corbyn is that the Labour leader will be outraged and incensed if he doesn't win the imminent General Election. Already the noises from the Corbyn camp are positive. Here, after all is a man who genuinely believes that come June 8th the whole of Britain will back him to the hilt and if you follow him then he'll be the most outstanding Prime Minister since Gladstone or Disraeli or even the Earl of Liverpool.

If all goes according to plan then the Labour party will suffer the bloodiest political nose in any lifetime. Corbyn will be soundly thrashed, humiliated, outclassed, thrown to the lions, completely overwhelmed and if he isn't then it may go down as one of the greatest  General Election shocks of all time. Sadly, or not, as be it the case, our Jeremy will have to hide behind the sofa or pretend that the whole occasion was just a sham, a charade or maybe it didn't happen at all.

Maybe, in all probability, the country will chuck the proverbial tomatoes at him or demand his head at the guillotine or tell him something he may know already. The truth is that Corbyn is so far behind in the polls and so unpopular that he may be advised to stay at home and watch events unfold in a dark cupboard.

Of course he is a well intentioned and honourable politician but regrettably Corbyn doesn't have the right credentials to be Great Britain's next Prime Minister. Some believe he is arrogant, out of touch with the mood of the nation and simply incapable of forming a constructive policy. Jeremy Corbyn has lost favour with the people of the United Kingdom because Corbyn has trodden on too many toes and, if truth be told, made  statements that were utterly tactless. His enemies may well prove the ruination of the man.

But come June 8th and Britain will come home from work, stroll along to our church hall or the community centre where they live and wander over to our polling officers. Here we will be issued with those familiar ballot slips and then the final decision will be made. In the privacy of our booth we'll be requested to make up our minds about the outcome of the next General Election. Some of us will giggle briefly and then trust implicitly in our judgments. It will surely be the most one sided General Election of all time and poor Corbyn must be dreading the day.

There is though something wonderfully English about the whole of a General Election day. When you're at school and not old enough to vote you don't really care one way or the other. Come 10.00 in the evening you'd switch on your TV and probably stay up until the results started trickling through. Then you'd yawn and stretch indifferently, go to bed and by the following morning you'd wake up to a new Prime Minister. In a sense you were inclined to think that nothing that special had just taken place. And you may have been right to think along those lines because that was the way it probably felt.

In the old days we had the BBC team of Robin Day, market researchers, straw polls which incidentally were not made of straw, exit polls which nobody dared leave and then Peter Snow. Ah Peter Snow. Now here was the face and voice of General Election night, a man of dignity and reliability, a man who never seem to get tired or wished he were somewhere else. Snow was the embodiment of English eccentricity, a man who loved statistics, percentages, margins and of course that beloved SwingOmeter.

Now Peter Snow was the BBC's SwingOmeter man on the spot, a man who became obsessed with swinging that arrow on that simple piece of cardboard. Snow was never happier than that moment when either the Labour or Conservative party had either lost or won seats in their constituency. He reminded you of the kid who once he got hold of that toy fire engine would never leave it alone. It was not so much as a job more of a way of life for Snow on that magical of nights.

Every so often Snow would get carried away by the SwingOmeter, that crazy device that now seems, on reflection, very primitive but was then regarded with the highest esteem. But Snow was a happy bunny and nobody was about to spoil his fun. Now of course computers have paved the way for clever graphics that go gee whiz rather than a dull, anti climactic thud.

Throughout the history of British general elections there have been very few Prime Ministers who actually looked as though they were out of the running and just running on empty. Even Margaret Thatcher somehow knew she'd win on the day in May 1979 because Britain deserved to have a woman running the country rather than those grey suited men who didn't really know what they were doing in the first place.

But this election will be the most comprehensive victory for the Tories of all time.  This one is in the bag and there is a sense in the country that Corbyn should perhaps wave the white flag now rather than June 8th. Even poor Neil Kinnock admitted defeat in the very early stages of the 1983 and 1987 General Elections when Thatcher was on the warpath. For Corbyn then read Neil Kinnock although for Jeremy Corbyn there were no pratfalls on the beach with his wife nor an election rally that almost smacked of awkward amateurism.

So there you have it. Britain is going to the polls and it's time to tell that misguided Lib Dems new leader Tim Farron and any other minor party with no influence that there will be only one winner. I've always felt sorry for the Lib Dems or Liberals as they used to be known in another incarnation. One of these days the Lib Dems will simply decide that it just isn't their worthwhile and a vote for the Lib Dems is effectively a wasted one. Mind you Paddy Ashdown was always gracious in defeat and only accepted defeat until it was mathematically impossible which invariably coincided with the start of the General Election.

What about the Green Party, the Tax Payers Alliance perhaps or the Monster Ravin Loony Party that deeply respected political force who seem to regard every General Election as the perfect opportunity to wear fancy dress costumes. Then there's the Who Cares Wins party, or the I'd rather Play Scrabble party or the Let's Go for a swim in the Serpentine on Christmas Day party or maybe the Bring Back the Test Card party where that little girl finally beats that puppet at noughts and crosses. I know. Let's just go to Europe for the day. Sorry that's a contentious issue at the moment so that's not for consideration.

Yes folks the snap General Election on June 8th is coming to a village hall or school near you. Yet again it's on a Thursday as opposed to any other day of  the week. Now my dad had the day off from work on Thursday so it did seem good timing on the Prime Minister's part. My dad was never politically minded but he did retain his working class ethos and would always vote for Labour.

But come the day come the Tory party with all their blue rosettes, blue flags and blue finery. In a quiet moment the Labour party may be tempted to think back to that momentous day in 1997 when Tony Blair, a fresh faced member of the Labour Party rode his chariot into 10 Downing Street when all seemed lost for Labour. Now it seems all over for the Labour party with the General Election literally around the corner. What, it seems only fair to ask, are they going to do on the day or maybe it would be much simpler to concede defeat and just put it down to experience.

What does an embattled and defeated man do when very few people like you, even fewer can be bothered to engage him in any kind of discussion and only the more frivolous members of his party give him any kind of chance at all. It is all over bar the the shouting or even the silence for Labour. Sometimes even the most hopeless cause can seem even more hopeless. This may not be the news you'd like to hear from your country Jeremy. But if I were you I'd leave the country for the day. This whole business of politics may not be for you Jeremy Corbyn. Mind you Mr Corbyn I'd hang around for just a while. To quote your former leader. Things can only get better. Or maybe that's just wishful thinking.

What happened to the Royal London hospital in Whitechapel? Then the City and Brick Lane.

What happened to the Royal London hospital in Whitechapel?

I could hardly believe it. It almost seemed unrecognisable and I had to stand still for a moment, taking stock for a minute. Somebody had hidden the Royal London hospital in London's East End, Whitechapel and simply forgotten to tell me. Why? There had to be a reason and yet none was forthcoming. I agonised and pondered for a couple of minutes. Had I lost track of time, had there been a huge architectural upheaval in the East End or maybe I hadn't noticed?  It was time to familiarise myself with the place where it had all started for me 54 years ago and find my bearings. There are times when you have to rub your eyes with amazement and just gasp in wonderment.  

 But this was the Royal London hospital in Whitechapel, the hospital where my wife, our children and I had been born. Nobody had given any us any thought. It was a complete oversight but not a disaster so I'll just have to get used to the reality of it all. Besides the hospital is still there and even if  it has re-appeared at the back of the original building it still looks both hugely impressive and prepossessing, a modern building with a very high tech appearance about it. 

The new Royal London hospital is now situated directly behind the old site of the old one and, to all outward appearances, is one of the most striking pieces of architecture. part, The old hospital is now completely covered in  dark tarpaulin and scaffolding. Or what looks to be a grey boarding. Suffice it to say that the old Royal London hospital is just a distant memory and may never be seen again. 

It does seem that the whole landscape of Whitechapel and the East End has changed quite remarkably since I last passed that way which must have been quite some time ago. In fact it's not only the hospital that has now completely re-invented itself. On the opposite side of the old Royal London hospital, Cross Rail has revolutionised the travelling habits of the whole of not only Whitechapel's commuters but the vast majority of passengers who regularly hop on and off the Tube trains. 

Recently my wife and I came out of Whitechapel station and I, for one, was totally stunned and transfixed by not only the dramatic changes inside the exit and entrance of the station but amazed at the speed and rapidity with which the whole of the station had just grown in size. It was the kind of expansion that filled you with hope for the future and perhaps a reminder that the whole infrastructure of London as a city is beginning to take shape. 

But the new Royal London hospital is our point of  discussion here. Now the Royal London hospital looks like some futuristic five star hotel with all the facilities and amenities you'd come to expect from a hotel. It's a fabulous looking hospital, a soaring tower of glass and solid steel with quite the most comforting aura about it.

As you enter the main reception of the hospital the strong smell of coffee drifts through all of the main corridors and lift areas inside the buildings. It is the kind of smell that you'd normally expect to find in a big dotcom company or a multi-floored office block in the West End. But here caffeine and an almost businesslike atmosphere hovers inside one of the most important of all buildings. 

Over the years the whole of the NHS may have come in for what seems like savage criticism but the Royal London hospital is one medical edifice that has now been given a sharp injection of pride. It's hard to imagine how this beautiful development just appeared almost unobtrusively with the minimum of fuss. But there was something else that took my eye almost instantly and gave immediate pause for thought. How did that happen? I had to take a second look but was then blown away.

As you approach the old site of the hospital, you are confronted by the most extraordinary sight. In the distance away to the Aldgate end of Whitechapel are three of the most iconic structures in the contemporary London skyline. Now I have to tell you my breath was almost completely taken away by the sheer magnificence and mind blowing immensity of what I could see. 

There in front of me was the Gherkin accompanied by two other tall and elegant towers. Now the Gherkin has been with us for some time and- yes- it does look like a huge cucumber but not the conventional green cucumber we eat but a cucumber that looks after computers and people which sounds comical but is nonetheless true. These are the people who give the Gherkin its focus, purpose and soul. What a building and what a terrific sight.  

The Gherkin is one of London's most distinctive of all new office blocks. It houses vital pieces of financial information and members of staff whose sole responsibility is to look after the nation's finances with some of the most influential figures working in the City. They are the cogs and wheels of the City, powerhouses of administration who work themselves industriously into the ground underpaid at times perhaps but crucially important to the whole operation that makes the City tick. 

As I looked down the Whitechapel Road I could hardly believe my eyes. The Gherkin, that cucumber shaped office block, nestles comfortably next to one building that looks like a triangle had been sliced off the top. It was a London that when my mum carried me out of the hospital all those years ago none could possibly have imagined 54 years later. But come the 21st century and some architect must be pinching themselves because this is just out of this world. It could be the new Legoland but that would be grossly insulting so I think I'll refrain from any more comparisons.  

Then my eyes moved back to Whitechapel itself, the heart of Whitechapel. After many decades, the Whitechapel market is still thriving and striving to better itself. All along the street market  there is a vast Middle East presence. Here strung out along the whole of the pavement are noisy market traders with vegetables and fruits laid out on the ground, as passers by tip toe their way past bananas, dark yellow plantains, corn and dusty brown potatoes. It is one of the most culturally enriching sights and there is a rawness, an earthiness about the whole of Whitechapel. 

Over all of the market stalls, there are thick white plastic sheets which hang languidly over the varied produce on offer. This is how Whitechapel chooses to identify itself and always will. If you look further afield your eyes fall upon what can only be described as the idiosyncratic Cheese Grater- which does look like a cheese grater but without the requisite slice of Cheddar. And then there's the Walkie Talkie which just beggars belief. It is indescribable and inexplicably surreal. And yet you have to say it's truly imaginative because I'm sure there can be no other building in the world that quite matches its design and shape. 

Now perhaps I've missed something here but why a Walkie Talkie? I don't think anybody uses a Walkie Talkie anymore and if I'm not mistaken the Walkie Talkie was that 1970s must have fashion accessory used by CB radio truck drivers. And so you have it Ladies and Gentleman this is the latest news from the heart of the brand new Royal London hospital. It is surrounded by new and old, the ancient and the artistic but mostly a landscape rich in thriving wealth. 

Recently I came across Brick Lane again with its glamorous graffiti that stretched across every wall for miles on end. Then there are the endless Pop Up shops, the rows of vintage shops, retro records outlets by the dozen and clothes that are spread out almost nostalgically. It is the East End at its most diverse and authentic, an East End that wraps the warmest embrace around both its tourists and more importantly the people who live there.  

The Royal London hospital may have changed its position and it may look entirely different. But I won't have a word said against the Royal London hospital because this is the hospital in which my children, my wife and I all emerged into the world and this is all that counts. As my wife and I left the Royal London hospital I took one more tantalising glimpse of a world that hardly seemed credible but was indeed incredible. They might have given the City an extensive make over but the new Royal London hospital will always take your breath away.       

40 years later and still waiting for the next big trophy.

40 years later and still waiting for the big trophy.

It must have been roughly 40 Easters ago - give or take a year or so. If memory serves me correctly it was a Good Friday morning at Upton Park. West Ham were at home to Birmingham City and from what I can remember there was little to play for. There was nothing at stake, both teams were probably languishing in old First Division mid table safety and the avuncular Jim Callaghan was desperately trying to hold it all together as British Prime Minister when the unions were doing their utmost to destabilise his leadership and kick him out of 10 Downing Street.

Now let's see. I can only imagine that the prolific and hugely talented forward Trevor Francis was deep into one of his last seasons at Birmingham and West Ham were just pottering around in the lower half of the Division One table treading water as they were to do for only one more season before the dreadful relegation trapdoor opened the following season. It was never easy for my emotionally draining Hammers and, after another season of struggle, hardship, Chinese water torture and sheer privation that Good Friday of 1977 seemed to perfectly crystallise the club's misfortunes.

I think I'd just started going to West Ham during that wobbly, deeply taxing season but the scars are still painful and raw. I've no idea what possessed me to go to Upton Park on that morning although I can only assume that I'd  been a glutton for punishment for so long that maybe it seemed a good idea at the time.

The morning was bright and sunny if springtime breezy and I can still recall standing at West Ham's South Bank end in an almost philosophical mood. The vocal Upton Park crowd were at their wise-cracking, jovial best and there was nothing to suggest that either side were about to play like world beaters. Birmingham were never likely to trouble the top half of the table at any stage of any season but they were good and entertaining visitors so there was a holiday time atmosphere within the ground.

There was a kind of fatalistic mood among the West Ham faithful, an acceptance of an almost laughable mediocrity and then an almost moody resignation to the club's fate. West Ham had long recognised that perhaps the club would never win anything in any of their generation's lifetime. So we settled down to a pre- Easter battle of wits against our Brummie friends with few expectations and even fewer hopes. We knew what we were going to get. We had a premonition, a haunting premonition, almost a sixth sense that the game was up for West Ham as soon as the game had begun. It was truly weird but there was something about the players body language that told me everything I needed to know. It was devastating defeat or the most frighteningly boring 0-0 draw.

The game finished in a 2-2 draw and will never remembered by any football supporter. West Ham occasionally suggested something good but then faltered and fizzled out. The football was pure and, from time to time, almost mesmerising but then when the team reached their opponents 18 yard box it all seemed to crumble into an embarrassing pile of ashes. There was a poise on the ball but no penetrative punch or indeed any semblance of a lethal goal scoring finish.

 It was all, quite literally, style but no substance at all. In fact it was all very concrete and laboured. And yet somehow this was to be expected. But you had to support the club because the quality of football was  remarkably superior to the rest of the other teams in the old First Division. Or so you thought. And yet as soon as the visitors had arrived at Upton Park they knew that although West Ham may have been technically proficient they were almost totally exposed to the defensive fragilities that had so often bedevilled them.

I think Birmingham scored first and West Ham promptly equalised but it would never ever improve so a majority of the West Ham supporters launched into a low grumbling sound of disapproval every time a West Ham player lost possession. Of course their short passing was both very flashy and ostentatious but ultimately the ball was lost in vital areas and Birmingham regained the lead before the Hammers scored once again. It was all very typical, very West Ham, all very promising and auspicious but rather like the club's anthem the bubbles always flew but never seemed to get any further than that point.

You see that's the lot of any supporter when you know your team will rarely bring any long lasting joy, stunning success and regular excursions into big European competitions. At times my support of West Ham could rightly be compared to large passages of Nick Hornby's brilliantly perceptive book and film Fever Pitch. Hornby seemed to make all of the most pertinent observations about the whole nature of football fandom.

Throughout my teenage years at least there was the kind of gnashing of teeth and profound personal grief that so often accompanies any football supporter. Hornby was almost spot on with his witty summations and grievances about supporting a football club. At times you almost internalise that grief and blame yourself for the team's losing run, its pathological refusal to win and then you sulk for ages because you think it's your fault. At times you almost feel torn and traumatised because there can be nothing that you can personally do to change the score-line.

I think I've lost count of the number of times when hours before a game at West Ham's Upton Park a sense of fear and foreboding would send the most unpleasant shiver down my spine. Billy Bonds, that noble, whole- hearted, totally committed captain, had formed a tremendous centre back partnership with a clumsy and cumbersome Tommy Taylor. This was never Taylor's fault but whenever Taylor attempted to defend a cross, some of us could barely watch.  Both though, had built the most impenetrable and forbidding of defensive walls at the heart of the West Ham defence. Then Taylor horrendously fumbled his defensive clearances and we all closed our eyes.

And yet my loyalty to the Hammers has frequently been tested if only because you never knew which team would turn up on the day of the match. Hornby made frequent references in Fever Pitch to his relationships, his girlfriends, the suffering he'd endured while following Arsenal, those tempestuous years of failure and near misses before Arsenal's ultimately triumphant old First Divsion title winning match at Anfield in 1989.

Hornby tells us at great length and in wonderfully lyrical detail about those lonely days of adolescence when he felt he'd done something terribly wrong. He discusses all of the hurt and rejection he'd felt was indirectly impacting on his life at home, at school, and his private life. In moments of self doubt and morbid introspection Hornby beats himself up because he simply can't understand why, because something was missing in his life his mood at home was having the most destructive effect on his Arsenal team.

Of course there's an element of truth about our natural feelings for the football team we almost inherited from birth. Every August we illustrate a kind of emotional map in our minds which takes us on the most gruelling of nine month journey. For the best part of Saturday and now Sunday and even more absurdly Monday, we take a deep breath and hope that come the following May that something miraculous might just happen. But it doesn't so you just bear and grin it all, longing for the season to end at this point and then hoping against hope that things might make the most modest of improvements for next season. Oh such sweet delusion. But then you never know.

Now I have to tell you as a West Ham follower of over 40 years the psychological torment, the soul searching and the gut wrenching anxieties visit us almost every August. We seem to begin the whole Premier League season from an almost default position. None of us can even remotely begin to fantasise about winning the Premier League because the reality is that the Hammers will never ever come close to winning anything let alone the Premier League. There is a gracious surrender to the worst case scenario and that worse case scenario becomes a self fulfilling prophecy.

I don't think this is a reflection on the team itself but however much you prepare yourself during the summer you can only approach August with a sheer terror of what might happen again and again. There is a demoralising hollowness about West Ham at this time of the season. Without any shadow of a doubt it has been another wretchedly awful season for the club. In a sense it almost feels like normality has been restored after the wildly inflated standards set by the team last season. In a way last season's seventh place was another optical illusion designed to infuriate all West Ham supporters but then it wouldn't be a proper season without that compulsory nervousness and fear.

But here we are again dangerously close to the bottom half of the season once again. West Ham need only perhaps one point or another win to make absolute sure of Premier League survival. Once again I'm beginning to feel the same feeling of anti- climax that accompanied me out of the ground after that Good Friday 2-2 draw against Birmingham.

West Ham. I knew, could, on their day, sweep teams aside with some of the most decorative, flowing and fluent football in the country. They were the original stylists, a side of flair and flamboyance, a side of pretty embroideries and sparkling one touch football. When Trevor Brooking, Alan Devonshire, Pat Holland and Geoff Pike were in full flight, the goals would flow like claret and blue wine and when the club won the FA Cup in 1980 it almost felt too good to be true.

After today's 2-2 draw against a seemingly doomed Sunderland, West Ham now require only a win to hold onto their exalted Premier League status. I continue to listen to the team's fortunes on our radio with clenched hands and white knuckles. At times it seems an unbearably uncomfortable fairground ride but then you never know West Ham may well undergo a radical transformation next season and this season will seem like a temporary nightmare.

The first season at the London Stadium has been fraught with problems for West Ham and after seven defeats at the ground this season there may well be those who will be relieved to see the back of what seems like the most painful season of initiation at the new Olympic Stadium. But I have to be honest with you. I will puff out my cheeks, look at the bountiful bright blossom of summer and thank goodness that August and the new season is four months away. Oh West Ham, what a team. Those bubbles will always fly regardless of the direction.    

Easter holidays and thoughts turn to Good Friday and chocolate eggs.

Easter holidays and thoughts turn to Good Friday.

Oh well. The Bank Holiday period is literally hours away now and it's time to think of those adorably cute bunny rabbits hopping merrily through the green undergrowth, chocolate Easter eggs that are so teasingly tempting and Easter Parade on the TV for what seems like the millionth time. Yes Easter Parade starring Judy Garland who, when she wasn't following the yellow brick road in the Wizard of Oz, also made a sterling contribution to one of the most religiously appropriate films of all time.

Today is  Maundy Thursday where all manner of sacred gifts are handed out in churches across the world and of course Good Friday, perhaps one of the most presumptuously named of all English holidays follows hot on its heels. Besides why is it called Good Friday? What's so pure or virtuous about Good Friday? How did they come to the conclusion that Good Friday was good when quite clearly this is open to debate and interpretation? For all we know it may well have been just average or mediocre, or just moderate or modest, perhaps just acceptable, passable or tolerable Friday. This is a wild supposition with nothing to substantiate the accuracy of the statement.

Perhaps Good Friday is good but not outstanding, more respectable and adequate Friday. There is no historical or scientific evidence to prove conclusively that Friday was good. I'm inclined to think that Good Friday was once considered as below par and then charmed its way into the good books of Britain by carrying out some charitable deed. But there you have it. Good Friday will come winging its way into our life tomorrow full of good, honourable intentions and kind hearted benevolence.

I'm inclined to think that Good Friday will be speaking from the moral high ground because we're all good citizens who conduct ourselves perfectly and civilly in our day to day dealings with each other and life. And so tomorrow we'll all take the weekend off, mowing the grass in our gardens, pottering around our shed. fixing a couple of living room shelves, strolling down country lanes, sauntering around the many acres of garden centres or just looking for that elusive tin of paint in magnolia. It could only be Easter and it  undoubtedly is Easter so let's join Judy Garland on her Easter Parade and her fetching Easter bonnet.

Here in Manor House, the whole of Finsbury Park is gearing itself up for the great Easter fairground, a huge, sprawling funfair that flashes, winks, spins, swirls, screams, yells and just gets very animated. The lights of the Finsbury Park fairground will entrance the whole teenage and, quite possibly, adult population of Hackney and Harringay for just a couple of weeks because that's the way it's always been when the fair comes to town. Once again inevitability and continuity has come around again and the kids love it - and maybe the adults too.

So what are we to make of Good Friday? The great and good of the religious community would quite definitely give me a very logical explanation and I'd have no reason to question them. But Good Friday just sounds like a sweeping generalisation because nobody has actually convinced me that Friday was good although most of us would just assume that it is. The truth is that Good Friday has yet to do anything unspeakably bad or wicked nor has it committed any crimes or misdemeanours. It always does its homework and behaves with the most exemplary good manners.

For instance roughly 20 years ago the Good Friday agreement was thrashed out by the good people of Northern Ireland. It seems like a lifetime ago now but when Tony Blair got together with the admirable Mo Mowlam everybody agreed that permanent peace in Northern Ireland seemed the best of all solutions.

For years Northern Ireland had been at almost constant war with itself, where the fiercely fractured Protestant and Catholic communities  just seemed hell bent on wholesale death. It was the bloodiest and most horrific conflict of all time. Since 1969 whole families could barely live in the same street or road with each other without somebody blowing up a house, factory or shop. It was anguished antagonism of the worst kind, hatred at its most bitter and then there were floods of tears. But Good Friday was the day that Northern Ireland settled down, rationalised with its irrationalities and just shook each other by the hand. War was not the answer and commonsense prevailed with an invigorating spring in its step.

It was the Good Friday we'll never forget when my wife and I met up with Mo Mowlam on that most wonderful of all days in a Stoke Newington supermarket. You could almost hear a collective sigh because finally humanity had found a way of sorting out its complex problems. It could be rightly said that Good Friday had indeed lived up to its name and reputation. Ms Mowlam smiled warmly at my wife and I and there was a brief and private recognition that the whole of the human race was not only good but was almost saintly and angelic.

And so we sing the praises of Good Friday and the whole of Christendom will descend on Jerusalem over Easter on that yearly pilgrimage. Good Friday is unquestionably good, just brilliant, jumping for joy and just beside itself with uncontrollable elation. Oh Easter in all her splendour and glory!  How the nation's children just long for those buttery filled Hot Cross Buns, neatly packaged Easter eggs and a trip down to the coast for that customary ride on the fairground carousel.

There you have it folks. Good Friday does have a lot to commend itself because it's thoroughly trustworthy, never speaks out of turn and always knows when to do things in moderation. I think it's time to   give Good Friday its due because somebody has got to give it credit where it's due. It doesn't stay out late at night, is incredibly polite in company and never leaves the dinner table without asking or maybe I'm expecting a bit too much of Good Friday. Good Friday has nothing to reproach itself for and I'm a fervent fan of that day.  Let's hear it for Good Friday as opposed to detestable, revolting Friday. You'll leap out of bed and quote that famous 1960s mantra. Oh we're just glad all over. Amazing day.

Today I once again passed by the hallowed doors of Sainsbury's in Stamford Hill and marvelled at the sheer multi- culturalism and diversity of North London and for that matter, the whole of the world.  There they were the Jewish matzas in perfect juxtaposition with Easter eggs, a religious force for good. It will be Good Friday after all.  The whole of the world is about to embrace Easter like an old friend who just keeps coming back every year. Easter means eggs, buns, matzas, good vibes, fairground rides, a break from the daily toil and drudgery, a time, above all, to be good, very good and better than ever before. Bring on the chocolate.