On the Town- Regents Park- an open air theatre of sparkling quality, the sights and sounds a night to remember on the town.

Regents Park, the sights and sounds of the open air theatre, a night to remember On the Town.

There can have been few evenings or nights quite like this one. Surrounded by some of London's finest and lushest parkland, we settled in our seats and soaked up the atmosphere. This had been one of my first visits to an open air theatre and it wasn't disappointing. In fact by the end of the evening I had been both enthralled and overcome with emotion.

It was the Regents Park Open Air Theatre and it was quite the most scenic setting I'd ever experienced for any show or event in London, a picturesque jewel in the heart of the capital, a delicious slice of the country in the middle of the West End. I've walked through and passed Regents Park on a number of occasions and, rather like Hyde and St. James's Park its neighbours, there is a breathtaking romanticism and beauty about Regents Park that never fails to enchant.

As you head towards Regents Park you suddenly become aware that this is the heart of London's wealthiest elite. Everywhere there is a Georgian elegance that is wonderfully timeless, rows and rows of white stucco houses with stern pillars and columns, stately cream coloured homes with regal balconies and formidable windows. This is London at her most traditional and respectable, London at her most well off with a couple of million in the bank and untouched by the decades and generations.

And then you notice the street lamps on the road leading into Regents Park. Now it has to be said that these are pretty special street lamps. These lantern street lamps have probably been where they are at the moment since the very early days of Queen Victoria's reign. My wife, daughter- and father- in law came out of the theatre at the end of our West End musical and I couldn't help but notice the street lamps in orderly and regimented lines, a distant throwback to the days when Charles Dickens must have doing all of his extensive research for those glorious novels. In fact for a moment I tried to imagine what it must have been like for Dickens in those far off Victorian days.

Anyway we were all here to see an old film musical called On the Town which starred the fleet footed, twinkle toed Gene Kelly and Old Blue Eyes himself Frank Sinatra, Now since this was my first time in an open air theatre I wasn't sure what to expect. But here I was slap bang in the middle of those rich acres of greenery and stunning scenery. We all felt at one with nature and you felt as though you were profoundly connected to its seductive charms.

 My only other al fresco musical concert had taken place over 30 years ago at the wonderful Kenwood House in Hampstead and that had to be the most memorable of all occasions. In fact I did it all over again a couple of years later and that night I was serenaded by classic movie themes from an orchestra. Oh to be a part of an evening that gave us the Magnificent Seven, the Bond movie theme, the Dambusters, classic British TV series and sitcoms. Truly uplifting. I'll never forget that carpet of rugs on the grass, the middle and upper classes sprawled out ostentatiously with their hampers and picnics, their delightful selection of French bread sticks, bottles of bubbly, champagne overflowing by the bucketload and that re-assuring air of, quite possibly, snobbery and evident style. It was England being English and Londoners living in London. Unquestionably so.

But here we all were in the middle of a London park in an open air theatre that reminded you of a mini amphitheatre, a bowl shaped auditorium with tiers of seats that seemed to wrap around in a kind of semi circle. For a moment I was reminded of a bullfighting arena where the great matadors and toreadors engage and tease that poor, unsuspecting bull in some brutal and bloodthirsty confrontation.

And yet this was entirely different, remarkably different. This was a West End musical in the middle of a beautiful park. At frequent points throughout the performance, I looked around at the towering trees thick and heavy with foliage and gorgeous green leaves. What must they have been feeling or thinking? What goes through the mind of a Regents Park tree when the music strikes up and the band plays and the soft, melodious notes drift into the still early evening sky?

Then it hit me. The dawning realisation and revelation. The trees overlooking the stage were listening and watching On the Town, perhaps studying and analysing the evening, carefully observing human behaviour, keeping an eagle eye out for anything out of the ordinary, monitoring and scrutinising the whole show, just drinking it all in, absorbing the sounds and the acoustics in case it was too loud for them.

Shortly, above all of the showbiz razzamatazz and pizzazz of the music itself I heard that unmistakable twittering of birds in the background. Now how topical and relevant is that in these social media friendly times. Yes everywhere there was birdsong in these late days of Spring, shrill, staccato whistling and calling, flirting and tuneful birds from way up high in that huge green canopy of London's Regents Park.

For what seemed an indefinite period of time the memories of Frank Sinatra and Gene Kelly were wonderfully resurrected and the birds loved it, Throughout the whole of On the Town London's bird population had done us proud. It almost seemed as though both blackbird, chaffinch, magpie and crow alike had made a determined effort to join in with this mellifluous wall of music and sound.

On stage of course On The Town, the musical was quite extraordinary, a brilliant stage adaptation of a film that captured the hearts of the Hollywood set back in the 1950s when stars were stars and Sinatra was in his vocal pomp. It tells the story of three American sailors singing and dancing their way into the hearts of singing and dancing girls. Dressed in whiter than white naval suits, our three sailors launch into an energetic chorus of sing along chat up lines, jumping and skipping across tables and chairs with that overflowing enthusiasm that gets you right there.

We then witness quite the most astonishing sight, a yellow New York taxi cab, the rusty frame of a very old New York taxi, hurtling and careering sharply around corners and back streets with a feverish fervour. Then a passionate girl throws herself quite unashamedly at one of the aforementioned sailors with lustful clinches and a real determination to get her guy. It is all very dizzy and heady, a giddy and light headed musical that never pauses for breath or re-charges its batteries for it is quite clearly electrifying and mind blowingly terrific.

Before the performance itself I did take some brief mental notes of the open air theatre audience and the moments just before On The Town lit up their lives. There went the open air public gently walking up the steps and the rows of seats with amber coloured glasses of lager in their hands, in some cases colourful Pimms with ice in their glass or fizzy white wine that smacked of the middle classes. Nobody was in a hurry to go anywhere and you began to think that the people who come to Regents Park open air theatre know exactly how to behave on sultry summer evenings.

All around me was that sense of order and tranquillity that seems to come quite naturally to London's al fresco theatre land. Then I heard the rustling and whispering of the trees, the cooing and cawing of the blackbirds with their shrewd and discerning air. It was all just perfect in the way it's always been and always will be.

 On stage, rusty, dark brown buildings with what looked like New York warehouses illustrated perfectly the landscape of New York during the 1950s. And then the show really took off, exploding into a dazzling cavalcade of dancing and more dancing, operatic singing at its best, guys and girls swinging each other over each others shoulders in a dizzying and delirious delight, shaking their hips, somersaulting, spinning on dainty toes, flinging their bodies into the air with all the dynamism of teenagers and then in the second half there was something totally surprising.

For what seemed a blissful period of time, On the Town indulged itself in the rarefied world of ballet. It was ballet in the middle of a showbiz  West End musical and for a minute or two it seemed unrelated to what I had just seen. But this was ballet on the most spectacular scale. It was ballet that should have graced the magnificent Sadlers Wells, the home of English ballet in the middle of London. And yet here it was in the middle of a Hollywood film adaptation, beautifully rehearsed and choreographed. The timing was impeccable, the movements almost perfectly synchronised, feet nimble, bodies supple and flexible. What a show, what a performance!

Then we remembered the film adaptation and the sheer joyousness of it all. We thought of Frank Sinatra now loved and adored by millions of palpitating American females, blue eyes wide and fluttering lashes. Then there was Gene Kelly who would twirl himself around a street of lamp- posts before getting soaked by rain.  It was hard to remember just how vivacious and vibrant Hollywood was at the time and still is to a large extent.

I couldn't help but notice the composer of On The Town, one Leonard Bernstein, the musical maestro behind my favourite film of all time West Side Story. There were very distinctive echoes and shades of the great Bernstein in On the Town. There was that very jazzy, orchestral Bernstein sound that drifted elegantly across Regents Park. It was a mean, moody and menacing score that had the composer's trademark all over it. I was just uplifted by it all.

Still this was my evening and an evening that linger forever in the mind and heart. Darkness fell across Regents Park almost unfussily and discreetly, the fading evening light now just an early evening memory. I looked up inquiringly at those trees once again and found, much to my delight, that even the trees had caught the mood of the evening. The lights from the stage were now decorating the trees with a multi patterned light show. The birds were now back at their nest sleeping quarters and Londoners made their way home in the most polite fashion. On the Town had painted the whole of London town red. Some of us wanted to believe that the painting had been completed with the finest brush. Well done Regents Park open air theatre. You were great.  

Arsenal, Arsenal again and again. FA Cup thoroughbreds and winners again.

Arsenal - FA Cup winners supreme.

It was in the script wasn't it? It had to happen. It was in the stars. It was fate, destiny, and if it had turned out differently then we might have wondered why. But once again Arsenal, for what now seems the umpteenth time in recent years, won the FA Cup because Chelsea's thoughts seemed to be a million miles away from Wembley Stadium. This was a Chelsea at their most pathetic, lacklustre and spineless against an Arsenal side at their best in the 2017 FA Cup Final and it does go a long way in explaining how they were so emphatically beaten by an Arsenal side who were completely and technically outstanding, a side whose collective ethos particularly after this game should never be questioned.

The question now, in the light of Arsenal's latest Cup Final victory, is whether their long standing and accomplished manager Arsene Wenger will still be in charge at the Emirates Stadium next season. His record, after 20 years in North London, is undeniably and hugely impressive but the doubts will now remain about the foreseeable future for Wenger. He looks like a man who although outwardly happy, may privately be thinking that this is far as he can take Arsenal.

The last season has been a painfully tempestuous one for the Frenchman and when Arsenal began to fall away disturbingly towards the end of the season Wenger's face and body language told its own story. More haunted and persecuted than ever before he looked like a man who would quite happily stretch out his tired body on a Caribbean hammock, read Proust and then gently swig a bottle of French vintage wine for as long as he possibly could.

But the decision that now faces this amiable and multi- lingual man is clear. Does he gamble with the possibility of signing on for another year at Arsenal or does he go with his gut feeling and just bow out at the top? These are curious times at Arsenal because it does feel as if both Arsene Wenger and the Arsenal fans are now at loggerheads with each other without knowing what to do for the best.  One party just wants Wenger to go now and the rest are still undecided. There is a deeply unsettling air of indecision which for the long term, has to be addressed if Arsenal are to ever find a clearing in the forest.

We will know on Wednesday which hand of cards the Frenchman has come down on. Will it be the jack of hearts or the king of diamonds? At the moment there is a cloak and dagger secrecy about the Arsenal hierarchy but now is the time for Wenger to put us all out of our misery. This is the worst kept secret since the last worst kept secret. Wenger may not be a gambling man and the chances are that poker was never his game anyway. But whatever is going through this highly intellectual man's mind there is surely a part of him that is petrified in case the Arsenal fans revolt en masse and nobody wins anything.

Still whatever happens the fact remains that Wenger has been one of the most successful and highly esteemed managers in the Premier League. Thin as a bamboo stick, gaunt and haggard at times, Wenger has always looked a man in desperate need of several plates of fish and chips plus a dozen pizzas for good measure. In recent times the face has looked more and more sunken and bony, the hair as grey as a ghost. In fact there are times when it looks as if somebody has thrown a sheet over his head such has been the strain and stress that he's been forced to endure this season.

Anyway here was Wenger back in what has effectively become his second home in recent years. After Arsenal had thrashed Aston Villa a couple of years ago and finally beat Hull a year earlier it seemed natural to assume that Chelsea would be the proverbial piece of cake ready to be gobbled down for tea or an early 5.30 supper. But this has never been the case for Wenger does things his way because he remains a man of honour and principle and would never leave anybody hanging  in the dark.

And so it was that the Wembley Stadium arch greeted its London soul mates in this meatiest of London derbiies. Arsenal had already beaten Chelsea in the Cup Final 15 years ago and now handed out another dose of the same medicine to their London neighbours. Arsenal had won the FA Cup for a record breaking 13th time and a startling seventh time for Arsene Wenger so the likelihood was that we would witness another one of those meaty, ferociously competitive Cup Finals and London derbies with nothing given nor taken. So it proved.

But right from the kick off it was Arsenal who immediately laid down the ground rules for this Cup Final. In roughly the first minute of this game, Arsenal received possession of the ball and never ever really gave the ball back to Chelsea at any time during the match. They then set in motion those beautiful passing movements that has so often given a gloss finish to their football. Once the red shirts took charge of those important midfield areas, the passing was coated with that finest tin of emulsion paint. The passes flowed and floated across the lush green Wembley acres, the links and connections were faultless and most of the Arsenal players seemed to form the most harmonious of playing agreements. It was the sweetest football, the most cultured of football and football played in the way nature intended.

In the heart of the Arsenal midfield there was Aaron Ramsey, now a firmly established Arsenal regular, a quick, artful, scheming, probing, busy and livewire player who built up the most idyllic relationship with Mesut Ozil and a wonderfully mature Alex Oxlade Chamberlain. Both Ramsey and Ozil were forever teasing out delicate angles and spaces for the likes of Alexis Sanchez to run into. This was an Arsenal side carrying out the very specific instructions of a manager who knew exactly what this game meant to Arsene Wenger.

For the first time in quite a while Oxlade Chamberlain, whose father Mark had so regularly terrorised defences for both England and Stoke City, began to find his feet again. Oxlade Chamberlain owns the cleverest of feet, a nimble and nippy winger drifting across the pitch almost unobtrusively before cutting in from the flanks and carving out decisive openings for Sanchez. This was Oxlade Chamberlain's day and once he'd  imposed his authority on the Cup Final the others rallied together and picked their passes with an almost arrogant ease.

Now it was that Arsenal took charge of the game. After only seven minutes Arsenal broke through with the opening goal. At first everybody in the Chelsea defence seemed to freeze as Sanchez looked as if he'd handled a ball in the throes of an attack. But no whistle followed from the referee's lips, the ball was moved forward into a gaping space in the penalty area and the little Chilean smuggled his way into the area and guided the ball past the helpless Chelsea keeper Courtois for Arsenal's opening first goal.

From that point onwards Arsenal laid seige to the Chelsea with a flurry of goal scoring openings that could so easily have embarrassed Chelsea after only half an hour. Frantic shots were kicked off the line, the post was struck and Chelsea manager Antonio Conte must have thought the Premier League title may just as well have been an optical illusion. It could have been three or four but then the red storm subsided and Chelsea inched their way back into the game slowly and methodically.

By half time Chelsea looked groggier than ever and the sluggishness and slovenliness that had so characterised Chelsea's first half performance began to seep away in the second half. By then Per Mertersacker, who should have been an Arsenal liability was instead their eternal saviour. Mertersacker, slower than a tortoise in the eyes of his critics was now revived and revitalised and all of that awkwardness on the ball had now been banished for ever.

For the opening stages of the second half Metersacker, without ever bearing comparison with a Tony Adams, Steve Bould or Frank Mclintock still tackled and held firm with all the assurance of a centre half twice his age. Chelsea, to their credit, did attempt to climb their way back through the ropes after the incessant Arsenal first half battering but this seemed a match too far for Chelsea  They were never really in tune with the day and found it almost impossible to find their bearings. They were nervous and tentative, weary and cautious and the overriding impression was that Chelsea had already enjoyed what they may have considered a much happier afternoon last weekend.

Even the likes of N'Golo Kante in the middle of Chelsea's midfield and, without a doubt one of the best players of the season, was neither here nor there. Frequently losing the ball when winning the ball back, Kante struggled to keep up with the frenetic pace of the game. Kante's influence on the game had vanished out of sight and Chelsea were almost totally devoid of any of the hypnotic rhythms that had almost left the rest of the Premier League gasping in its slipstream.

When Pedro and Matic attempted something out of the ordinary the ball was caught up in the most chaotic mass of feet before dropping to another red shirt. Hard as though Chelsea huffed and puffed this was a leaden footed and laborious performance from the West Londoners. Even the masterful subtlety and cleverness of Eden Hazard was desperately missing as he briefly hinted at spells of dribbling with the ball at speed and then realised that even he was human and flawed. He did very occasionally send tremors through the Arsenal defence but then ran into a red brick wall that never looked like crumbling.

But with twenty minutes Chelsea, quite miraculously, found the equaliser Diego Costa turning sharply and expertly in the area to slice the ball into the net. But even then Costa kept up that tiresome sequence of moody facial snarls and sneers that reminded you of the seven year old kid who was never picked for the first team. With that dark, bristly face, Costa spent the rest of the second half in a private anguish, staring aghast at the referee, moaning, groaning, incensed with the whole world and niggly irascible. We remain grateful that Costa was not on the winning side. Even Alonso, normally so productive and emotionally involved, looked unwilling to haul Chelsea back into the match.

No sooner than Chelsea had equalised then Arsenal headed straight back to the Chelsea penalty area. It reminded you of that brilliant 1979 FA Cup Final when Terry Neill's Arsenal thought they'd wrapped up a victory with minutes to spare. But on another hot Wembley day, the imperious Liam Brady wriggled his way through a static Manchester United defence and a combination of Graham Rix and David Price presented Alan Sunderland with a last gasp winner after United had pulled the game back to 2-2.

Now though Arsenal surged back towards the penalty area and after a fast breaking Arsenal move broke through the Chelsea defence, a firmly drilled cross found Aaron Ramsey's head and the ball went like a bullet into the Chelsea net. Chelsea were now, quite literally, out on their feet, shocked into submission and nowhere to go. The FA Cup had returned to Arsenal after a two year absence. Perhaps they were polishing the Cup  just for this one moment in their gilded history.

For those who cherish those good old fashioned Cup Finals there was still a lump in the throat and a romantic yearning for the way things used to be. We still smile inwardly at the great TV build up to the Cup Final. There were the coaches following the teams on their journey to the old Wembley Stadium, the joky interviews with the players at breakfast time, the comic gags from Jimmy Tarbuck, the formations and tactics cunningly employed by the two Cup Final teams.  BBC and ITV had a wonderful monopoly on the magic of the FA Cup but now the Cup Final kick off time seems to getting later and later. We fear that one day that some bright spark will move the game to a Thursday afternoon or shortly before midnight on Monday perhaps. Maybe we'll be asked to keep Wednesday breakfast time clear at some point in the future.

And there ends the 2016-17 season. In the end Chelsea seemed to walk away with the Premier League. Arsenal were destined to win the FA Cup, Jose Mourinho kept up that endlessly infuriating bear with a sore head impersonation. But hey Jose, you're still box office entertainment and when Manchester United lifted the Europa Cup against Ajax even Mourinho's face obliged with a grudging grin, a concession to brief happiness. All in all the general standard once again lived up to its usual expectations and the quality of the game is infinitely preferable to some of the more unfortunate stodginess of the 1970s. We all know that the game from now on will always be played on snooker table baize green rather than the allotment sites of Derby's old Baseball Ground or the mudheaps of Old Trafford and Anfield. Oh what a relief. Now I must look for my Cup Final rosette or rattle. What a game.    

Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band- it was 50 years ago oh boy.

Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band- it was 50 years ago oh boy.

It's time to turn the clock back folks, time for more fond reminiscences from years gone by. I know, I love wallowing in nostalgia. It's time for reflection and strolling down memory lane. It all seems such a long time ago now but 1967 was quite possibly the most momentous of all years. Everything seemed to happen that more or less defined the 1960s as an age of experimentation, ground breaking events, innovation and not a little tragedy and sadness. But then where would we be without sadness and disaster because invariably they do make their presence felt sooner or later.

But come on it's time for me to lighten up and look back at some of those historic events that were somehow destined to happen 50 years ago  whether we liked it or not. I think there must have been a point during the 1960s when we suspected that 1967 would become one of the most revolutionary of them all. Up until that moment London was still enjoying one of its most purple of patches, a time when the white heat of technology had reached boiling point, Carnaby Street was the place to be seen, most of the world would dance around a field in Woodstock with kaftans and a large chunk of the West End seemed to dress up in outlandish Beatles costumes, top hats and a multitude of peace loving colours.

Talking of the Beatles, this year marks the 50th anniversary of the remarkable Beatles album Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band, surely one of the most ground breaking, innovative and stunningly imaginative records ever recorded. It was one of the most astoundingly spectacular pieces of music by any pop band in any generation. The history of the Fab Four has now slipped comfortably into legend and cultural folklore and to this very day the names of John, Paul, Ringo and George still echo through the years. They dominate dinner party conversations and there is a sense that although sadly only Paul and Ringo can tell their story the much missed John and George can still be recalled with feeling and tenderness.

On my way home from meeting up with friends, I couldn't help but notice that huge advertisement for Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band plastered all over a Tube railway station wall. For a moment I had to take a second look because I hand't a clue why it was there. Then it suddenly occurred to me. It was 50 years ago oh boy since the release of Sergeant Peppers and here it was remastered and digitalised for today's Blue Ray, high tech market where the sounds are crisper, cleaner and clearer than ever before.

 How long ago it seems since those halcyon days of vinyl, the crackling made by the needle on your record player and the lovely old Dansette. But now music has become the province of Spotify, Downloading, You Tube and music on your phone. It hardly seems possible and yet it's true. Who could have foretold the future when the Beatles and the Rolling Stones were battling it out for supremacy?

I was four when a group of lads from the heart of Liverpool took the world by storm. John Lennon, Paul McCartney, George Harrison and Ringo Starr strolled into the world famous Abbey Road studios in London and produced the kind of music that pushed back all the boundaries and paved the way for new musical concepts, classically composed lyrics and hit singles by the hundreds. They would fly into America, conquering the hearts of millions of American teenagers and then selling out in outdoor concerts in front of crowds that once deafened them such was the magnitude of the noise.

But this year the world celebrates the release of Sergeant Peppers Lonely Heart Club Band an album with the most unforgettable of images and an album cover that will live long in our memory. Over the years and decades many an album has been illustrated with so many works of art it's hard to remember a time when the great artists and photographers weren't in gainful employment.

The design on Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band is a huge and affectionate homage to all of those celebrities, political and pop culture idols who had done so much to hold our imagination for so many years. It is a picture gallery of the great and good with so many cultural references that you could almost identify all of them. They were the heroes and villains, prolific geniuses and then the self destructive masochists who couldn't figure out where things had gone wrong for them.

There was Albert Einstein, Bob Dylan, Stan Laurel, Marilyn Monroe, Fred Astaire, Diana Dors, Tony Curtis, WC Fields, film stars by the many and those who embraced that generation of furious creativity and positive thinking. The whole album cover shows a mass of famous faces symbolically superimposed on top of each other blending almost seamlessly into the backdrop of the picture.

For most of us Sergeant Peppers was one gigantic artistic project which like the albums that had preceded it, became a phenomenal overnight success and sold rapidly on both sides of the Atlantic in no time at all. The Beatles, by this time, had achieved unprecedented levels of both fame, adulation, adoration, idolatry in some cases and, from time to time, notoriety. But now Paul, George, John and Ringo were as much a part of the English landscape as red post boxes, the Thames, the Lake District, and Buckingham Palace.

The title track of the album of Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band was a rousing, rip roaring, up tempo number with plenty of upbeat harmonies, tantalising trumpets that boomed and thumped resoundingly across the surface and structure of the song, a stomping, uplifting ditty full of life and increasing momentum as the song developed leaving the most pleasant of melodies on the ear.

'With a Little Help From My Friends' was similarly optimistic and uptempo, a tribute perhaps to all of the band's fans and those who remained so staunchly loyal and supportive through good and bad times. You feel sure that the Beatles were now at their happiest and 'With a Little Help From My Friends was a token of appreciation to both the tragic Brian Epstein and the tremendously gifted George Martin, a man of immense talents and a producer with a notable gift for ingenuity.

'Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds' has left most of us with conflicting stories about its origin but remains one of the most lyrical and poetic songs on the album. There are those who read between the lines of 'Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds and assume that LSD may well have been the underlying commentary for an altogether different agenda rather than any ordinary song about a girl who adored expensive jewellery or just simple childhood. But LSD is not a cynical reference to drugs since a song about drugs wouldn't have been looked upon favourably by the pure and puritanical BBC.

Then there was the marvellous the 'The Benefit of Mr Kite' one of the many Beatles songs that owed much to the band's enduring love affair with the circus and the fairground. At the half way point of 'The Benefit of Mr Kite' the Fab Four indulge wildly in those classic sounds of the fairground, a fusion of ferris wheels, banging drums, a riot of organs and all manner of weird and wonderful instruments that run like a silky thread through the song.

'When I'm Sixty Four' gets you right there because to a certain generation this is how they must have felt at the time. This is John, Paul, George, Ringo at their most romantic and sentimental, a sad and bittersweet song with its eyes firmly set on the future. Now of course the two remaining Beatles Paul and Ringo may well shut the door every evening and find that 64 has now been and gone and the twilight of their years has given them a wonderfully sober perspective on life.

'Getting Better All Time' implies that substantial progress and improvement in their touring had made everything so worthwhile. Perhaps they were just basking in the glow of their glorious achievements. It's a jolly, catchy and infectious song that while never quite the memorably mainstream song of other hit singles, still had a simple hook. and a heart warmingly appealing message to both their fans and the purists.

'A Day in the Life' was a splendidly triumphant and victorious song full of shade, light and colour. It is quite the most magnificent piece of music ever written down. It is a story told with vividly bright brush strokes, an oil painting, a colourful depiction of Northern England, Blackburn, Lancashire and a song that is emblematic of everything that was and still is community minded about Northern mill towns and belching industrial chimneys. You feel sure that Lowry would have loved 'A Day in the Life'.

And so there you have it. The 50th anniversary of Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club band is out now and available at all good record shops and online platforms. For those with the fondest soft spot for crackling vinyl this iconic album will remain lodged in our minds almost permanently. It is a great and epic composition, the realisation of one band's dream and the fruition of that dream. It may never be equalled in its sheer immensity, its soaring ambition and the richness of its lyricism.

Oh well I'm off to watch the FA Cup Final with my father in law. Once again it's Arsenal against Chelsea and a repeat of the 2002 Final. As a devoted and neutral Hammer he has my unqualified support. Football and music were almost made for each other. May the best team win but I do like Arsenal so here's to a Gunners victory.  

Charing Cross Road, Girls- a West End hit musical comedy with the perfect mixture.

 Charing Cross Road, Girls- a West End hit musical comedy with the perfect mixture.

How we love London and the West End. How I love London and the West End. How we all love London and the West End. We've always loved  London and the West End. London keeps giving and sharing We love its glittering lights, the buzz, the atmosphere, its personality, charm, colour, exuberance, overflowing effervescence, the Shaftesbury Avenue theatres, the art galleries, the museums, the traffic lights, the shops, cafes, its engaging welcome to the rest of the world.

 There's  Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, its edginess, its energy, its character, its craftiness, its cunning, its spellbinding and magical hold on our senses, the way it can transport you to another world with a minimum of effort and then take you on a fascinating fairground ride back to a world of escapism and liveliness. And yet it keeps playing rather like an old 78 record or some ageless steam engine that never stops or pauses for a single second. In fact London has the most remarkable stamina and tireless indefatigability about it that just keeps rolling on and rolling on, moving and moving, breathless and constantly functioning until eventually the last Night Bus turns up at Trafalgar Square and suddenly turns those lights off. Wow how does London do it.

Today my wife and I spent our wedding anniversary in the heart of the West End. We went to  Charing Cross Road, the seething metropolis at its best, a cultural melting pot, a whirlwind whirligig of tourists, observers and window shoppers. But Charing Cross Road is one huge treasure trove of charming book shops, thousands of dusty shelves and  books dating back as far as anybody can remember. It is the home of literature, shelves groaning with leather bound books, hundreds of paperbacks, sturdy reference books of ancient origin and a spectacular array of well thumbed novels and short stories.

But on closer inspection I came across the Charing Cross Road musical instrument shops which weren't hard to miss because they were so gloriously visible and prominent. The one that held my attention was one that may well have been there since the beginning of London's Rock and Roll 1950s infancy when nearby Soho was a superlative row of juke box coffee bars, steaming, frothy coffee and Lonnie Donegan inquiring about the chewing gum losing its flavour on the bedpost which on reflection sounds totally nonsensical but at the time must have been incredibly popular.

Anyway where was I? There was that lovely musical instrument shop with its groovy guitars, yes definitely groovy guitars because Lonny Donegan and Bert Weedon must have plucked their first plectrum there back in the 1950s. These guitars were just handsome, they were guitars with a touch of class, in fact lorry loads of class, style, breeding and quality. They all looked roughly the same as each other with that gorgeous patina of varnish, slightly chipped magnificence but in some cases so expensive that you had to look twice at the price because they were so absurdly dear.

There was also the deeply attractive selection of other musical instruments that covered the whole spectrum of both woodwind and percussion. There were the banjos that George Formby must have smilingly played to the point of repetition in another age, clarinets that looked smart and impossibly glamorous and a whole variety of organs that must have graced many a church or dance hall.

And then in the heart of Charing Cross Road there was that excellent musical comedy Girls at the Phoenix Theatre which seemed to rise from the ashes just for our benefit. Sorry jokes were never my forte or maybe they were. Girls was great fun, a great show, in fact a formidably fabulous show with its tongue firmly lodged in its cheek and oozing with the very essence of the West End. It was fruity, frivolous, clean cut and yet saucily racy and amusingly vulgar. It was one of those delightfully funny shows that restore your faith in human nature because although dark in places, they still make you feel good all over.

Starring Debbie Chazen as Ruth,  Louise Dann as Celia, Michelle Dotrice, once the long suffering Betty, wife of Frank Spencer, in the superb 1970s sitcom 'Some Mothers Do 'Ave Them', now  Jessie in Girls, Marian McLoughlin as Marie, Claire Moore as Chris, James Gaddas as John, Steve Giles as Lawrence, Ben Hunter as Danny and Maxwell Hutcheon as Colin, Girls was a wondrous chocolate box confection of stunning singing that bordered on Sunday gospel choir, dancing that was  impeccably choreographed and those very touching moments that only a West End musical is capable of delivering.

Girls follows the story of a Yorkshire village, its gritty groundedness and very real sense of rooted commonsense, practicality, wholesome working class values and a community who always mucked in together in a crisis. Girls is moving, emotional, poignant, hard hitting, sentimental, at times morbid and mawkish but never depressing. It's the story of every day life, every day events, real people with real feelings, real hopes and real ambitions. In fact Girls is hearteningly real, absolutely genuine with its finger on the pulse of our lives and the way we lead our lives.

Girls in fact is the story of Calendar Girls, that wonderful film adaptation starring Helen Mirren, and now a story that beautifully captured the moment when a wife deals with her terminally ill husband John now sadly confined to a wheelchair before sadly passing away towards the end of the first half of the show, disappearing behind the poetic hills of Yorkshire. And then Girls carries out the brief that it was assigned with and then executed with tear jerking perfection. It could not have gone any better.

Together these tough as teak Yorkshire girls collectively peak as a united, crusading, bold, determined and fizzily feisty band of women with guts, nerve and gallivanting gusto. With daring determination and reckless enthusiasm they all decide that the only way they could celebrate the life of John's memory would be to take their clothes off and pose for the Great British calendar.

Now this was the point of the show when vast swathes of the male audience suddenly harked back to their teenage years and pretended they were 18 again. There was little in the way of reaction more a reluctant acknowledgement that this has always been the way. Everywhere you looked men were closing their eyes, opening their eyes and then turning to look at their wives and girlfriends in search of that knowing smile. But there was surely a point during Girls when even the most worldly of men and women must have thought just they'd seen it all although maybe they hadn't after this enlightening show.

So it was then finally that the Women's Institute revealed its brightest and most outrageous colours. There were the mouth watering jam and cream cakes with mountainous tiers of jam and cream oozing and dripping cholesterol and guilt. Then there were the endless choir practices, village fetes full of country comforts and rose tinted nostalgia. There were the marvellous marrow competitions and last but not least the naughtily revealing Calendar where bra straps were flung off with wild abandon, skirts gleefully whipped off for the delicious delectation of tongue hanging men and iced buns with cherries strategically positioned in heaving, buxom breasts, cleavages that left little to the imagination.

Suddenly I had one of those Barbara Windsor and Sid James Carry On moments when those naughty seaside pier postcards showed rather more than they should have done at the time. But here Girls merely hinted at sex and innuendo contenting itself with a gentle innocence and the merest glimpse of flesh and flirtatiousness, of carefree flightiness and harmless in jokes.

And so my wife and I once again emerged into the heart of the West End, to a now grown up and vibrant Soho, to nearby Denmark Street, the jazzy heart of London with its Tin Pan Alley trumpets and memorable saxophones. Then we found ourselves back in the Charing Cross Road, once filmed for immortality for the movie audience and still renowned for its leather bound books and more books, heavy and light books, books that were witty and thought provoking and stories that must have been well and truly hidden away in dark and obscure corners of Charing Cross Road for decades upon decades.

 But I couldn't take my eye off those electric guitars ready to launch their electrifying tunes and melodies. We returned to Leicester Square Tube station with a spring in our step and a sense that London had done it again. It had pulled off that trick again. It had woven its spell, made us feel as if we truly belonged and invited us back again. As it always has.    

Joe's Jolly Japes.

Joe's Jolly Japes.

Me again. My latest book Joe's Jolly Japes is also available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and various online book sites around the world. This one is about the England football team, England's horror shows, the victories and defeats, the managers, the players, the trials and tribulations from my viewpoint and a large helping of humour, description and lyricism.

In Joe's Jolly Japes there is another amusing and irreverent look at the English class system, the Chelsea Flower Show which is completely relevant at the moment, Polo on the playing fields of England, the Henley Regatta, cricket, John Arlott, the voice of cricket, Alan Bennett and my pen portrait of the man, West End department stores, the great and legendary sporting characters from the 1970s who lifted us from our seats. my take on a BBC Hyde Park concert featuring Chrissie Hynde and Billy Ocean, British seaside resorts and more references to Ilford where I grew up and more about London. All in all Joe's Jolly Japes is my perspective on the world and a humorous slant on that world. I would heartily recommend Joe's Jolly Japes. Joe's Jolly Japes is a jolly good read and it's a good, old fashioned, enjoyable yarn. Thanks everybody.

No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes- they'll make you laugh and smile.

No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes - they'll make you laugh and smile.

I  can't deny it. I have promoted my recent two books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes still available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and most online book sites around the world with a perhaps unreasonable persistence but I'm proud of these books and I just wanted to share my words and my feelings with you. Why, I hear you ask, does this man from the North London suburbs keep plugging and promoting his books? The answer is easy. No Joe Bloggs is a story about an ordinary member of the public who just wants to convey his life journey, his hopes and dreams as a child, the events that took place in his life while growing up and the people who made me laugh, cry, giggle and chuckle.

No Joe Bloggs is my take on my grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, their aspirations and the lives that were torn apart during the Second World War, their journey through life and my interpretation of what might have happened to them. It's about my favourite things, my kind of music, the music that comforted and galvanised me when shyness and immaturity threatened to hold me back but didn't.

There are also the bands, singers and groups, football and pen- portraits of Arsenal, Chelsea, Manchester City, Everton, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Manchester United, Spurs and Liverpool, loads of 1970s pop culture, British newsreaders, a very lyrical description of London, my dad's favourite place the West End, growing up in Ilford, Essex, stories about my dad's fictitious journey to Las Vegas with Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett and Sammy Davis Junior, descriptive accounts of countries around the world, showbiz celebrities in America and Britain, TV programmes from the 1960s and 70s and all of those familiar names from the world of celebrity. If you like to be amused and moved then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you.

I've also included my favourite movies, the radio stations that entertained me and most importantly the family who made it all possible me and for whom I have nothing but the most eternal gratitude and appreciation.

So there you have it. No Joe Bloggs is my affectionate homage to the whole world, the people and places who inspired me to write No Joe Bloggs, the good and positive things in life.  It's a cracking, rip roaring, all singing and all dancing book. I think it's heartwarming and uplifting and I have to admit it was a pleasure to write. If you fancy an entertaining read on your holiday beach or by the hotel swimming pool then No Joe Bloggs will definitely put a smile on your face. Yes I know this sounds like overwhelming vanity on my part but go on treat yourself folks. If you do read No Joe Bloggs then perhaps you could leave a review on my Amazon page. If not then thanks for your continued support and readership of my blog. They were great fun to write and I appreciate your comments. Best wishes to you all.

What a season!- The Premier League season ends.

What a season- The Premier League season ends.

Phew! What a football season. So it is that the collective work forces of the footballing Premier League come to an end this weekend- or tomorrow. In the end it was all very straightforward and logical rather like a simple mathematical equation. Chelsea have won the Premier League again, Leicester City, who must have thought they were imagining things by winning the Premier League last season, didn't do quite as well this season, Hull City, Middlesbrough and Sunderland were relegated to the Championship and my horse in the Grand National is probably still running. On second thoughts I think it's probably reached its stable by now with a bag of carrots for lunch.

Anyway the football season is over for another season and a nation of women will be puffing out their cheeks once again, relieved and grateful that their men folk have finally got it out of  their system once and for all. It's been nine months of constant references to Chelsea, Spurs, Liverpool, Arsenal, Manchester City and Manchester United. Nine months of discussion, analysis, comment, in depth observations and combustible controversy, an explosion of activity.

 Of course there is a large cross section of the female population who do take an interest in the welfare of Antonio Conte, Mauricio Pochettino, Jurgen Klopp, Pep Guardiola and Jose Mourinho. But how many variations on a theme can be there on Harry Kane's hair, Diego Costa's temper, David Silva's tanned shoulders and all those Premier League players with outlandish tattooes, this generation's broad fashion statement. All in all it's been one humdinger of a season, a season of peaks and troughs, near misses, flops and fluctuations, nine months of classic conflict and major triumphs, of almost but not quite and then a good old fashioned helping of quality football.

Football loves its characters, its teams, its managers and all of their endearing idiosyncrasies. But once again the entire nucleus of Premier League managers have all undergone varying degrees of humiliation, the ultimate tests of  personality and then thrown bottles of water onto the ground like spoilt children who never seem to get their way. Some, more than others, have illuminated our lives, others infuriated with their grumpy cantankerousness while some have been just a feast for the eyes.

Antonio Conte, manager of Premier League champions Chelsea, has been a vision in black, black clothes and black hair. Yet Conte has not been a master of the dark arts. Far from it. Conte has been one of the game's most outstanding of managers. In his technical area, Conte has been restless, constantly engaged, lively, lithe, lissom, irrepressible, a bundle of energy, full of enthusiasm, jumping and jiving, perhaps too obsessed, and then hurling himself into the Chelsea supporters with all the athleticism of a true Olympian.

 He may have to calm down eventually but if your team wins the Premier League you may be forgiven just a brief spot of fist pumping and self congratulation. It is hard to imagine how Conte would react to a Chelsea Champions League final victory. He may run around the Roman Colisseum over and over again just to make sure that the moment would never be forgotten.

Mauricio Pochettino, manager of Premier League runners up Spurs has experienced all of the game's most precious moments. Once again Spurs have fallen short and may think they've been hard done by but for Pochettino there have been redeeming features. Last season Spurs imploded in the closing stages of the season while this season their football has been richly refreshing, impeccably entertaining and delightful on the eye. Their football has been immensely pleasing on the eye, full of exotic flicks, tricks and short passing brilliance at its best. Spurs football has had a real sense of geometry and symmetry, a side with quick, vivid passes along the ground and the game's most gratifying grammar.

Pochettino has been a study of calm on the touchline, invariably clothed in that dark navy tracksuit, arms folded, concentration personified and never fussing or fretting when things go completely wrong. This season Pochettino has been part of a team who have brought the very best out of him. Pochettino is one of those quiet and analytical figures who never seem to look even remotely flustered at any time during a match. For most of the season the cool Argentinian has carefully assessed and dissected his team rather like a scientist in a laboratory.

Pep Guardiola, once one of Barcelona's most revered of managers has been notably less successful at Manchester City. For Guardiola, this has not been a Championship winning season so it might be thought the demanding owners at the Etihad would have been sharpening their guillotine. Off with your head Pep or that maybe prematurely rash and hasty. You have to give Pep time because Manchster City were never built in one season  and these things require patience.

Guardiola looks like something straight out of a fashion catalogue. Once again the theme has been black, dark and broodingly menacing. What is it about that smouldering eyed Latin look that is Guardiola's chief characteristic. For all the world Guardiola looks like a handsome film star, greying stubble on his chin. beautifully tailored suits from the finest of Spanish tailors, permanently tanned and all the charisma of a man who knows exactly how to charm the very best from his teams. Occcasionally he seems outraged and horrified by all of football's injustices but for all City's at times pulsating and perfect football, Guardiola still wants more from his teams and won't be happy until he gets it.

At Liverpool it's been another one of those seasons where everything looked both neat and well proportioned but without that polish and varnish that completes the finished article.  Liverpool have now been without a Premier League title for 27 years and there are those in the Anfield boot room who may privately hark back to those years of greatness and pre-eminence when Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley, Joe Fagan and Kenny Dalglish were delivering League titles as if it were one of the most natural acts in the world. And yet the Kop end at Anfield has been silenced, totally subdued by a horrific crowd tragedy, a recent and expensive re-development of the ground and a 21st century reality check.

Now though they have a German boss, name of Jurgen Klopp. Now Germany is now renowned for its meticulous attention to detail and thoroughness. Klopp has almost characteristically done things his way without ever taking leaves from the book of the great and good of Liverpool. His record at Borussia Dortmund was unquestionably brilliant and throughout this season Klopp has done his utmost to pick up the template of the Liverpool of old and incorporated his very unique style onto the present day Liverpool.

What do we make of Klopp?  He. rather like the aforementioned managers, looks reasonably relaxed and easy going but underneath that stern, serious and occasionally smiling  manner there is a man who would if he could head every ball, tackle with thunderous ferocity and generally give blood, sweat and tears for Liverpool. But he can't do that so he'll have to be content with the trials and tribulations of football management.

Klopp has conducted himself admirably in his technical area, nervelessly phlegmatic yet genuinely itching to rip off his  track suit and charge around the pitch like a reckless bull. Klopp, complete with the bushiest of black and greying beard, has been one of this season's most amusing sights. At frequent points during the season Klopp has wrestled with his glasses, dropped his glasses, hugged the players who have scored for him with a deeply affectionate squeeze and then grinned like a Cheshire cat. If there any sitcom writers out there in desperate need for a leading role then Jurgen may be your man. Klopp and his glasses have been inseparable this season so this could be his year.

For Arsene Wenger this season has been one of the longest and most painful of all time. Of course Arsenal have played some of the classiest and most sophisticated football in the modern League but then they've been doing much the same for well over 20 years now. It is hard to know whether Wenger will go or not but the hardened critics may come to regret their actions if Arsenal do decide to dispense with his services. Arsenal are still a great football club but for those who were brought up with a diet of good times and prosperity this may be the most difficult of decisions.

Jose Mourinho formerly of Chelsea and now Manchester United's prime asset as manager has endured one of the most awkward of settling in periods. The Mourinho moodiness and moroseness are almost part of the Premier League furniture but Mourinho may come to believe that if United beat Ajax in the Europa League final then some of the more disgruntled members of Old Trafford's Stretford End may have to form a different re-appraisal of their team's season. Mourinho still sulks and moans, mopes and sneers when things go disastrously wrong but can only resort to feeble excuses if it all looks disjointed and disconnected. The chances are though Mourinho may still be guiding United to European football next season so it may be time for Jose to crack his face into a beaming smile.

And what about the rest? There's Ronald Koeman, another experienced footballing figure whose Everton team regularly showed flashes of brilliance and consistency but then floundered and stumbled around like a young calf finding its feet. Everton are almost  historically programmed to playing top flight football having been one of the longest standing residents of the Premier League. But the memories of Harvey, Kendall and Ball alongside the likes of Heath, Sheedy and Reid may be beginning to pull Everton down like a cumbersome weight.

Then there are the middle of the road teams such as relative newcomers Bournemouth who are about to enter their third season in the Premier League. Eddie Howe, their clever and progressive manager may be young and wet behind the ears but Howe is intelligently carving out a well balanced team whose football purists love. Could it be that a gentle, likeable South Coast seaside resort have found a football team who know how to play football the right way? The answer probably lies in their mid table Premier League finish.

Finally there were are the lower orders in the Premier League. Crystal Palace have ploughed their way often laboriously through the season but survived because of one man whose reputation for survival is almost common knowledge now. Sam Allardyce is beginning to accumulate football clubs like a coin collector and once again Allardyce has found the Midas touch where most doubted. Once again Allardyce has polished off so many packets of chewing gum that it often looks as though he may have shares in Spearmint or Wrigley's. But the man from the Midlands, and the man who seemed to self destruct as temporary England boss, is passionately devoted to the cause and will continue on his one man crusade towards the promised land.

 Palace will start next season with a fresh slate in the top League but only modest hopes. Here is a team that seems blithely content to tread water and keep afloat in the Premier League but then this may be their default position anyway. Towards the end of the season though Palace did produce one or two excellent results and victories and in Wilfred Zaha they possess one of the games' brightest talents, an outstanding winger who knows his way to goal and is impossible to dispossess once in possession.

Then there's the marvellously cheerful and down to earth Tony Pulis at West Bromwich Albion, one of football's great thoroughbreds, a side with few pretensions but never really good enough to challenge the elite. Pulis is one of life's happy go lucky figures, always available for a joke and laugh but never despondent because he simply adores the cut and thrust of the game. Pulis, complete in track-suit top and bottoms, breathes footballing knowledge and that cap will be forever his and his trademark image. Ah, the Tony Pulis cap. It fits so well and is synonymous with the Pulis school of management. With glasses neatly perched and fingers in full flight Pulis prowls the touchline like a man looking for a fiver and then settling for a pound if he can't find that elusive fiver.

With Mark Hughes still performing miracles at Stoke City and Sean Dyche mixing and matching at Burnley, the Premier League may look back on the season as the one when the good guys got their just desserts and those with equally as mundane ambitions were just glad to be where they always were. Not a great deal changes in the great Premier League roadshow. The wannabes, the middle of the roaders, the aspirational and the legendary will all have their point to make next season.

Before I go. This is just a personal observation but has anybody noticed a couple of consistent patterns that seem to be emerging in the Premier League? Last season the Premier League bore a remarkable resemblance to the old Third Division with Bournemouth, Hull, now sadly relegated, and Watford all jostling for attention and adulation.

And now we have two seaside resorts in the Premier League with Brighton and Bournemouth battling it out on the welcoming promenades of football's top Division. Brighton will be joined by a resurgent Newcastle United who seemed to be yo yo ing between the divisions but who remain one of those big time and celebrated clubs who can never seem to get it right when it matters. Their manager Rafa Benitez should stabilise this grand liner of a club but with Newcastle you never know.

As I write this piece the other club to join Newcastle and Brighton are yet to be established but Sheffield Wednesday or Huddersfield are rather like a direct throwback to the 1960s and in the case of Wednesday both the 1960s, 70s and 80s. Isn't it strange how football does things in cycles? How to explain the downfall of those other notable English clubs who once graced the old First Division. Oh for the likes of Ipswich Town, Wolves and the brilliant Leeds United. Football can be so cruel and spiteful at times. We may hope that one day, one day they too will return with a vengeance.  

A couple of weeks to the big Election day.

A couple of weeks to the big Election day

Oh well. In a couple of Thursdays we'll all know. That result. That event. Oh the suspense is too much. The beads of sweat are pouring off me profusely. It's the nervous tension you see. It's the feverish anticipation, the not knowing but knowing full well which almost sounds like a contradiction in terms, the uncertainty of it all or maybe the certainty. It's a foregone conclusion isn't it? It's the Great General Election show folks. The one that grips our imagination every so often and then turns us white with indifference.

I know. You've had it. You've had it up to here with all those outrageous sound bites, those tiresome tirades, that Labour bloke who keeps wrestling with that wretched microphone and keeps bawling at us in that very patronising manner in case we didn't hear him the first time. It's enough to drive you crazy. And yet I won't let it. I'm determined to buck the trend by stuffing my ears with cotton wool.

 My boredom threshold is being tested to the limit. I need a lie down in a dark room. The current news agenda is enough to tax anybody's patience and yet on and on they keep bellowing at the tops of their voices, blasting our ear drums with that loud hollering, shouting, begging to be heard, pontificating and being terribly pompous. You'd think they'd give it a rest. But they won't and come the day of the Election most of us will slump back into our sofas and just let them get on with it. Politicians do love the sound of their voices and not for the first time in the period leading up to June the eighth their vocal chords are getting the most vigorous of work outs.

In the blue corner there's the wonderful Prime Minister Theresa May representing the Conservative party, admittedly very sensible, agreeable, most restrained and hugely intelligent. For the last six months or so she's remained very cool and composed when the Brexit fall out could have left her in a dire predicament. It's hard to know how history will judge her because she's only been in the job for five minutes. But hers is the voice of confidence, of sound judgment and capability and nothing has rattled or fazed her. Nothing has caught her out or left her wanting which probably bodes well for the General Election.

To all outward appearances Theresa May is prim, proper, morally and emotionally correct without a hint of anxiety in her voice. There is a smoothness and authority about her which does seem to be putting the nation at ease. And yet those bickering, snarling and complaining critics will continue their nit picking and carping because that's what they do whether we like it or not. But Theresa is in charge so let her take matters into her own hands. It's all being dealt with in house and internally and the whole Tory operation back at headquarters is all going swimmingly well and tickety boo.

She may be thinking that all she has to do on the eighth of June is just turn up on the day and just smile for the TV cameras. This is a tried and tested method which invariably works for the party with an unassailable lead but when you know just how bad the opposition is you may be lulled into a false sense of security. But come on this one is all done and dusted for Theresa May and her Conservatives. Stranger things have been known to happen but Jeremy Corbyn and his Labour loyalists may think this could be the most futile and pointless of political exercises.

So far Mr Corbyn has addressed the nation in much the way that George Foreman once tried to kid us into believing that he could still win the heavyweight title at the age of 56. For Jeremy Corbyn these are truly delusional days, a man with lovely dreams but little in the way of reality. One day Corbyn may well wake up and think he can smell the coffee when the truth is that it's just orange juice or maybe a half glass full of water. Oh dear Jeremy this is going to be very painful and awkward so be prepared. The Labour Party are suffering and it must hurt. Has anybody got a plaster or bandage? On second thoughts this one looks beyond redemption.

And yet in a shopping centre near somebody Corbyn, accompanied by John Mcdonell and that mathematical genius Diane Abbott, banded together, went into a huddle, rallied the troops and began to sound as brave, courageous and single minded as any party has a right to when they're a thousand points behind in the polls. These are the worst moments in the history of the Labour Party and a harrowing fate lies in wait for them. True they did look very united but the sniping and in fighting could take its toll on them. Or maybe we've got it all wrong and Labour will just crush the Tories in the General Election. Remember where you read that sentence. In fact on second thoughts don't remember it because it may come back to haunt me.

But the old stereotypes are beginning to hover. The Labour party will always be associated with that strong trade union presence behind them, the working class Socialist roots, the interference from trade union bodies. the desperate plea to re-nationalise the railways and a stubborn foot in the past. Labour were new Labour for a decade under Tony Blair until one day it all unravelled and the old voices could still be heard in smoky boardrooms and stuffy corridors. Maybe Labour will come back to life when the climate is more favourable and Jeremy Corbyn has finally retired to the Garrick club with a yellowing copy of Socialist Weekly.

And then there's the Lib Dems in the very far corner, just about visible in the rear view mirror but slowly receding into the far distance. The Liberal Democrats are Britain's third political party but are essentially the 27th party because the Lib Dems are just whistling in the wind and you'd be well advised to vote for thin air. Still you never know. Miracles do happen but very rarely so all the best to Tim Farron and see you at the Party Political Conference season in the autumn. How they ever formed a Coalition with David Cameron still perplexes those who made it possible. But when the political historians look back on the early part of the 21st century they may come to regard Nick Clegg as one of the greatest leaders they've ever had. Nobody in yellow since then has come anywhere as close to 10 Downing Street as Clegg without being in total control.

For the Lib Dems these have to be very stressful and worrying times. There is a school of thought that suggests that the Lib Dems are about to get a severe thrashing by their political opponents. In the case of the Lib Dems this has always been about perception and image rather than simple leadership skills. For years and years the Liberals and Liberal Democrats have always remained on the side lines, in the margins, on the periphery, a good old music hall joke perhaps and this time more than ever it looks like a hopeless cause. That Tim Farron may well have some very decent qualities but a Prime Minister may not be his calling in life.

But whether you're a revolutionary, anarchist, pacifist, interventionist, Communist, Marxist, Leninist, Capitalist, Socialist, vegetarian or the I Don't Particularly Care One Way Or the Other Party this is all good old fashioned fun. Or maybe you can't stand it any more and just want to scream at the TV because it's now insufferable and if you could register a vehement appeal to the BBC you probably would. But we wouldn't have it any other way would we? We love General Elections, the cut throat competitiveness of it all, the yahooing, the gnashing of teeth, those grandiose statements of the obvious, those fetching rosettes of red, blue and yellow and that infernal flow of chattering and nattering that gets on your nerves.

Then they'll gather in our town halls at roughly 10.00 and they'll all look very earnest and interested because we are the electorate and we were the ones who were responsible for the appointment of the Prime Minister after all. We were the ones who, either at the crack of dawn or late evening, dragged ourselves grudgingly into a Polling Station, sheepishly walked over to a man or woman, taken our voting slip, marched across to our private booth and then ticked the people we wanted to run things for us at local and national level. And it'll be very wearisome and monotonous because we know it won't matter to us personally so let's just get this chore out of the way..

Finally we'll switch on our TVs, radio, Smart Phones, I- Pads, cookers, kettles, living room lights  and watch the results flooding through because there's an obligation to carry out this burdensome duty. Besides David Dimbleby is on and we know what he's like. He'll have been recovering from his Question Time ordeals and he'll be full of the joys of late Spring. Or will he? Here is a man who has sacrificed everything for this one night. He's given up the Bingo or a trip to the cinema or maybe a rap concert where all the hip and mainstream kids go to.

The fact is that Dimbleby and the huge multitudes of Britain will grin and bare the whole of Election night with all the barely concealed laughter and derision that we normally reserve for General Elections. We'll all watch intently at those battered old boxes while their tons of voting slip papers tumble helplessly onto wobbly tables, looking at the clock in our living rooms and then at 1.00 in the morning finding that the eyes are growing heavy and reaching the conclusion that enough is enough. By then over tiredness may well have set in, David Dimbleby will  probably be snoring anyway and it's time to dig out that box set of The Simpsons that we kept promising to watch when there was nothing else on the TV.

Oh how the British must be admired for their stamina, their powers of endurance, their selflessness, their love of the underdog, their teeth gritting and insatiable curiosity. Election night  is one very long sequence of atmospheric  town halls and bored looking people milling around  trying to show interest while  failing miserably. Then we'll all have a collective yawn and stretch, put the kettle on. finish a crossword. knit a couple of pullovers and then read the Thursday papers again and again. Oh this could be one of the finest Election nights of all time.

Then at the bottom of our screen we'll all be subjected to those momentous announcements, the swings to the Left and Right, percentages, the exit polls, those zany old graphics that tell us about nothing of any substance and then David Dimbleby will be suddenly jolted awake by a nudge by Andrew Marr who will probably ask him whether he wants a latte or jam croissant. How we love General Election night? I know I don't. Or maybe I do. Could somebody put on that Simpsons DVD? Homer Simpson for Prime Minister. Now there's a thought.  

Chelsea, Chelsea, Premier League champions and worthy winners.

Chelsea, Chelsea, Premier League champions and worthy winners.

Maybe we should have known it was going to happen. In fact it was a coronation waiting to happen. For the best part of several months now Chelsea were Premier League champions poised to re-claim their crown. Despite the most laudable efforts of Spurs who ran them so close in the end, this was always going to be Chelsea's year and even now those swaggering peacocks from West London are still swigging back their gallons of champagne.

When the final whistle went at Stamford Bridge last night Chelsea fans from far and wide could be heard boasting and gloating about another record breaking achievement. It was almost as if last season's disastrous offerings under the doomed Jose Mourinho were ancient history, Leicester City, last season's fairy tale Premier League champions had merely kept the seat warm and the natural order of the world had been restored.

But above all it was the season when one man and one man only pumped new life into a side who were a pale shadow of their former selves for most of last season. In fact they must have looked positively jaundiced and run down compared to the dizzy heights they'd once climbed under Mourinho. So it was that Chelsea celebrated deep into the night, players and manager Antonio Conte jumping gingerly together as fireworks exploded into a cool West London night and a still bizarre looking Premier League trophy next to them.

It's hard to know what to make of that Premier League trophy. Compared to that old First Division championship trophy which, it has to be said, had a real air of craftsmanship about it, the Premier League trophy still looks like a badly designed darts trophy. I know I'll be fiercely criticised for saying this but there is something superficially showbiz about the trophy Chelsea were handed last night. But we love football so who cares what the trophy looks like as long as the winners of the trophy are just jubilant and ready to paint the town blue in Chelsea's case. Congrats Chelsea.

Still. the Chelsea team, surrounded by all the trappings of wealth and luxury that the chairman Roman Abramovich has brought them, is entitled to feel that his toy and his property are there to be cherished and nurtured. As we know Abramovich has poured millions and billions into a club who, roughly 35 years ago, were sinking below the waves, broken by bankruptcy and about to go under. The rest of course is well documented history and Ken Bates must pinch himself every time he goes to bed. This is his fruition, his flowering, his chrysalis, his investment, his project, his portfolio and the team he'd always dreamt about, his now jewel in the Premier League crown. How close were Chelsea to going out of business when Bates dug a pound out of his pocket and offered salvation.

What about Roman Abramovich though? What are we to make of this mysterious, secretive and silent man, a man who refuses to speak to the media. never does interviews and simply sits on high in his director's box with a kind of smug detachment from events below? What can be going through this rather curious, enigmatic Russian's mind? He reminds you of a Roman- what a comedian I'm not- emperor surveying the gladiators about to engage in combat.

Maybe this deserves closer scrutiny because those who study human behaviour may find Abramovich to be a complete puzzle. There is a sense that maybe he's not really interested in the game as such and would much rather be doing something else. Admittedly he does smile and he does high five with his friends and family when Chelsea do win League titles. But there does seem to be a lack of real emotional engagement in the game itself.

We may never know why he is so reluctant to open up to anybody about his true feelings because nobody has ever heard his voice. Accusations of arrogance and self centredness may well be swiftly dismissed but you do wonder what may be going through the man's mind. Here is a multi billionaire with a team who have just won the Premier League for the third time this decade and still he places the most irritatingly impenetrable barrier around him. Come on Roman what have you got to hide.

Years and years ago old First Division chairmen were happily co-operative and forthcoming figures who sat in the directors box, hat on their head and  cigar smoke blowing from their pipe. Now though there sits a man with a bristly beard who, from time to time, laughs and smirks because somebody has just cracked a joke in his presence. Nobody for a minute would deny that Abramovich derives a genuine enjoyment from watching Chelsea. It just seems that if Chelsea were to encounter a major crisis and a dramatic change of fortune the Russian would walk away, take out the plug and run away with the money sprinting into the far distance where nobody could find him.

Still Chelsea have now won the back the Premier League title they must have thought they'd temporarily loaned out to Leicester and Abramovich can now put his feet up, set sail on that huge, ornately furnished yacht of his, pour himself  the most satisfying glass of vodka, and sail away into a handsome, honeyed sunset. This is what life is all about for this remarkably distant man. a man with an almost buttoned up reticence, of very obviously hidden emotions and almost inconsolable solemnity when the results go against Chelsea.

And so it was that the Stamford Bridge floodlights sputtered out, the Chelsea village and harbour the most scenic backdrop of any Premier League club and mission accomplished. Amid all the wild celebrations in the Chelsea dressing room, manager Antonio Conte must have quietly afforded himself a private pat on the back. For a manager so highly regarded and honoured by his peers this must have been a moment to sit back, kick off those designer Italian shoes, knock back a glass of chianti and just bask in his moment of glory.

For the entire season Conte has been a football writer's delight. Excitable- for the right reasons- animated, emotional, demonstrative, at times uncontrollable but then quietly modest, there is nothing pompous and self righteous about Conte just a man with a simple desire to win every trophy that can be won.

The body language is gloriously self explanatory. Conte loves black, dresses in black but never thinks darkly about football. Conte, it seems just loves football, being involved at the heart of football, throwing his whole body into the game, breathing the game, sniffing its fine bouquet, enjoying the acclaim and then diving into the crowd because he wants to share whatever they may be feeling. You can hardly blame him and yet for long periods of Chelsea's 4-3 win over Watford, Conte still punched his fists in frustration whenever Watford kept scoring. If only perfection were possible but it wasn't.

Towards the end of last night's game against Watford, Conte's black jacket, black cardigan, black tie- or so it seemed- and black shoes had no respite. Conte was all flailing arms and fingers, perpetual motion, annoyance never far away but still a twinkle in his eye when Chelsea completed their 10th 58 passing movement of the evening. Chelsea were playing the football that every team in the world should play. It was football of the most breathtaking simplicity, football that should always be played this at any level and forever more.

When the Kings Road had emptied itself of its overjoyed Chelsea supporters, an Italian man with dark, swarthy features must have walked back to his office, looked back at his supporters streaming away into the London night and thought such moments in a managerial career simply don't get any better. I wonder what must have been going through the mind of a certain Ken Bates. See, I told you I'd get it right one day. And he did.  

Eurovision Song contest madness- what a show!

Eurovision Song Contest madness- what a show!

Oh my goodness! How on earth can you even begin to describe the Eurovision Song Contest without falling about in gales of laughter and crumpling into a ball of giggly frivolity? For what seems like a lifetime now,  the Eurovision Song Contest has had us rolling and rocking with happiness, pleasure, wonder, incredulity and an inexplicable joy. Can any TV event take us into an almost supernatural world where nothing seems real and the only semblance of normality can be found at the end of the song contest when the cameras are switched off and all of the acts have finally finished their party pieces?

For the best part of 61 years the Eurovision Song Contest has captivated, enthralled, bemused, confused, heartened, moved and touched the whole of Europe. It is undoubtedly one of the craziest, silliest, most outrageous and gaudily colourful of pop music extravaganzas you could possibly imagine. It is a potty parody of everything music lovers held dear, completely berserk, dotty, breathtakingly bonkers, at times almost irrationally complicated. There were times last night when I began to think that TV couldn't get any better or worse. It hardly seemed possible that TV could be so mesmeric and, at the same time, completely beyond anybody's understanding.

And yet this was just the most joyous fun. Once again Europe had exceeded our wildest expectations. Europe had gathered its forces together, waved its patriotic flags, saluted its wackiest of performers and nobody seemed particularly bothered about the result. It was almost as if the whole of Europe had abandoned itself to an evening of nonsense, bizarre surrealism, the sublime and ridiculous before whipping itself into another mad frenzy of strangeness, curiosity and just fun, fun and fun.

Last night the citizens of Ukraine were treated to a stupendous feast of electro pop, flashing lights, a gorilla and a continuous sequence of happy go lucky, permanently elated singers and bands whose only objective it seemed was to entertain and baffle. This was the show of all shows, a grand banquet of stupidity, foolhardiness and just a hint of the circus about it. If there was anybody who can understand the scoring system in the Eurovision Song Contest then I have nothing but admiration for you.

For Britain and the United Kingdom this year's Eurovision Song Contest meant something entirely different. After all the hullabaloo, palaver, frantic furore and mayhem left behind with Brexit and the EU withdrawal, there were some who privately felt that the UK had upset too many people and would never ever be forgiven. But then we all felt that the UK representation was nothing more than a standing joke anyway. Who cares about Britain, that little island where the only people who sing are those who sing in the  shower or appear on Britain's Got Talent? Still you have to take your hat off to the British for their sheer, gritty perseverance.

The UK have been without a Eurovision victory for exactly 20 years and you have to believe that Katrina and the Waves, our last Eurovision victors may be feeling that her name is destined to become a footnote in Eurovision history. Still, we had another crack at Eurovision glory and this time finished up with dignity intact and respectability ensured.

 Lucie Jones, the UK particpant, sung angelically but didn't quite have what it took to wow those very shrewd Eurovision judges. Never mind Lucie. You were plucky and spirited, dedicated to the cause but once again it was agonisingly out of your reach.  Her delivery was clear, articulate and very professional, her arms and fingers delightfully expressive and it was all very honourable and well intentioned. But at the end of the evening Lucie could only look on with both longing and a touch of envy at the winner of this Eurovision contest. There was a lovely air of sincerity and slinky elegance about Lucie Jones but maybe the UK should have another go next year. You never know it might just be our year in 2018. You've got to keep trying because eventually by the law of averages we'll do it. Hope so anyway.

 You've got to hand it to those happy clappy European singers and bands who keep belting out those lovely soppy old ballads that never sound even remotely tuneful. From the opening song to the bitter end we were subjected to the kind of performances that somehow belonged to the old English music hall. This was the epitome of cheesiness and kitsch, a superabundance of barminess, blatant karaoke and pub singing at its worst, sometimes even inspirational although that might be pushing the superlative.

It's hard to believe that Britain is the only European country that  doesn't take Eurovision seriously whereas the rest of both Western and Eastern Europe throw wild parties with plenty of food and drink. This has been the norm for many decades and as the smoke machines began to slowly swallow up the stage and the flashing white searchlights beamed down on all of the contestants you were reminded of some huge West End musical where everything isn't quite what it seems.

And yet for poor, hapless Lucie Jones this wasn't how it was supposed to work out. You thought of her illustrious Eurovision predecessors such as The Brotherhood of Mann, a charming girl boy, girl boy combo who Saved All Their Kisses For Us in the days of flared denim trousers and platform shoes, when the 1970s seemed to spin around and around like the proverbial fairground ferris wheel.

Then in 1981 Bucks Fizz another girl boy, girl boy group teased and flirted with us indulging in the kind of dance routine that may never be seen again. Both Cheryl Baker and Jay Aston, half way through 'Making Your Mind Up' proceeded to rip off their skirts much to the amazement of a male population who must have thought it was their birthday. This was truly a ground breaking and pioneering time for popular music and particularly Eurovision Song Contests. It simply couldn't have got any better but we all knew how desperately close we'd been to winning Eurovision before.

During the 1960s Cliff Richard's Congratulations was shoved quite unceremoniously into second place and Lulu brought us what became the national anthem of English entries. Boom Bang- A- Bang would enshrine itself into Eurovision folklore. It became synonymous with song titles that showed very little in the way of  imagination and for years afterwards quite possibly came to haunt us. Then the Shadows briefly shimmied their way into our hearts but forgot to tell Cliff Richard while in recent times Engelbert Humperdinck crooned away almost valiantly when it would have been far easier not to take part for the United Kingdom. It was all very triumphant and positive, heartfelt and meaningful but at times you felt it would have been far preferable to just take the year off - or just not take part at all.

So it is that we come right up to date. It's time to take you on a glorious summary of this year's Eurovision Song Contest runners and riders, the businesslike and industrious, the nutty and the insane, the show offs and the plain daft. How Eurovision crosses the whole spectrum of taste and the tasteless, the simple and the extravagant. There was the mind bogglingly boring, barely believable, the scarcely credible and then the acts that just wanted to have a good old fashioned knees up on stage.

 But rather like a a never ending dreamscape it just went on and on until you eventually found myself pleading for the show to go on for ever. One day the Eurovision Song Contest will go on indefinitely and never stop to pause for breath. This is the most important day of the TV entertainment calendar and nothing should be allowed to take precedence to it.  In fact I think we should cancel Christmas and Easter because this is one crackerjack of a show that should be shown on both of these days.

Right here we go then. Israel stepped up to the plate first all. Sadly, as we were later to discover, this would be Israel's last ever Eurovision Song Contest because Israel's premier broadcasting company would be shutting down. Before they bowed out though Israel gave us a John Travolta lookalike, complete in black, short sleeved shirt. Surrounded by flashing red studio lights, shooting flames and very athletic dancers. the young man gave us a very impressive display of cool and Saturday Night Fever hip shaking but little in the way of a memorable and hummable song. Still he did come from Israel and he did get my vote.

Then Poland appeared in front of us. Once again almost completely engulfed in soft blue smoke a woman in white stood imposingly on her own rather like a Greek statue or a Roman empress about to deliver a speech from a slab of stone. In a revealing dress her hair was blown ever so gently by a wind machine and it all looked very heavenly, ethereal and saintly. Has Poland ever produced a more magisterial singer? Probably not. Oh incidentally before I forget why did she need to be accompanied by fluttering birds? Answers on a postcard or maybe not.

Then there was Belarus. Now years ago the very idea that anybody from Belarus would grace a Eurovision Song Contest would probably have been laughed  and sniggered at. I'm not sure why but I simply couldn't understand the whole concept and premise of a singer or group from Belarus. I heartily apologise to the entire population of Belarus.

Anyway Belarus were in Ukraine which sounds like a visit from one of your next door neighbours. Onto the stage stepped a rather dumbfounded gentleman who then seemed to go completely loopy. It's hard to believe what exactly he was trying to convey to the watching millions but I'm not sure it was music or singing prowess. Here we had a mixture of the peculiar and the downright eccentric. Throughout a gentleman with guitar bellowed out something in his own language and was joined by an equally as out of context woman wearing white rags furiously playing the violin. Go figure. Then we had a short rendition of that Eurovision favourite Hey Yo, Hey Yo which ironically sounded quite good if slightly pointless.

Next up was Austria who really shouldn't have bothered but did and quite frankly should give serious consideration to taking part in next year's contest. The gentleman who represented Austria did give us passable impersonation of something that was laid back and presentable. But although his voice was pleasant and his shirt was whiter than white anybody who sings their song sitting quite casually on a half moon stage prop has to be questioned. There were pink, blue, red and white clouds but nothing of any real colour on stage. Thankyou Austria but come back next year.

Then it was Armenia's turn to hog the limelight. All dressed in black and encircled by more leaping flames, our girl from Armenia reminded you of Madonna at the beginning of her career, pouting and preening, sexy and suggestive, singing her heart out with much conviction, a song that was both haunting and slightly unnerving, a song that seemed to be going nowhere at all before the smoke returned and that was the end of that. Sorry Armenia. This was not to Europe's liking.

Then it was time for Holland to weave their magic. You half expected the singer or group to be surrounded by the stereotypical bicycles, canals and windmills but that was never likely to happen, Instead we had three heavily made up girls who, personally recalled the Spice Girls at the start of their career. It was all very sweet. sugary and spicy but it didn't really catch on and by the end they must have been yearning for a tram to take them back to Amsterdam.

Moldova had to be next on, one of the many European countries whose Eurovision credentials would once again have been brutally dismissed 50 years ago. Here was a country that were just looking to be made fun of and easily lampooned but here they were here on the big Eurovision stage, an incredible collection of smart white shirts, black bow ties and suits that looked as though they'd been borrowed from a smoky jazz club. Then a gentleman started blowing into the most extraordinary saxophone and some of us thought we were dreaming. It had to be seen to be believed. This was the essence of Eurovision.

Of course there then followed Azerjaban another remnant of the old Communist bloc. Now this was the sight to be behold. No other song in their entire history of  Eurovision has  left us so completely bewildered and scratching our heads but this was quite literally a throwback to Eurovision of old. Picture the scene. The set is a school classroom with what can only be described as ungrammatical writing, random words, grafitti and a girl singer with horrible lip stick. There you are. And the girl also wore one of those fashionable air traffic controller's microphones which only added to the air of mystique. The song was quite naturally forgettable and if you ever hear it again anywhere then may I sympathise with you whole heartedly.

Now who's next in this litany of lunacy. Hungary folks. The great food lovers among us will tell us all about the Hungarians love of goulash but on Eurovision night there was something distinctly unappetising about their contribution to the night's festivities. A man in gold braided jacket and pony tail stood on the stage as if frozen and immobile. Then onto the subject of violins once again, the man was promptly joined by a female violinist who looked as if she was putting heart and soul into everything.

Then there was the song. Oh how the whole audience must have been dreading this moment. The song sounded like some dreadfully out of tune folk song that was heartfelt and sincere but may as well have been silent because at no point did it approximate to classic singing. Hungary please never again for the sake of my ears. Truly awful. Come back next year when you've learnt how to cobble together a crotchet and quaver. My ears may well have been bleeding. Sorry Hungary, it's nothing personal. You're a lovely country but you'll have to do it all again next year. Thanks.

Then the naturally musical Italy. Renowned for its opera and the richly operatic Pavarotti. Italy's musical heritage goes much further back than the inception of the Eurovision Song Contest. Here the Italians offered us a cute, catchy song performed by a gentleman with a neat moustache who spent his entire four or five minutes in a kind of rapture of hands, fingers and waving arms. It began promisingly but then descended into the realms of farce and absurdity. Our friend from Italy was accompanied by a bloke in a gorilla's outfit which was almost side splittingly laughable. Your guess is as good as mine.

How could we forget Denmark. Shall we say it was very easy to forget Denmark. What possessed a Danish girl to stride out onto a Eurovision stage with flowing blonde hair and a red dress that may well have had its origins in a nursery rhyme or fairy tale. Poor Denmark. Our female Danish friend did her utmost but the song itself was almost certainly forgettable and although she projected very convincingly she was no Adele or Shirley Bassey. Full marks for trying Denmark.

And then the winner of this year's Eurovision Song Contest made his way to the centre of a by now atmospheric and feverish Ukranian crowd. Portugal won the Eurovision Song Contest because a young man with a sweet, simple song melted the hearts of a very discerning Eurovision audience. His voice was beautiful and those fingers and arms were almost uncontrollably expressive. There was another burst of weeping violins and sugar coated sentimentality and the females in Ukraine were sobbing into their handkerchiefs.

By far the most imaginative of entries came from Croatia. Croatia gave us wonderful opera, rock and pop and the kind of performance that always be remembered for all the right reasons. There was a brief violin- that did seem a prominent feature of the whole night- followed and then a song of enormous style and opulent originality. A man wearing a black opera jacket suddenly turned around and presented us with a black leather jacket. Oh for the contrasting faces of Eurovision. You had to be there to believe it. Maybe the audience were so taken by it all that they had to blink twice. It was a stunning Eurovision moment.

When Australia came on next Ukraine almost felt spoilt. Now as we all know that geographically speaking Australia is about as far away from Europe as it's possible to be. In fact if you were to unfold a map of the world Australia is several continents away from Europe. Still who cares this was Eurovision and we'll just make up the rules as we go on.

Australia were represented by a rosy cheeked 17 year old boy who looked as if he'd just invested in his first motor bike. Wearing a long jacket that seemed to trail along the floor almost endlessly, this was another very cheesy offering and very much a butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth display. The song itself was appalling and nondescript but hey Australia we await you in the Ashes during the winter.

Greece, if memory serves me correctly, were always awful and discordant. Year after year it was the same old, plate smashing folksy song on the balalaika. This year they seemed to have got it right. Now an elegant girl with yet more flowing hair and beige dress walloped us around the ears with a fast paced disco number that pulsed and throbbed away for what seemed a long time. Then there were the very effective graphics; splashes of dripping water with two shirtless men swaying provocatively behind our singer. This is what Eurovision was all about.

Spain were next up. Oh for the land of flamenco dancers and castanets of this very rhythmic country. In Ukraine, Spain gave us a jolly guy in a beach shirt with a very breezy and buoyant song. Then our old friend the very appropriate Spanish guitar materialised out of nowhere and it all became very up tempo, jolly once again, jaunty and heart warming. Now the man with the ripped beach shirt became very entertaining and you began to think of holidays to Benidorm or the multitude of Costa Bravas and Blancas. Oh we're off to the land of sangria. Now what happened to my donkey? I must have left it behind on the beach.

And so we move onto Norway as seems perfectly natural. The land of the fjords and geysers and breathtaking scenery. Norway swept us effortlessly into new dimensions. Here was an organist wearing the strangest of masks that must have been taken from the set of a Star Wars movie. Then with those very infectious techno and electro beats our Norwegian friend blasted out what sounded some very disjointed piece of music that didn't really flow at all but then what do I know about music.

As previously mentioned Lucie Jones made her debut on the Eurovision scene and although finishing creditably, must now be hoping that nobody ever asks her to sing in the Eurovision Song Contest again. After jettisoning ourselves from our European neighbours, she must believe that a proper singing career begins for her from this point onwards.

In keeping with the general theme of the evening. Cyprus were in all black leather and full of verve, vitality and joie de vivre. It was an uplifting, soul baring song, nicely pleasing on the ear but not nearly convincing enough to trouble any of the pace setters. In my mind at least Cyprus will always be associated with BBC Radio 2's wonderful Family Favourites at Sunday lunchtime. Cyprus was forever the country where the British armed forces sent their wives and girlfriends home their very best wishes. The Eurovision Song Contest was one military expedition too far for Cyprus.

Romania of course, are more or less newcomers to this Eurovision music celebration  and how they must have regretted their first nervous steps into a brand new world. Wait for it folks. Romania, quite hilariously and astonishingly gave us a yodelling song. No I'm serious. a yodelling song. Somebody in a Budapest betting shop must have laid good odds on Romania yodelling their way into our affections. A girl in red and guy in black mixed rap and yodelling. It was a potent cocktail. It was also dreadfully dire and the most revolting rubbish ever seen in Eurovision circles. How did yodelling and rap ever reach Ukraine without being told to go back and think of something else. It was like listening to a very bad April Fools joke but since I would never claim to be a music aficionado this is only my opinion.

Germany were doing it all again, World football champions, a country that carries thoroughness and efficiency wherever they go, Germany had to believe that this would be their evening.  This time though it all went terribly wrong for Germany. True a fraulein with a strong, forthright voice bellowed out a forceful ditty but there is a severity and discipline about everything the Germans do and that straight auburn hair looked as if it had been combed a thousand times.

Then there were those final batch of contestants giving it all for their country, the pride of their nation and devoted to the cause of victory but with very few pretensions. Sweden still hark back nostalgically to those golden days of Abba and Eurovision greatness. This year's rendition was a funky disco number incorporating everything that was truly schmaltzy and syrupy about Eurovision. A smart guy with tight jacket and boy band dancers were so thrilled to be at a song contest that nothing else seems to matter apart from a boogie and a sing song. It had to be one of the defining images of the evening.

Bulgaria were the penultimate act of the evening and by now we were all agreed that this had been an evening to savour. Throughout the Eurovision Song Contest has evoked so many weird and wacky memories that some of them were just wackier than others. Bulgaria gave us a 17 year old boy cum spring chicken wet behind the ears but still smiling and still enthusiastic. In black coat and excessively long shirt sleeves Bulgaria gave us a young man who was slick, professional, admirably well adjusted and marvellously mature. For Bulgaria this had to be their finest hour.

Finally there was France with another youngster, a fresh faced girl who looked briefly liked Britain's Sandy Shaw back in the 1960s but this time though there were no bare feet. Instead we were given the dulcet tones of a French lady with a breezy, upbeat, endearing song that full of Gallic charm but was swiftly swamped in vivid images of the Eiffel Tower. This was not to be France's piece de resistance.

So there you have it folks. It was another Eurovision Song Contest year and although an event that has frequently been held up for ridicule and blunt criticism there can be no denying that there is an enduring, almost culturally enriching that only Eurovision can give us. It's unique, it's a celebration, a festival of frothy, candy floss pop and everything you could wish for in European pop music. It's time to jot down Lisbon for next year's contest. This is one date in our diary that has to be remembered.