The plane experience- the holiday season.

The plane experience -the holiday season.

Just over 40  years we were all complete novices. In fact very few of us were aware of it. To what do I refer, I hear you say. The big, wide world was somehow a long way away for us. If you'd suggested that the yearly summer holiday would consist of a fortnight in Clacton, Southend, Margate, Blackpool or Brighton then you may well have considered such salubrious British seaside resorts as very much the norm and none would have questioned you. It was the traditional family choice of holiday because, frankly, Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus, the USA or sexy sounding Mexico were just dreamlike destinations that were too far away and besides how would we get there and how long would it take to get there?

But then we sat down in our kitchens with our newly acquired travel brochures from the local high street, leafed through the pages at all those idyllic images of stunning three, four or five star hotels with palm trees sitting happily next to blue swimming pools, sun loungers with towels draped territorially over the top of the sun loungers, bottles of sun factor 45, and splendidly good looking apartments with magnificent balconies. It was the kind of holiday we could only have dreamt about at the time but then the wish became a wish fulfilment and we all flew away to sunnier climes on an aeroplane which seemed like a fantasy at the time.

So it was that they boarded our planes from either Luton, Heathrow, Gatwick or the many regional airports scattered around Britain and embarked on the kind of adventure that none could have thought  as remotely conceivable 20 or so years earlier. Certainly Spain, Italy or Greece were just countries on a school globe rather than the very attractive and exciting holiday haunts they would become in later decades.

Then it all became clear, in full technicolour, a truly eye opening experience that would sweep us off our feet until the present day. We would sit somewhat awkwardly next to comparative strangers or, if we were lucky, members of our own family. We were tightly packed together like the proverbial sardines, wrestling with disobedient seat belts, struggling with our seating position and then sighing with exasperation when the little light in front of us refused to work so that we would never know when it was the right time to either belt up or take off the belts.

What followed next somehow belonged in some TV sitcom, a process so bizarre and unbelievable that even the funniest of comedy scriptwriters could never have written it. After a general lugging, lifting and heaving of bags and small suitcases, we all settled down still huffing and puffing perhaps but simply delighted to be free of our burdens for the duration of the flight. Suddenly after yet more mutterings of perhaps understandable impatience it all started or so it seemed. We chuckled for a couple of seconds, sat down again and fiddled about curiously with the little cinema screen in front of us and then looked for our choice of movie or music channel. Now that's what we could have called entertainment.

Finally we'd sorted ourselves out and it began. At the end of those long and winding plane aisles which seemed to go on for ever and still do, there were smartly dressed air stewards and air stewardesses ready and waiting to perform their party piece. With just a hint of formality and ceremony the air stewards launched into an extraordinary exhibition, an exhibition that was quite a revelation and one that to this day is not so much a standard procedure but a life saving necessity.

Within the next five minutes the passengers on board are treated to some intriguing exercise. You're reminded of those gentlemen on military aircraft carriers who wave paddles about to guide their men back to the flight path. There they stand several very official looking men and women who proceed to give us an impressive demonstration of hand signals designed to save us should an emergency crop up.

For what seems the best part of five, ten or even a quarter of an hour three or four very suave men and women point their hands from left to right and the rest is somewhat bewildering but nonetheless vitally important. Right at the end of this safety and security explanation oxygen masks are supposed to fall from above our heads but then we look at that practical manual which should be of immense help to you but may just as well have been written in another language because this is  indecipherable.

 Finally there's the inflatable ring which when blown up. is supposed to keep you afloat but then you look at the heavy seas outside and think of the worst case scenario. But of course the pilot is vastly experienced and everybody will be fine so there's no need to worry at all. Y Viva Espana here we come. So we go back to that great looking SatNav which tells us where we are in the world, the altitude we're flying at and shortly your captain will be announcing your descent.  

By now the passengers in their seats are still switching lights on and off, adjusting their belts and then shuffling about restlessly as if barely able to face a lengthy flight that seems to last innumerable decades but in reality is no more than a short hop, skip or jump over the European airspace. We then look out of the windows and assess the pattern of clouds. Then we go through that annoying rigmarole of  walking through customs before passing through that interminable security check which is simply a pain in the neck. It is now time to collect all of our money, our watches, our trouser belts and then just get cracking on with the serious business of having a good time on our holiday.

For some of us those oxygen masks and the whole array of literature that the passengers are immediately faced with somehow enhance the whole enjoyment of the flight. And yet you can't help but wonder if any of us are the wiser for this compulsory set of instructions before take off. Then there's the whistle firmly attached to the oxygen mask which only adds to the sense of incredulity.

Throughout the flight all seems to be perpetual motion. Tiny lunch and tea tables, still a claustrophobic nightmare, are opened and shut before we finally cram another other set of bags into the  locker above our seats.. We now look down at the aeroplane magazines filled with yet more exotic locations and decide that we'll all look for our Tablet for more entertainment but then find that thousands of miles up in the sky there's no signal or reception so we knock that idea on the head and just pull our pillow towards our head and drop off to sleep.

Half way through the flight the fun continues. Once again those prim, proper and elegant air stewards and stewardesses once again appear. Soon a huge cabinet of food and drink glide their way effortlessly down the aisles. A smilingly pleasant voice asks you, quite decorously, about your choice of drink. The alternatives are the traditional tea, coffee or quite possibly tomato juice but if you're sufficiently adventurous, a gin and tonic or a swift brandy just to keep up your buoyant spirits.

Now we come to that gastronomic high point. Our friendly air steward leans over you with that horribly unappealing meal, a tightly packed concoction that looks as though it's just been taken out of the micro wave oven at a ridiculous heat and just thrown onto your table. Now you're given roasted, boiled or piping hot chicken that should have been left in the micro wave because quite clearly it was never fit for human consumption. Next to the bubbling chicken are what can only be described as deeply hurt looking carrots or brussel sprouts nestling pathetically next to a  chicken that now looks very sad and dejected.

 This is not the kind of fare Jamie Oliver would ever dare to present before his customers because if he did he'd probably have a riot on his hands. This is not the kind of food you should ever eat at any time of your life because it's barely edible in its present incarnation although things have improved dramatically over the years. But once your plastic knives and forks have survived this culinary ordeal you carefully move the remnants of the meal before ripping open the cheese and biscuits with an almost ravenous relish.

Then there's the plane coffee. On one of my first visits abroad I can still remember feeling deeply traumatised by the coffee. Here was this vile tasting black coffee which even with its grudging sachet of milk would still be utterly revolting. In those days though this new holiday venture into the unknown still had so much to offer. It was essentially a new way of life for all of us because this was the beginning of an entirely different travelling culture where everybody had to be adaptable within a short period of time.

And then we reached our Spanish Costa Brava hotels with polite receptionists who did their utmost to make the British feel at home. Naturally we couldn't wait to make our presence felt and insisted that all the waiters had to understand orders for English beer even if, initially, our Spanish friends hadn't a clue what we were talking about. But the British came down for their breakfast in deepest Majorca or Minorca, possibly even Benidorm and promptly parked on their dining room tables our very own boxes of Corn Flakes, our Heinz Tomato Sauce, our Golden Shred marmalade and then some very tasteful bottles of salad cream.

 Britain had asserted her authority on the sun baked islands of Iberia and Britannia ruled the waves,  making no apology whatsoever for doing so. We had to carve out our very own identity because almost at once we must have felt a very deep connection and affinity with our Spanish hosts. Here we were introducing our very own British habits and customs to a country who took to us instantly and warmed to us in a way that would never be forgotten.

I was very fortunate to spend a couple of half term holidays in Spain with my parents and can still see those gloriously amateurish Spanish desserts. There was the wobbly caramel that looked as though it had been slung across the kitchen and landed on the chef's head by accident. There were very few alternatives to caramel so I can still see my mum and my late dad, bless him, wincing in horror at the mess they'd been confronted with.

But there were the redeeming features and there was the Spanish breakfast. I can remember one hotel where you were made to feel like royalty and pampered beyond reason. For breakfast there was a formidable buffet where you could help yourself to bread rolls, toast, omelette, cheese, a cooked breakfast served up in mouth watering style if you wanted it, yoghurts that were mouth wateringly sweet and as much coffee and tea you could drink within the space of one morning.

I'm not sure whether this can be clarified or confirmed as fact but I'm sure my mum was something of a pioneer. My brother, who was a baby at the time, and had been dreadfully overlooked at the time, was swiftly fed and watered  at my mum's firm insistence, with his very own high chair and meal times from that point onwards were never the same. It seemed to us that the Spanish hadn't thought about young children and babies and as such the facilities were almost non existent.

Then there were the day trips with those meagre packed lunches consisting of a boiled egg, an orange and a reluctant carton of orange juice. At the time it was somehow acceptable and I'm not sure whether anybody knew anything was wrong or somehow missing. There were baby bullfights somewhere in the heart of the Spanish countryside, the highly intoxicating sangria tasting sessions, the day the lights went out for my dad and I in a Barcelona department store. Oh what fun we had and although there was always the most unfortunate language barrier Spain loved the British and still do- despite our aversion to Europe at the moment.

So it is that on some distant Spanish or Greek isle a fierce blast of hot and balmy sunshine will burst through the early morning mist and take its place in its highest and loftiest position. Blue skies will paint the Spanish landscape in much the way that Picasso would have deeply appreciated and the British will lay back and think of England in a Spanish hotel. And of course the British, who now own most of the pubs and cafes in Spain, can happily reminisce on the nights when donkeys were won and sangria was shamelessly drunk in huge quantities. Oh for those heady Costa Blanca nights. How we love our summer holidays. Please though I'd rather pass on the wobbly caramel. I'd rather have just the orange if you don't mind.

Wimbledon - it's almost here again.

Wimbledon- it's almost here again.

Ah yes, the smell of freshly mown grass, the tinkle of Pimm's glasses with just a hint of ice and the unmistakable sight of strawberries and cream. It can only mean one thing and how Britain revels in its arrival just in time for the July joviality when the Wimbledon crowds converge on Centre Court in their excited multitudes. They'll spread their  camp beds outside the main entrances, Thermos flasks will be full to the brim with tea and coffee and, last but not least, there will be cackles and laughs in wild anticipation of something they must have been part of a hundred times over the years.

Without fail the tennis enthusiasts of Britain will dig out their tennis rackets and take up their yearly occupation of their local parks, filling the air with loud shrieks of joy when fearsome forehand returns whizz down the tramlines of immaculately kept courts. It is one of those wonderfully ritualistic times of the year when we all become very lively and emotionally involved because summer is here and we can all lose our winter blues and stifling melancholy.

But Wimbledon is one of the defining moment of the sporting and social calendar. It represents everything that Britain has held so close to their hearts. Wimbledon is well mannered, polite, warm, accommodating, friendly, all inclusive, elitist at times but truly professional in everything that comes so naturally to the tournament. It oozes courtesy, dignity, a very English sense of occasion and a full commitment to getting absolutely everything right for a fortnight in July.

Over the years we've all grown used to the tears and tantrums, the excitability of its ever so slightly spoilt players, the rich, nerve jangling excitement of those gripping five setters on either Centre Court or Courts One or Two. And then we witness the hysteria generated by those teenage girls who follow and worship their handsome tennis heroes. We are always ever so slightly taken back and perhaps alarmed at their persistent grunts, great, heaving serves and the moans, groans, yowls and yells that so frequently punctuate their game. At times it sounds like the most discordant orchestra tuning up for a concert that nobody really wants to attend.

But year after year, the Wimbledon fans will fall in behind with that permanently happy brigade who just love their Mexican waves, pouring through the turnstiles as if barely able to control their passion for tennis. Theirs is an addiction to a sport that ebbs and flows from one side of the net to other almost constantly. It is a sport that provides us with that hilarious scenario where heads turn almost automatically from side to side and winning shots are greeted with the most thunderous applause. It can only be Wimbledon because that's what Wimbledon is all about.

Some of us still long to turn back the tape recorder of our bristling memories. The players, of course, were sent from heaven via that crystalline period that was the 1970s. It had to be the 1970s because that was the era that produced some of the cheekiest and most charismatic tennis players that ever trod the Earth. They came from the United States of America and they were impossibly entertaining and totally unpredictable which made the spectacle even more watchable.

There was Jimmy Connors, a Wild West gunslinger who shot from the hip, a spiky and reckless tennis player who, quite literally, played with all the exuberance of youth even when all the odds were heavily stacked against him. Connors was fidgety, fretful, particular, self critical but always determined to polish off his opponent in half an hour or an hour if 30 minutes was not enough.

Connors was forever flicking his hair from his face, blowing on the tips of his fingers, examining his racket, twiddling his racket, staring intently at the player across the net and generally searching for the perfect ace, the perfect cross court backhand or that scintillating backhand volley or drop shot that simply left Wimbledon breathless.

It always seemed that Connors was almost permanently dissatisfied with his game, always growling like a grizzly bear, punching the palms of his hands when the easy shot went horribly astray. Connors was the model of intense concentration, swatting sweat on his forehand with a disdainful swipe and then charging the net for virile volleys that whistled past either John Mcenroe or Ilie Nastase like a whirlwind. He always did his fair share of huffing and puffing, sighing and sniggering, demanding much more of himself than was physically possible. But Connors was never one to be defeated or dominated, driving himself relentlessly, muttering, cursing himself, piercing the Wimbledon air with a loud shout of self reproach, never allowing games to slip away and always hungry for victory.

Then there was the inimitable John Mcenroe, his American counterpart and a man after Connors heart. Mcenroe's father was a lawyer and if at any moment he felt his son had lost complete control he would just sneer with private disgrace. Mcenroe was Wimbledon's favourite bad boy, the child who never really grew up, who always threw his toys out of his pram and never apologised for being a naughty, for being rebellious, for flouting the laws, of telling the world exactly what he thought of it.

John Mcenroe will forever be remembered for abusing his racket  and yelling furiously at the umpires with the most impassioned rant that SW19 had ever heard. We'd all heard about his insulting manner, that all consuming arrogance, the stubborn non- conformity, the stroppy outbursts, the outrageous comments, the moody sulks by the baseline, the irritation, the petty petulance, the angry outbursts, the mid set explosions and the general chaos of emotions that accompanied his every shot.

There was never any hint of the tormented soul about Mcenroe because essentially he was just agitated about everybody but himself. Life, for him, seemed to be a deliberate conspiracy against him, out to get him, ganging up on him and then cornering him like a criminal on the run. His fury and anger were the fury and anger of a man at war with himself, a voice that reminded you of a guided missile flying through the air, a deadly bullet that travelled across land and sea and caused irreparable damage.

And yet under the loose bandana on his head, a swirl of hair and a volcanic temper, was a lovable rogue, a rebel and maverick perhaps but just focussed on victory and victory with an effortless ease which would never be the case but you couldn't help but admire him for trying. Of course his behaviour was, to the outside world. totally deplorable and reprehensible but this was the man and nobody would ever change him, mould him, reform or tell him what to do because if they ever tried, then the consequences would probably end up in his father's court of law. When Mcenroe won those big Wimbledon showdowns against either Bjorn Borg or Jimmy Connors, they were state occasions with a delicious spice, seasoning and just a hint of salt and pepper.

Then there was Bjorn Borg, who, in my generation, was, more or less unbeatable. He won five successive Wimbledons, scarcely broke any sweat at all and never ever looked remotely bothered by anybody at all. In fact if somebody had told him that a burglar had tried to break into his home before  a match or all of his worldly possessions had been stolen he would probably have taken it in his stride and just shrugged his shoulders. On second thoughts he may have been furious but then nothing seemed to faze, ruffle or disturb the cool as a cucumber Swede.

The Borg approach to tennis was the ultimate demonstration of coolness and composure, of remarkable calmness in a crisis, of admirable touch, temperament, technique and timing. That probably sounds too good to be true but how often can you incorporate the letter T in one paragraph without declaring the man a genius which begins with a G. Perhaps if Borg had been an author he'd have been regarded as a man of letters. Sorry folks my jokes are getting worse by the day. Borg's game had that lovely thread of classicism that very few of his colleagues came anywhere close to touching.

And last but not least there was the Romanian cheeky chappie Ilie Nastase, a player of such exceptional wit and humour that perhaps Nastase missed out on his comic vocation. At his peak Nastase was just spectacularly brilliant, a man with a genuine love of the game, lunging at shots that he was never entitled to get and then drilling his forehand winners down the line with the minimum of effort. Nastase was the class clown, always pushing the patience of authority, the boundaries, and then plonking a policeman's helmet on his head because he just wanted to be noticed. Then there were the jokes with the crowd, a relationship that endured for what seemed ages. Here was a man who loved tomfoolery, loved to perform, who always needed approval and always believed that tennis should never be taken seriously.

So there you are. We're just days away from Britain's best loved of all sporting pageants. Wimbledon is that fantastic fortnight at the beginning of July when the whole nation queues patiently for the best seat on Centre Court and then goes stir crazy if Andy Murray tries to win the men singles title for what would now be a hat-trick of victories at SW19. It could be said that maybe our expectations have now become absurdly excessive and we could get slightly blase about British victories. But no this is a very special time for British tennis so let's just milk it. Pass me the Pimms please.    

From Glastonbury to Finsbury Park- now that's what I call music.

From Glastonbury to Finsbury Park- now that's what I call music.

You could say that this is the start of the outdoor pop music concert season. Yesterday marked the end of the Glastonbury gig that began at the end of last week and stretched over three days of ghetto blasting music from today's 21st century bands and singers to those musical hippies from yesteryear who just love the big occasion. Maybe I shouldn't call them hippies but anybody associated with the late 1960s  always seemed to wear either kaftans, long hair and then danced in nightclubs with strange shadows and circles on the ceiling. Far out man!

Once again Glastonbury was the great outdoor pop festival that has held Britain in its summery trance for 47 years now. For a music concert that began its life on a small piece of Somerset farmland at the beginning of the 1970s Glastonbury has come a long way since then. The expansion has been such that now it remains one of the biggest, most popular and accessible of  music extravaganzas in the world. There may well be others equally as loved and cherished but after 47 years at the top this little piece of Somerset is still highly regarded and celebrated on a monumental, global scale.

Last night the big. headline act was the one and only Ed Sheeran, a ginger haired whipper snapper of a man with a powerful, punchy voice designed to break the hearts of a thousand females. His lyrics and songs are heartfelt, meaningful and smoothly sentimental with a contemporary feel about them. Sheeran's songs appeal to the here and now, a generation currently hurt and quite possibly offended by recent events but nevertheless completely in tune with the Sheeran song book. Sheeran expresses all of his innermost emotions into a microphone as if reflecting the 21st century here and now. the modern zeitgest and appealing to its heart and soul.

Over the years of course Glastonbury has done its utmost to turn the clock back to a time when music had its legendary names who are now valued veterans, artists whose voices have matured admirably with the march of time and may never be forgotten in any generation. In recent years Glastonbury has proudly boasted Tom Jones, Neil Diamond, Shirley Bassey and my personal all time hall of fame favourites the Electric Light Orchestra who last year re-formed as Jeff Lynne's ELO, a moment to hold and treasure.

This year it was the turn of another personal favourite to take one of the seemingly endless number of stages at Glastonbury. Soul and funk meisters Chic, under the shrewd leadership of the brilliant Nile Rodgers, strutted and moved their hips to the hypnotic beat of soulful excellence. Their music transported you back to the golden days of 1970s American disco when flared trousers shimmied with platform shoes and the whole movements of fashion and music became linked together in the same sentence.

I have to admit here that this year's other main headlining Glastonbury act Radiohead have never really appeared on my radar. To a large extent I seemed to lose all connection with mainstream pop music during the 1990s and have no real knowledge of who was fashionable and who may well have been regarded as controversial and, quite possibly, mind blowing. So you'll have to forgive me if I reveal a total ignorance of anything connected to Radiohead, their prolific album successes and worldwide popularity. It certainly isn't personal and may you to continue to purvey the good vibes for many years to come.

In fact I can quite clearly trace the point at which music and I just didn't sound the same anymore. It was that the mid way 1990s period when those wild and slightly anarchic Britpop rockers Blur, Pulp and the fiercely opinionated brothers Gallagher Liam and Noel combined to give us Oasis. Oasis were the 1990 voices of Manchester. Brash, direct. forthright and full of pent up frustration at the state of the nation, Oasis powered their way through the latter end of the 20th century with song after song fuelled with anger and anguish. Liam, particularly, seemed to be permanently incensed with everything and everybody around him but that may be doing him a terrible disservice.

But now in 2017 Glastonbury has retained its standing as one of the finest of all rock venues. Both Oasis, Blur and Pulp all seemed tailor made for that classically outdoor, big stadium feel of Glastonbury but I feel duty bound to apologise to all three of these bands. None would ever move me to either sing their praises or show the remotest interest in their music. Sorry lads my preference lies exclusively in the world of easy listening, soul and jazz music and this will always be my kind of music.

Once again the devoted Glastonbury fans have packed up their tents, rolled up those wonderfully prominent flags and banners and then ploughed their way through acres of Somerset agriculture. It is nice to think that once again a vast music outdoor concert has so entranced the whole of Britain that all of the recent news catastrophes have briefly vanished from our view. Because if it hadn't we'd have all gone completely crazy. Music is certainly the food of love whatever form it may take but Glastonbury once again emerged as the nation's saviour, grabbing the attention of those culture vultures who fervently believe that music is the binding force it should always be. And more so than ever now and rightly so.

Closer to home Manor House is once again gearing up for its yearly rock music gathering. Across the road here in Finsbury Park, the movers and shakers, the rock and rollers, all of those cool music dudes who still fondly remember Led Zeppelin, the Who, the Rolling Stones, the Beatles and Pink Floyd it's time to dust down those retro clothes, shake their masses of hair and slowly wend their way along the Seven Sisters Road with a casual nonchalance and several crates of Foster's lager.

On the first day of July the whole of Finsbury Park will explode and erupt with the most deafening cacophony of hard, driving rock, a rattling and trembling compound of heavy metal, grunge and music designed to blow off your ears almost unforgivingly. The sound will travel almost instantly to our flat, reverberating its way around the neighbourhood before possibly reaching Stamford Hill by mid-day where our chasidim friends, joyfully celebrating the Sabbath(Shabbat) will no doubt produce their air guitars and pretend its Purim again.

But we won't mind this yearly musical onslaught from our local park because music, regardless of its shape, form, rhythm, genre or style, is that tremendous force for good, bringing together the public from far and wide and generating that feelgood factor that has to be the best source of inspiration for a nation still weighed down by a pervasive sense of grief and loss. Surely the yearly Finsbury Park music fest will make its bold North London pronouncements through the medium of music.

On a run through Finsbury Park today I did though become aware of the sheer size and reach of music, the power that music can convey and the widespread influence that it can always spread without even trying. The whole of Finsbury Park is a mass of metal fencing, huge dark boards that wrap their way around the park quite intimidatingly it has to be said but, under the current circumstances essential security measures. More so than ever Finsbury Park, you feel sure, has to follow in the footsteps of Glastonbury because now is the time when music must communicate the most positive message without feeling at any time threatened by evil intentions.

At the far end of the park I could see a couple of magnificent stages which by the middle of next Saturday afternoon will be packed to capacity, speakers pumping out the most modern of song sheets, the ideas and thoughts of a generation that can barely comprehend the recent terrorist attacks but utterly convinced nonetheless that music can win any battle, conflict or the divisive noises of those around them.

In the year my wife and I moved into Manor House a music giant visited our community. In retrospect it hardly seems possible that we were in the presence of musical greatness but it did happen and he did step onto a stage at Finsbury Park. A gentleman by the name of  Bob Dylan cruised into North London as if it were a kind of spiritual home for him. We didn't join Dylan's adoring followers that weekend but that didn't seem to matter at all because Dylan's voice could be heard in Russia. I can remember just listening to the low thud of the Dylan sound crash landing into our flat and just feeling very honoured to be in his company even though we couldn't see him in the flesh.

For the rest of the week the whole of Finsbury Park will go through its normal routine of sound checking, erecting more railings and fences, moving both vans and lorries around the park like marauding armies but armies with good intentions and armies to re-assure and uplift the soul. There is a festival air about Finsbury Park and for once I can report quite confidently that good news will be the lead story here in North London. Nobody will be injured, maimed, punched or inhumanely killed.  There will be no malice, no vilification, violence or villainy and certainly no ill feeling, none of that appallingly unsavoury behaviour that has almost taken root in our lives, eating away at society and then destroying its foundations.

 I can only tell you that this weekend in Finsbury Park will be the setting for a good, old fashioned knees up. Already I can feel those Beach Boys Good Vibrations. Sadly, the Beach Boys, despite a brief comeback a couple of years ago, will not be in the lush parklands of Manor House which is regrettable but  a sad reality. Still you never know. Perhaps Brian Wilson may sneak into the Park View cafe across the road completely unannounced. Now that could be the story of the weekend.  Let the good times roll everybody.  

Henry Blofeld - one of the many voices of the cricketing summer

Henry Blofeld - one of the many voices of the cricketing summer.

Tell me it hasn't happened please. It couldn't possibly be true. It has to be a rumour and yet it's not because Mother Nature has finally caught up with Henry Blofeld. One of the many syrupy and honeyed voices of BBC Test Match special has finally called it a day, retired and declared himself valiantly not out at 77 after 45 years of well varnished and venerable service as one of Britain's funniest, finest and quirkiest of cricket commentators.

'Blowers', as he's affectionately known among friends, colleagues and bubbly pundits, will probably take himself off to some remote French vineyard, pour several glasses of chateau best, wining and dining until the small hours of tomorrow morning before flicking enthusiastically through some yellowing copies of Wisden and then nodding off on some deeply luxurious arm chair.

Henry Blofeld has always belonged to that wonderfully Old Etonian line of upper class barristers, immensely knowledgeable lawyers and well educated toffs and academics for whom the Times crosswords is the easiest chore of the day. This is the last time though that Blofeld will be enriching the airwaves of Radio 3 with those dulcet and dancing tones. It's time to hang up the Test Match Special microphone and just do things at his own leisurely pace. It will not be easy and yet it is hoped he will have no lasting regrets and instead dwell on those memorable Test Matches with a mischievous giggle.

Alongside the equally as well known John Artlott and Brian Johnston, Blofeld struck up the kind of  radio friendship with, particularly, Johnston, that only cricketing soul mates can find. But to the outside observer Blofeld could quite easily be seen in much the same light as Brian Johnston. Both Blofeld and Johnston were entertaining court jesters, forever joking, jesting, giggling, chuckling and generally enjoying the soothing sedateness of cricket's greatest days.

Blofeld quite obviously belongs to that very English school of eccentricity and idiosyncrasy that is very much the the British crest of arms, the British badge of honour, the way the English conduct themselves on all of those grand sporting occasions. They sit by the boundaries of country village greens, caps drooping over their eyes, the Daily Telegraph perched properly on their nose and a comforting cathedral behind them.

But Blofeld was, and will be, albeit briefly before he closes his innings, one of the most distinctive voices in cricket commentary. This may be due to the fact that he brings a genuine colour and grammar to cricket that only Arlott could be said to have equalled. And yet Blofeld brought a lovely, fruity eloquence to the game that very few could aspire to. He had that public school accent that flowed from the his tonsils like a river in full flow.

Whenever the occasion merited it Blofeld had a unique turn of phrase and vivacious verbiage that provided the most pleasing of distractions when you felt sure that everything around him was not quite going according to plan. There was something of the Bertie Wooster and jolly hockey sticks about Blofeld that was a welcome counterpoint to all the blood and murder of the news agenda of the day.

Of course Blofeld would happily share a hundred fruit and chocolate cakes with Arlott, Johnston and Christopher Martin Jenkins because he remained very much the cream of the crop. He would suddenly launch into a riveting piece of scandal about a government minister, lay on the gossipy banter about that pop star he'd once seen falling helplessly out of a sleazy West End nightclub before furnishing us with endless tales of cheeky wit and humorous badinage on every subject he could think of.

We'll all miss Blofeld because he came to represent all the happy and carefree aspects of our lives, the way we lived, the mysterious, the sublime and ridiculous. He would pass wonderful comments on the pigeons at deep mid wicket or deep backward square leg and long on. He would cheer the heroes and villains of the game with a boisterous tally ho, salute the famous and celebrated and reminisce longingly on that patient and businesslike century from Geoff Boycott. As the evening shadows lengthened  he would then take a twenty minute nap while nobody was looking.

But we still have a couple of months before Henry Blofeld bows out and retreats to the Garrick club in London's West End where once again he will be the centre of attention. He'll grab the Times or the Sunday Times Magazine perhaps, maybe the Spectator or the New Statesman just to finish off the morning, afternoon or day with a well deserved literary flourish.

There are few Henry Blofelds left in the world and maybe there should be more like him because when Blofeld signs off in September cricket will take off its pads and helmets, slump in the corner of its well appointed pavilions and then happily look back on the career of a man who was never at a loss for words. Happy retirement 'Blowers'. The world of cricket will miss you deeply.  

The Summer Solstice, Stonehenge, Southend, fish and chips and an ice-cream.

The Summer Solstice, Stonehenge, Southend, fish and chips and ice- cream.

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside. Oh I do like to be beside the sea. Yes folks it's the longest day of the year, the summer solstice is upon us and the heat, to quote a line from a famous film, is most definitely on. Summer has reached the magnificent piers and esplanades of Southend and today's roasting, baking sub tropical British heatwave conjured up fond, nostalgic images of 1976 when the sun shone uninterruptedly and divinely for three, four or five months, perhaps seemingly the entire summer.

Shortly, hordes of tourists, curious on lookers and those of a religious and spiritual persuasion will descend on Stonehenge for the yearly dance around those huge stones before launching into a whole sequence of chants, prayers and the eternal search for answers, answers to questions that can never be clarified. It'll be that wonderful congregation of humanity who will look high into the dark, inky night sky where the stars and heaven will tell them that summer has reached its crowning summit.

This is the longest day of the year and the sun set over  Southend on Sea. Oh how my heart swells with pride at the Essex Riviera. There can be few seaside resorts that evoke so many personally perfect images of childhood summer, where everything seemed to be fabulously pleasant, settled, stable, joined up, contented and, above all, family oriented. And that is still the case and how good that is.

Most of my childhood was spent deliriously at nearby Westcliff, a Jewish rendezvous where families from across Essex and the East End of London frequently gathered- and still do so- for Sunday afternoons of healthy appetites, buckets and spades, dedicated digging of sand for sandcastles, mother and father proudly observing their offspring from that wonderfully complicated deckchair that always seemed impossible to assemble. Dad would wear the clean shirt, braces and trousers while not forgetting the regulation handkerchief on his head. Mum would lovingly wipe her children's ice-cream stained mouth before lavishing them with tender care, constant attention and smiling at them affectionately.

Today my wife and father in law took full advantage of the mid June heatwave knowing full well that eventually it'll all end up in tears, thunderstorms, rain, wind and, quite possibly, a cascade of snow but let us hope not. Once again the ups and downs and the vagaries of the English climate have made any domestic set of plans to hit the coast almost impossible to judge. Suffice it to say that the revellers at Glastonbury are bound to get a complete soaking, It'll rain properly and severely for goodness knows how long, you'll need three layers of clothing, a thick pair of pullovers, wellington boots and several raincoats into the bargain. But hold on I want the weekend to be just right for my niece's birthday party on Saturday so that heatwave can continue for as long as it likes.

Anyway what of today's visit to Southend? As usual it lived up to all of its traditional expectations. Firstly the tide seemed to be stranded somewhere in Calais and all you could see were those muddy acres of seaweed that have almost become the norm on any day out in Southend but then surprise you when least expected. Sitting outside the legendary Rossi's restaurant, I noticed something that I must have seen a hundred times before but never really taken in.

It was true. All I had to do was close my eyes and then wake up from my dreamy doze. Southend, unquestionably, bore a striking resemblance to the South of France, the Cote D'Azur, Monaco and a pretty fishing harbour in Spain, Italy or Greece, Truly, the long and winding pathways and pavements of Southend had reminded me of some sun kissed Iberian strip where restaurants and cafes did a roaring trade next to bustling beaches.

But I kid you not. There were sparkling lagoons with tiny pools of glinting water, apple red sunsets dipping and rippling  constantly on the horizon. There were tiny peninsulas with more islands of water and in the distance something even more cherishable and special. I'm sure I saw a far off frigate, a hulking ship that just looked as if it was waiting for something to happen. It didn't happen but it was intriguingly positioned as if begging an artist to paint it quite spontaneously. Then there was what looked like catamaran or corvette just placid and at ease with life in this idyllic Southend haven.

And yet closer to home I found myself surrounded by the kind of heavenly sights that somehow belonged exclusively to the Mediterranean. Amazingly there was a long row of palm trees in Southend that simply blew me away. Now I may have missed something on my intermittent travels to the Essex coast. But there they were, a daisy chain of palm trees lined up most glamorously on the Southend front. I gasped with utter astonishment and began to wonder whether the full cast of the Hollywood fraternity would eventually turn up at the amusement arcades. This was merely wishful thinking and sooner or later reality would sink in.  Still there was no harm in dreaming.

 At first it looked as if the Cannes Film Festival had arrived in Southend  but then you saw the nearby Kursaal and belief had to be suspended again. How did palm trees come to decorate the sultry and sizzling seaside resort of Southend? But this was quite the most remarkable discovery and for the rest of the afternoon I kept hoping to see George Clooney, Brad Pitt or Bradley Cooper. But then I gave up rather meekly when the realisation dawned that they wouldn't be gracing the Adventure Island after all. Hollywood celebrities and seaside amusement parks didn't really seem to fit anyway.

Still, it was one of those gloriously hot summer days that Noel Coward warned us, perhaps unwisely about and remained convinced that only the mad go out at mid-day. I sat there just enchanted and stunned by those seaside perennials. One of the many souvenir shops revealed those timeless windmills fluttering away in the bracing breeze, the sandcastle buckets in a richly riotous rainbow of colours, the Cliffs Pavilion, Southend's showbiz and entertainment centre and then a yachting club with hundreds of yachts, well rigged yachts, yachts sitting comfortably in the sea and then yachts bobbing lazily and languidly.

But then my eyes were captured by the palm trees. There were palm trees swaying flirtatiously in the gentle Essex breeze, waving politely at passers by and then shaking playfully at a strengthening gust of wind. It hardly seemed possible but this was real and incredibly joyful. My wife, father in law and I indulged in the seaside staple favourite of fish and chips with the compulsory ice cream. The British seaside resort had never been more satisfying, more rewarding and more fun. Somehow your childhood briefly flickered into vision. Now where did that Brad Pitt go with my ice cream? I bet he didn't think about dropping into Rossi's.
 

Peace, Israel and the voices of reason.

Peace, Israel and the voice of reason.

On a day of sweltering heat in London, a small knot of  passionate voices could be heard quite clearly across a similarly simmering West End. This was the peace rally on behalf of peace, tolerance, goodwill to everybody, kindness and generosity to one and all. It probably sounds a ridiculous plea to those who preach the gospel of evil, hatred and murderous intent but, after the recent events at both Manchester, London Bridge, Westminster and last night Finsbury Park in North London, we seem to have reached a critical crossroads, a signpost that could lead into the most treacherous territories.

But in a little corner of London we all gathered next to the American Embassy and pumped out an incessant barrage of peace songs, of commonsense, of civilised behaviour and there was a willingness to live at one with each other. This almost sounds like a heavily simplistic cry from the heart but the impression is that a crossroads has been reached in the great global quest for rationality. Humanity has  to be at its most united and there has to be a readiness to believe that there is a way out of this, an answer to this cynical nastiness, this repetitive ill will and hostility when quite clearly this is not a way of solving underlying problems for which there can be no definitive solution.

Still my wife and I did our very best to lend a supportive voice and presence to an increasingly disillusioned society that strives desperately to hold everything together in the face of obvious adversity. We all arrived together en masse and barked out our enduring love for Israel, a country that has been tragically torn apart over the years, horribly and unforgivably disfigured by violence and murder, a country broken and fractured by the combined forces of the bomb, gun and the bullet. But now a small, but nevertheless important representation of British Jews had given Israel a vital projection to the outside world and suddenly Israel felt completely united and more loved than ever before.

But not for the first time the British Jewish community boomed out their conciliatory chants, their naked anger and fury, their commendable opposition to the forces of vile nationalism and extremism. From far and wide they came, seemingly overlooked voices in the wilderness, voices that seemed to be carried right into the heartland of the West End - Oxford Street and Marble Arch, London's vast shopping streets that were, you felt sure, deeply and spiritually attached to events nearby. A yellow and brown tourist bus passed by and the mutual appreciation was there for all to see.

And so it was that a huge forest of blue and white Israeli flags flew proudly in the blameless blue sky where a kind of metaphorical warmth was somehow entirely fitting on this Sunday in June, a day  when high summer had arrived with a vengeance. There were hundreds of blue and white Israel flags, a whole variety of speakers expressing themselves clearly, loudly and categorically. They were understandably furious, fired and fuelled with all the pent up anguish that simply poured out onto the grey pavements with real intensity and emotion.

There were times throughout that afternoon when I looked across at the huge placards, the banners, almost locking together inextricably and firmly linked together in mutual harmony and unity. For what seemed like ages we seemed to be hemmed into a corner, barricaded in, corralled and trapped. It's hard to know why but it did seem that maybe our voices were about to fall on deaf ears, swallowed up and drowned in a sea of oblivion, never to be given the proper platform they so fully deserved.

As the afternoon reached its most emotive point the people spoke and then sung with feeling, fervour and an infectious zest for life. They sounded like the stirringly sonorous choir that couldn't be repressed for any longer. They shouted Shame, Shame on You! We Want Peace. You Want War. Keep off our Streets,a permanently unifying influence and then, delightfully, the Israeli national anthem topped off by a repertoire of Jewish melody making that swelled my heart and those around me. They waved their fists at the enemy literally yards away and for a moment or two, your heart began to churn with undisguised fear and anxiety.

But then once the speakers had made their most sterling contribution to the afternoon, the chants became progressively louder and louder, the heavy police presence spreading welcome re-assurance.  Then we began to wonder, with much justification, whether our voices had been warmly received by a public that had now become hardened by terror and bloodthirsty aggression. Could this tiny corner of the West End be heard on some remote tropical island?  Had they been  widely acknowledged by a public who just wanted to rally together and dissociate itself with war and conflict?

So at roughly 5pm in the afternoon a silence began to fall across the West End of London. This had been my childhood on a Sunday afternoon, a time when everybody could open their back door at any time of the day, invite the neighbours in for a friendly cup of tea, coffee, sugar or milk, finish off the Sunday paper crosswords and still have time for a convivial pint or two with our family and friends. But now in June 2017 a sense of calm and stillness had fallen almost reverentially over the West End. A couple of gulls and birds seemed to swoop and dart playfully in the soft rays of London's evening sunshine.

 We had achieved our objectives, we had done what we had set out to do and we had vocalised our frustration, our sense of abiding injustice, our inner need to keep the whole peace agenda firmly to the fore. Is it too much to hope that one day peace will finally break out, that something good might happen. But the world keeps fighting, keeps blowing everything up, keeps killing, keeps raging against that dying light. One day though, the world will wake up with a clear head and find there was nothing worth fighting about? Maybe one day we will shake hands, drop the boom boom of ammunition and arms and replace co-operation with confrontation. We have to talk and we have to communicate on all levels and we have to believe that it will happen one day. It is our fondest hope.  

Carters Steam Fair, No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and hopefully Ollie and His Friends soon.

 Carters Steam Fair at Clissold Park - No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and hopefully Ollie and His Friends soon.

It's time to wind down from the week's exertions, chill out to quote a popular phrase and treat yourself to a glass of the best vintage, go for a long, invigorating walk in the park, fly a kite if you like. What about some good, old fashioned fell walking, rambling in the country, camping in those remote spots of Britain completely unspoilt and there for your delectation. No, well you could fret and worry about the rather sad and disturbing news agenda but I think you should try to escape because we all need a touch of escapism.

This weekend Manor House proudly presents the Carters Steam Fair at our local Clissold Park. It may not be quite what you had in mind but if not you could always take yourself to the Woodberry Wetlands for a gentle spot of butterfly catching and admiring the evergreen beauty of nature at work. But hold on I can hear you licking your lips in anticipation of the Carters Steam Fair. Seriously, why not give it a go. It's different, original and fascinating.

Every year since my wife and I moved into Manor House 14 years ago, the go to place has been the Carters Steam Fair at roughly this time of the year. You can never tell when these events are going to creep up on you but they do year after year. Now I'm not sure whether it ought to be recommended but if the likes of former Strictly Come Dancing judge Len Goodman can wax lyrical about steam engines then who are we to argue.

Now my knowledge of all things steam is rather limited and the chances are that all those steam engine enthusiasts will tear into me with some relish at my ignorance. But here goes. As you've probably gathered by now steam engines are paying a visit to Manor House this weekend. Already this wonderful, old fashioned mode of transport is taking its place on the summery green grass of North London. Yes folks those huge vessels that used to ferry us about in the Victorian era will be belching out their smoke and reminding the present generation that Britain can still gaze back into time and rightly pat herself on the back. This is British history and heritage at its finest.

Anyway, I thought I'd take this opportunity to post my proud, personal treasures. You can still buy No Joe Bloggs, my funny, moving, nostalgic and lyrical memoir at Amazon. No Joe Bloggs is my story, my observations on life, my parents, grandparents, my childhood, my favourite movies, TV, music, radio, a magical mystery tour of my 1960s and 70s, my victories and triumphs, my teenage angst and growing up in Ilford, Essex, vivid descriptions of London and the West End, the East End, my relationship with my late and wonderful dad, soccer, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, showbiz celebrities from my childhood and lots of humour, lots of good times and the struggles. No Joe Bloggs is I think heart warming, uplifting, feelgood and a book that will bring a wide smile to your face.

My current and latest book Joe's Jolly Japes will come at you from a different angle but is, I think, humorous, quite irreverent but where would life be without its irreverence. Joe's Jolly Japes is all about the great English game of football, the recent successes and setbacks of England's World Cup
history with  a potted history of England's World Cup losses, embarrassments, wins, the managers, players and my take on the momentous events surrounding England's big occasions.

Now I know you've probably read about it all before but this is my left of field take on what went wrong and right when it mattered. There are my descriptions about John Arlott, quite definitely one of Britain's finest and most poetic of cricket writers, my take on Alan Bennett, one of Britain's wittiest of writers, British seaside resorts and what happens or doesn't happen during the winter, more showbiz references, some more references to London, a Hyde Park concert where nothing seemed to happen in between acts, West End department stores and more anecdotes about Ilford, Essex, London and the West End. I've also included my commentary on the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta and Polo on the playing fields of England. So if you'd like an entertaining read about the English middle classes then Joe's Jolly Japes is definitely the book for you.

I mustn't forget what I hope will be my next book. It's my first children's book called Ollie and His Friends. Ollie is an Oboe and his friends are Vince the Violin, Harry the Harp, Glenda the Guitar, Penny the Piano and their day out to the country with their family. Ollie and His Friends follows the adventures of a group of musical instruments and their day out at a summer fete. I can't tell you anymore but I can tell you that it's funny and full of fun.

Oh before I go. If you have read either No Joe Bloggs or Joe's Jolly Japes then perhaps you could kindly give me an Amazon review on my Amazon page. Your comments would be much appreciated. So there you are. No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes are now available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place, Barnes and Noble online and Books-A-Million online. You can find both books on most online book shop sites. I might just pop along to Carter's Steam Fair. It could be a good one.

June- Summer's here and it's the half way point and we're feeling good.

June- Summer's here and it's the half way point and we're feeling good.

It hardly seems possible but London experienced its first summer heatwave of the year. We're half way through June and the blue skies, once immortalised by the Electric Light Orchestra, have stepped up to the plate and are quite the most breathtaking of sights. We all know that the English weather never quite lives up to anybody's expectations because even if we do get a scorcher on any given day during May, June, July or August it always seems to be interspersed with dramatically loud thunderstorms, fierce downpours, blustery winds, hailstones and in some parts of Britain swirling tornadoes followed by the mildest of earth tremors. But hey none of us would have it any other way.

Recently we've got used to, even conditioned to the ups and downs, the peaks and troughs of the English climate. I think I've cracked the code, fathomed the formula. This isn't some futile exercise in guesswork or mind games. In Britain the summer weather comes in a standard pattern of blocks, specific lengths of time and consistent waves. It suddenly occurred to me today that the British summer of 1976 may well come to be viewed as a notable exception to the rule but summer's here and let's bask in its radiance.

Over the weekend we were presented with those amazingly blustery winds that may well have got lost in March and suddenly turned up on our doorstep without any warning. June had no idea of what it was going to get and, out of the blue, furious gusts and gale force winds shook those big old birch and larch trees and then the floating clouds got busy in the sky, first gathering together like well ordered regiments and then darkening quite mysteriously. Then a faint drizzling was normally accompanied by an indecisive rain which then held up briefly before shafts of summer sun tried desperately to break through. It could only be the English weather and never could it be accused of a lack of variety.

But today was unarguably beautiful. There was an impeccable blue in the sky with hovering wisps of cloud. Today reached the soaring heights of the high 70s and it actually felt like a perfect summer's day. Before long the garden lawnmowers, pruning shears, hose, and secateurs will be proudly brandished like some wonderful domestic appliance that sits so proudly in our shed. Then we'll take a fond look at our beautifully manicured grass, clip and cut the roses lovingly, hack away remorselessly at the overgrown weeds, pick up the beetroots and tomatoes and smile at the heavens.

June is the time for those deliciously sweet red British strawberries that remind you of Wimbledon, country fetes, village fairs and street carnivals. June is the half way point of the calendar year and that pivotal turning point when everything looks healthier, feels better and makes you feel good about everything or everybody. Or so the theory goes. Then there were a few tentative drops of rain followed by brooding, moody skies which put a complete dampener on the summer barbecue. At this point we flee indoors, tap our fingers indignantly on the window sill, curse that wretched English summer, put on a box set of Last of the Summer Wine or an action packed American cop show.

 Then we stare dolefully at the rain and the wind, wishing that somewhere out there in the big wide world a heatwave will settle on the British isles for at least three months. According to George Orwell, or so we're led to believe, it always rains in Norway so maybe Britain can take small comfort from the fact it couldn't possibly get any worse. So we take a deep breath, venture forward into the world of the unexpected and hope that the wheatfields will shine, the undulating hills of Yorkshire, Lancashire and the highest of Scottish glens will always be there and the rugged coastlines of Sussex will never lose their silvery sheen. How the British love the ebb and flow of the seasons and there will never be cause for any complaint when English landscapes show off their finest colours.

Here in our peaceful North London suburb of Manor House it may have been just another ordinary working day in June and yet it was much more than that. It was extraordinary because there was something very gratifying about a warm, unbroken day of sunshine where nothing could spoil your day. We know all about the disasters and tragedies that continue to disfigure our society and somehow it's almost impossible to ignore.

 Yet the brighter shades of idyllic summer hover temptingly in the background rather like some distant light show. So we look over the rooftops and think that of course it's good to be alive because if the birds can sing sweetly so can we. Or maybe I'm being a soppy, sentimental soul and the sun may have got to my head. But it has got its hat on and it will be with us for as long as possible. It's time to be positive, idealistic, forward thinking, adventurous, sit on our deckchairs in either rain, sun and snow and just whistle indefinitely until the sun sets and somebody mentions the General Election and Brexit for the 375th time.

It may be an urban myth that the summers were always warmer in the old days and the winters, by contrast, colder than the old days. Perhaps our perceptions of the British weather are almost set in stone. Soon conversations will turn to Wimbledon and the famous tennis fortnight when the British public gets all hot, bothered and patriotic about Andy Murray, unmistakably the greatest tennis player the British isles has ever produced. In fact British tennis has never had it so good and some of the most discerning of English tennis observers think that Murray is so good that if he doesn't win Wimbledon again this year there may have to be a lengthy inquest and morbid noises about the end of the world.

In a couple of weeks time the SW19 London tennis aficionados will be lounging on their well earned Wimbledon seat basking in the knowledge that the state of the British game has never looked in ruder health. Then the umpires will climb that mini Mount Everest that takes them to that lofty seat overlooking Centre Court and its surrounding courts.

 They will tap their microphones, bark out those very genteel and formal introductions while the ball boys and girls will take their positions, put their hands behind their backs most respectfully and a hundred yellow tennis balls will miraculously appear. They will crouch down dutifully at the nets and after those thunderous serves are delivered, will offer the ball rather like some peace offering. They will look slightly sheepish and self conscious because the general consensus is that they aren't the main centre of attention and could be considered as mere water carriers rather than the main participants. as messengers rather than stars of the big occasion.

Truly it does seem to be shaping up to be a good, old fashioned summer. Besides England are the new Under 20 football World Champions, England will give South Africa the cricketing game of their lives and we'll think back to those deeply troubling moments of recent history, pretend they were simply minor setbacks and then decide it wasn't bad after all. It didn't hurt, it wasn't painful at all and we survived the endless flow of words, prepared paragraphs, playground finger pointing, insisting that our political party is far better than yours. And then our thoughts turn to Kensington and we're all at a loss for words.

 At the moment we're all understandably shocked and appalled by recent events but come on everybody let's all run joyously into the sea, embrace a British beach, plonk a handkerchief on our head, lounge on a stripy deckchair and forget about capitalism, socialism, atheism, plagiarism, Marxism, Jeremy Corbyn while not forgetting that mauve and yellow party who call themselves UKIP. We can all just let all it go. It wasn't that serious or critical at all and nobody was either right or wrong about any of this exhaustive agenda of vote, vote, vote, sulk, sulk, sulk, becoming deeply pessimistic and negative, then jumping for joy when we knew the Tories would win anyway even though we now face a hung parliament which sounds a little drastic but Theresa May is still our Prime Minister. And so there.

For those who can't take any more of this blustering and back stabbing, these contrasting and divisive opinion makers, these teeth gnashingly boring orators, the blood and death on our streets. the good news is that summer is here for a while. Sadly that horrific fire which claimed the lives of so many in a Kensington block of flats does leave us with the most horrible of feelings.

But June will carry on and we'll keep doing what we have to do to rationalise, to simplify everything, to clarify the inconsistencies of everyday life and the things that are completely beyond our understanding. Who cares? The English will always have their summer game of cricket, tennis, the varying fortunes of the British and Irish Lions rugby union team and shortly Glastonbury, that great music outdoor gathering of the great and good. This year Glastonbury will not turn into a mudbath and you won't be needing your wellington boots so let's get on down and move with the metronomic rhythms of summer.

 And then we'll drink our refreshing Pimms on English country lawns and the neighbours back garden, cover our faces with a Sunday paper on a sandy English beach, wave a Union Jack and then indulge in that familar ice cream. Life is perfect, life feels very good, life lifts you, energises you, animates you and then makes everything that much better. Sor it's time to forget about the hung Parliament and just suspend your belief. Come on everybody it's summer.

Valentines Park- was it Itchycoo Park or not?

Valentines Park - Ilford's one of Essex's finest parks.

During the 1960s The Small Faces, one of those Hippy Hippy Shake, far out, groovy and right on pop music bands, produced, or allegedly, a record called Itchycoo Park, one of the many pieces of pop experimentation and cool innovation so popular at the time. Throughout Itchycoo Park voices fade in and out spookily with varying degrees of frequency and the sound is one that somehow exemplified the music revolution that Britain was undergoing. Drums and guitars were given the full pyschedelic treatment and a nation marvelled at what sounded like echoing musical instruments with strange backing tracks.

But Itchycoo Park, as legend would have it, was written as a tribute to Valentines Park in Ilford or maybe it wasn't. Some maintain that it was Victoria Park in Hackney, East London or maybe it was one of London's more famous parks such as London's Hyde Park. But I'd like to think that it was my childhood park of Valentines in Ilford. Yes Valentines Park wins by a considerable margin, hands down by some distance but I'm open to debate. It could be that bias has once again intervened and favouritism has won the day after all.

So what about Valentines Park? Today I made my one of my increasingly frequent revisits to the suburb where childhood memories still take me on a multiplicity of journeys. It has to be said that Valentines Park looks much the same as it's always looked. Isn't it strange how some of our favourite places never change over the years? It could be that everything seems to be in the same place that it's always been and time has not withered anything. It is easy to see the things that you fell in love with as a child are now seen in an identical perspective because essentially there is a lovely timelessness about it.

The park is the prettiest tapestry of huge, domineering trees, vast bushlands, narrow streams, beautiful boating lakes, a Weeping Willow sobbing its heart out and then perhaps crying with laughter at the sheer absurdity of the political system. There are those two richly green strips that host frequent games of crown green bowls. Here men and women gently roll a black bowling ball  with all the grace and effortless ease they can muster during the summer.

But Valentines Park is one vast walking paradise, acres of long, meandering pathways that lead to wherever you want them to go. Then you reach the Valentines Park cafe which, for as long as I can remember, has always been there. The one fond memory takes me wondrously back to the summer of 1976 when the cafe became a huge tourist rendezvous although that may be a slight exaggeration. The summer of 67 may well have been the summer of love but once you'd changed the numbers around the summer of 76 became one long swimming marathon.

From early morning to the early evening hours Ilford was suddenly converted into one of the most popular and happiest of all parks. For one summer everybody seemed to turn up at the Valentines Park Lido. There may well have been other summers to match it but when the first rays of Mediterranean sun bounced ecstatically over the blue and white waters of the Lido everybody was infected by a remarkable sense of euphoria and freedom from the long, lingering darkness of winter. Oh the English weather. How I'm reluctant to join in with that topical and typical English discussion piece.

Rumour has it that Valentines Park was surrounded by squirrels. In a densely forested area of the park squirrels would occupy every bush, tree and hideaway that the park could provide the squirrels with. There was a sense that everybody had been taken hostage by these grey squirrels. There they would go, scurrying, scampering, nibbling, racing frenetically up and down branches as if determined to remain inconspicuous. If you were spotted running in that area you had to take your life in your hands because this was quite clearly dangerous territory for the human race.

And so I returned once again to Valentines Park, Sadly and most regrettably, the Lido is no longer there, years of neglect forcing the hand of Redbridge council. But even now you can hear the distant voices of children you grew up with, an explosion of enthusiasm, ear splitting screams that dominated the whole of Valentines Park for day after day.

I seem to remember hearing that one of the main reasons the Lido had been closed down was because two fatal accidents had left the local council with little alternative. But for most of the summer of 1976 the diving board and slide would enthrall  enraptured teenagers. Families would lay blankets on the ground where picnics and ice creams would overtake the Lido for the whole sun kissed summer.

It hardly seems possible now but my generation  just revelled in the electric atmosphere that seemed to light up this incredible amusement park. Unfortunately the slide and diving board had to be dismantled because one of the kids had died as a result of either the diving board or slide. But for one long, hot summer the Valentines Park Lido was the one place where tensions were released, inhibitions were dive bombed, you could be whoever you wanted to be and there were no boundaries. Or none that I could see.

All you could see was the gushing fountain, kids being whistled at by disapproving lifeguards, kids pushing the lifeguards patience to the limit. blue and white lockers with sopping wet towels on the door and swimming trunks that were just dripping with chlorine. Then large groups of rebellious kids would ignore the lifeguards, grab hold of one of their poor, unsuspecting mates and chuck them heartlessly into a freezing swimming pool that you felt sure had been filled with large ice cubes almost permanently.

Ah yes. The freezing Valentines Park outdoor swimming pool. Whose idea had it been to make absolutely sure that the temperature of the water would be so insufferably cold that it made swimming in it almost impossible? But we braved the elements and the kids, undeterred and undaunted, spent many an hour chasing each other into the water in a stubborn act of disobedience, almost militant in their refusal to behave themselves. The whole population of Ilford had now descended on the Lido and would not be moved.

Meanwhile for one serene week Valentines Park would hold its annual Essex cricket festival at the beginning of June. Once again and so sadly the cricket festival has been deemed surplus to requirements, a complete irrelevance and something Chelmsford may do rather better than Ilford. In the old days Essex cricket club would regularly patronise the richly green pastures of Valentines Park but now the ground, to all outward appearances, is now an empty shell.

 But you would always peer through the hedges and the crown green bowling just to catch a tantalising glimpse of Keith Fletcher and John Lever at their very best. It was England at her most restful and sedate, full of decorum and utter contentment. Maybe this was always the way Valentines Park had done things. The other Valentines Park cricket strip almost seemed like a forgotten piece of land where once the summer game had been celebrated and feted unashamedly.

Still the tennis courts have never been spoilt or affected by time. There were no umpires, no sets, no 15-30  nor was there a game that was finely poised at 4-4 and little in the way of competitive intensity. Oh yes there were no strawberries, ivy clad walls, Wimbledon hysteria and no Pimms. But there was something delightfully amateurish about the Valentines Park tennis courts that induced a good deal of mirth and private chuckling. There was nothing drastically wrong with the court but there were obvious faults and drawbacks that have yet to be rectified.

Most of the ground is embarrassingly cracked and the fault lines seemed to be zig zagged across the whole of the court. The nets seemed to be drooping almost apologetically and almost resigned to their fate in life. Large netting around the court looked moderately secure but there were moments when you wondered where players wayward shots would unexpectedly end up. There were no ball boys and this morning the whole of Valentines Park looked remarkably like a bird sanctuary.

Where ever I went huge blackbirds, crows and what looked like ravens had taken up occupation of the green fields. They were everywhere, proudly positioned next to their favourite trees and carefully observing the land with inquisitive stares, always in search of food. In fact it seemed to me that they were actually watching me and I couldn't help but feel ever so slightly self conscious.  It looked as if  they were almost determined to spend as long as they liked in one area of the park. Nothing would budge them and it was intriguing to note that they hadn't asked for permission and nobody had told them to keep off the grass which I once found so baffling.

So it was that the morning had passed off peacefully at Valentines Park and all was well. Next to the cafe is a thriving exercise park. How good it was to see that the local residents were doing their level best to keep fit, pulling and lifting light weights, cycling and pedalling up and down in bizarre looking cycling machines, leisurely jogging on small running machines. The modern health and fitness craze had broken out in Ilford and was here to stay which has to be a good thing.

I began to look round at the sheer wonder and magic of Mother Nature. The trees in thick green outcrops were furiously swaying and shaking in almost unseasonal strong winds. It was one of those blustery days of early June when the wind seemed to get its seasons mixed up. But my mind and reflective thought processes went back in time to that amazing summer of 1976 when the heat seemed to last indefinitely, the grass had been completely replaced by dust patches and everybody used that charming pitch and putt golf course, a course so small that you would hardly have noticed it on any other occasion. Oh Itchycoo Park. Was that really written on the swings and roundabouts of Valentines Park or maybe the Small Faces were just paying their own personal tribute to the glories of Valentines Park. In a sense you can hardly blame them.    

Scotland- England World Cup qualifier at Hampden - a brief history of the great and good game which finally produced the goods.

Scotland- England another football battle - World Cup qaulifier- 15 minutes of magic and mayhem.

The Hampden Park roar was at its most ferocious. For a few fleeting seconds Scotland were within joyful distance of a famous victory over their most famous foes England. Scotland could almost smell the sweetest of victories over the international team they've come to despise and I'm not talking about Gibraltar. It may be that Scotland will always hate each other at football for ever more and they'll always think they're superior to each other but how can we ever resist the temptation to blow the proverbial raspberries at each other. It is one of the most lovably silly of all rivalries and long may it stay that way.

 Scotland's fiercest adversaries and villains of the piece are their next door neighbours from over Hadrian's Wall England. And then as if by a cruel twist of fate Harry Kane, Spurs devastating striker, ghosted into the Scottish penalty box and in much the manner of a Martin Peters, steered the ball comfortably into the Scottish net for England's second half second equaliser. Your heart was in tatters and yet if you were English you were probably blowing out your cheeks in sheer relief.

Deep in the heart of Glasgow, Aberdeen, Dundee and all of those very welcoming cities with their hospitable pubs they'll be throwing down huge quantities of the amber nectar, beers and lagers will be wildly and wantonly swallowed and a thousand emotions will be expressed. It is easy to imagine that heartache, grief and a terrible sense of  loss may well be some of the predominant emotions but for Scotland this was neither pretty nor was it palatable. The game ended in a draw but it could have been very different had it not been for Harry Kane's late, last gasp equaliser.

With the game in its last gasp stages Scottish hearts and fans were baying for English blood, smiling sadistically at English football supporters for whom victory over their cross border neighbours has almost become second nature. But this was oh so close, tantalisingly close but just beyond Scotland's reach. Scotland must have thought, for a couple of magical minutes that, finally, after years of humiliation that their time had come and it was their turn to stick the proverbial two fingers up at the English.

Sport has always been tribal, territorial and proprietorial but this would have been such a landmark victory for Scotland over England, a special and historic moment for all kinds of reasons. Besides Scotland were hoping to mark the 50th anniversary of their Home International Championship victory against England when a 3-2 win for the Scots must have felt like the Battle of Bannockburn and Culledon revisited.

It was the year after England's unforgettable World Cup Final victory against West Germany and even now with the benefit of hindsight it still feels that Scotland's victory against Wembley in 1967 was nothing more than the resolution of a personal argument, a grudge match where very little mattered apart from gloating rights. That day Scotland must have felt like a million dollars, revenge and retribution meaning much more to Scotland than England. Still it did give the Scots something to dine out on for the next 10 or 20 years so in the end everybody was happy one way or the other.

Of course back in those now very far off days of 1967 Scottish football seem to be experiencing one of its happiest and most pleasurable of eras. Celtic, under the wise, far sighted and enormously revered Jock Stein had just won the European Cup in Lisbon and the Lisbon Lions of Bobby Murdoch, Tommy Gemmell and Bertie Auld were conquering, steamrolling and trampling over the very best that Europe had to offer.

It took another seven years for Scotland to give even a passable imitation of those marvellous Celtic days. First Willie Ormond, the businesslike and straight talking Scotland manager, gave us the wonderful Leeds dynamic trio of Peter Lorimer, Joe Jordan and Billy Bremner. In 1974 Scotland, after three group matches, singularly embarrassed themselves then briefly came good but not for long. Their laboured 2-0 victory over a horribly naive Zaire side was followed by partial redemption against Yugoslavia in a brave 1-1 draw. But then there followed a stale goal-less draw with Brazil and Scotland were out of the 1974 World Cup in Germany.

Then there was the equally as disastrous and shameful World Cup exit in Argentina 1978. It was the World Cup where Scotland manager Ally Mcleod visibly crumpled in front of our eyes, first scowling and then folding his hands over his eyes self consciously  before burying his head in desperation and utter dejection. That year Scotland would produce three of their most creative of midfield playmakers in a manner that somehow seemed out of character for Scottish football.

 Don Masson, of QPR, was a beautifully balanced player with excellent close ball control, a delicately delivered passing range and a superb eye for goal into the bargain. Archie Gemmill was about to win two consecutive old First Division championships with Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest. Gemmill was permanently busy, always on the move, tireless, tigerish in the tackle, full of enthusiasm and happily prepared to sacrifice everything in the cause of victory. Gemmell kept running and running until it was physically impossible to run any further. Gemmell was Scotland's steam engine, a vigorous presence in the heart of Scotland's midfield, scheming, hunting, forever creating lucrative openings.

Throughout the 1970s Scotland took us on a kind of nostalgic roller coaster ride. During the 1960s they'd given us bountiful talents such as Bobby Murdoch and Tommy Gemmell. Then ten years later Asa Hartford would give  Scottish football a healthy injection of craft, cunning, wisdom and more measured passing. Hartford loved to hold possession of the ball, a magisterial influence, a radical visionary who could also give the Scots a fair ration of blood, sweat and tears.

When Bruce Rioch made the step up to international football as a Derby County player, Scotland had finally found its finest orchestrator, its fourth gear, its gentle braking power and then a large dose of cultured beauty. Rioch was straight backed, well proportioned, full of grace and poise with a vicious free kick and shot in his extensive repertoire. He would later become, albeit briefly, Arsenal manager before the golden years of Arsene Wenger.

And of course there were the Scottish strikers Denis Law and then the extraordinary Kenny Dalglish a striker who must scored goals for fun both firstly Celtic, his boyhood team, then profitably and handsomely for Liverpool. Both Law and Dalglish were goal scoring machines with a natural capacity for scoring goals on all occasions.

Law began his celebrated career at Huddersfield Town before Sir Matt Busby came calling at Manchester United and the rest, to quote a cliche, is history. Law, once bitten by the goal scoring bug just helped himself to a gourmet of goals, feasting hungrily on goals from both head and feet. At United Law simply blossomed like a blushing red rose, scoring goals as if by instinct and intuition.

And so we find ourselves at the present day Scotland team and a World Cup qualifier at Hampden Park. The game itself finished in an honourable 2-2 draw but could have ended up on a much more sour note for both England and Scotland. For much of the game the Scottish fans were almost resigned to their fate because realistically the game itself in Scotland has barely registered as a force for a distressing period of time.

Still deep in the heart of Glasgow the streets were well and truly alive with alcohol, breezy, buoyant spirits and splendid gallows humour. There was a cheerful humour followed closely by tear jerking songs and lively poetry from the good books of Rabbie Burns, undoubtedly  a sharp scent of whisky from the Hampden terraces and men wearing tartan kilts who are just addicted to football regardless of Scotland's status within the international game.

Over the years we've grown used to that salty Scottish wit, its bristling passion , the acceptance of mediocrity and the celebration of great occasions.But there remains a hard flintiness, an inner steel and iron about the Scottish footballing constitution, once typified by Sir Alex Ferguson, Jock Stein and Bill Shankly, Scotsmen of the finest stock with a lust for life and an enduring affection for the Beatiful Game.

So what did we get today. There was Scotland manager Gordon Strachan who once again did exactly the same thing as he did at Wembley last November. When Harry Kane equalised for England with the last kick of the game at Hampden, Strachan melted our hearts once again. This game of football is just a wicked conspiracy out to get you. When the final whistle blew Strachan furiously threw his bottle of water onto the ground and your sympathies were real and true. Why do the scales of justice always have to swing away from you? Why poor Gordon Strachan? It had to be him. Why couldn't they have picked on England manager Gareth Southgate. It really isn't fair and can he be left alone now. He deserves his privacy and time for reflection.

Throughout this game Strachan once again patrolled the Hampden Park dug out like a man searching for a tenner and then finding himself with just a handful of loose change. He sat patiently in his seat, occasionally bobbing up and down and then just slumping back down again, restless, fidgety and impatient, somehow wishing that something would turn up. But then he sat back down again and again before staring across at a distant gull perched perkily on a Hampden Park rooftop. One of these days Scotland will beat England and then Scotland will have its most uproarious Hogmany and Happy New Year. Does anybody understand Gordon Strachan's ambition. It will happen one day.

 In his navy and yellow tie, bright shirt and perfectly fitting suit Strachan looked like a City financier waiting for a train. pacing the touchline, checking something and then holding up his fingers in case one of his players had noticed something that he hadn't. It all seemed very awkward and unsightly at times, a man who looked as if he'd have much preferred to spend an afternoon in June fly fishing by a remote Scottish river bank.

After a dreadfully dire and boring first half, both Scotland and England gradually awoke from their early summer slumber in the second half. The first half itself seemed to be teetering on the brink ready to be condemned as the worst international football match of all time. None of the afternoon's participants had even looked likely to construct a fluid and cohesive attack of any value and for long periods both sides looked sluggish, sloppy and frequently out of sorts.

We acknowledged once again that the football Premier League season had been a long, stamina sapping and gruelling slogfest. Those poor Premier League footballers with their luxurious residences, hundreds of thousands of pounds in their bank accounts and the most privileged of lifestyles, had been driven into the ground. It's been nine months of sheer pain, injuries, setbacks, all kinds of difficulties and you had to feel sorry for them. And yet how could they bring themselves to another 90 minutes of football when they could have been splashing about playfully on a Mediterranean beach.. Poor things. Poor bodies, weary athletes. Can we just enjoy our well deserved holiday.

For large passages of the first half England did look in cruise control. Eric Dier galloped up into attack as England's permanent holding midfielder and did hold England together in areas where Scotland might have profited. Dier is capable, commanding and unruffled in a crisis, He was all solidity, firmness and re-assuring authority. Then Kyle Walker, seemingly destined for Manchester City. continued to look one of the fittest and fastest players in today's red England shirt, sprinting down the flanks with power and controlled aggression. There was Chris Smalling of Manchester United slowly emerging as a player of  international pedigree, carefully judging his moments to attack and reading Scottish attackers minds like a well thumbed novel.

In attack itself Adam Lallana, the Liverpool midfield busybody, was once again hurrying and harrying here and there, applying the neatest of touches, a player who places great store on the accuracy of his passing and the ferocity of his tackling. Lallana is whole hearted, purposeful and vastly intelligent. He is both shrewd, perceptive, correct and the most beneficial of influences. Once again Lallana did everything calmly and properly without losing his sense of position. The jury may be out on Jake Livermore, a player still a work in progress and maturity for England at England level may take some time.

Up front the new England captain Harry Kane performed creditably and may find that the terrible responsibility of leadership and skippering England too much of a burden. Still Kane always looked dangerous and there was a hovering, brooding air about him that had menace in every movement he made. Kane challenged, bustled, hustled for every ball but until that final vital equaliser didn't really connect or liaise with those around him. But Kane will score goals for both club and country and although marked out of today's game and anonymous, does look the real deal for England. It is easy to assume that Wayne Rooney's successor has very little to worry about. Kane is a lethal goal scorer and may well break the record of both Rooney and Bobby Charlton in years to come.

As for Scotland well the less said the better. Scotland look just a ragged hotch potch, a higgledy piggledly assortment of the ordinary and very bland. This may sound like excessively harsh criticism but the truth is that at Scottish club level, the structure is a very basic one with not a great deal of substance in between.For years and years, season after season Celtic have been the all powerful and perhaps only club in Scottish football with no other contenders of note.

 This year Celtic matched Arsenal's feats by remaining unbeaten in the Scottish Premier League and eventually won it by a laughable number of points. It is hard to make any constructive suggestions about club football in Scotland but perhaps the investment in proper coaching and the nurturing of good young players could be the answer to Scotland;s problems. If only Scotland could once again rely on a hardcore of homegrown players at Aberdeen, Hearts, Rangers, Dundee and Dundee United then maybe recovery could be on the horizon sooner rather than later.

Occasionally you could see the seeds of regrowth particularly when Celtic's Kieran Tierney and the captain Scott Brown began to impose themselves on the game. Brown, certainly looks a player of great promise and controlled Scotland's midfield when England allowed him to. His brilliant scoring free kicks right at the end made him one of Scotland's most bejewelled of attackers. Stuart Armstrong, also of Celtic, looked energetic, strong and direct while Leigh Griffiths remains one of the best footballers in Scotland of modern times, whole - hearted, at times extremely imaginative on the ball and eager to please. Celtic have clearly found more gems in their collection and maybe that 50 year anniversary has done them the world of good.

And so Gordon Strachan with his blond hair and boundlessly emotional involvement in the game, gave his England counterpart Gareth Southgate a courteous hug and the Hampden roar faded into an early Glasgow evening. The Southgate waistcoat or, quite possibly cardigan was firmly pressed by Strachan. It was time to hit the pubs and clubs of Glasgow, time to drown sorrows perhaps or just reflect on one of the oldest games in international football. How football looks forward to its Scotland- England footballing battles.

 There may well be a few Scottish hangovers tomorrow morning but maybe football wouldn't have it any other way. Now I wonder what happened to Nicola Sturgeon or maybe Alex Salmon could offer a few well chosen words. But it's only football and to quote the great Bill Shankly, another immortal Scot, there are few things that are more important

     

Oh happy days- It's time to vote for the next Prime Minister again.

Oh happy days- it's time to vote for the next Prime Minister again.

Aha! Are we ready? How many times do we have to go through this democratic process? At times you begin to wonder whether it's deliberate and intentional. Not that I've any personal objection to the very concept of a General Election. It is though such a loathsome ordeal. It's this desperate plea for approval, this anguished need for attention, this massaging of a hundred egos, this relentless journey around the back streets and roads of Britain, this bellowing, bawling shouting match, the yaboo sucks mentality, this deafening cacophony of a thousand voices from a thousand vans.

 It is this pathetic intrusion into our souls, the shouting and caterwauling, the acoustic artillery that just goes on and on. It is General Election day and by this evening, the whole of Britain may be heartily sick of voting, unbearably confrontational politics and all of those annoyingly persuasive words that just sound so hollow, contrived and stage managed that maybe the whole schedule should be changed, perhaps to an all night quiz show or a whole night devoted to reality TV. On second thoughts I think I'd rather watch the General Election. Or maybe I'm just a crusty, crotchety cynic who just doesn't care anymore. But I do care passionately and I have voted and to be honest you'll never know just how good it felt.

So how are you doing at the moment? Are you experiencing election battle fatigue or are you looking forward to tomorrow morning when all this fuss and commotion is over? Maybe then we can all just pull a veil over everything that is argumentative, controversial and contentious. Maybe then we can eat our breakfast, tea, lunch and dinner without being told what to do later on this evening. Maybe then we can take our ear plugs out of our ears and listen to something altogether more pleasant, relaxing and amusing.

At the moment you're reminded of one of those ugly bear pits, where political parties of all colours spend all of their time scratching each other's eyes, pulling each other's hair out and struggling to be heard above the maddening maelstrom of chattering, bickering and quarrelling. If this is democracy at work then maybe we should just switch off our TV's and radios, read a good book or listen to our cherished collection of vinyl records. Because quite frankly those pestering politicians are undermining our intelligence, blatantly blackmailing us and, it has to be said, driven us crazy. When will it ever end but it will and by tomorrow morning most of us will be back where we before the General Election.

And yet the continuous background noises keep rumbling on. At the moment the BBC's highly esteemed and seasoned political commentator David Dimbleby is getting in some much needed shut eye. Or at least I think he is. How else to explain the stamina, endurance and durability of this remarkable man? Every five years Dimbleby is contracted to stay up all night in his studio trying to make sense of the one night of the year which fails to do so quite miserably and yet your heart goes out to a man who looks like a teacher trying helplessly to keep their classroom quiet.

But this election is different for Dimbleby because this time a General Election has caught him out. This was a snap election and this one must have left him cruelly under prepared. Now it may be that all of our great TV presenters and broadcasters must have an internal mechanism whereby if something of note does happen in the country they can still ad lib or improvise or just remain coolly professional when everybody else may be losing their head.

Poor David. Do you think he knew that at any given moment that Theresa May would just suddenly announce a General Election? You'd have thought that May would have given Dimbleby shorter notice than that because quite clearly he's been caught on the hop. There were no warnings, no serious announcements from 10 Downing Street and nothing to suggest that a wild evening of political conflict, full on engagement and non stop dialogue would be thrown upon us out of the blue. There were no adequate explanations and nobody knew. Or maybe they did and the nation were taken by complete surprise.

Still I'm sure Mr Dimbleby will look his impeccable best tonight under the powerful glare of the BBC cameras. It won't be easy and even now he may well be rehearsing his lines, limbering up mentally, straightening his shirt and tie and then taking deep breaths. How he must dread this one night of the year. It is the most daunting of all assignments but one he always seems to handle with the most assured aplomb.

Every week on Question Time, Dimbleby ploughs his way through an arduous hour of finger pointing, name calling, childish vindictiveness and that incessant barrage of hostility that is the programme's premise or seemingly so. Every week he sits there like a High Court judge without the wig, gently presiding over political ping pong, as tempers fray, emotions reach boiling point without quite pouring over and then there is a general TV discussion that never seems to get anywhere.  

The Dimbleby face is rather a sad and drained one. Every Thursday there is a pasty faced, whiter than white look, white as a sheet or ghost, eyes hooded and haunted looking, cheeks puffy, a wan and forlorn man who looks as though he hasn't seen a bed for quite a while. You find yourself consumed with admiration for him because quite clearly here is a man who gives his life unstintingly and devotedly to the kind of TV programme that anybody else would simply ignore with a barge pole. Who would be some neutral go between in a political clash of the Titans and then point a despairing finger at the audience as if he'd rather be a million miles away from a BBC studio.

So there you have it folks. It's time to roll up for that great piece of TV grandstanding, showboating and just a little nonsensical tomfoolery. The impartial among us will miss the Peter Snow swingometer, Robin Day's bow tie and those moments in the studio when all the communication goes haywire which it still does but not with the same frequency.

This year Jeremy Vine will be responsible for all of those wizzy, busy graphics with their blocks of votes, percentages, swings to the right, swings to the right and the swings that go right up into the air and land on the roundabouts. Oh what a bizarre evening it is. Oh for the complexities of the Election night, the whole Brexit saga of varying textures such as soft and hard Brexit. Are any of us more enlightened than we were before? It may be advisable to put the kettle on at regular intervals and just order several deliveries of pizza. It could be a very long night. Now let me see. I wonder what the likes of Disraeli or Gladstone would have made of the modern game of political charades? Mind you I'm sure I saw their Twitter accounts recently.