It was 51 years ago yesterday- English football's finest hour at Wembley.

It was 51 years ago yesterday- English football's finest hour at Wembley.

It hardly seems possible now but yesterday English football remembered its finest 90 minutes. Even now some of the most hardened cynics are beginning to wonder whether it'll ever happen again in anybody's lifetime. Cultural historians and football historians  just throw up their heads in horror at the hard core embarrassment that continually haunts the corridors of the FA hierarchy. What a day it must have been though? Cripes what a spectacle. It had to be recorded for posterity. Did anybody have a Kodak Instamatic camera or maybe somebody had remembered to keep a rattle and rosette by way of a souvenir?

Yesterday marked the 51st anniversary of England's mind blowing, spell binding World Cup Final victory against West Germany at the old Wembley Stadium. It still sounds like the most difficult and  awkward sentence ever to be uttered by any Englishman. It's painful, excruciatingly agonising and a reality that is only reluctantly swallowed by those who can barely believe that anything good has happened to the England football team since Vietnam, Harold Wilson and Twiggy was a teenager.

Me? Well I must have been charging around my parents back garden with reckless abandon, oblivious to the world around me and perhaps believing all of the above were just background figures and unfortunate events that were completely beyond my three year old's understanding. But then Britain stopped on its axis, took a sharp intake of breath and, much to our astonishment, did something that most of the nation considered to be some ridiculous fantasy. Besides these things never happened in Britain, still less in England. Who would have thought it? England won the 1966 World Cup. Nobody could possibly have made that kind of rash prediction even without the assistance of a crystal ball.

 Yes, believe it or not England won the football World Cup in front of Her Majesty. It's true, it happened, it wasn't make believe and for one Saturday afternoon at the end of July 51 years ago, England conquered the football world. Would you credit it? What a turn up for the books. It was undoubtedly one of the most pivotal moments in the history of the England football team and now looks just a one off, isolated moment where something that never really looked like happening did - but just for a while.

Still on July 30th 1966 the England football team woke up wide eyed, bleary, incredulous and trying desperately to take it all in, the enormity and magnitude of an occasion that may have overwhelmed them but only took them by complete surprise at first and then just simply confirmed the enduring faith of their most loyal supporter- England manager Sir Alf Ramsey.

Since the very first announcement of England's hosting of the World Cup Ramsey was convinced that England would win the World Cup in their own home backyard. Things may have started in the most inauspicious fashion when, in Ramsey's first match as England boss, England were thrashed 5-2 by France in Paris.

But much closer to 1966, Ramsey kept banging the drum patriotically, almost brainwashing English footballing fans into a conviction that something good and exciting was in the air. When the pomp and pageantry of the opening ceremony had been replaced by the practicality of competitive tournament football attentions turned to the  football on the pitch and this was the time for businesslike pragmatism.

So what happened on that golden and garlanded day for the English football team. Probably it was business as usual where everything seemed to be going according to plan. England had gloriously beaten Eusebio's Portugal in the semi Final as if the whole event had been prepared and pre-ordained to happen.

During that vitally important week the whole of the England team had been kindly invited to see Sean Connery and his thespian acquaintances on the set of a James Bond film. The sight of Bobby Moore, Bobby Charlton, Roger Hunt and Geoff Hurst in animated discussion with James Bond seems like the perfect fusion of two distinctly different art forms. But it did seem to work on the players minds subliminally and then wonderfully successfully.

On the morning of the 1966 World Cup Final, a group of England players set out from their Hendon Hall Hotel headquarters and spread out to the London suburbs with an intensity and purpose that would come to characterise their display later on that afternoon. Some of the players went shopping in Golders Green in North London while others chose to spend their mornings just relaxing and immersing themselves in the day's global significance.

Of course Nobby Stiles, in a search for spiritual guidance, took himself off to a local priest for a confessional in a quiet church. Bobby Moore, ever the fashion conscious man, probably nipped into the West End for a Rael Brook shirt, paisley tie, a 45 record by Manfred Mann or the Kinks and Jimmy Greaves, ever the lovable humorist, may well have invested in some fancy dress or quite possibly a clown's nose. How the crowds loved Jimmy Greaves and with every justification.

Then, with almost poetic symmetry, the band stopped playing before the game and almost immediately the World Cup Final of 1966 flared into life. The whole game seemed to be conducted in slow motion as if belief had, quite literally, been suspended and nobody knew how to react. Naturally the Germans opened the scoring as we always knew they would and the match seemed to drift into a deep state of melodrama and introspection as if once again England would just go through the motions, give up, throw in the towel and just lose pitifully.

Then fate intervened. In a split second it all changed dramatically, heroically, supernaturally and beautifully. Oh our prayers were answered. Oh what a lovely war. But this was no war. Just before half time England were given a free kick. The sartorially immaculate and commanding West Ham defender Bobby Moore, stopped the ball, almost stunned the ball on its spot. Moore looked up, assessed his options, and then noticed out of the corner of his eye that his West Ham team mate Geoff Hurst had stolen into space almost covertly. In fact Hurst had been left almost criminally unmarked and had so much space on his own that he could have happily set out a picnic in the West German penalty area.

Duly drifting into an empty spot. Hurst gleefully jumped for the ball and flicked his header into the German net with a training ground ease and at his very own leisure. Hurst leapt for joy as if  a child had just won Pass the Parcel at a birthday party. At that moment the mood and morale of England seemed to be lifted into some strange state of transcendental meditation. For a couple of minutes both the fans and players tried to imagine what it would be like if we could win this grand occasion of  all occasions.There was a sense that this was it, the time to monopolise a football match, to boss proceedings and emerge victorious. For once in our life, to quote a Motown legend.

 There were a couple of moments of sober reflection, a glance towards the skies and bingo. This was now England's afternoon, England's property, England's time, the moment we'd all been waiting for. We were not about to waste it. Oh no, not now. We had to grasp the nettle, invest all of our innermost emotions, to finally capture the one trophy that had remained so agonisingly elusive for so many decades. In fact ever since the birth of the World Cup in 1930, England had romantically yearned for the Jules Rimet Cup. But do you think we could do it? The answer was that we did but only once to date and that was 1966.

Shortly after half time England took the lead for the first time in the match. After what seemed an eternity the ball spent an almost indefinite amount of time bobbling about aimlessly in the German penalty area. Finally the ball fell almost cordially to another West Ham player. Martin Peters, once referred to as 10 years ahead of his time, who caught the ball with his foot and just thumped the ball low and hard into the German net. Cue mayhem and jubilation unconfined.

 Nothing could stop England now. We were almost there. We were destined to win the 1966 World Cup and as the match entered its final stages most of the fans who witnessed it gasped in disbelief.. The Germans were back on level terms. Utter tragedy and confusing consternation. How dare the Germans do that. Nobody had given them permission or had they?

With the final kick of the game the Germans were presented with their moment of brief sunshine. A free kick was floated into the England penalty area, Nobby Stiles and Jack Charlton were frozen like statues and the Germans squeezed home the equaliser at the far post. For an age the ball hovered and waited for the right moment. It was all so dreadfully unfair, a travesty of justice that had to be addressed and redressed but now was not the time for inquests and recriminations.

Then extra time beckoned and another slice of Chekhov and Shakespeare for those very discerning England fans. It was that Merchant of Venice moment, that Much a Do About Nothing moment. Oh no that would never have been right. But it was that Cherry Orchard hour, when the sweet taste of victory had to be England's for the taking. Oh yes the job specification had to be fulfilled when England would score those spine tingling two goals that would sink the Germans, rip them to shreds, totally undermine them and then finally break their hearts.

Deep into injury time the effervescent and tireless Alan Ball ran onto the ball  and then a cross was floated temptingly into the German penalty area. Eventually the ball seemed to fall almost automatically into Geoff Hurst's path. With the sharpest of turns and the most exquisite of ball control, Hurst swivelled  on his feet, trapped the ball with his chest, turned again before rifling the ball first time towards the German goal. It was now that the very life force of the game had been undeniably sucked out of it.

Hurst's shot was almost deliberately held in a time frame. The shot hit the crossbar with the ferocity of a rocket, then almost inexplicably, bounced onto the line rather like one of those silver balls on a pinball machine. There was a surreal moment of hesitation. But why, when quite clearly everybody inside Wembley on that memorable day knew what had just happened. It had to be England's third goal surely. Why the questioning, why the heated debate, that shuddering uncertainty. The referee would definitely signal a goal. Or would he? The Germans looked around in anguish, then surrounded the referee as if he'd committed the most unforgivable sin. Well he hadn't, hadn't he?

Within a split second the 1966 World Cup Final would hang by the loosest of threads. If this had been a court of law, the judge may well have adjourned for the day. This was just too inconclusive and the evidence could not be proven. Both Roger Hunt and Alan Ball threw up their hands delightedly to celebrate what they felt was the most outrageously certain of goals. They both felt in perfect unison that the ball had crossed the line once it had hit the bar. This could have developed into one of the most complicated legal cases of all time. But the goal was given and England were almost there.

With the last kick of the game and the Wembley crowd understandably invading from all directions, Bobby Moore's magical through ball was lofted over a now extinct West German defence. With Jack Charlton pleading for Moore to dispatch with the most colourful of Anglo Saxon obscenities. Moore aimed the most measured through ball that any England defender had ever delivered in the history of the England football team. It had all the accuracy of a laser beam and the impact was crucial.

Once again Geoff Hurst had almost telegraphed Moore's pass but then it could have been sent by telegram with a momentous message on it. Hurst, with almost the entire pitch in front of him, found himself in acres of empty grassland. The German defence had now vanished into thin air, jumping back straight onto a plane back to Munich and deserting their posts. Hurst loped forward and then galloped towards the German goal as if almost on the point of complete exhaustion.

With the pitch now severely cut up Hurst seemed to memorise where the net was instinctively and then hit the ball as hard and far as his last spurt of energy would take him. Hurst would later relate that the shot could have ended up in Neasden shopping centre. Well not quite Neasden shopping centre but it must have felt like that. A couple of over zealous England fans had now dashed onto the pitch and Hurst simply walloped the ball into the German net as if somebody had given him a precious stone. England had beaten West Germany 4-2 in the 1966 World Cup Final. What a story to tell future generations and even the most sceptical of football followers.

Oh what followed. Jack Charlton slumped to his knees and gazed up at the Wembley skies and not knowing what had just taken place and then realising that it had. Nobby Stiles, with that loveliest of gaps in his teeth, jigged and danced around like a punch drunk sailor, waving the World Cup about as if barely caring for a minute about its eventual destination. Alan Ball was like a child of nature who had now reached full maturity and adolescence while goalkeeper Gordon Banks raised his gloved hands into the air acclaiming one of the  proudest moments of his blossoming career.

But then there was our Bobby. Bobby Moore was the England captain, a spring chicken of a player but so obviously a figure of nobility and distinction, a footballing centre half of the most blue blooded aristocracy. Moore oozed charm, elegance, manners and polish. Moore carried the ball carefully and deliberately forward, anticipating exactly a forward's next mind set, next scheme, next calculated intention.

Four years later Moore would make one of the greatest defensive tackles ever seen at a World Cup. In 1970 Moore would snatch the ball from the Brazilian Jairzinho like a sweet from a four year old. He would then trot away in the draining Mexican heat as if this had been an everyday practice. When Bobby Moore went up to collect the 1966 World Cup from the Queen he would ensure that his hands were spotlessly clean. Wiping any residual dirt from his hand, Moore gratefully received the World Cup, smiled beamingly and then lifted the World Cup for England. Oh happy days.

What happened next? Well Jack Charlton somehow ended up in a Leytonstone garden in London's East End. Apparently he was sitting in a deck chair with, quite probably, a copy of the Sunday Times over his eyes. The rest of the England team ended up in the West End and the plush surroundings of a Kensington hotel, drinking glasses of champagne, clinking glasses of champagne and doing their utmost to get Sir Alf Ramsey into a party mood. Sir Alf, who always seemed restrained and emotionless, never quite understood what was going on around him. When the final whistle went for the end of the end of the match Ramsey insisted that the trainer Harold Shepherdson should sit down.

It all now seems like some crazy dream but 51 years later the English public are still waiting for their next piece of much cherished silverware and that valuable trophy at FA headquarters. You can be sure that brass bands and street festivals will be out in force should such an event of note and consequence occur. When England shamefacedly bowed out of Euro 2016 against Iceland, the world must have looked as if it had come to an end. Still worse things have happened at sea but then football was never played at sea so that's physically impossible.

But it is nice to know that one day that three year old idealist could one day join in with another wild celebration at the Trafalgar Square fountains. Nowadays such escapades are frowned upon as a health and safety risk so it may be for the best that I restrict myself to a small alcoholic indulgence. Or maybe not. We must hope that sometime sooner or later our national sporting dreams come true and 2018 in Russia becomes a red letter day for England. Sorry couldn't resist that one. Come on England.    

No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics - my literary contribution to the world.

No Joe Bloggs,  Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics, my literary contribution to the world.


You've probably heard about this one before. Every so often I've been boring everybody silly about my books but if you like chuckling, giggling, chortling and entertaining reads and books that make smile and laugh then No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes are the ones for you. America, South America, Australia, Africa, South Africa and Europe. This is the book for you. There's Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Tony Bennett, Woody Allen, Ella Fitzgerald, Stevie Wonder, George Benson and some of the greatest showbiz voices ever heard.

When I set about the task of writing No Joe Bloggs I had no idea that this labour of love would come to fruition. But I started, continued and persevered knowing fully well that I was onto something here. How many of us are repeatedly told that we've all got a book in us and then found that no matter the encouragement from family and friends it just doesn't seem a good idea? Besides this would involve endless research, loads of characters, a good, absorbing plot, a meaty narrative and memorable dialogue. They say that we're all capable of writing a thriller, a murder, mystery novel or something slushy and romantic.

But that was never the case with me. Privately I wanted to avoid facts, dates, places, historic events, days, months, years or even time frames. Millions of books have been devoted to facts, figures, percentages, birthdays or any significant moments from history. I think it's safe to say that all of the above have been extensively covered from all angles and all perspectives.

No I wanted to write the kind of story that would come from a different direction, a personal journey, my life journey so far and an account of where I was brought up, my family, my friends, the sudden discovery that one day I would be diagnosed with autism, Aspergers Syndrome, a condition that brought to the surface a treasure trove of all my favourite childhood memories. There were vivid descriptions of London, Ilford, Essex where I grew up, hugely descriptive cameos and snapshots of my teenage years, my take on my life as the grandson of a Holocaust survivor, my grandparents, my mum and and a fond if fictitious account of what life might have been like for not only them but their families from the beginning of the 20th century.

In No Joe Bloggs I've been hugely descriptive about everything and all  of my chapters in the book are full of the love of the English language. There is a strong thread of nostalgia, of an affectionate homage to my late and wonderful dad, much reminiscence and reflection, a large helping of lyricism and a moving commentary on the things that mean so much, and continue, to mean to me. I talk about my favourite movies from my teenage years such as Grease and Saturday Night Fever, Radio Caroline, Radio 1 and Radio 2, pen portraits of English football clubs from the 1970s such as Ipswich Town, Wolves, Liverpool, Manchester United, Leeds United, Arsenal, Chelsea and Spurs and more description.

I give what I think is an imaginative tale about my late dad and his travels with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior, Tony Bennett and Dean Martin on their whirlwind tour of the Las Vegas gambling casinos. Now my dad was never a gambler but this is my homage to my wonderful dad. I think he'd have loved my imaginary story about his Las Vegas odyssey because my dad loved the bright lights of London, the multi coloured, dazzling lights of Las Vegas and playing American pool with his heroes.

I also talk about my pop music heroes, the ones who ticked all of my boxes and those who didn't quite achieve legendary status. There's the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, my all time fame favourite the incomparable Stevie Wonder, George Benson, the Electric Light Orchestra, references to the likes of Manfred Mann, famous TV programmes from both America and Britain during the 1960s and 70s, the characters and celebrities who introduced those classic series, the comedians, the showbiz fraternity, the presenters, the controversial figures from history.

So if you fancy a trip down memory lane, a light hearted story from my heart, a soppy, sentimental stroll back to the late 1960s and 70s then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you. No Joe Bloggs by Joe Morris is still available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online.

Now for my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes which is more or less a logical follow on from No Joe Bloggs but with noticeable differences. In Joe's Jolly Japes I give you my humorous slant on the English middle classes, the iconic summer events such as the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England and English seaside resorts when winter sets in.

I give my slant on the England football team, its World Cup tragedies and triumphs, the victories and disasters, the managers and players, the entertainers and rebels. There are more sporting pen portraits from my gallery of sports personalities, more descriptions about the funnier side of life, an account of what happened when Billy Ocean and Chrissie Hynde did their utmost to fill in the boring moments at a Hyde Park concert and more singing and dancing descriptions about life and the world according to me. Joe's Jolly Japes is also available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online.

Then again you could also dip into my first book. Now this was my first attempt at writing a book and I have to tell you from the start that it is a book that bears no relation to No Joe Bloggs or Joe's Jolly Japes. In fact when I think back to it now it almost gave me an appetite to write both No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes.

Victorian Madness Lyrics is quite the craziest, most absurd, most outrageously silly book in the world. I feel sure that you may never see a book or read a book so ridiculous and nonsensical. And yet it had me in tears of laughter while I was writing it and have no regrets about its content. It is a book that completely stretches belief with its posh metaphors for ordinary everyday English,, its amazing words and expressive verbs, adverbs and incredible fun with English grammar. But Victorian Madness Lyrics is my book and one I'm immensely proud of.

So here we go. Here's a tantalising glimpse into the world of Victorian Madness Lyrics. It's my grammtical tribute to Britain's finest ska band Madness with Suggs and company. House of Fun is the Establishment of Amusement and Our House is One's Abode. If you like grammar, funny variations on an English theme then Victorian Madness Lyrics will have you howling with laughter, a book that is still available at Feed A Read.com.

That's it my friends. Another promotional advert for my books. I think, that whatever your choice, you'll be amused and entertained by their originality and novelty value. There you have it. Wherever you are in the world No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics may just be your kind of books. Thanks everybody.

Victory for British sport. The ladies win the cricket World Cup and Chris Froome wins the Tour De Force for the fourth time.

Victory for British sport. The ladies win the cricket World Cup and Chris Froome wins the Tour De France.

Life could hardly get any sweeter for British sport this weekend. Who could have dreamt that script? Just as you thought it couldn't have got any worse British sport pulls a rabbit out of the hat. Firstly there was the Andy Murray injury setback which eventually cost the Scottish braveheart what would have been his third Wimbledon victory. Then South Africa levelled up the cricketing battle of wits against England and Britain thought the sporting summer had somehow let them down.

 It all looked very bleak and disheartening but then Britain's cricketing ladies and a British cyclist came along and remedied the problem. Sport can often leave you perplexed and speechless and this was no exception. These were very contrasting victories in different settings, different environments, what seemed improbable circumstances but then sport does restore your faith in human nature. Then you begin to believe in the impossible and it all makes perfect sense. You have to believe that it can happen.

Just over 40 years ago Rachel Heyhoe Flint was the radical, pioneering figure behind the emergence of women's cricket. In fact before Heyhoe Flint nobody had heard of women's cricket or if they did then nobody else knew anything about it. She was bright and breezy and fully genned up on the intricacies of lbw, yorkers, swing and seam bowling and the blazing hook for six over the Lords pavilion.

Yesterday Heather Knight and speed merchant Anya Shrubsole joined forces to beat India in the women's World Cup Final at Lords. For so long the bastion of male cricket, Lords members could only rub their eyes with bewilderment. In the deepest recesses of cricket's headquarters men with yellow and red ties could only take off their panama and trilby hats respectfully in complete deference to the women they'd so reluctantly accepted for so many years.

But yesterday at Lords England won the World Cup, a sentence very few of us thought we'd ever utter again. It may have been the women winning the cricket World Cup but how long have the Brits waited patiently for a winning team with a winning mentality. But here came the girls with their navy blue and pink shirts, patriotic three lions on their trousers and a victory that will resound throughout the nation for quite a while now.

And yet this may not have been an unexpected victory for the English cricketing ladies. This was the fourth time that they've conquered the world game and by a substantial margin to boot. India were just trampled and trodden on, England gliding past the India total and easily reaching the required run target. After such a desolate summer for English sport this was that outstandingly redemptive moment when finally we could shout it from the rooftops and celebrate with shameless rejoicing.

While the fireworks went off behind them, the world of women's cricket had finally broken through all of those sexist and forbidden territories that had for so long held them back. So how is it that we've overlooked the criminal neglect of cricket in the women's game? The perceptions, misconceptions and prejudices were always hovering irritatingly in the background but now the breakthrough had been achieved, achieved handsomely.

It must have felt that women's cricket could hardly breathe but now it's been released from the shackles and finally Heather Knight lifted the World Cup for England. Throughout the shires, counties, cities and village greens of England, repressed voices can finally make themselves heard.

So it is that the memory of Rachel Heyhoe Flint can be fondly resurrected and English cricket has finally chalked up a historic victory, a victory for commonsense and discretion, a victory for equality and fair play. When the lads of football's Premier League shortly walk out of their tunnels perhaps they may consider the rip roaring exploits of their female counterparts. This seems to represent much more of a breakthrough than some could possibly have imagined. It was an achievement on the grandest scale.

Meanwhile back on the streets of Paris another British sporting hero Chris Froome did his bit for British sporting prestige and honour. In the world of cycling Froome is now well and truly established in bike folklore with his fourth triumph in the Tour De France. Once again very few saw it coming although most of us were privately hopeful. Isn't it nice to know that the British can be modest and self deprecating about victory but Froome followed in the esteemed Olympic footsteps of Sir Chris Hoy and Sir Bradley Wiggins in the saddle.

 But the roads and fiercely competitive country lanes of France are an entirely different kettle of fish when compared to the dizzy heights of Olympia. The Tour De France is a hard, gruelling, demanding and exhausting slog fest on a bike. For Froome though the ultimate challenge was promptly met and by the time he'd pumped tiring thighs to the finishing line at the Champs Elysses, Froome knew he'd deserved the cheers, the plaudits, the laurel wreaths around his neck and the kind bouquets of praise.

After what seemed like an eternity Froome had negotiated all of the obstacles that are synonymous  with the world's highly prized bike race. He'd pushed his body to the limit up the steepest of  hills, winding and meandering French roads, country lanes that seemed to go on for ever and then the tallest and most forbidding mountainsides. It is one of sport's most painful struggles and one that is fully deserving of our utmost respect.

Yesterday though Paris greeted Chris Froome in the French capital with grudging praise perhaps but still it was Britain's day to get all proud as Punch. In recent years Hoy and Wiggins have captured most of the headlines and the back slapping congratulations. But now Britain have finally claimed their precious sporting weekend when all seemed lost. Three cheers for the England ladies cricket team and a cyclist called Chris Froome. Victories to savour. It's time for the applause and not before time. What a weekend.    

July - family dogs, Brent Cross fairground- this can't be the end of summer.

July- family dogs, Brent Cross fairground - this can't be the end of summer.

Oh no! What happened there. Up until this point the British summer has been pleasantly warm, surprisingly hot and agreeably trustworthy. But today July caught us out and played games with us. By mid afternoon the rain began to fall in biblical torrents and we all rushed indoors to shelter from the dripping, deluge laden skies. None had given us ample warning of this mini monsoon because it had hitherto been a beautiful June and July so eventually something had to give sooner or later.

 But there were no omens and portents and I've no recollection of any rain on St Swithin's Day which is normally the traditional indicator of whether it's going to rain every day for the next four months. What nonsense I hear you say. And you'd be absolutely right. That's just an urban myth or a suburban myth if you live in the suburbs. This is surely an off day because by the middle of next week the British heatwave, which has temporarily deserted us, will be back with a vengeance, soaring to the giddy heights of 85 degrees Fahrenheit by lunch time on Monday. Britain had better be prepared because the sun worshippers are in for a treat. We can but hope.

Today at a family gathering in Reading, the marquees were up, the food and drink enticingly mouth watering and spirits were high. But then the floodgates opened and the rain fell in buckets from the weeping, bawling and then sobbing sky. The rain peppered the roof, then hammered down against the roof emphatically and decisively as if determined to make its bold announcement on the day.

 There was rain, blunt rain, forthright rain, intensive rain, the kind of English summer's day most of Britain has become more or less conditioned to, felt ever so slightly apologetic about and then held its hands out with looks of desperate resignation. Why do we always get these summer days on the wrong days because this is was our family summer barbecue and it would have been so good to spend good quality time with the people we love in the garden, just chattering and laughing, reminiscing and reflecting, exchanging good natured conversation and revelling in warm dialogue about the latest events of the day?

Sadly we had to move indoors and were promptly joined by our family dogs. There is something very morale boosting and re-assuring about the family dog that always seems to lift our mood when we come home from work, school or a long holiday, we're tired and all we want to do is slump in front of the TV and drop off to sleep. But then the dogs come bounding up to you, jumping up almost triumphantly at you and then greeting you with all the joy of long lost friends. They smother us all with unconditional love and affection, paws reaching out to us with the most delighted greeting and then utterly pleased to see you again.


The day started out unpromisingly. The whole of North London seemed to be trapped in the grip of roadworks, a sea of red and white cones, chronic traffic congestion and wherever you looked cars seemed to be blocked off, strangled by more traffic jams and nothing but cars, buses and lorries were all jostling, competing, inching slowly forward and then getting nowhere in particular.

 One of these days the whole of London will grind to a complete standstill and nothing will ever move on the road again. There is stagnation, immobility, awkwardness and inconvenience everywhere and one day the seething, impatient motorists will just get out of their cars and just count to 10, curse briefly and then just laugh at what looks like the sheer futility of car travel. But my family are brilliant drivers and I have nothing but the utmost sympathy for the trials and tribulations of navigating the daily traffic that regularly confronts them.

This morning there were extensive roadworks, engineering works at every juncture and more traffic lights. conspiring spitefully to make life as difficult for us as possible. There were cars pulling out in front of us sharply, weaving, dodging, crawling at a snail's pace, stopping annoyingly, lumbering forward laboriously and then surrendering gratefully when once again the lights had turned red again for probably the thousandth time.

It would be the recurring theme of the journey until we reached our destination. Eventually the traffic subsided but perhaps grudgingly and it was a relief to reach open road and the free flowing motorway. But I have to tell you it was the worth the wait. Those dogs made our day, made my day. They were wonderfully sympathetic, admirably non judgmental and so understanding. We set to work on our burgers, lamb, coleslaw and all of the culinary indulgences that make family barbecues so memorable.

On the way back we eventually came to the Brent Cross fairground. Now I'm not sure how motorway fairgrounds ever came into existence and into the popular consciousness. But this was Brent Cross shopping centre, a hotbed of commerce and trade, a buying and selling community where food, drink and clothes are happily invested in. This seemed to be the last place you'd expect to find a fairground but there it was in all its splendour and it hardly seemed possible. But there it was in the unlikeliest venue imaginable and a wondrous revelation it was.

So it was that we arrived home back in Manor House. By now the rain had now re-located to some other geographical landmark in the world. It had been a satisfying day and, without any shadow of a doubt, a wet and windy one. But those dogs were the most stimulating company, real tonics, animal acquaintances who just wanted to make our day one that would never ever be forgotten.

 Summer is slowly receding and the autumnal mists of August and September will once again settle on innumerable landscapes. Still July remains with us and the last of the summer wine is maturing in a million British cellars. The summer circuses, village fetes and outdoor pop concerts have packed up for the season almost reluctantly. July will become August and shortly the festivities of late December will once again pay their annual global visit.

 But the rains of late July were somehow out of character with the rest of the month. I remain confident that the heat and warmth will make a welcome return to British shores. But then how we love the rain in England. A summer in England would be incomplete without just a drop of the wet stuff . Still it's time to put that umbrella anyway. Bring on that heatwave.        

Summer holiday time for British politicians

Summer holiday time for British politicians.

Yes folks it's that time of the year again. It can only be that time of the year. It's the summer holiday break for our fine, upstanding British politicians, those very public figures who add colour and shade to our lives, those who live their lives through their principles and their visions. They're the ones who genuinely believe they can make a fundamental difference to the way we live and only have to appear on BBC's Question Time to make their voice heard, a definitive voice and one that can only influence our lives with positive repercussions in the long term.

But here we are in the middle of July and it's time for our respectable members of Parliament to rush out of the school gates, cheer hoarsely and then declare freedom from the arduous chores that, quite possibly weigh them down for too many months of the year. They'll throw off their caps, loosen their collars, release themselves from the tyranny of their ties and then sprint towards the ice-cream van. The blazers will be dispatched to the wardrobe for a couple of months or so and the well ironed shirts swiftly hidden away. And then they can finally turn off their mobiles, I-Pads, Facebook and Twitter feeds and then just let go all of those stifling inhibitions and stop all of that incessant waffle and all of that officiously stuffy posturing.

Finally all of the red tape and bureaucracy that has, throughout the winter, hung around them like a horrible burden, will just float into the ether and thoughts will turn to summer holidays in warmer climes. So how do British politicians learn the art of relaxing, resting easily well away from the public eye in the hope that nobody can bother them again or stop pestering them for yet more opinions on Brexit, the current shape of bananas and considered assessments on the state of the Ecuadorian economy?

 Maybe they'll finally give answers on the more taxing issues of the day such as the dwindling species of kingfishers in this country. Or maybe the species is flourishing and politicians would much rather talk about their summer holiday destinations. You can hardly blame them of course because it is hard to think of a more unenviable job anywhere in the world. Who would willingly commit themselves to a life fending off the cruel jibes and insults from  your political rivals? Who could possibly enjoy spending an afternoon in the bearpit that is the House of Commons, fending off personal affronts to their character, deflecting the spite, the malicious comments, the endless and hurtful invective? It would be enough to drive anybody around the bend but now it may be the time to draw a line under the sand.

A couple of years ago the well respected Labour MP Margaret Beckett once claimed that her way of unwinding from the stresses and strains of political life was simple. Margaret Beckett took a caravan into the English countryside and just escaped into the blue yonder. Caravanning holidays were her preferred choice of holiday and she didn't care who knew about it. Presumably she took all of the basic essentials needed for such a well needed break. You can imagine Beckett in said caravan with kettle, gas stove, small net curtains, bunk beds and plenty of board games if it rained.

But where do the politicians really take their summer holidays. Does Prime Minister Theresa May take her bucket and spade to some exotic retreat in the South of France? Will she be going on that famous Welsh walking holiday again where the idea for a General Election first came into her head? Or does she simply put her feet up on a comfortable deckchair on the bracing South Coast of England? It is safe to assume that May will just switch off completely because this has been one nightmare of a year for her personal image and the sooner she's left in isolation the better.

It is hard to imagine that anonymity will be achieved because somebody is bound to spot her climbing a hill or having a cream tea in Devon. These are difficult times for any politician because in a controversial General Election year the very thought of getting away from it all could be considered a fruitless exercise unless of course you happen to be fruit picking in which case it's a brilliant idea. In fact a week picking strawberries in the English countryside may be just what the doctor ordered for Theresa May.

Then of course there's Jeremy Corbyn still a fully paid up member of the Labour Party and its leader. Now what are we to make of Corbyn, almost two months after defeat in the General Election. There is something about the man that almost invites music hall ridicule. Is he being just stubbornly delusional or is he still convinced that the whole Election was just a sham where, deep within his imagination, he did win a moral victory? But maybe in his more private moments there must be a sense that Corbyn lost and May won regardless of the margin of victory.

But the dawning realisation is now reluctantly sinking in. Theresa May did lose her parliamentary majority although that was as far as it got for Corbyn. Maybe now Corbyn will pack his suitcases, neatly loading books on red rosette Socialism and the formidable diaries of Anthony Wedgwood Benn. Given the kind of year Corbyn has had so far a Las Vegas gambling casino sounds a very attractive option. Besides he did play political roulette with his future and the odds were so heavily stacked against him that maybe he can only be seen as a busted flush.

So Corbyn has shown his cards, left town and should head for California or some palatial Hollywood mansion where he can finally find yet another blizzard of publicity. Oh for the seclusion and privacy of some remote island where nobody can possibly find him or so he thinks.  The thought occurs to you that Corbyn may just think about popping into the Trump residence. Now there's an image to cherish. Jeremy Corbyn and Donald Trump are, hypothetically, singing from some outrageous hymn sheet while a piano tinkles away in the background. It doesn't seem conceivable but Corbyn probably needs someone to talk to while the rest of the Labour party head for the hills. How he must have longed for these precious moments.

This should be the happiest time of year for any politician but the reality is markedly different. Where does a politician find some therapeutic haven where the only sounds they can hear are the early morning blackbirds, the gentle plashing of lazy seaside waves and a couple of gulls soaring impressively into a blue sky? But once the dust has finally settled on the General Election and the voices have made their case heard for the defence, both the Conservatives and Labour party will depart British shores where nobody can see, hear or think of them - at least for a Cliff Richard week or two.

Today the Liberal Democrats appointed their new man as leader of the party. Vince Cable stepped up to the plate and you can only think that the Lib Dems will just want to get as far away as it's possible to be. Cable looks like a whitewashed Spanish villa kind of man who would love nothing better than a charming red glass of wine on a remote Iberian veranda. Cable looks a well travelled man so will probably be content with the finer things on his holiday jaunt. Perhaps he'll stroll down to a nearby fishing harbour and think of England, or Brexit.

It is hard to imagine where our politicians just get away from it all, the madness, the bedlam, the chaos, the contrasting beliefs, the well intentioned commentators, the people who just want them  struck off the list. There are those who probably feel that no politician should ever go on a summer holiday and just follow in the footsteps of Margaret Beckett and just lock themselves in a caravan.

Still off they go with their buckets, spades and windmills while not forgetting that unmistakable beach ball. Oh before you go Theresa, Jeremy and Vince. Don't forget to include your swimming trunks and. most fittingly perhaps a lovely copy of War and Peace. If the tide ever does come in they would be well advised to do the quickest front crawl, climb aboard a yacht and just disappear over the horizon. War and Peace may be essential reads for any politician of any colour. Besides 1,500 pages could take them nicely into the middle of September and Jeremy Corbyn does bear a slight resemblance to Leo Tolstoy. Or maybe the sun has gone to my head. It's time to head for the coast and don't forget the sun factor 63.

Gyms, working out on board the good cruise ship Spirit..

Gyms and working out on board the good ship Spirit. - oh what a cruise.

It is hard to believe just how seriously people were taking exercise aboard a cruise ship. What should have been the ideal opportunity to slow down and relax served only as an incentive to work out vigorously on the ship's gym. I should have spent the entire holiday just chilling out and taking it easy without breaking a single bead of sweat. But why not? It was time to go for it.

 I'd never considered it as an option before but hey this was the ultimate challenge and I privately felt that  an hour spent on the gym bike would be thoroughly beneficial and deeply healthy. Of course it would be exhausting and I may have regretted this rash and perhaps demanding venture into the unknown. But a man's got to do what a man's got to do.

A couple of years ago my family and I had spent our first ever cruise in the mysterious fjords and stunning waterfalls of Norway. Here I discovered my first gym bike. It was my baptism of fire, my introduction to the world of exercise and fitness on board a glamorous cruise ship. At first it seemed the craziest of ideas but here was the chance to fling myself whole - heartedly into full on exertion and working out. But this was no pumping iron holiday for me. There had never been any intention on my part to lift weights, run on running machines or treadmills or strengthen muscles. So I just climbed onto the gym bike and went for it.

Slowly but surely I pedalled gently for roughly a half hour and quickly realised that the joints, veins, tendons and arteries were in notably unresponsive mood. I think it must have come as a major culture shock to these poor old, terribly neglected  bones. But I persevered and gradually worked up a head of steam to the point where I began to think of myself as something of a Sir Bradley Wiggins or Sir Chris Hoy type. Sadly no sooner had reality kicked in when I came back down to earth and soon accepted my deficiencies, pedalling furiously but never quite knowing just why I was going so fast.

Still here I was again on a Greek islands cruise ship and looking at buttons that indicated the amount of fat you were burning, your heart rate and a quaint red button with a red heart on it. I draped my towel onto the bike, adjusted my Israeli cap on my head, got comfortable on my seat and just pedalled as if my life depended on it which was never the case anyway. There are quicker tortoises than me and that's a fact. But I'd made my decision to put my foot down and  race through the French countryside, past the fragrant vineyards, past the nodding cornfields, along the snoozing country lanes and then back to the Arc de Triomphe. Hold on this is the not the Tour De France. This is the stateliest of cruise ships and I'm a happy gym biker and just having fun on a gym bike.

This was my rather modest attempt at replicating the Olympic spirit of Hoy and Wiggins, legs pumping like pistons and then wiping rivers of sweat from a well heated forehead. It was hard to think of a more exhilarating experience than this. Of course it was hard work and my sanity may well have been questioned but hey who cares. Once I'd worked up a decent momentum I gradually paced myself holding back on the sprint to the finish but instead looking around the gym and wondering whether it was worth my while.

Besides I was here to enjoy myself , setting myself up on one of the many sundecks and abandoning myself to lengthy sessions of sunbathing with cap on head, Neville Cardus book in my hand, the relentlessly delightful sunshine and 95 degrees of heat every day. Carpe Diem as that late, brilliant and deeply missed Robin Williams once said. You had to seize the day. I had to seize the day immediately and without any hesitation whatsoever.

I lay back on my sun lounger and began to think to of Noel Coward's mid-day sun. But the assumption that you have to be mad to go out at that time of the day has to be a fallacy. For most of the afternoon I would sizzle and roast like the proverbial chicken, the burning sun beating down on a chest that hadn't been exposed to any sun for over a year but was now taking advantage. It's at times like this that you find yourself extremely grateful and privileged to be in the same company of summer sunshine, soaking up all the while the powerful rays of the Mediterranean heat.

I sat back for as long as I could and allowed my imagination to transport itself to some even more exotic voyage, to the mystical Far East perhaps, lands of pagodas, sampans and junk boats, the golden sunsets of Greece, Italy and Spain and then the Copacabana beach in Brazil where football once dominated but a team are now sad and chastened. You thought of Israel, sweet and heavenly Israel where nut brown men in their 80s swing on the monkey bars of Tel Aviv beach.

Back in the gym I'd almost reached the end of my hour on the bike and felt no muscle aches or pains, surprisingly fresher and fitter than I'd felt at the beginning of my exercise work out. Admittedly my legs did began to feel like lead weights and bags of cement but this had to be an understandable reaction because I hadn't really been on any kind of bike since I was a small lad in shorts. This was the lime green bike my parents had bought me as a kid with stabilisers but this bike was different, completely different.

I'm not sure why but it didn't feel as though I'd really pushed myself to hard. There were younger men and women who seemed to determined to push themselves to the brink of exhaustion. Behind me on the running machines men and women slowly plodded and trundled their way to their personal world record. They walked and walked and walked on a machine that was seemingly designed for running. but here was simply used as just an excuse for a good, old fashioned stroll on a running machine. The strides lengthened and this was a wonderful demonstration of repetition and more repetition.

Then there was the music. This was the very latest in dance music, trance music or whatever they call music nowadays. I may be in my 50s now but I have to tell you this was quite enjoyable and soothing to the fevered brow. The music blared out for who knows how long but it was an antidote to the pain some of us were feeling. It could have quite been fittingly called background music because it just seemed to surround us, gradually increasing in volume before sinking back into a mellow beat.

So there you are folks another tale from my cruise on board the good ship Spirit courtesy of Thomsons. That gym really did inspire, stimulate and re-vitalise me. On reflection it almost seemed an afterthought after the soporific sunbathing of the early Greek afternoon. It was time to set sail for another Greek treasure island. I looked out of one of the portholes and saw the most gloriously warm corridor of late evening sunshine, a white beam of light shining brightly into my transfixed eyes. A life on the ocean wave. It was perfect and always will be.  

The Fed Express hurtles towards greatness- Roger Federer makes it eight Wimbledon Finals victories. What a player.

The Fed Express hurtles towards greatness- Roger Federer makes it eight Wimbledon men's single Final victories- What a player!

In the end class told quite delightfully. On the richly green if slightly dusty baselines of Wimbledon, Roger Federer beat Marin Cilic quite comprehensively. Federer made it look absurdly easy. In fact there was a long period in this Wimbledon men's singles Final when Federer could have closed his eyes, gone to sleep, finished off the Sunday Times crossword and then gobbled down a punnet of strawberries such was the Federer supremacy, the Federer hypnotic hold he seems have to cast on Wimbledon throughout the years.

Sadly for the Wimbledon crowd the manner of Federer's victory was heavily tinged with a dreadful sense of anti-climax. When Cilic pulled up with the most critical of injuries half way through the match, those enthusiasts who were willing Cilic on regardless, must have sighed with extreme displeasure, a feeling that the match would be cruelly cut short because Cilic's foot had finally betrayed him and the mobility that had hitherto sustained him would be his downfall.

For the best part of fifteen minutes during a break in play, Cilic's medical staff and coach huddled around their man anxiously, strapping and then replacing the afflicted foot with yet more bandages. Cilic buried his head in what looked like an umbrella of white towels, tears quite possibly reddening his face and then realising that at even now psychological battles were being lost and defeat could only have been a matter of time.

Roger Federer continued to cruise and glide through the match as if this was just a practice match behind closed doors. Federer is a model of coolness, composure, of intense concentration, a man in the zone, controlled, steady, unaffected, totally unfazed by events around him. In much the way that Bjorn Borg  simply waltzed his way past Jimmy Connors and John Mcenroe, Federer exerted an almost complete mastery over Cilic and then roughly one and half hours and three straight sets later, Federer whipped the most destructive ace down the centre of the court to beat a now outclassed Cilic. The third set had been wrapped up 6-4 and Cilic, although battered and bruised, had done his utmost to battle against the overwhelming odds.

Under the circumstances Cilic did remarkably well to take Federer as far as he could but this was just another day at the office for Roger Federer, business taken care of in the bat of an eye-lid and it had clinical professionalism written all over it. In fact most of the formalities had been undertaken well before the beginning of the third set. Federer had finished off the paperwork in rather less time than he was hoping. Nobody likes to see a sportsman injured but when Cilic almost retired with his debilitating injury, your heart dropped and your sympathies were heartfelt.

Once again that immaculate former Wimbledon champion Rod Laver was watching admiringly and you knew that here was a man who'd seen it all and done it all. Four time Wimbledon champion Laver has become almost a yearly observer at SW19. Laver would have deeply identified with Cilic's predicament but then privately acknowledged that when your opponent is Roger Federer there is very little that can be done when, most significantly, a tragic injury hampers your progress.

Suddenly your thoughts went back to Wimbledon yesteryear when rackets were wooden but the play certainly wasn't. You remembered the days when there were no chairs in between games and players simply had to wipe off the sweat while standing up. Your mind was cast back to those late evenings in the gloaming when five-set thrillers between Borg and his opponents would last for an eternity. By the end of those games the neutrals were pleading for more and more. But then darkness set in and even the umpires and ballboys were having difficulty in seeing the ball.

The Hall of Fame players were like the sweetest jar of honey with a hint of molasses and cinnamon just to make the occasion even more special. There was the aforementioned Laver, tidy, graceful and wonderfully athletic reaching for shots he had no right to return. There was the extraordinary Ken Rosewall, one of the great technicians of the game, hair always neatly combed, spring heeled and flexible, utterly assured with both forehand and backhand.

And then the 1970s came along and just spoiled us. We weren't expecting this banquet of talent but it came at us relentlessly and aggressively. Jimmy Connors was all attitude, bravery, bolshiness and mischief. Bjorn Borg, the soulful Swede, gave us five Wimbledon victories of effortless ease, swashbuckling assurance and total domination. There were the gallant heroes who just fell short such as Ivan Lendl who never quite made the transition to grass courts. Ilie Nastase had fun and games at the crowd's expense and tomfoolery was never far away.  And then there was John Mcenroe, another  player who snarled and growled, rebelliousness personified and never short of what seemed like some childish, petulant outburst.

When Mcenroe arrived on Centre Court, barricades, fortresses and protective shields were required but how the Wimbledon loved to hate him, or just adored that explosive temper. Mcenroe won Wimbledon on a number of occasions and even now we can still hear Mcenroe in our dreams, ranting, raving, expostulating and generally kicking up a fuss. Still Wimbledon will always have a place in its hearts for the bad boys, the seemingly objectionable ones who don't know when to stop. A Mcenroe match perhaps carried a Government health warning but how we fell for that naughtiness, that air of anarchy whenever he stepped onto Centre Court.

And so we move back to the Wimbledon men's singles Final and the Roger Federer masterclass for that was the nature of Federer's victory against Marin Cilic. In fact as the match became more of an exhibition with every stroke and every point you thought of the artist's paint brushes or the baton that a conductor uses for the BBC Proms. With every passing minute Cilic began to slowly crumble and crumple, vanishing out of sight and wishing he could have been a thousand miles away from Wimbledon.

Federer began with his usual body language. There were the brief twiddles with his racket, hawklike eyes ready and waiting for the Cilic serve. Federer spent just over an hour, wiping his hands and fiddling nervously with the collar of his shirt or flicking away infuriating beads of sweat from a gently perspiring forehead. Then there was that cruel bombardment of shots. The Ferrer shots. The Ferrer ammunition, that repertoire of artistry, the fluidity of his game, that canvas of beauty that became more and more picturesque as the game moved towards its inevitable conclusion.

Then the shots became harder, more decisive, more punishing, more damaging, more heartless, stronger and then absolutely merciless. There were those mighty, whipped forehands that sailed past Cilic's defences, booming, crashing, thundering, crushing, flying across Cilic like the proverbial missiles. There were the deep forehand returns that were executed with care and precision, the winners down the line that left Cilic almost leaden footed and perplexed. There were the backhands with slice, deceptive spin, shots that seemed to hang in the air and then drop over the net with demoralising frequency.

Once Federer had set himself up for the day Cilic may have been well advised to stay at home and not bother to turn up. When genius and greatness put on their most elegant coats there can be no explanation, discussion or argument. Federer simply tore into Cilic like a tiger attacking its prey, moving easily from one side of the Centre Court and then pulling Cilic from side to side, taunting and wearing his opponent down remorselessly with the speed of his movement and the most velvety touch.

For a man now in his mid-30s Federer simply defies the passage of time, eagerly picking up on his opponents weaknesses and fallibilities with those gorgeous rolls of the wrists. Federer must have the most supple wrists in world tennis and shows no sign of burning himself out. Federer comfortably won the first set 6-3 with the kind of returns of serve that were almost beyond superlatives and adverbs. From the back of the court, Federer simply scurried to finish a stunning cross court forehand. The cross court forehands became a central theme and feature of his game. You could only gasp with wonder at tennis that bordered on perfection. Then you knew that in Roger Federer we were witnessing much more than perfection. Federer was now going through the motions.

By now a sadly injured Cilic had now plausible answer to the powerhouse that was Federer. The shots were whizzing past the Croatian and you were reminded of a man chasing a looming shadow. Apart from one or two moments of occasional resistance from Cilic, the plaster on his ankle became an almost painful metaphor for the match. Sometimes sport can be unfair, a pain in the neck and there are the days when you just want to pack it all in and never pick up a racket again. Poor, traumatised Cilic was now sobbing profusely into his towel knowing that the game was well and truly up. The second set was just devoured by Federer 6-1, who just ripped his opponent's game to shreds.

The third set had by now assumed an air of the Greek tragedy. Cilic was slouching, sullen, helpless, exhausted and the shoulders were now slumped dejectedly. You spend your whole life-time smashing that yellow ball with all your heart, powering and punching the ball vigorously across the net and hoping that after Queens in June, Wimbledon will become your ultimate lifetime achievement. Never for a moment do you think that fate will intervene and a foot injury will hit you on your biggest day. You cry and cry and weep and weep again because nothing has gone according to plan. Never mind Marin Cilic. Your day will come but only if our Andy Murray decides otherwise.

The truth is though that the country that has given  us cuckoo clocks, Toblerone chocolate, lovely cheese and that clock in Leicester Square in London's West End, has finally appeared on our sporting consciousness. Yes Switzerland's Roger Federer has notched up his record breaking, phenomenal eighth victory at Wimbledon and nobody can take that away from him. Wimbledon can rarely have produced a more engaging and approachable champion. Federer's relationship with the Wimbledon crowd is well documented but you began to wonder whether the march of time may catch up with him sooner rather than later. When brilliance visits a sporting arena it is time to find that red carpet and make it extremely welcome. The Fed Express is unstoppable.

England- South Africa- the second test at Trent Bridge.

England-South Africa- the Second Test at Trent Bridge.

Summer fell softly on the good citizens of Nottingham. It was early morning at Trent Bridge and the sun was easing its way through the clouds, dancing, glancing, teasing and tempting its way into view before the umpires finally made their way out of the pavilion gates. Cricket should always be played in the summer because no other sport can be quite as thrilling and strategic. There are thought processes at work here, intriguing field placings, and all kinds of secretive mind games. And that's before a ball has even been bowled.

And so we had the second test between England and South Africa, not quite the high profile and prestigious contest that perhaps it should be but still highly valued and keenly anticipated. Still the England- Australia Ashes battle royale gets all of those big headlines and the controversial back stories. It would be strange if it didn't because England and Australia love to poke fun at each other, make slanderous comments in public, throw mud at each other and then knock seven bells out of each other.

But England against South Africa is a match with slightly more modest connotations because the history between these two sides is not nearly as torrid and turbulent as the England- Australia eye ball to eye ball confrontation. Both England and South Africa are well balanced but fully competitive teams with little between them. This was not though a bloodbath or some dreadful grudge match, more of a genuinely good natured contest with a hint of needle but little malice, poison, bile or vitriol in the air.

For some of us Trent Bridge reminded us of some of the greats from yesteryear. Nottingham's proudest sons of course were Harold Larwood and the irrepressible Derek Randall. Larwood was that badly behaved fast bowler who terrorised the Aussies in the notorious Body Line Test back in the 1930s. Larwood bowled a terrifying barrage of bouncers and 100mph bowling that almost broke the hearts of the entire Australian visitors. Larwood was fearsome, ferocious and never held back. Nottingham has rarely produced a quicker bowler with such threatening intent.

Derek Randall was that lovable free scoring batsman who simply melted the hearts of the Trent Bridge crowd during the 1970s. But he'll always be remembered for those long, loping legs that fielded at deep mid wicket with all the care and vigilance of a Nottingham copper. Randall seemed to lope across the ground, lengthening his stride and picking up the ball with both efficiency and athleticism.

Now though Nottingham gave us an England and South Africa Test that started briskly and encouragingly but then fell into the briefest lull before motoring towards a hearty end to the first day of play. South Africa finished on 309-6 which could have been worse but, when all was said and done, fair to middling. They are still a side packed with high quality players but never quite seem to gel on the big occasion. At the moment the likes of India and Pakistan are leading lights on the world stage but South Africa have never been that far behind.

The first ball was smartly clipped off the back foot and there followed a long sequence of flashing cover drives and slashing square cuts that simply whistled over the ground. South Africa were enjoying themselves hugely, feasting hungrily on occasional loose bowling from the England pace attack of Jimmy Anderson and Stuart Broad.

In reasonably rapid succession Dean Elgar was caught brilliantly by Liam Dawson at deep backward square leg, Quinton De Kock was caught by Alistair Cook off the smooth as butter bowling of Stuart Broad, Hashim Amla caught by Mark Wood off the consistently accurate and businesslike bowling of Stuart Broad. Heino Kuhn was bowled by Stuart Broad and Temba Bavuma was caught down the leg side by the superbly agile wicket keeping of Johnny Bairstow.

Now respectability had arrived in the evening shadows and South Africa ended the day with Vernon Philander not out for an impressive 54. This has all the makings of an ebbing and flowing Test series which could be decided by important players and important contributions.There is a long way to go in this match but all the omens suggest that this could be a cracker.

But I have to make one or two observations on body language, fashion statements, and the facial hair of the England players. Jimmy Anderson began by stretching from side to side, quickly rubbing his hands together in anticipation of prolific wicket taking and then bouncing up and down nimbly on his toes when the moment demanded it.

 There were the floppy white hats of the England players which did look appropriately summery and then there were those very classy and voguish beards which have almost become a sporting fashion statement. Are we to suppose that the South Africa batsmen have modelled themselves on WG Grace? What would the good Doctor have made of today's proceedings in Nottingham? Perhaps he would blast his way emphatically to a very confident century or two. A summer without cricket would be a summer in the very poorest of health. For the next few days Trent Bridge will be positively spellbound. Derek Randall would have felt completely at home. In fact is that Randall I can see in the crowd? That's a six into the pavilion umpire. Let the fun begin.  

Summer holidays, happy birthday celebrations, singing waiters and Greek hospitality.

Summer holiday, happy birthday celebrations, singing waiters and Greek hospitality.

So there we were floating in the middle of the Mediterranean and pinching ourselves at the sheer idyllic tranquillity. It was like something out of a Joseph Conrad novel with all those salty, sea- going, nautical adventures. For a moment your mind took you yearningly back to that famous Cliff Richard film where an old Routemaster bus trundled its way along a sun baked Greek road while Una Stubbs and Melvyn Hayes laughed and gallivanted their way around the Med. They looked like those rock stars who spend most of their careers writing joyous songs on the back of cigarette packets, happily carefree and full of the joys of summer.

 We're all going on a summer holiday. No more worries for a week or two. Fun and laughter on a summer holiday to make our dreams come true. Truly, it was time to re- charge our batteries, don a natty sombrero or maybe the very popular trilby hats so rakishly worn by the men. And then my wife, father in law and I climbed aboard a Thomson cruise ship and ventured into the smooth, centrally heated seas of the Mediterranean, the vastness and immensity of it all leaving us all in a state of breathless astonishment, a dreamlike location where life simply couldn't have got any better. But life is there for the living and how we supped at the nectar of good living.

We all know that, for the best part of several decades, cruising has become the most fashionable choice of holiday for the Brits. In the old days perhaps the stereotypical images that became associated with cruising seemed unavoidable. Cruising the world was coated with an almost stardust glamour, an expedition on the high seas that had to be accompanied with dinners with the captain, quoits at the back of a ship then wining and eating in an atmosphere of stupendous elegance. It has to be said that we were not disappointed. Then there were the singing waiters and the daily happy birthday celebrations topped off with an appealingly colourful selection of balloons.

For the best part of a week the Spirit ship provided us with a floating five star hotel, gracious hospitality from all of the members of the excessively welcoming staff from the waiters to the entertainments officers and then the chambermaids who could never had done enough to make our holiday one we'd never ever forget. They smiled, they laughed, joked and giggled, sprayed our hands with a cleaning fluid almost constantly and then made us feel deeply at home. To those of a cynical turn and a misery guts disposition it might have smacked of superficiality and show but no this was the real thing and we all loved the attention, the pampering, the positive vibes, the endless merriment and mirth. We've all become cruising converts and there can be nothing finer or more luxurious. Travelling couldn't get any simpler.

I have to admit that it's taken me quite a while to be converted now but cruising really does tick all of the right boxes. It's a long, glorious voyage into a world far removed from the nitty gritty of life back in Britain where life becomes rooted in a constant treadmill of rush hour traffic to work, sprinting for the early morning train, paying all manner of bills and then going through the whole repetitive schedule over and over again until eventually it all wears us down with its mundane predictability.

And so we all set out on our exotic adventure with very few expectations because we knew we'd be lavished with all the goodies that come almost automatically with cruising. From the moment you step on board all the whistles and bells are literally rung with some resonance. The fixtures and fittings are there for your further delectation and the ship nosed its way out of a port in deepest Dubrovnik, a jewelled island, a scarred and bruised but still defiant remnant of the old Yugoslavia.

Our first afternoon was spent in Dubrovnik, a brief excursion around a quiet, modest but still fairly lively spot where most of the locals seemed to be wandering around in sleepy siesta mood. A small huddle of taxis were furiously haggling and bartering for your money. There were our friendly tour guides who just wanted you to go on their tour which had to be cheap and worth the money because they were quite clearly convinced that their guided tour would prove to be the ultimate bargain.

My wife, father and law and I then set out on what was billed as a Jewish walking tour but the attendance was not the one we were hoping for so the rest of the tour consisted of a quick stroll around some ancient walls and what seemed to be the semblance of dusty sunken baths from some thousands of years old civilisation. It probably didn't lift our hearts but at least it was a gentle introduction to our first day on the cruise. We were promised an extremely old synagogue but didn't quite know what to make of the whole experience.

Our first day took us into the heart of the Greece, the cradle of civilisation, Greece at her most charming, her most beautiful, her most visually striking and a Greece that has been there for so long now that perhaps we've taken it for granted. This was Greece with its timeless mythology, its tales of thunderous battles, blood soaked conflicts, Homer and Apollo, its relaxed exuberance, its rampant and modern tourism, the mysteries that may never be resolved and the secrets carefully hidden away in its broken temples.

The first port of call was Athens, the capital city of Greece and the birthplace of the Olympic Games. In 1896, Athens was the place where it all happened for the Olympic movement, where the rings were formed, the ideals set in place and the amateur ethos of sport laid its first foundation stone. We all know what happened when those big, bad school playground bullies of commercialism joined in. By the beginning of the 21st century the world went back to Athens but this time the central theme was money and high finance with just a hint of Mcdonalds in the air and huge tins of Coca Cola.

We were taken to the original Olympic stadium which, to all outward appearances, looks as though somebody has come along and completely sliced off one half of the site and left it in a horrible state of dereliction and disrepair. There still remained the rising tiers of the amphitheatre but somebody really ought to get hold of the builders and architects because this looked like appalling neglect. Still there was a prominent reminder of Greek history in the middle of a bustling capital city.

Then we moved onto Corinth which, as the name suggests, has its derivation in the Corinthian spirit, the spirit of fair play and sportsmanship which should reside quite comfortably in the Olympic rule book but frequently gets all mixed up in doping scandals and corruption. Corinth is surrounded by crumbling ruins, more antiquated churches, a couple of monasteries for good measure and a very real presence of the past and the present

Corinth has crumbling pillars and columns wherever you look, more chalky dust, and more coughing vestiges of once proud buildings which have now vanished into a empty pavement where all voices fall on stony ground. The tour guides will tell you of the destructive earthquake which flattened Corinth many hundreds of thousands of years ago and how Corinth picked itself up again and re-built from scratch. The Corinthian spirit may seem tired and old fashioned but the romantics still believe that we can go back again and it may not be too late after all.

Then there was Katakolon, perhaps one of the tiniest shipping ports in the whole world. In fact if you  didn't know any better you could have been sure that Katakolon wasn't there at all. Not a great deal of any significance seems to take place in in Katakolon apart perhaps from a group of fisherman playing a noisy game of draughts outside an equally as boisterous taverna. Apparently the smashing of plates in Greek restaurants isn't quite as common as it used to be but here in Katakolon the licence to entertain is still applicable. Once again Katakolon had more tortured temples, crushed columns and piteous pediments with loose stones. But the Olympic narrative seemed to be almost sorrowfully scattered about like a war torn city, destroyed for ever, wiped from view irreparably.

We then trod on the hallowed ground of Itea which to the outsider, looks as though it must have been the spiritual home for all of Greece's great philosophers and thinkers from way back when. Here Apollo can almost be sensed and the whole story once again maybe fondly recalled. Once again the monasteries are prettily dotted about Itea like daisy chains. Wherever you go graffiti seems to be the most artistic form of world expression and Corinth, Athens, Katakolon and Itea are no different. Huge letters and decorative flourishes are printed on more or less every Greek wall and here are the indelible messages of disaffected youth and some very telling protests into the bargain.

Then there are those delightfully narrow and twisting back streets and alleyways, tiny souvenir shops tenderly embracing every corner of every street. There are more cafes and more restaurants where perhaps restaurants should never be but do exist. There are tightly knit rows of shops that sell jewellery in golden abundance, sparkling diamonds and rubies glinting and winking at you seductively. The shop owners optimistically invite you in for a day of heavy investment but then sadly retreat when they discover that you're only window shopping.

So here endeth my first holiday report and my initial set of observations of those small, unheralded corners of Greece that never hog the national limelight but it's now time to reflect on a week of unbridled joy and pleasure. These are the watercolour prints of ancient Greece and for the next couple of weeks I'll tell you a little more about our Greek pilgrimage. It was quite the most memorable of all vacations and one that will echo and resonate throughout the ages with memories that will be stored away for posterity and richly remembered.  

Happy Independence Day America, the land of the free, we salute you.

Happy Independence Day America, the land of the free, we salute you.

Happy Independence Day America, the land of the free, we salute you. Here in dear old Blighty, the British would like to take off our cap and express our whole- hearted appreciation for everything the USA has always represented throughout the centuries. Granted you've got Donald Trump but hey maybe that's a good thing in the greater scheme of things. It needn't be regarded as a complete disaster because I think the Americans love an underdog, a man who, without necessarily charming everybody he meets, still meets a certain criteria, whatever that criteria is.

 Still it could have been a whole lot worse because you could have had Hilary Clinton who was probably the worst of a bad bunch and quite possibly things have worked out for the best. Corruption comes in strange packages and the trouble is that some of us can still smell it. But when all is said and done this is your day of celebration America so get out there, stand proudly in front of the Stars and Stripes, sing the National Anthem and remember that there is a considerable amount to shout about and you've still got those wonderful jam doughnuts and you can still smell the coffee.

So my American friends I think it's time to acknowledge the good things in the American constitution. George Washington certainly knew a thing or two when it came to being one of the founding fathers of the USA. It's hard to believe that several centuries later the Americans could boast a million radio stations, a massive choice of TV channels from all directions and wake up in the morning to that wonderful subway grate that once so amused Marilyn Monroe and then gave us such accomplished singers such as Nat King Cole, Stevie Wonder, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, Neil Diamond and Bing Crosby. Truly, America your cup overfloweth.

America is the land of the free, the land of abundance, the land of profusion, Central Park, New York, Los Angeles, California, Chicago and a world of dizzying, bewildering speed, of soaring skyscrapers, hundreds and thousands of cafes and restaurants on every street, road and back street, towering buildings  dominating the American landscape as far as the eye can see. But America we all think you're brilliant because when 9/11 ripped out the heart of the United States you still came through because you're enormously resilient, resourceful, full of character, spirit, heart, fervent belief and a nation that has passionate love of its own country which the world rightly commends.

It would be easy to dwell on the tragic consequences of that fatal day in September 2001 because none could have legislated on quite how unexpected and devastating an incident could reduce one country to such heart wrenching grief. Even 16 years later the world finds it impossible to comprehend the monumental magnitude of the New York catastrophe. Thousands of post mortems and painful analyses later and the world shares your mortification, the indefinable loss. But then there is a  sense that America is standing tall, finding acceptance and closure while never forgetting those horrific images of the Two Towers. But America is recovering, it is getting there, it is stronger than ever before and it will never allow the evil forces of terrorism to tear it in half.

On a much lighter note it must not be forgotten that America is rejoicing in its Independence Day festivities, a day devoted to fun, happiness and barbecues in every neighbourhood, state, city and every garden and park. They'll drape the Star and Stripes from every lamp-post, every door, every rooftop and every street corner. This is because the Americans love a party, love to feel good about themselves and unashamedly trumpets its qualities and virtues. The Americans boogie on down to soul, dance themselves silly, wave their banners of protest from time to time and then cruise down to Hollywood or Las Vegas for an inquisitive peep at its celebrities, the superstars, baseball and American football and basketball  icons.

Here in Britain we just look in stunned wonderment at the sheer vastness of the United States where the sidewalks are twice the size of the ones in Britain. On my first ever family trip to America in 2002 my breath was taken away by the size of everything which seemed to be a thousand times larger than everything Britain could offer.

On that same holiday my wife and our very young kids bounded forward into the fabulous Florida which left me both flabbergasted and speechless. The theme parks are of course legendary but those lunchtime pretzels and chicken legs still leave me with the warmest memories. We all knew about Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Minnie Mouse, Pluto and all of those smiling cartoon characters who Disney so affectionately bequeathed to us by way of a legacy.

America though is a welcoming, thoroughly friendly country, admirably amiable, the perfect host and so open to radical change. Occasionally we insist that it may be too much for our liking, that the expressions of goodwill and dazzling hospitality have to be toned down. Of course the world will have a nice day and that much became evident on frequent occasions. The bitter cynics though will always do their utmost to run America down and denigrate its every decision but if looked at objectively America does get it right and then gets it wrong but that's the way things are and maybe America would never have it any other way.

 The critics think this is all show, cosmetic, shallow and affected but this is quite clearly not the case because America just loves being America and reminds us of that fact at every opportunity. Here in Britain we are continually amazed and awe stricken at those baseball games where whole families bring their picnics to matches, drinking together, eating together, behaving in the most exemplary fashion and turning the whole occasion into much more than a baseball match. It is America uniting together and feeling good about themselves, of elevating everybody and everything to the highest of heights.

And then there's American football which sadly is beyond me but rest assured this is nothing personal. What I do know is that the Superbowl looks like the British equivalent to our FA Cup Final but this Final takes place at the beginning of February. American football is heavy in the country's symbolism, part of its cultural heartbeat, its silky fabric, its dynamics and the way it presents itself to the outside world.

When America turns its discussion to sport it remembers with overflowing affection its heroes, the personalities who so illuminated its past like those flashing lights in New York. America still fondly harks back to Babe Ruth, Joe D'Maggio, Rocky Marciano, Muhammad Ali and then turns its gaze back to James Stewart, James Cagney, Gregory Peck, Orson Wells, its endless Presidents throughout the ages, Burt Lancaster and all those rugged, very masculine figures who defined their generation and stuck out their jaws with American pride.

We all have our faults and flaws, foibles and shortcomings and surely America would be the first to admit to those weak points, its vulnerabilities. But America always make you feel as if nothing is too much trouble, that everything is for the long term benefit rather than the detriment. Today is the day when America puffs out its chest, cranks up its sense of patriotism, its extrovert personality, its easily identifiable characteristics and its happy go lucky demeanour.

Sadly most of us still perceive America as the gun culture where murder and crime go hand in hand and every cop show is completely consumed with blood, bullets and ghastly death. But that's what it says in the American constitution and who are we to argue with that. Occasionally we look aghast at the violence and volatility of a world that none of us can quite our heads around. And then we look at American TV and discover the darker and more unsavoury aspects of life. But only briefly because once again they always bring things back to another street carnival or a lively TV chat show. The good life.

At the moment we have Law and Order, CSI and a whole series of criminal and forensic programmes that look as though the whole underbelly of America is being widely exposed and examined for the morbid curiosity of its audience. But maybe this is an agenda that has to be addressed because if we don't talk about it perhaps crime will never go away or indeed be completely eliminated.

Still it's time to say to extend our best wishes to our America friends on this Independence Day because you'll always be our close allies, friends for life and always there for us. For almost the entire first half of  the year Americans seemed to have been gripped by a dialogue so emotionally charged that it could never be understood. There was a very real sense of controversy, of crazy, conflicting confrontation, of frightening turmoil and uncertainty and a new President who didn't seem believable at any time.

But here we are at the beginning of July and Donald Trump is still gesturing, still pouring out his innermost grievances, still expressing views that seem contentious and highly debatable but could be considered as potentially dangerous. But Trump is the President of the United States and when all is said and done this is the undeniable fact and reality.

With that blond, orange hair and that almost permanently smug expression America can only look on from the sidelines and wonder whether it really is happening to them. Trump is here for the duration and never has the social media community achieved such widespread publicity. Trump is Twitter's best friend and if the man needs a better platform then Trump is all over it. In these days of urgent communication Trump seems like the perfect spokesman. Mind you I wonder what Big Daddy would have made of his very ground breaking wrestling antics. My grand-dad would have loved it all. A ONE, er, a Two er. Three falls and a submission Mr Trump.  America we all admire you.

Johanna Konta- Britain's newest tennis hope.

Johanna Konta- Britain's newest Wimbldeon tennis hope.

Remember where you heard the name first. Her name is Johanna Konta and she's safely into the next round of Wimbledon without so much as dropping a single bead of sweat. Konta beat Taiwan's Hsieh Su Wei so rapidly and clinically that it was all over before the last of Wimbledon's evening shadows had fallen lingeringly and lovingly over No. 1 Court.

For what seems an eternity but is now exactly 40 years ago, Britain will place its faith and trust in our latest female tennis hope for the future. It only seems like yesterday since Virginia Wade curtsied in front of the Queen in a mauve cardigan before lifting the women's singles Final trophy. Wade beat the robust but ultimately outclassed Dutch player Betty Stove and Britain began to wonder whether that day would ever repeat itself in the future.

 Sue Barker bravely suggested that the potential was always there and Jo Durie was gallant to the bitter end but none really seriously challenged the supremacy of Chris Evert, Martina Navratilova or more recently the Williams sisters even the powerful Steffi Graff. So Konta got down to the task in hand and patiently wore down Su Wei before swatting away her opponent like one of those familiar summer wasps.

And so it was that Johanna Konta bounced and skipped and jumped gingerly on the baselines of Wimbledon rather like the eager debutant that she was. She looked confident, she played with all the confidence of a new kid on the block and simply brushed aside Su Wei so swiftly and purposefully that the match was all over in just an hour and the crowd had barely finished off its first punnet of strawberries and cream and its deeply appetising chicken salad from Waitrose.

In two quickfire sets Konta swept aside her Taiwanese opponent 6-2, 6-2 and seemed to treat the whole game as if it were some leisurely dress rehearsal or a fun knockabout practice match. Poor Ms Su Wei must have felt like some unwelcome impostor who needn't have bothered to turn up. In fact such was the efficiency and sheer power of Konta's groundstrokes that the game was all up before most of us had had time to form any considered analysis of her game.

But then we settled down and began to form our first impressions of Konta and it has to be said that those impressions were positive and bode well for the future. It is impossible to gauge this debut performance because the Wimbledon fortnight is a gruelling schedule and many are the obstacles that Konta will have to overcome. Still, although there is a long way to go, we will calmly follow her progress in much the way that we might have done with Virginia Wade.

The signs, even at this early stage, are good and we will cheer, encourage, yell triumphantly when the forehand winners go fizzing down the tramlines and then privately hope that she might go that step further. After all, the men had to wait over 75 years to find a Scotsman named Andy Murray and we all know what happened after that. Yes the man was knighted and suddenly Britain had discovered a genuine legend. At times it was hard and punishing to watch but after all our hearts had been broken by Tim Henman, Andy Murray has lifted the British game to its highest Olympian plateau.

So what are to make of Johanna Konta on her first display at Wimbledon? Rather like an actress on her first night at the National Theatre, she naturally looked nervous and possibly apprehensive but those feelings were soon cast aside. In fact once those initial exchanges had been negotiated Konta just breezed through like a seasoned veteran. Shortly she would glide and waltz her way into shots as if the Centre Court was her second home.

Konta was tall and angular, correct and imposing, totally in control from the start and the serving stance was one that had to be observed and remarked upon. Only the most hardened critics would have found fault with it but Konta just rose to this occasion with the sturdiest maturity and a nerveless poise. Dare we say it but could Britain begin to believe that its tennis players have finally found its long awaited star quality, players who could take on the very best without freezing on the big occasion? Surely not. But this could be the moment we've all been waiting for so long now.

With yellow strings on her rackets, there was an intensity and seriousness about Konta's game that maybe we hadn't really seen in a female tennis player for many a decade. Her serving action was the most pleasant of revelations. She briefly twirled and twisted her racket quite impressively, leant down to the ball and then bounced it in a kind of slow motion, deliberate fashion. The leg lurched forward like a 100m sprinter on the blocks and then Konta launched herself into the swing of the racket, soaring up onto her heels before blasting the ball with so much ferocity that most of the crowd must have thought they were witnessing a missile in full flight.

Then Konta released the full array of strokes. There were the meaty, double fisted backhands that seemed to fly across Su Wei's body, rising all the way and then becoming impossible to return. There was a vicious swing and whip to a vast majority of Konta's strokes that stole the hearts of the purists in the Wimbledon crowd. For many years British tennis has yearned for a player who can dictate a match, shape its destiny and then just clatter the ball with merciless intent and a winning mentality.

This is not to say that the likes of Sue Barker, Annabel Croft and Jo Durie were any better or worse than their most recent successors but the truth is that the ladies have somehow agonisingly missed out on the big time and Wimbledon glory. So now we home in on our Johanna and hope against hope that this could be our year, Britain's year to clinch a first ladies singles title since Her Majesty's silver Jubilee and the whole nation put out its tables for those patriotic street parties.

Konta, once into her full stride, moved easily and fluidly around the court, punched her shots firmly and authoritatively into her opponents chest and then recognised almost immediately that this tennis malarkey was a piece of cake. Nothing to it. She sent down her serves like rockets into outer space, hammering forehands with purpose and finality, cross court forehands that whistled past her Taiwanese opponent and then mixing it all up with a generous helping of backhand slice and spin. It was a technical masterclass and Wimbledon just sighed as if it were about to get another tantalising glimpse of greatness.

Before Wimbledon had time for any kind of sober reflection Konta had wrapped this one up, done and dusted, put the prettiest bow on it and marched into the next round at Wimbledon with scarcely a shrug of the shoulder and very little to imply that there was anything wrong with British tennis. Once  again Wimbledon looked summery, floral, ivy clad walls glowing beautifully in the summer light and then just a quintessential English picture postcard.

Now a stillness falls across the smooth green lawns of Wimbledon, the crowds quietly expectant and an early evening settles across London SW19 restfully and happily. This is the first day and the serving lines are still green and yet to turn a dusty brown as the tournament progresses. But this is part of the Wimbledon charm offensive and how we look forward to its much anticipated arrival. The umpires are ready, the ball boys are ready and the players have never been better prepared. So then. The British public would dearly like Andy Murray to complete a hat-trick of wins. No pressure there Andy.

George Best- the peerless genius. Football's finest of them all.

George Best- the peerless genius. Football's finest of them all.

Tonight on BBC 2 an hour and half long tribute will be made to one of the greatest footballers Britain has ever produced. It will be a revealing and sensitive profile on a life that was tragically cut short and never really blossomed until it was too late. Of course George Best was arguably one of the best players the world has ever seen, a peerless genius who treated a football with all the grace, care and tenderness of a much loved family friend, always inquiring about its welfare and always trusting that it would respond both warmly and favourably to its gentle requests. Sometimes the ball would sit up co-operatively and then do whatever Best told it to.

For the best part of just over a decade, George Best was one of British football's finest, silkiest, stylish, thoughtful, provocative and pioneering of players. Throughout the 1960s Britain had wit, humour, remarkable creativity, art, positive thinking, fashionable flair, energy, electricity and ambitious idealism. George Best was all of the above with a hugely marketable and natural talent that never faded.

When Best passed away 12 years ago the shock waves could be felt in those far distant corners of the world compass where Best had left his indelible legacy. Best's back story has now been well documented and the details are grotesquely gory now but even now the sadness and poignancy of his passing may never dissolve. The questions may never be answered and the memories will always be fondly cherished.

The horribly incurable alcoholic that Best would become and the self destructive tendencies that so terribly hastened his death, were the inevitable forerunner to a much more fatal disease. If only he'd allowed himself to be guided, loved, needed, coaxed and cajoled by Sir Matt Busby, the man who became Best's father figure but then gave up when Best simply gave up, surrendered and couldn't find his way out of that nightmarishly complex maze.

But with the benefit of hindsight Best will now be a cautionary tale and glaring warning to a modern generation that have now thankfully heeded the lessons of that debauched 1960s past and turned instead to healthier diets and abundant bottles of water during a break in matches. It is hard to believe that one man could so crumble helplessly into a world of hellish, playboy hedonism, complete self indulgence and a freefall into the dirtiest gutter.

Sadly George Best was always the very much the self styled exhibitionist, a fiercely independent spirit who was simply gripped by drink and the distracting company of young girls. In the end it all became too much for Best, engulfed and simply claimed by the demons, the excess, the temptations, the vices, the late nights out, the bleary eyed mornings when clarity became impossible and alcohol became just another part of his footballing vocabulary.

Best though of course still had it all. There was the indefinably beautiful ball control, the close control, the sorcery, the trickery, the feline flexibility, the impishness, the delicate soft shoe shuffles, the shimmies and wriggles, the devious feints, the side steps, the drag backs years before Johan Cruyff, those wonderful moments of delicate dexterity when there would be a sharp intake of breath. George Best transformed, shaped, moulded, reformed a game that might have been beyond salvation. Then sorrowfully and heartbreakingly it all unravelled and the dancing days were well and truly over.

He was cunning, cute, dashing, darting, insufferable, witty, wise, whimsical and immensely skilful. He caught the mood of his generation, constructed his own very private world and, for much of his career, was, for all his wayward extravagances, essentially shy, modest and self deprecating. Above all though Best was a classical striker, midfielder and the wiliest of wingers. He would dart and prowl with intent, carrying the ball with almost ridiculous ease, juggling with the ball in full flight, slaloming past defenders as if they were apparitions and then scoring quite breathtakingly.

The images were supremely magical and endless. There was the moment in an early 1970s match when Manchester United, in full flower, faced a Spurs side that had Pat Jennings, a goalkeeper with enormous hands, superb positional sense and a genuine command of his penalty area. Jennings was both athletic and agile but on an unforgettable day at Old Trafford Jennings could only bow down in admiration at his opponent.

In splendid isolation on the six yard box, Best seemed to stop for what seemed an age. Trapping the ball with his instep, Best looked up, surveyed his options, did a quick piece of land management, stunned the ball and then lobbed the ball over Jennings head as if Jennings was not there. It was quite the most sublime goal and none could have executed the movement with such perfect precision. In fact it was a case of precision engineering with a lovely twist. You were reminded of  a seasoned golfer chipping a ball into the 18th hole of the Open from the roughest of fairways.

Then there was the moment when Best literally taunted and mocked and humiliated West Ham full back John Mcdowell who must have thought he was  deliberately ridiculing him, poking his tongue at Mcdowell, undermining his intelligence. Best turned and twisted from the edge of the penalty area, before arrowing his way into the area of danger, cutting back once again before slamming the ball into the West Ham net. It was a moment of pure, untarnished brilliance, a footballing gem that shone lustrously like the brightest ruby or emerald.

None would forget that fantastic exhibition season at Fulham when Best teamed up with the similarly impudent Rodney Marsh, both men displaying the full range of their showmanship, the sheer splendour of their ostentatious skills. How the Fulham fans marvelled at their fortune that season. But it would only last for the briefest period of time which is more or less where George Best came in.

Best, inexplicably quit the game at the age of 27 and there was an almost shattering sense of anti climax about it all that seemed wretchedly unfair. How dare this master manipulator of a ball retire from football when quite clearly there were so many bountiful days in front of him? Why couldn't Sir Matt Busby or Wilf McGuinness or even Frank O' Farrell have been more persuasive. In fact why couldn't  they go down on their hands and knees and beg Best to change his mind? It seemed a travesty of justice that Best would never appear at a World Cup or European Championship.

Much to the delight of all us though Best did have his glittering night on the biggest stage of all. It was the one night when he was somehow fated to be the star attraction. In 1968 Manchester United faced the massively talented Benfica, a side singularly conducted by the equally as gifted Eusebio at the old Wembley Stadium. It was the European Cup Final and Best was about to become the red-shirted emperor with a Midas touch.

With the lights shining brightly in the Wembley corporate boxes, Best illuminated Wembley with the kind of display that United fans could only have fantasised about after the Munich air disaster in 1958. Now Best took over the game, body swerving daringly and voluptuously, snakelike hips slithering through the undergrowth of the Benfica defence. That night Best had a royal command performance before United's breathless fans, eventually rounding the Benfica keeper for one of  United's winning goals in quite the most astonishing extra time of any European Cup Final.

But oh so calamitously the champagne went sour, the lights went out, the drink simply drowning and overwhelming this Irish imp. It was the most appalling fall from grace for any sportsman and eventually it all went haywire, the alcoholic debauchery strangling and choking him cruelly. Of course there was the game where Best once took off his boot and still performed miracles with a football, of course there was the occasion when a hotel chambermaid, opening his bedroom door, found Best sprawled out on his bed with substantial amounts of money, a Miss World and wondering where it all went wrong.

In the cold light of day George Best will always have a comfortable place in any world class footballing hall of fame. He was confident, deliciously imaginative, shamelessly flamboyant, a player with perfect co-ordination, balance, quick, fleet footed, capricious, a footballing wizard. It hardly seems like 12 years since his passing but Best will always have a place in the hearts of those who witnessed him at his peak. Never has the surname of one man been so apt and fitting. We'll always miss you Bestie.