My books No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics.
Here I go again. It's time for some book promotion again. I know what you're probably thinking. Why doesn't that guy who keeps plugging, promoting and reminding people about his books please stop? But I'm now the author of three books of which I'm tremendously proud. I write because I love words, the use of words, language, the descriptive language that the English language is so eminently capable of delivering to us.
I make no apologies for promoting my books because writing is something that now energises me, excites me and makes me feel so good about life which is indeed a privilege and honour. My health is my wealth and words, sentences, imagery and word pictures give me an enormous thrill and so much private satisfaction. So here goes my latest book promotion.
My second book No Joe Bloggs is my life journey so far, my memoir, the people, places, TV programmes, radio stations, music and sport that made and continue to make life so richly satisfying. It's funny, moving, nostalgic and lyrical, a 264 page account of my childhood, growing up in Ilford, Essex, my parents, grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, a vividly descriptive account of the London and the West End that my late and wonderful dad felt such a close affinity to.
No Joe Bloggs is still available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online. It's a detailed and I think very descriptive homage to everything and everybody in my life from my favourite movies of all time, my favourite music, bands and singers, pen portraits of football clubs with a humorously affectionate slant, my late dad's fictitious account of his holiday to Las Vegas, chilling out with his revered heroes Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior and Tony Bennett and loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, TV programmes from the USA and Britain and my take on some of the countries around this beautiful planet.
In my latest book called Joe's Jolly Japes, also available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books- A-Million online, I give my personal take on the English middle classes, England, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, the World Cup for the England football team throughout recent history, their triumphs and disasters, their victories and defeats, the players and managers, British seaside resorts, the West End department stores in London, the West End, more memories of Ilford, Essex where I grew up and more pop culture.
Finally there's my first book Victorian Madness Lyrics, an affectionate homage to Suggs and the lads, Madness, the brilliant British ska band who continue to spread happiness wherever they go. Victorian Madness Lyrics, available at FeedaRead.com, is a crazy, zany but I think very original book that places the emphasis on wildly over the top, posh metaphors for most of the band's back catalogue. If you like language, grammar and words you'll love Victorian Madness Lyrics. Here are some examples from my book. The House of Fun is the Establishment of Amusement, Our House is One's Abode. If you fancy a giggle and chuckle then this is the book for you.
So there you are. Another reference to my books. Of course this is an unashamed promo for my literary contribution to the world. If you've already read any of my books I'd be grateful for a review of any of these books on my Amazon page for No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes. Thanks everybody. You're all brilliant and if you like vivid descriptions of people, places and events then you've come to the right place.
Thursday 31 August 2017
Tuesday 29 August 2017
West Indies, cricket, the 1970s and great players.
West Indies, cricket, the 1970s and great players.
The arrival of the West Indies cricket team to British shores takes the mind back, as it invariably does on such occasions to the 1970s when Grease was the world, Saturday Night Fever sent to box office takings to record breaking, phenomenal heights and Gerd Muller scored a cracking goal bring the World Cup back to West Germany in the 1974 World Cup Final against an unfortunate Holland.
But for most of the 1970s world cricket was dominated by the West Indies in a way that no country had so thoroughly reigned supreme for such a remarkable length of a time. In fact a heavy sigh was heard every time a West Indies cricket team clattered their way down the pavilion steps of Lord's, Trent Bridge, Headingley, Old Trafford and last but not least the Oval where a gas holder continues to provide the quirkiest of architectural backdrops.
The West Indies were indeed the governors, commanders in chief, the model of loose limbed athleticism, full of feline flexibility, a powerful presence on the field, superb fielders, quick witted, intelligent in their field placings, lethal bowlers and colossal run scorers. They possessed the finest batsmen, the happiest of cricketers and just a pleasure to watch.
As a team the West Indies, led by the indomitably influential Clive Lloyd, would psychologically terrorise their opponents the Caribbean crusaders would revel in their supremacy. Lloyd, affectionately and rightly nicknamed as 'The Panther', would stretch out those long, loping legs and prowl in the undergrowth of deep mid wicket or cover just waiting for the most inviting of catches to drop gently into those safe and secure hands.
And yet the West Indies were much more than a bunch of superior cricketers who played some of the most superlative cricket the world had ever seen. During the 1970s their players were blessed, hard wired, wondrously gifted, a team of naturalness, instinctive brilliance in any position of a cricket pitch and full of admirable adaptability when things were going slightly wrong which was rare.
The West Indies were never programmed or manufactured, mechanised or contrived. They were carefully created, prodigiously creative, shaped into a harmonious unit, sculpted by the best chisel and moulded to perfection. They played and still do- but not quite to the same extent- some of the most charming, educated and refined cricket in the world.
The trouble is though that the cricket that the West Indies used to give us is not nearly as spectacular or flamboyant as the 1970s incarnation and the reasons may be too numerous to mention. They tell us that the kids no longer bat and bowl on those luxurious Caribbean beaches, the desire to hit a cricket ball or catch a cricket ball no longer as passionate as it used to be and the familiar hook for six or four into an Antiguan bar is no longer the norm. Maybe West Indian cricket has just vanished into some temporary oblivion but could be back one day. We must hope it will.
Back in the misty 1970s the West Indies were just irresistible, unplayable, at times impossibly talented. They had players such as Alvin Kalicharran, Rohan Kanhai and then players of cleverness, subtlety, majesty and cricketing brutality. Openers such as Gordon Greenidge were followed closely by Roy Fredericks and then the extraordinary Viv Richards left most of the neutrals stupefied, dazzled and totally enchanted by cricket of the highest and most aristocratic rank.
Indeed it was Viv Richards who left us gasping for adjectives, superlatives, adverbs and pronouns. Richards portrayed the game in vivid strokes of genius and beauty. He would begin a day's play at Lords shirt fluttering nervously as if blissfully aware that a huge and imposing bat would smash the ball as hard as he could, lofting the ball into the skies with both vicious intent and fearsome ferocity. Richards, of course seemed, to have a rapier or bludgeon rather than a bat and the ball seemed to take an almost relentless punishment while Richards was at the crease.
Wearing that lovely maroon cap with the West Indian crest permanently etched onto the front of the cap, Richards would set about his task with all the seriousness and conviction of a man whose day at the office would be businesslike and pragmatic. Once set in for the day Richards would prepare his assault on any opposition bowling attack with the methodical meticulousness of a Rommel or Montgomery.
Alongside Greenidge, Richards would unfurl his full armoury of strokes that were meant to be punishing and indeed very punitive at times. But they were strokes of gold, silver and bronze, of steel and magnesium, explosive chemicals and combustible elements that simply blew his opponents away. Richards had destructive hooks, devastating pulls for four, pleasing glances of his back feet, a player of shrewdness, craftsmanship, an almost cricket spinner's deceit and deception, a cricketer of boldness and bravura, of flashing drives, square cutting beautifully over helpless fielders on the boundary and third man.
So it is that we return to the present day of West Indies cricket. The present day conflict at Headingley has resulted in convincing victory for the West Indies with one to play for the series. England will now hopefully limber up for their Ashes battle royale with Australia during the winter in buoyant spirits. But we will miss the lilting rhythms of the steel drums at the Oval or Headingley.
We will miss the throbbing, tropical heartbeat of a West Indian crowd, drumming insistently and cheerfully, always in the best of all moods regardless of the British weather. Above all we will miss the 1970s West Indies cricket team because they treated sport with both care and tender affection. Maybe that's what John Arlott may have meant when he referred to the fact that we take sport too seriously and life too lightly or maybe that's something I might have overheard.
The arrival of the West Indies cricket team to British shores takes the mind back, as it invariably does on such occasions to the 1970s when Grease was the world, Saturday Night Fever sent to box office takings to record breaking, phenomenal heights and Gerd Muller scored a cracking goal bring the World Cup back to West Germany in the 1974 World Cup Final against an unfortunate Holland.
But for most of the 1970s world cricket was dominated by the West Indies in a way that no country had so thoroughly reigned supreme for such a remarkable length of a time. In fact a heavy sigh was heard every time a West Indies cricket team clattered their way down the pavilion steps of Lord's, Trent Bridge, Headingley, Old Trafford and last but not least the Oval where a gas holder continues to provide the quirkiest of architectural backdrops.
The West Indies were indeed the governors, commanders in chief, the model of loose limbed athleticism, full of feline flexibility, a powerful presence on the field, superb fielders, quick witted, intelligent in their field placings, lethal bowlers and colossal run scorers. They possessed the finest batsmen, the happiest of cricketers and just a pleasure to watch.
As a team the West Indies, led by the indomitably influential Clive Lloyd, would psychologically terrorise their opponents the Caribbean crusaders would revel in their supremacy. Lloyd, affectionately and rightly nicknamed as 'The Panther', would stretch out those long, loping legs and prowl in the undergrowth of deep mid wicket or cover just waiting for the most inviting of catches to drop gently into those safe and secure hands.
And yet the West Indies were much more than a bunch of superior cricketers who played some of the most superlative cricket the world had ever seen. During the 1970s their players were blessed, hard wired, wondrously gifted, a team of naturalness, instinctive brilliance in any position of a cricket pitch and full of admirable adaptability when things were going slightly wrong which was rare.
The West Indies were never programmed or manufactured, mechanised or contrived. They were carefully created, prodigiously creative, shaped into a harmonious unit, sculpted by the best chisel and moulded to perfection. They played and still do- but not quite to the same extent- some of the most charming, educated and refined cricket in the world.
The trouble is though that the cricket that the West Indies used to give us is not nearly as spectacular or flamboyant as the 1970s incarnation and the reasons may be too numerous to mention. They tell us that the kids no longer bat and bowl on those luxurious Caribbean beaches, the desire to hit a cricket ball or catch a cricket ball no longer as passionate as it used to be and the familiar hook for six or four into an Antiguan bar is no longer the norm. Maybe West Indian cricket has just vanished into some temporary oblivion but could be back one day. We must hope it will.
Back in the misty 1970s the West Indies were just irresistible, unplayable, at times impossibly talented. They had players such as Alvin Kalicharran, Rohan Kanhai and then players of cleverness, subtlety, majesty and cricketing brutality. Openers such as Gordon Greenidge were followed closely by Roy Fredericks and then the extraordinary Viv Richards left most of the neutrals stupefied, dazzled and totally enchanted by cricket of the highest and most aristocratic rank.
Indeed it was Viv Richards who left us gasping for adjectives, superlatives, adverbs and pronouns. Richards portrayed the game in vivid strokes of genius and beauty. He would begin a day's play at Lords shirt fluttering nervously as if blissfully aware that a huge and imposing bat would smash the ball as hard as he could, lofting the ball into the skies with both vicious intent and fearsome ferocity. Richards, of course seemed, to have a rapier or bludgeon rather than a bat and the ball seemed to take an almost relentless punishment while Richards was at the crease.
Wearing that lovely maroon cap with the West Indian crest permanently etched onto the front of the cap, Richards would set about his task with all the seriousness and conviction of a man whose day at the office would be businesslike and pragmatic. Once set in for the day Richards would prepare his assault on any opposition bowling attack with the methodical meticulousness of a Rommel or Montgomery.
Alongside Greenidge, Richards would unfurl his full armoury of strokes that were meant to be punishing and indeed very punitive at times. But they were strokes of gold, silver and bronze, of steel and magnesium, explosive chemicals and combustible elements that simply blew his opponents away. Richards had destructive hooks, devastating pulls for four, pleasing glances of his back feet, a player of shrewdness, craftsmanship, an almost cricket spinner's deceit and deception, a cricketer of boldness and bravura, of flashing drives, square cutting beautifully over helpless fielders on the boundary and third man.
So it is that we return to the present day of West Indies cricket. The present day conflict at Headingley has resulted in convincing victory for the West Indies with one to play for the series. England will now hopefully limber up for their Ashes battle royale with Australia during the winter in buoyant spirits. But we will miss the lilting rhythms of the steel drums at the Oval or Headingley.
We will miss the throbbing, tropical heartbeat of a West Indian crowd, drumming insistently and cheerfully, always in the best of all moods regardless of the British weather. Above all we will miss the 1970s West Indies cricket team because they treated sport with both care and tender affection. Maybe that's what John Arlott may have meant when he referred to the fact that we take sport too seriously and life too lightly or maybe that's something I might have overheard.
Saturday 26 August 2017
Notting Hill Carnival- a great London spectacle.
Notting Hill Carnival- a great London spectacle.
So here we are rapidly charging towards autumn. The leaves on the trees are still green and healthy looking and today we have been presented with some of the most handsome late summer sunshine that we can only hope will last for quite some time. The summer has been a summer of stark contrasts. June was pleasant and moderately satisfying, July was good, soggy, overcast and then intermittently warm, lovely but then ever so slightly disappointing. Still we've all got through the summer with perhaps one or two mumblings and rumblings of discontent but then we were suddenly reminded that it was probably a typical English summer.
August, likewise, has been full of light and shade, drizzly outbursts, heavy cloud cover, more torrential rain and then what some of us have come to recognise as dull and miserable days where all you want to do is hide under the bed covers and just throw in the white towel of surrender. Still there were the redeeming days when Britain had those richly nuanced mornings and afternoons when everything in the world felt just right. Yesterday, for instance was gorgeously summery and you wanted the day to go on for ever. Of course we've had weeks like this before but the consistency has been distinctly lacking.
Still this is the August Bank Holiday weekend and it's time to get out and about for perhaps the last time before the days draw in, 3.30 in the afternoon feels more like mid-night and autumn makes her gusty and blustery entrance, blowing fitfully at first and then intensifying by the day. Shortly the leaves on our finest and most venerable trees will fall achingly to the ground, chasing each other and scurrying around in the traditional fashion before assuming that rather sad, yellowish and pale colour that breaks your heart.
But this is the weekend that marks the beginning of the Notting Hill Carnival and already you can almost hear those delightful steel drums ringing mellifluously across West London because the Notting Hill Carnival provides London with her yearly soundtrack. It is that explosion of Caribbean colour, personality. happiness, mirth and merriment. It is that wonderful celebration of everything that London holds dear, that superb and wondrous spectacle where the young and old dance, boogie, shake their hips, smiling, laughing, acknowledging family, friends, beliefs and old fashioned attitudes that are positive rather than negative.
London has always prided itself on its proud multi-culturalism, its inclusivity and its broad acceptance of the strange, curious, eccentric and unusual. But the Notting Hall Carnival, for just over 50 years has given us street pageantry, life affirming music, jerk chicken, dancing policemen and women and a whole lot of love, cheesiness at times but the coolest of vibrant vibes.
Sadly, the Notting Hill has also been slightly overshadowed by the darker forces of crime, violence and controversial confrontations with the police. There have been disturbing clashes, mini riots and skirmishes, all of those darkly unnecessary events that should never have been associated with the Carnival at any time. But thankfully recent years have been mostly trouble free and harmony has been gratefully restored just when the fists and dangerous weapons may have intervened.
The first day of the Notting Hill Carnival is normally taken over by the children of London, a glorious outpouring of exuberant youth where the kids take to the streets wearing all of those outrageously coloured outfits that stretch as far as the eye can see. The smiling multitudes bang on their drums with an extraordinary passion, feeling, fervour and an uninhibited joy. If only the rest of the human race could take a leaf out of their book.
By Bank Holiday Monday morning the Carnival will be awash with spectacular processions of dancing, prancing, happy go lucky, deeply overjoyed people from everywhere. Shortly a small corner of West London will become transformed but only for a while. This is not to say that after Carnival the good people of Notting Hill suddenly refrain from boozy bacchanalia and frolicsome frolics but the Carnival is famously energetic, wondrously atmospheric and feels as though it should always be like that. Realistically though it has to go back to the everyday business of every day life and that's when the anti-climax may set in with a vengeance.
Still the day will go ahead and we will marvel at those astonishing, rainbow coloured beach shirts that the men and boys seem to take great delight in flaunting. Then we'll watch in wonder as the women shake their feathers, the glittery dresses, the flags and banners and of course more steel drums. The whole event snakes and winds its way around Notting Hill's by now elated back streets with a sense of euphoric well being and a genuine zest for life.
The smell of jerk chicken has always hung alluringly in the Notting Hill air, smoke drifting from the stalls rather like a camp fire in some distant wood. Then a vast parade of humanity files along in orderly fashion, grinning gleefully for the TV cameras, then thumping those drums in some entranced state as if to suggest that life should always be cherished and never taken for granted. It is a musical festival, echoing blasts of ska, rap, salsa and Northern soul music from every ghetto blaster in the land.
Then at the end of the day when the final incense sticks have been blown and the food rubbish has been completely swept away, evening will fall on another August Bank Holiday and the Carnival will take its warm place in London's most cultural history books. People will slowly walk back to their homes and the local residents will pray that everything has passed off peacefully. For those of us who have never been to Notting Hill the news images may be just enough to bring a beaming smile to our faces.
Yet the very concept of an English Bank Holiday at the end of August still leaves us slightly flummoxed. It is safe to assume that most of us will take the obvious opportunity to drive down to our invigorating seaside resorts where the gulls await with the keenest anticipation for their late August feed on the pier. But we don't mind because Southend, Brighton, Margate, Bournemouth and Blackpool still tick all the right boxes because that's what Bank Holidays are all about.
Maybe and quite nostalgically we may hope that the Mods, Teddy Boys and Girls and the Rockers will pull up thrillingly on their Vespa scooters, leather coats glistening with history, hair swept back neatly and all ready to roar along the sea front with perfect enthusiasm. For this was the way it was back in the 1960s when Brighton came alive just a hint of anarchy in the air but good natured all the same.
Here in Britain the August Bank Holiday is more or less the final seasonal chapter of the year. Before long we'll all be closing our doors, switching on the central heating, battening down the hatches, gazing out at darkening, brooding skies and then wishing it was spring and summer again. Those winter chills and shivering breezes will leave most of the nation regretful but cosy. The sweat shirts and pullovers will be aired for their annual deployment, Premier League football discussions will be properly to the fore and that world famous festival a week before the end of the year will totally pre-occupy us with all its religious and spiritual relevance. Still we can always look back to that final weekend in August when all was well in the world and even Donald Trump was overlooked. What a relief.
So here we are rapidly charging towards autumn. The leaves on the trees are still green and healthy looking and today we have been presented with some of the most handsome late summer sunshine that we can only hope will last for quite some time. The summer has been a summer of stark contrasts. June was pleasant and moderately satisfying, July was good, soggy, overcast and then intermittently warm, lovely but then ever so slightly disappointing. Still we've all got through the summer with perhaps one or two mumblings and rumblings of discontent but then we were suddenly reminded that it was probably a typical English summer.
August, likewise, has been full of light and shade, drizzly outbursts, heavy cloud cover, more torrential rain and then what some of us have come to recognise as dull and miserable days where all you want to do is hide under the bed covers and just throw in the white towel of surrender. Still there were the redeeming days when Britain had those richly nuanced mornings and afternoons when everything in the world felt just right. Yesterday, for instance was gorgeously summery and you wanted the day to go on for ever. Of course we've had weeks like this before but the consistency has been distinctly lacking.
Still this is the August Bank Holiday weekend and it's time to get out and about for perhaps the last time before the days draw in, 3.30 in the afternoon feels more like mid-night and autumn makes her gusty and blustery entrance, blowing fitfully at first and then intensifying by the day. Shortly the leaves on our finest and most venerable trees will fall achingly to the ground, chasing each other and scurrying around in the traditional fashion before assuming that rather sad, yellowish and pale colour that breaks your heart.
But this is the weekend that marks the beginning of the Notting Hill Carnival and already you can almost hear those delightful steel drums ringing mellifluously across West London because the Notting Hill Carnival provides London with her yearly soundtrack. It is that explosion of Caribbean colour, personality. happiness, mirth and merriment. It is that wonderful celebration of everything that London holds dear, that superb and wondrous spectacle where the young and old dance, boogie, shake their hips, smiling, laughing, acknowledging family, friends, beliefs and old fashioned attitudes that are positive rather than negative.
London has always prided itself on its proud multi-culturalism, its inclusivity and its broad acceptance of the strange, curious, eccentric and unusual. But the Notting Hall Carnival, for just over 50 years has given us street pageantry, life affirming music, jerk chicken, dancing policemen and women and a whole lot of love, cheesiness at times but the coolest of vibrant vibes.
Sadly, the Notting Hill has also been slightly overshadowed by the darker forces of crime, violence and controversial confrontations with the police. There have been disturbing clashes, mini riots and skirmishes, all of those darkly unnecessary events that should never have been associated with the Carnival at any time. But thankfully recent years have been mostly trouble free and harmony has been gratefully restored just when the fists and dangerous weapons may have intervened.
The first day of the Notting Hill Carnival is normally taken over by the children of London, a glorious outpouring of exuberant youth where the kids take to the streets wearing all of those outrageously coloured outfits that stretch as far as the eye can see. The smiling multitudes bang on their drums with an extraordinary passion, feeling, fervour and an uninhibited joy. If only the rest of the human race could take a leaf out of their book.
By Bank Holiday Monday morning the Carnival will be awash with spectacular processions of dancing, prancing, happy go lucky, deeply overjoyed people from everywhere. Shortly a small corner of West London will become transformed but only for a while. This is not to say that after Carnival the good people of Notting Hill suddenly refrain from boozy bacchanalia and frolicsome frolics but the Carnival is famously energetic, wondrously atmospheric and feels as though it should always be like that. Realistically though it has to go back to the everyday business of every day life and that's when the anti-climax may set in with a vengeance.
Still the day will go ahead and we will marvel at those astonishing, rainbow coloured beach shirts that the men and boys seem to take great delight in flaunting. Then we'll watch in wonder as the women shake their feathers, the glittery dresses, the flags and banners and of course more steel drums. The whole event snakes and winds its way around Notting Hill's by now elated back streets with a sense of euphoric well being and a genuine zest for life.
The smell of jerk chicken has always hung alluringly in the Notting Hill air, smoke drifting from the stalls rather like a camp fire in some distant wood. Then a vast parade of humanity files along in orderly fashion, grinning gleefully for the TV cameras, then thumping those drums in some entranced state as if to suggest that life should always be cherished and never taken for granted. It is a musical festival, echoing blasts of ska, rap, salsa and Northern soul music from every ghetto blaster in the land.
Then at the end of the day when the final incense sticks have been blown and the food rubbish has been completely swept away, evening will fall on another August Bank Holiday and the Carnival will take its warm place in London's most cultural history books. People will slowly walk back to their homes and the local residents will pray that everything has passed off peacefully. For those of us who have never been to Notting Hill the news images may be just enough to bring a beaming smile to our faces.
Yet the very concept of an English Bank Holiday at the end of August still leaves us slightly flummoxed. It is safe to assume that most of us will take the obvious opportunity to drive down to our invigorating seaside resorts where the gulls await with the keenest anticipation for their late August feed on the pier. But we don't mind because Southend, Brighton, Margate, Bournemouth and Blackpool still tick all the right boxes because that's what Bank Holidays are all about.
Maybe and quite nostalgically we may hope that the Mods, Teddy Boys and Girls and the Rockers will pull up thrillingly on their Vespa scooters, leather coats glistening with history, hair swept back neatly and all ready to roar along the sea front with perfect enthusiasm. For this was the way it was back in the 1960s when Brighton came alive just a hint of anarchy in the air but good natured all the same.
Here in Britain the August Bank Holiday is more or less the final seasonal chapter of the year. Before long we'll all be closing our doors, switching on the central heating, battening down the hatches, gazing out at darkening, brooding skies and then wishing it was spring and summer again. Those winter chills and shivering breezes will leave most of the nation regretful but cosy. The sweat shirts and pullovers will be aired for their annual deployment, Premier League football discussions will be properly to the fore and that world famous festival a week before the end of the year will totally pre-occupy us with all its religious and spiritual relevance. Still we can always look back to that final weekend in August when all was well in the world and even Donald Trump was overlooked. What a relief.
Thursday 24 August 2017
Hammers beat the Cheltenham set in the Carabao Cup.
West Ham beat Cheltenham in the Carabao Cup.
Last night's match between West Ham and Cheltenham was sponsored by an energy drinks company. What next? Perhaps a rugby union match sponsored by a firm of fertilisers, a cricket match backed by a local haberdashery, or a tennis match supported by Marks and Spencer? What can the world be coming to when Britain's favourite sport - or one of its favourite sports- should have to be financially dependent on Red Bull's distant cousin.
But here we were at the beginning of the old League Cup journey, bright eyed and bushy tailed and now the start of the West Ham venture into the unknown in the first Cup competition of the new season. The League Cup is now known as the Carabao Cup which does sound wonderfully exotic although football and drink are hardly the most ideal of commercial partnerships. It should be pointed out though that no alcohol was involved in any of the negotiations which made this arrangement possible.
So deep in the heart of rural Gloucestershire, West Ham United notched up their first win of the season and after two bruising opening Premier League defeats at Manchester United and Southampton an evening spent in the bracing air of the English countryside lifted West Ham to the rarefied heights of a place in the next round of the Carabao Cup.
At the beginning of the second half you looked over the stands and terraces of Cheltenham's quaint little Whaddon Road ground known as the LCI Rail Stadium and wondered if you'd encountered a brief glimpse of Thomas Hardy country. The supporters were jumping and stamping their feet, rocking and rolling blissfully as if happily aware of the evening's uniqueness and importance. This was the Carabao Cup or the League Cup and they were not to be denied their enthusiasm and animation.
Over the rooftops of the LCI Rail Stadium a beautiful peach coloured sunset decorated the early evening Gloucestershire sky. For the best part of a couple of minutes it shimmered and glowed, a broad strip of peach and apricot appearing on the horizon, then darkness set in authoritatively before the night arrived properly. Then West Ham added their very own bright palette of colours as if darkness had never visited them in their opening two Premier League matches.
The League Cup of course has always been regarded as English football's poorer relation. This is not to suggest that the League Cup is like an uncle who lives in a dusty attic with nothing but a paraffin heater for warmth wearing mufflers in the winter. No, this uncle has got a substantial amount of loot in the bank although not quite as much as the FA Cup which is now sponsored by a Saudi Arabian air company. For Carabao meet the Emirates. Surely no contest.
At the beginning of the 1960s a very officious and businesslike man named Alan Hardaker invented the League Cup and throughout the years the League Cup has limped painstakingly along its rutted road, occasionally the butt of merciless jokes and then grudgingly accepted as part of football's luxuriously upholstered furniture. Still the ridicule has followed the competition around rather like like a bad smell. The League Cup though has shrugged off its critics almost admirably but you can't help but think of it as that threadbare cushion on your sofa that everybody sits on.
Still the FA secretary Hardaker always believed in his creation and knew that the League Cup would grow up into a healthy adult and a well adjusted adult into the bargain. It's hard to believe that all those years ago Aston Villa beat Rochdale in the first League Cup Final and Aston Villa would feature in one or two League Cup Finals in the competition's later years. Rochdale of course sadly stood still as a football club and for Rochdale there was never any hint of upward mobility. They would remain in the Football League's basement with only Gracie Fields for company.
Now though the League Cup is a passport to European frontiers and used to be a visa into the old UEFA Cup now the Europa League. It's hard to follow the rules and regulations for any of these English Cup competitions because none of us can be quite sure when the matches are going to be played, on which TV channel and whether we'll be snoring on the sofa at kick off. It's enough to play havoc with anybody's body clock.
Last night the Hammers overcame League 2 opposition Cheltenham. Now I know that League 2 used to be Division Four and is still possibly perceived as the greasy spoon cafe of the Football League's noble pyramid. But Cheltenham approached this match against Premier League opposition with all the confidence of a side who refused to be daunted by their supposed superiors. Sometimes football snobbery can be too much to take so maybe Cheltenham had nothing to fear after all.
Fortunately this game went exactly to plan for West Ham and the status quo was maintained. For the first 15 to 20 minutes the match itself was much of a much muchness, neither here or there. West Ham were nervous, unsure of themselves but eventually settled into their surroundings rather like new neighbours adjusting to an uncomfortable environment. Quite what West Ham must have made of their opponents is anybody's guess but West Ham gradually grew into this League Cup tie before reaching full adolescence by half time.
Once again West Ham had to wear those dispiriting black shirts which have to be worn away from home. Their first three Premier League games have been played away from their London Stadium which has so far proved a major hindrance to any further progress. The two defeats at Old Trafford and St Mary's have left nasty stains on their home claret and blue shirts. Still West Ham easily dealt with Cheltenham in much the way the locally famous racecourse horses handle a lengthy gallop.
West Ham controlled the game for much longer periods than maybe they'd expected. Of course there were worrying and apprehensive moments but for those who have followed the club so faithfully this is more or less the way it's always been. The game remained static and lifeless but after sporadic Cheltenham raids and threatening excursions West Ham began to win that vital second ball, threading their passes together with decisive intent, their attacking movements developing their own tempo.
At the heart of their defence James Collins, celebrating his 34th birthday, looked like one of those battle hardened warriors who may have seen one too many bloody conflicts over the years. Complete with thick ginger beard and a fearsome looking presence, Collins gave a masterclass in central defending, a tall, muscular centre half whose lightning quick interceptions and sterling sturdiness spread utter re-assurance at the heart of the Hammers defence.
With Angelo Ogbanna providing valuable cover as his centre back ally, all brawn and brain, West Ham started to assert themselves, building their customary free flowing passing style and then spraying the ball to all of the pitch's far flung corners. The young 18 year old Declan Rice is one of West Ham's new breed of youngsters, an academy product who the club must be hoping will eventually emerge as a first team regular on a consistent basis. The old Upton Park academy has had little to boast in recent years with only the Joe Cole, Michael Carrick and Rio Ferdinand generation providing any recent comfort.
Rice looks very careful in possession, composed on the ball, hearteningly accurate in his distribution and, dare we say it, clever and cultured. As one of a claret and blue persuasion it would be lovely to think that Rice can make that important breakthrough into the first team before becoming considered for frequent inclusion in the not too distant future. But Rice is one among hundreds of British players who may have to be content with prolonged loan periods and it may too much to hope that players such as Rice can guide West Ham into a gilded land of glory and triumph.
And so it was that Rice with Pedro Obiang skilfully patrolling the middle of the pitch and Diafra Sakho and Andre Ayew bustling and hustling industriously for the ball as West Ham's twin pronged strike force, it was only a matter of time before West Ham broke down Cheltenham's brave attacking contributions to the game. West Ham scored two in rapid succession and Cheltenham, within a couple of the game's match defining moments, fell apart at the seams.
In a dizzying blur of passes on the edge of Cheltenham's penalty area, Hammers captain Mark Noble sent a perfectly weighted slide rule pass through to Diafra Sakho. Sakho, almost pirouetting on his toes , swivelled, turned sharply and then gently rolled his shot past the Cheltenham keeper as if he'd done the same thing in training over and over again.
Minutes later West Ham were further in front. Football can be the cruellest of games and if Cheltenham thought they'd coped competently with West Ham they could think again. Another witty and intuitive exchange of passes in the Cheltenham area saw Andre Ayew run purposefully out wide to receive the perfect ball, swiftly tucking the ball past a frozen Cheltenham keeper. Game over for Cheltenham and for West Ham the new season had flared into life.
In deepest Gloucestershire, the huge acres of nearby farming land and those sweet smelling meadows could once again settle back into the familiar routines of every day life. Cheltenham had enjoyed their evening on the Sky TV main event show and it was good to be on the back pages of newspaper history if only fleetingly. Maybe there should be more football nights like this one. Perhaps we've underestimated the Carabao Cup. It has to be preferable to the Watney Cup.
Last night's match between West Ham and Cheltenham was sponsored by an energy drinks company. What next? Perhaps a rugby union match sponsored by a firm of fertilisers, a cricket match backed by a local haberdashery, or a tennis match supported by Marks and Spencer? What can the world be coming to when Britain's favourite sport - or one of its favourite sports- should have to be financially dependent on Red Bull's distant cousin.
But here we were at the beginning of the old League Cup journey, bright eyed and bushy tailed and now the start of the West Ham venture into the unknown in the first Cup competition of the new season. The League Cup is now known as the Carabao Cup which does sound wonderfully exotic although football and drink are hardly the most ideal of commercial partnerships. It should be pointed out though that no alcohol was involved in any of the negotiations which made this arrangement possible.
So deep in the heart of rural Gloucestershire, West Ham United notched up their first win of the season and after two bruising opening Premier League defeats at Manchester United and Southampton an evening spent in the bracing air of the English countryside lifted West Ham to the rarefied heights of a place in the next round of the Carabao Cup.
At the beginning of the second half you looked over the stands and terraces of Cheltenham's quaint little Whaddon Road ground known as the LCI Rail Stadium and wondered if you'd encountered a brief glimpse of Thomas Hardy country. The supporters were jumping and stamping their feet, rocking and rolling blissfully as if happily aware of the evening's uniqueness and importance. This was the Carabao Cup or the League Cup and they were not to be denied their enthusiasm and animation.
Over the rooftops of the LCI Rail Stadium a beautiful peach coloured sunset decorated the early evening Gloucestershire sky. For the best part of a couple of minutes it shimmered and glowed, a broad strip of peach and apricot appearing on the horizon, then darkness set in authoritatively before the night arrived properly. Then West Ham added their very own bright palette of colours as if darkness had never visited them in their opening two Premier League matches.
The League Cup of course has always been regarded as English football's poorer relation. This is not to suggest that the League Cup is like an uncle who lives in a dusty attic with nothing but a paraffin heater for warmth wearing mufflers in the winter. No, this uncle has got a substantial amount of loot in the bank although not quite as much as the FA Cup which is now sponsored by a Saudi Arabian air company. For Carabao meet the Emirates. Surely no contest.
At the beginning of the 1960s a very officious and businesslike man named Alan Hardaker invented the League Cup and throughout the years the League Cup has limped painstakingly along its rutted road, occasionally the butt of merciless jokes and then grudgingly accepted as part of football's luxuriously upholstered furniture. Still the ridicule has followed the competition around rather like like a bad smell. The League Cup though has shrugged off its critics almost admirably but you can't help but think of it as that threadbare cushion on your sofa that everybody sits on.
Still the FA secretary Hardaker always believed in his creation and knew that the League Cup would grow up into a healthy adult and a well adjusted adult into the bargain. It's hard to believe that all those years ago Aston Villa beat Rochdale in the first League Cup Final and Aston Villa would feature in one or two League Cup Finals in the competition's later years. Rochdale of course sadly stood still as a football club and for Rochdale there was never any hint of upward mobility. They would remain in the Football League's basement with only Gracie Fields for company.
Now though the League Cup is a passport to European frontiers and used to be a visa into the old UEFA Cup now the Europa League. It's hard to follow the rules and regulations for any of these English Cup competitions because none of us can be quite sure when the matches are going to be played, on which TV channel and whether we'll be snoring on the sofa at kick off. It's enough to play havoc with anybody's body clock.
Last night the Hammers overcame League 2 opposition Cheltenham. Now I know that League 2 used to be Division Four and is still possibly perceived as the greasy spoon cafe of the Football League's noble pyramid. But Cheltenham approached this match against Premier League opposition with all the confidence of a side who refused to be daunted by their supposed superiors. Sometimes football snobbery can be too much to take so maybe Cheltenham had nothing to fear after all.
Fortunately this game went exactly to plan for West Ham and the status quo was maintained. For the first 15 to 20 minutes the match itself was much of a much muchness, neither here or there. West Ham were nervous, unsure of themselves but eventually settled into their surroundings rather like new neighbours adjusting to an uncomfortable environment. Quite what West Ham must have made of their opponents is anybody's guess but West Ham gradually grew into this League Cup tie before reaching full adolescence by half time.
Once again West Ham had to wear those dispiriting black shirts which have to be worn away from home. Their first three Premier League games have been played away from their London Stadium which has so far proved a major hindrance to any further progress. The two defeats at Old Trafford and St Mary's have left nasty stains on their home claret and blue shirts. Still West Ham easily dealt with Cheltenham in much the way the locally famous racecourse horses handle a lengthy gallop.
West Ham controlled the game for much longer periods than maybe they'd expected. Of course there were worrying and apprehensive moments but for those who have followed the club so faithfully this is more or less the way it's always been. The game remained static and lifeless but after sporadic Cheltenham raids and threatening excursions West Ham began to win that vital second ball, threading their passes together with decisive intent, their attacking movements developing their own tempo.
At the heart of their defence James Collins, celebrating his 34th birthday, looked like one of those battle hardened warriors who may have seen one too many bloody conflicts over the years. Complete with thick ginger beard and a fearsome looking presence, Collins gave a masterclass in central defending, a tall, muscular centre half whose lightning quick interceptions and sterling sturdiness spread utter re-assurance at the heart of the Hammers defence.
With Angelo Ogbanna providing valuable cover as his centre back ally, all brawn and brain, West Ham started to assert themselves, building their customary free flowing passing style and then spraying the ball to all of the pitch's far flung corners. The young 18 year old Declan Rice is one of West Ham's new breed of youngsters, an academy product who the club must be hoping will eventually emerge as a first team regular on a consistent basis. The old Upton Park academy has had little to boast in recent years with only the Joe Cole, Michael Carrick and Rio Ferdinand generation providing any recent comfort.
Rice looks very careful in possession, composed on the ball, hearteningly accurate in his distribution and, dare we say it, clever and cultured. As one of a claret and blue persuasion it would be lovely to think that Rice can make that important breakthrough into the first team before becoming considered for frequent inclusion in the not too distant future. But Rice is one among hundreds of British players who may have to be content with prolonged loan periods and it may too much to hope that players such as Rice can guide West Ham into a gilded land of glory and triumph.
And so it was that Rice with Pedro Obiang skilfully patrolling the middle of the pitch and Diafra Sakho and Andre Ayew bustling and hustling industriously for the ball as West Ham's twin pronged strike force, it was only a matter of time before West Ham broke down Cheltenham's brave attacking contributions to the game. West Ham scored two in rapid succession and Cheltenham, within a couple of the game's match defining moments, fell apart at the seams.
In a dizzying blur of passes on the edge of Cheltenham's penalty area, Hammers captain Mark Noble sent a perfectly weighted slide rule pass through to Diafra Sakho. Sakho, almost pirouetting on his toes , swivelled, turned sharply and then gently rolled his shot past the Cheltenham keeper as if he'd done the same thing in training over and over again.
Minutes later West Ham were further in front. Football can be the cruellest of games and if Cheltenham thought they'd coped competently with West Ham they could think again. Another witty and intuitive exchange of passes in the Cheltenham area saw Andre Ayew run purposefully out wide to receive the perfect ball, swiftly tucking the ball past a frozen Cheltenham keeper. Game over for Cheltenham and for West Ham the new season had flared into life.
In deepest Gloucestershire, the huge acres of nearby farming land and those sweet smelling meadows could once again settle back into the familiar routines of every day life. Cheltenham had enjoyed their evening on the Sky TV main event show and it was good to be on the back pages of newspaper history if only fleetingly. Maybe there should be more football nights like this one. Perhaps we've underestimated the Carabao Cup. It has to be preferable to the Watney Cup.
Monday 21 August 2017
Big Ben and no more bongs for four years.
Big Ben and no more bongs for four years.
You've got to be joking. It can't be happening. This is an outrage, a national disgrace. How could they after all these years, decades and the best part of over a century? Surely it must have occurred to somebody beforehand that Big Ben was showing signs of age. It's a glaring oversight that had to be rectified sooner or later but today Big Ben, Britain's finest clock, has been silenced for a major overhaul and radical repair work. Yes, no longer will the world be able to hear those evocative bings and bongs, the soundscape that has come to define London for as long as anybody can remember.
So why now the reasonable question should be? Why has it taken Westminster so long, so inordinately long to correct, refurbish and replace those wonderful old chimes? The answer may never be told but after so many years of internal neglect, rustiness and perhaps a touch of complacency Big Ben is finally getting its well deserved brush up, a thorough renovation and some new mechanisms to keep it going well until the future without the fear that it may just stop again and never bong again.
Anyway it was encouraging to see that the scaffolding has now gone up and dear old Ben will be getting a new lease of life. For as long as any of us can remember the great clock that has stood so steadfastly next to the House of Commons will now face years of extensive labour on its vital components and tourists from around the world will have to be bitterly disappointed. Although only a temporary measure, four years without the sound of Big Ben chimes will probably seem like a lifetime for many of us. Still it'll be worth the wait and besides we can still look forward to New Year's Eve because those familiar bells will resound quite emphatically for our delectation.
But this is one of the bleakest days in London. No longer will we able to thrill to that hollow, clanging sound that seemed to echo around Westminster rather like some momentous announcement from the heart of the capital city. On the hour, quarter of an hour and the half hour, this constant reminder of Old Father Time will no longer form that instantly identifiable sound, the sound that could almost be heard in Scotland because we all know that sound travels.
For now though Big Ben has become an empty, hollow time- piece, the steady march of time no more than a simple clock face with none of that statesmanship or ceremony that most of us have come to love and look up to, quite literally at times. To those who were introduced to Big Ben at a very early age, it almost seems as if a member of London's closest family has been sent on a rather long sabbatical and told that one day they'll be re-united in better health.
Still we'll miss you Big Ben. None of us will ever forget your classical notes, those rousing statements of intent, the solemn finality of the mid-night or mid-day hour, the gravity of it all on the saddest occasions and that yearly famous 11.00 ring on Remembrance morning in November. Sadly though we tend to remember the more unfortunate occasions rather than the hip hip hooray events when Big Ben should signify celebration. That will thankfully be preserved on New Year's Eve but it really seems desperately unfair for those traditionalists who somehow expect it to be there all the time.
So it is that we bid a fond farewell to the Big Bong bell just for a while anyway. I can still remember being totally awe struck by the sheer size of Big Ben as a kid and the position it has occupied for so long. There is a stability and permanence about the clock that never fails to enchant the curious by stander. In a world so volatile and violent it's comforting to know that a big old clock can remain exactly where it is without feeling threatened by bombs, grenades and those menacing missiles that North Korea keep troubling us with.
I think I speak on behalf of all Londoners when I say that the Big Ben bong will be sorely missed and almost longed for again. Absence of course makes the heart grow fonder and if there can be any consolation in this difficult time for Londoners then maybe we can hark back to those News at Ten days when TV gave us its nightly signing off to a public with an insatiable hunger for news. Four years is an unreasonable length of time but time will fly. Of that there can be no doubt.
You've got to be joking. It can't be happening. This is an outrage, a national disgrace. How could they after all these years, decades and the best part of over a century? Surely it must have occurred to somebody beforehand that Big Ben was showing signs of age. It's a glaring oversight that had to be rectified sooner or later but today Big Ben, Britain's finest clock, has been silenced for a major overhaul and radical repair work. Yes, no longer will the world be able to hear those evocative bings and bongs, the soundscape that has come to define London for as long as anybody can remember.
So why now the reasonable question should be? Why has it taken Westminster so long, so inordinately long to correct, refurbish and replace those wonderful old chimes? The answer may never be told but after so many years of internal neglect, rustiness and perhaps a touch of complacency Big Ben is finally getting its well deserved brush up, a thorough renovation and some new mechanisms to keep it going well until the future without the fear that it may just stop again and never bong again.
Anyway it was encouraging to see that the scaffolding has now gone up and dear old Ben will be getting a new lease of life. For as long as any of us can remember the great clock that has stood so steadfastly next to the House of Commons will now face years of extensive labour on its vital components and tourists from around the world will have to be bitterly disappointed. Although only a temporary measure, four years without the sound of Big Ben chimes will probably seem like a lifetime for many of us. Still it'll be worth the wait and besides we can still look forward to New Year's Eve because those familiar bells will resound quite emphatically for our delectation.
But this is one of the bleakest days in London. No longer will we able to thrill to that hollow, clanging sound that seemed to echo around Westminster rather like some momentous announcement from the heart of the capital city. On the hour, quarter of an hour and the half hour, this constant reminder of Old Father Time will no longer form that instantly identifiable sound, the sound that could almost be heard in Scotland because we all know that sound travels.
For now though Big Ben has become an empty, hollow time- piece, the steady march of time no more than a simple clock face with none of that statesmanship or ceremony that most of us have come to love and look up to, quite literally at times. To those who were introduced to Big Ben at a very early age, it almost seems as if a member of London's closest family has been sent on a rather long sabbatical and told that one day they'll be re-united in better health.
Still we'll miss you Big Ben. None of us will ever forget your classical notes, those rousing statements of intent, the solemn finality of the mid-night or mid-day hour, the gravity of it all on the saddest occasions and that yearly famous 11.00 ring on Remembrance morning in November. Sadly though we tend to remember the more unfortunate occasions rather than the hip hip hooray events when Big Ben should signify celebration. That will thankfully be preserved on New Year's Eve but it really seems desperately unfair for those traditionalists who somehow expect it to be there all the time.
So it is that we bid a fond farewell to the Big Bong bell just for a while anyway. I can still remember being totally awe struck by the sheer size of Big Ben as a kid and the position it has occupied for so long. There is a stability and permanence about the clock that never fails to enchant the curious by stander. In a world so volatile and violent it's comforting to know that a big old clock can remain exactly where it is without feeling threatened by bombs, grenades and those menacing missiles that North Korea keep troubling us with.
I think I speak on behalf of all Londoners when I say that the Big Ben bong will be sorely missed and almost longed for again. Absence of course makes the heart grow fonder and if there can be any consolation in this difficult time for Londoners then maybe we can hark back to those News at Ten days when TV gave us its nightly signing off to a public with an insatiable hunger for news. Four years is an unreasonable length of time but time will fly. Of that there can be no doubt.
Sunday 20 August 2017
Sundays - car boot sales and just watching the world go by.
Sundays- car boot sales and just watching the world go by.
Sundays were meant for doing nothing at all. Sundays were the days of rest, reflection, religion, playing football with your mates, fishing by a lazy river bank, smelling the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafting from your kitchen, for putting the world to rights in your local pub, washing the car, smothering it with water and shampoo and then trying hard to remember where you put the car keys, amusingly realising that they were next to the phone in your hall and then popping into the garden centre or furniture store before looking for tins of paint because the living room had to be done.
There was a time of course when every single shop apart, from your newsagents, was firmly shut and completely off limits. This of course was deeply frustrating because if you'd run out of jam, bread and butter or fruits and vegetables the chances were that you'd have to wait until Sainsbury's opened on Monday morning before splashing out on your shopping necessities.
You could still invest in the News of the World, Sunday People, the Observer and the Sunday Times because they were always widely available newspapers and besides we do love to find out the salacious gossip about our D- List celebrities. We spot them deliberately embarrassing themselves in socially awkward situations, circumstances that are both compromising and faintly ludicrous. We see them dropping out of nightclubs, staggering and stumbling into the early morning Sunday air, faces pinched and twisted in a drunken stupor, a state of wild eyed intoxication that somehow invites comment.
Years and years ago Sundays were all about Family Favourites with Cliff Michelmore and Jean Challis glowing radiantly from our transistor radios - or in the case of my parents- a wonderful turquoise coloured radio dripping with fondly ancient memories. Family Favourites was unashamedly nostalgic re-uniting as it did British families with sons and daughters in the armed forces and playing their favourite records by Slim Whitman, Jim Reeves, the Everly Brothers and of course the Glen Miller Band because this was the central theme of BBC Radio 2 on a Sunday morning. Nothing but those lovely old songs that brought the whole of Britain, Germany and Cyprus together on behalf of Family Favourites.
This morning though my wife and daughter decided to do a car boot sale in a local school. Now car boot sales have been around for quite some time and across the nation's parks, schools and recreation grounds the car boot sale can be both financially successful and lucrative. It is sadly dependent on the moods and whims of the great British public because you can never be sure whether your stock of goodies can be so visually attractive that by the end of the day you'll be laughing all the way to the bank. But the public are great and you can always rely on them.
For most car boot sale enthusiasts, the sheer thrill of being out in the open air and the invigorating air of a Sunday market can generate the most enormous satisfaction. If a healthy profit can be made on all of your old 78 records or those thoroughly washed jeans that you used to wear during the 1960s and 70s then maybe this is the most perfect bonus. But when the 20 quid notes and pound coins are counted most of us are tempted to sigh with a kind of relief born of genuine perseverance and pride in the moment.
This morning though a whole school playground was completely overtaken by cars with open boots, tables groaning with old ornaments, bric a brac, jewellery, rails of clothing neatly attached to loyal hangers, books, records and pretty items, things that seemed to be spilling out onto the ground happily and indiscriminately. There were, quite possibly, ageing kettles that had brewed thousands of cups of tea in its lifetime, clocks that had probably stopped working on VE Day and a mass of candlesticks and dolls. Then there were the magazines from the 1940s and 50s, decades old photo frames and valuable family heirlooms that would probably have told a thousand stories.
Our car boot sale this morning yielded a reasonable amount of money. We sold some of the stock we'd already bought at auction and the general conclusion was that the day had been positively profitable rather than a total disaster. A tidy sum had been accumulated and we all packed up after a moderately prosperous morning and early afternoon. Britain does like to partake in the kind of activities that are simply designed to make us feel very good about ourselves. Our car boot sale venture had been reflected and replicated by millions of people across Britain.
And so it was our day of pleasant selling, bargaining, haggling and bartering had occupied a rewarding spot on a late August Sunday morning. It had been far from being a spectacularly wealthy day but we'd enjoyed the weather, chatted to our fellow stall holders and generally had a good time. Sometimes the most innocent of pastimes can be just the tonic on the most ordinary of Sundays. Still there are some of us who can look back to Sunday lunchtimes when Family Favourites were top of our hit parade and cheerful Charlie Chester entertained us at tea time. And we'd still have time for a car boot sale.
Sundays were meant for doing nothing at all. Sundays were the days of rest, reflection, religion, playing football with your mates, fishing by a lazy river bank, smelling the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding wafting from your kitchen, for putting the world to rights in your local pub, washing the car, smothering it with water and shampoo and then trying hard to remember where you put the car keys, amusingly realising that they were next to the phone in your hall and then popping into the garden centre or furniture store before looking for tins of paint because the living room had to be done.
There was a time of course when every single shop apart, from your newsagents, was firmly shut and completely off limits. This of course was deeply frustrating because if you'd run out of jam, bread and butter or fruits and vegetables the chances were that you'd have to wait until Sainsbury's opened on Monday morning before splashing out on your shopping necessities.
You could still invest in the News of the World, Sunday People, the Observer and the Sunday Times because they were always widely available newspapers and besides we do love to find out the salacious gossip about our D- List celebrities. We spot them deliberately embarrassing themselves in socially awkward situations, circumstances that are both compromising and faintly ludicrous. We see them dropping out of nightclubs, staggering and stumbling into the early morning Sunday air, faces pinched and twisted in a drunken stupor, a state of wild eyed intoxication that somehow invites comment.
Years and years ago Sundays were all about Family Favourites with Cliff Michelmore and Jean Challis glowing radiantly from our transistor radios - or in the case of my parents- a wonderful turquoise coloured radio dripping with fondly ancient memories. Family Favourites was unashamedly nostalgic re-uniting as it did British families with sons and daughters in the armed forces and playing their favourite records by Slim Whitman, Jim Reeves, the Everly Brothers and of course the Glen Miller Band because this was the central theme of BBC Radio 2 on a Sunday morning. Nothing but those lovely old songs that brought the whole of Britain, Germany and Cyprus together on behalf of Family Favourites.
This morning though my wife and daughter decided to do a car boot sale in a local school. Now car boot sales have been around for quite some time and across the nation's parks, schools and recreation grounds the car boot sale can be both financially successful and lucrative. It is sadly dependent on the moods and whims of the great British public because you can never be sure whether your stock of goodies can be so visually attractive that by the end of the day you'll be laughing all the way to the bank. But the public are great and you can always rely on them.
For most car boot sale enthusiasts, the sheer thrill of being out in the open air and the invigorating air of a Sunday market can generate the most enormous satisfaction. If a healthy profit can be made on all of your old 78 records or those thoroughly washed jeans that you used to wear during the 1960s and 70s then maybe this is the most perfect bonus. But when the 20 quid notes and pound coins are counted most of us are tempted to sigh with a kind of relief born of genuine perseverance and pride in the moment.
This morning though a whole school playground was completely overtaken by cars with open boots, tables groaning with old ornaments, bric a brac, jewellery, rails of clothing neatly attached to loyal hangers, books, records and pretty items, things that seemed to be spilling out onto the ground happily and indiscriminately. There were, quite possibly, ageing kettles that had brewed thousands of cups of tea in its lifetime, clocks that had probably stopped working on VE Day and a mass of candlesticks and dolls. Then there were the magazines from the 1940s and 50s, decades old photo frames and valuable family heirlooms that would probably have told a thousand stories.
Our car boot sale this morning yielded a reasonable amount of money. We sold some of the stock we'd already bought at auction and the general conclusion was that the day had been positively profitable rather than a total disaster. A tidy sum had been accumulated and we all packed up after a moderately prosperous morning and early afternoon. Britain does like to partake in the kind of activities that are simply designed to make us feel very good about ourselves. Our car boot sale venture had been reflected and replicated by millions of people across Britain.
And so it was our day of pleasant selling, bargaining, haggling and bartering had occupied a rewarding spot on a late August Sunday morning. It had been far from being a spectacularly wealthy day but we'd enjoyed the weather, chatted to our fellow stall holders and generally had a good time. Sometimes the most innocent of pastimes can be just the tonic on the most ordinary of Sundays. Still there are some of us who can look back to Sunday lunchtimes when Family Favourites were top of our hit parade and cheerful Charlie Chester entertained us at tea time. And we'd still have time for a car boot sale.
Friday 18 August 2017
Sir Bruce Forsyth dies at 89. We'll miss you Brucie.
Sir Bruce Forsyth dies at 89.
What can possibly be said? The world of showbusiness has lost its most sparkling and iridescent of natural all round talents. Brilliant pianist, wonderful all round entertainer, a consummate comic, funny to his fingernails, supremely versatile and a man with a perfect sense of occasion, Sir Bruce Forsyth dominated the world of light entertainment. How can one even begin to document the passing of one of Britain's most outstanding of showbiz performers? Bruce Forsyth, in the words of the great man, it was nice to see you to see you nice. Sadly, Bruce Forsyth died today at the grand old age of 89.
For years and years, decade after decade, this smooth, dapper, improvisational and quick witted man entertained and amused vastly to millions across Britain with that rather rib tickling wit, a gifted turn of phrase and much that brought unalloyed pleasure to families and children across the nation.
Bruce Forsyth, full of comic originality and humorous observations on both the world and society had all of those vital ingredients that are somehow essential in any comic's repertoire. But Forsyth had much more than one string to his bow. He was the most supple and stylish dancer, light as feather on either feet, fleet flooted indeed and a lively presence in his memorable role of Sunday Night at the London Palladium host during the late 1950s and 60s. Forsyth embraced showbiz as if life and nature had intended it. In fact he may well have been crying desperately for a place at the Palladium in his cot.
After years of hoofing it and tripping the light fantastic on the boards of the great West End music halls, the Mighty Atom, the Boy Bruce, promptly served his apprenticeship with a touch of class. Soon the lad from Edmonton found himself on much bigger stages before soaring to the pinnacle of fame and celebrity at the much loved and vaunted London Palladium. The world has never known such an innately talented all around entertainer.
Soon Forsyth was quickly tip tapping on the shiniest of shoes with lightning speed and fulsome flair. Then after another arduous round of cabaret performances in the West End the big break arrived in the most glamorous circumstances. The London Palladium, the West End's most beautifully appointed of all theatres, was looking for a replacement for the cheeky chappie who always seemed to smile and overnight graced the corridors of Fulham football club with that inimitable toothy grin that lit up West London. His name was Tommy Trinder.
Shortly Bruce Forsyth would be the shining light of that well populated showbiz community where razzamatazz collided with pizazz. For what seemed like the West End's most halcyon years, Forsyth would stride out onto the Palladium stage with that swaggering stroll and that lovely lantern jaw, smiling warmly for audiences that would for ever take him to their heart. Soon the catch phrases would be swiftly delivered, gems of brevity that would win the life long affection of millions of British families.
There were the famous Palladium quizzes such as Beat the Clock where Forsyth would employ those sharply honed skills that would enshrine him permanently in the role of the quiz master. Beat the Clock was almost the perfect vehicle as contestants from all social classes would carry around the heaviest objects or awkwardly negotiate the most bizarre obstacles before finally ending the game in a much quicker time than their opponents. Beat the Clock was almost the perfect forerunner for future generations of TV quiz games and Forsyth had become the quiz game trailblazer without even trying.
But Forsyth was much more than the ultra cool quiz show host or archetypal family entertainer. When Sunday Night at the London Palladium began to lose its lustre and prime time popularity, Forsyth decided to spread his wings, branching out and diversifying into different areas of his profession. Briefly there were the films, the fruitless attempt at cracking the American market but his heart was still in the quiz game format.
In the early 1970s a Dutch quiz show called the Generation Game had been bandied about as a potential idea on British TV. The Generation Game fitted Forsyth like a glove, its format simple and wonderfully effective. Two contestants would participate in the silliest and daftest games ever conceived. There was the the enduringly funny Potters Wheel where members of the public would try their hand, quite hilariously, at moulding anything in clay into something that vaguely resembled a bowl or plate. None ever took the Generation Game seriously and as the title suggested, here was a show that never ever offended nor was anybody remotely insulted or humiliated.
For the next 10 years and more the Generation Game would capture the imagination of a TV audience that threatened to be turned completely away by badly made entertainment shows. It fulfilled its remit of making us laugh and making the nation feel that an emotional involvement had been achieved. Who would ever forget those farcical plays at the end of the Generation Game where Forsyth's obvious charisma would reduce the BBC studio to gales of laughter? There was the prolific conveyor belt with what seemed the most dreadful prizes such as cuddly teddy bears and woks. We still though kept the faith and even the prizes had a certain quaintness and quirkiness about them.
As the 1980s arrived Forsyth began to look in other directions and privately felt he was being pigeon holed into the quiz show role. Play Your Cards Right, the London Weekend Television quiz show, as the title obviously implied, was about choosing the right cards in a deck of cards and the value of those cards being either higher or lower. In theory it didn't really seem the best idea that TV had ever come up with but it still attracted that hard core of followers whom Forsyth could always rely. Play Your Cards Right ran for a while although to call it an overnight sensation may have been an exaggeration.
Still the boy from Edmonton in North London could always go back to his singing, dancing and high jinks tomfoolery for guaranteed success. His singing voice was pleasantly modulated and his career as a early evening crooner was about to become established for ever more. Wearing the regulation smart black suit, shirt and bow tie, Forsyth fulfilled a lifetime ambition to sing alongside his heroes. His friendship with Sammy Davis Junior had been confirmed and that classic cabaret compatibility was a perfect match.
And yet Forsyth's talents as a pianist may have been criminally overlooked. His handling of some of the greatest jazz standards was absolutely impeccable. His lightness of touch over the keys seemed to come naturally to this exceptional song and dance man. There was an effortless ease about his piano playing that might have escaped some of us.
From his earliest days in the music hall, dancing had always regularly featured in the Forsyth act. He could tap dance, waltz and cha cha cha with the great and good and now he was the frequent subject of late night shows such as Parkinson. He was a shameless extrovert, the brightest of personalities, comfortable in any TV environment and never flustered when the going may have got tough. He was an outrageous prankster and joker, manipulating the limelight and making it abundantly clear that he was the star of the show without ever descending into vanity or pretence.
Then as old age began to take its toll on him, Forsyth hit back again when some may have assumed that the stamina had gone, his fitness and sprightliness had deserted him and it was time to take a back seat. Certainly not or so it seemed. When footballers reach a specific age the assumption is that once they reach their early 30s the twinkle in their feet can no longer function in quite the way they used to be able to.
In the early opening years of the 21st century a dance programme had been planned for a prime time slot on a Saturday evening. To some of us this seemed the most extraordinary of coincidences but 40 years after the Generation Game on a Saturday evening, now Strictly Come Dancing had appeared on the Forsyth radar. This was almost like a gift from somewhere for Brucie and how he capitalised on the big time opportunity.
Now he was the man in charge once again, compere of a show whose central theme had once stolen his heart as a young man. With fellow presenters Tess Daly and Claudia Winkleman, he grabbed the baton and ran with it. Soon the Forsyth tap shoes were gainfully employed in a whole variety of dance routines. There were the tap dancing cavortings, the graceful waltz, the military two step and the flying feet that flourished with every show.
Soon though and regrettably the light would begin to fade, his health would, albeit gradually, fail and no longer would the old gushing vitality stir him into life. At the beginning of this year a serious illness would become progressively worse and today the Mighty Atom from Edmonton would peacefully pass away beside his doting family.
It is hard to believe that Sir Bruce Forsyth is no longer with us. Bruce Forsyth seemed indestructible, a tireless bundle of dynamism and the epitome of showbiz brilliance. For those who were brought up with the frivolous frolics of the Generation Game during the 1970s there is now a yawning gap, a hollow chasm that may never be adequately filled.
One day a talent will be discovered who may come marginally close to the heights that Sir Bruce Forsyth reached so stunningly. Maybe a quiz show host will one day walk out in front of a TV audience and ask them quite categorically whether they had done well or not. It is a deeply sad day for British light entertainment. Still we can readily cherish the catch phrase and still believe that sometimes legends can never be forgotten. It was great to see you Bruce. Great to see you.
What can possibly be said? The world of showbusiness has lost its most sparkling and iridescent of natural all round talents. Brilliant pianist, wonderful all round entertainer, a consummate comic, funny to his fingernails, supremely versatile and a man with a perfect sense of occasion, Sir Bruce Forsyth dominated the world of light entertainment. How can one even begin to document the passing of one of Britain's most outstanding of showbiz performers? Bruce Forsyth, in the words of the great man, it was nice to see you to see you nice. Sadly, Bruce Forsyth died today at the grand old age of 89.
For years and years, decade after decade, this smooth, dapper, improvisational and quick witted man entertained and amused vastly to millions across Britain with that rather rib tickling wit, a gifted turn of phrase and much that brought unalloyed pleasure to families and children across the nation.
Bruce Forsyth, full of comic originality and humorous observations on both the world and society had all of those vital ingredients that are somehow essential in any comic's repertoire. But Forsyth had much more than one string to his bow. He was the most supple and stylish dancer, light as feather on either feet, fleet flooted indeed and a lively presence in his memorable role of Sunday Night at the London Palladium host during the late 1950s and 60s. Forsyth embraced showbiz as if life and nature had intended it. In fact he may well have been crying desperately for a place at the Palladium in his cot.
After years of hoofing it and tripping the light fantastic on the boards of the great West End music halls, the Mighty Atom, the Boy Bruce, promptly served his apprenticeship with a touch of class. Soon the lad from Edmonton found himself on much bigger stages before soaring to the pinnacle of fame and celebrity at the much loved and vaunted London Palladium. The world has never known such an innately talented all around entertainer.
Soon Forsyth was quickly tip tapping on the shiniest of shoes with lightning speed and fulsome flair. Then after another arduous round of cabaret performances in the West End the big break arrived in the most glamorous circumstances. The London Palladium, the West End's most beautifully appointed of all theatres, was looking for a replacement for the cheeky chappie who always seemed to smile and overnight graced the corridors of Fulham football club with that inimitable toothy grin that lit up West London. His name was Tommy Trinder.
Shortly Bruce Forsyth would be the shining light of that well populated showbiz community where razzamatazz collided with pizazz. For what seemed like the West End's most halcyon years, Forsyth would stride out onto the Palladium stage with that swaggering stroll and that lovely lantern jaw, smiling warmly for audiences that would for ever take him to their heart. Soon the catch phrases would be swiftly delivered, gems of brevity that would win the life long affection of millions of British families.
There were the famous Palladium quizzes such as Beat the Clock where Forsyth would employ those sharply honed skills that would enshrine him permanently in the role of the quiz master. Beat the Clock was almost the perfect vehicle as contestants from all social classes would carry around the heaviest objects or awkwardly negotiate the most bizarre obstacles before finally ending the game in a much quicker time than their opponents. Beat the Clock was almost the perfect forerunner for future generations of TV quiz games and Forsyth had become the quiz game trailblazer without even trying.
But Forsyth was much more than the ultra cool quiz show host or archetypal family entertainer. When Sunday Night at the London Palladium began to lose its lustre and prime time popularity, Forsyth decided to spread his wings, branching out and diversifying into different areas of his profession. Briefly there were the films, the fruitless attempt at cracking the American market but his heart was still in the quiz game format.
In the early 1970s a Dutch quiz show called the Generation Game had been bandied about as a potential idea on British TV. The Generation Game fitted Forsyth like a glove, its format simple and wonderfully effective. Two contestants would participate in the silliest and daftest games ever conceived. There was the the enduringly funny Potters Wheel where members of the public would try their hand, quite hilariously, at moulding anything in clay into something that vaguely resembled a bowl or plate. None ever took the Generation Game seriously and as the title suggested, here was a show that never ever offended nor was anybody remotely insulted or humiliated.
For the next 10 years and more the Generation Game would capture the imagination of a TV audience that threatened to be turned completely away by badly made entertainment shows. It fulfilled its remit of making us laugh and making the nation feel that an emotional involvement had been achieved. Who would ever forget those farcical plays at the end of the Generation Game where Forsyth's obvious charisma would reduce the BBC studio to gales of laughter? There was the prolific conveyor belt with what seemed the most dreadful prizes such as cuddly teddy bears and woks. We still though kept the faith and even the prizes had a certain quaintness and quirkiness about them.
As the 1980s arrived Forsyth began to look in other directions and privately felt he was being pigeon holed into the quiz show role. Play Your Cards Right, the London Weekend Television quiz show, as the title obviously implied, was about choosing the right cards in a deck of cards and the value of those cards being either higher or lower. In theory it didn't really seem the best idea that TV had ever come up with but it still attracted that hard core of followers whom Forsyth could always rely. Play Your Cards Right ran for a while although to call it an overnight sensation may have been an exaggeration.
Still the boy from Edmonton in North London could always go back to his singing, dancing and high jinks tomfoolery for guaranteed success. His singing voice was pleasantly modulated and his career as a early evening crooner was about to become established for ever more. Wearing the regulation smart black suit, shirt and bow tie, Forsyth fulfilled a lifetime ambition to sing alongside his heroes. His friendship with Sammy Davis Junior had been confirmed and that classic cabaret compatibility was a perfect match.
And yet Forsyth's talents as a pianist may have been criminally overlooked. His handling of some of the greatest jazz standards was absolutely impeccable. His lightness of touch over the keys seemed to come naturally to this exceptional song and dance man. There was an effortless ease about his piano playing that might have escaped some of us.
From his earliest days in the music hall, dancing had always regularly featured in the Forsyth act. He could tap dance, waltz and cha cha cha with the great and good and now he was the frequent subject of late night shows such as Parkinson. He was a shameless extrovert, the brightest of personalities, comfortable in any TV environment and never flustered when the going may have got tough. He was an outrageous prankster and joker, manipulating the limelight and making it abundantly clear that he was the star of the show without ever descending into vanity or pretence.
Then as old age began to take its toll on him, Forsyth hit back again when some may have assumed that the stamina had gone, his fitness and sprightliness had deserted him and it was time to take a back seat. Certainly not or so it seemed. When footballers reach a specific age the assumption is that once they reach their early 30s the twinkle in their feet can no longer function in quite the way they used to be able to.
In the early opening years of the 21st century a dance programme had been planned for a prime time slot on a Saturday evening. To some of us this seemed the most extraordinary of coincidences but 40 years after the Generation Game on a Saturday evening, now Strictly Come Dancing had appeared on the Forsyth radar. This was almost like a gift from somewhere for Brucie and how he capitalised on the big time opportunity.
Now he was the man in charge once again, compere of a show whose central theme had once stolen his heart as a young man. With fellow presenters Tess Daly and Claudia Winkleman, he grabbed the baton and ran with it. Soon the Forsyth tap shoes were gainfully employed in a whole variety of dance routines. There were the tap dancing cavortings, the graceful waltz, the military two step and the flying feet that flourished with every show.
Soon though and regrettably the light would begin to fade, his health would, albeit gradually, fail and no longer would the old gushing vitality stir him into life. At the beginning of this year a serious illness would become progressively worse and today the Mighty Atom from Edmonton would peacefully pass away beside his doting family.
It is hard to believe that Sir Bruce Forsyth is no longer with us. Bruce Forsyth seemed indestructible, a tireless bundle of dynamism and the epitome of showbiz brilliance. For those who were brought up with the frivolous frolics of the Generation Game during the 1970s there is now a yawning gap, a hollow chasm that may never be adequately filled.
One day a talent will be discovered who may come marginally close to the heights that Sir Bruce Forsyth reached so stunningly. Maybe a quiz show host will one day walk out in front of a TV audience and ask them quite categorically whether they had done well or not. It is a deeply sad day for British light entertainment. Still we can readily cherish the catch phrase and still believe that sometimes legends can never be forgotten. It was great to see you Bruce. Great to see you.
Wednesday 16 August 2017
Southend, miniature castles, ice cream and fish and chips.
Southend, miniature castles, ice cream and fish and chips.
Ah Southend, isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful? Now we've all heard those song lyrics but perhaps it wouldn't have been quite what Stevie Wonder had in mind just over 41 years. Maybe he did make a fleeting visit to the Essex Riviera but none of us were ever informed and besides it would have been a very private event well away from the dazzling glare of publicity, cameras, inquisitive by passers and those who were just fascinated by the unexpected presence of the Motown legend at the Kursaal or Rossi's famous restaurant in nearby Westcliff.
So here we are in the middle of August and Southend has that end of pier, weatherbeaten and slightly tired look about it. The children are now at home at the beginning of the summer holidays and although Southend looked reasonably busy and thriving there was a sense that summer is now declining and dwindling away into the welcoming arms of autumn.
There is now a sad and regretful air about Southend. There were plenty of families and children in evidence but somehow the numbers weren't quite as impressive as they might have been in May, June and July. The beaches looked empty and forlorn, drained and, to all outward appearances, in desperate need of a holiday or maybe a good old fashioned deckchair. I know. We'll give Southend a break, a change of scenery perhaps or maybe a soothing drop of alcohol by way of complete relaxation.
We are now in the middle of August and even seaside resorts need a break from the toil, sweat and drudgery of workaday life. There they are isolated, side-lined, overlooked, taken for granted during the winter and autumn. Then they expect the whole of humanity to just open for business during the summer without ever considering how they might be feeling.
Our day didn't start promisingly because things just went from bad to worse to almost forgettable. But we could still laugh uncontrollably because even the best laid plans can go to rack and ruin. Our coach was supposed to arrive punctually in Stamford Hill at 10.15 with no complications and problems. And yet there were frustrations, there were difficulties and you know what's it like. You wake up in the morning, full of expectation and childish excitement perhaps but then find that sometimes even the most minor of inconveniences can just spiral out of control.
We were due to leave at roughly 10.00 in the morning but then discovered that fate had something else up its sleeves. The coach had been delayed on the way down to us and we felt like stranded passengers whose train was still stuck at Crewe. We began to bite our finger nails, cursed disgustedly under our breath, suppressed a couple of Anglo Saxon obscenities but then acknowledged that there was no point in getting all hot, bothered and agitated over something we couldn't possibly solve or resolve.
So we waited patiently and we waited even more patiently because we're a hardy, formidable group and we never complain without cause. We're renowned for our tolerance and forbearance, we'll grit our teeth, grin at adversity and then poke fun at the coach driver because it had to be his fault. But we will not be defeated or beaten. We will not accept the inevitability that destiny occasionally throws up and we'll battle on, soldier forwards and just stand our ground.
Thankfully after what seemed an eternity of deliberation, a replacement coach had been found for a coach that had just stubbornly refused to go any further than it should have done. We climbed onto our new, pristine coach with all of the fixtures and fittings of an air conditioner that actually blew out cool air and seats that were warm, comfortable and accommodating.
Then, for reasons best known to him, the coach driver, presumably jokingly, turned up the radio to full deafening blast. My friend and I launched our first bombardment of light hearted banter, wit, sarcasm and then snivelling rage at the realisation that he was just being deliberately awkward and spiteful. Then heading towards Stoke Newington our worst fears were confirmed. Our driver had taken note of our increasing exasperation deciding instantly that two can play at that game.
Suddenly the new coach ground to a shuddering halt. The coach had now pulled sternly into a petrol station and then stopped once again. Initially we assumed that our driver was just seeking some glorious revenge for the facetious jibes we'd aimed at him for being a pain in the neck and late. So it was that our replacement coach finally moved out of the petrol station and into a journey that seemed to be fuelled with just a hint of grudge, anger and vengeance.
Eventually our coach arrived in Southend at roughly lunchtime. According to our watches a journey that should have taken perhaps an hour at the very least, had now taken the best part of half the day. So we sniggered, cackled, took a deep breath and then resigned ourselves to whatever the day might have held. We knew exactly what had happened to us but couldn't rationalise it in our minds because, frustratingly, this shouldn't have been happening to us.
Our bodies had told us repeatedly that our jolly trip to the Essex coast should have started, progressed and concluded at the right time and the right place. None of us for a minute had legislated for a minute for a coach driver we felt had adopted the wrong kind of attitude nor a rattling, decrepit old coach that seemed to break down at the wrong time and the wrong place. But then none of us harboured any kind of resentment because that wouldn't have achieved anything. It was all about time though.
We were still on the road to Southend at mid-day rather than basking in the blossoming rays of August sunshine that Southend had provided for us. The thought occurred to us that we should have been on the beach, tying knotted handkerchiefs on our heads and then staring at acres of seaweed that Southend had so kindly prepared us for.
Sadly though this was not to be the case. Instead we were still racing down towards the coastline and even the gulls had polished off twenty loaves of bread for lunch. Starvation here was not the issue. There was a kind of measured outrage on the coach which, without ever reaching the law courts, would never have been tolerated by any passengers on a day out to the seaside. We kept our feelings to ourselves, gave the coach driver the benefit of the doubt and then just threw in the white towels of surrender, capitulating meekly and then got on with the day in front of us.
Some of us retreated to the traditional seaside lunchtime sustenance of that wonderful culinary treat of fish and chips. This is, as we all know, quintessentially British, richly British, soulfully British, uniquely British, adorably British, the supper of kings and queens, of soldiers and sailors, long distance lorry drivers, holiday makers, day trippers and that stalwart dish of millions of families up and down Britain. It is hard to know whether Britain invented fish and chips because we have got some of the prettiest fishing harbours and ports in the world so maybe that can be our claim.
For so many decades and generations fish and chips has exerted its special influence on the hungry palates of men, women, boys and girls, aunties, cousins, nieces, brothers and sisters. So we tucked into our hearty portions of cod and chips and indeed thought of England because this is the country we were born in and this was the staple food that made us feel good about ourselves at all times.
And then we finally, happily, devoured our fish and chips because it had fully restored our faith in nature because this was the meal that had fed so many generations when the sun shone and it just felt right. Appetites satisfied, some of us treated ourselves to a 99 ice cream with a flake because that was rather like the signature treat at the end of the day, the kind of treat that underlined our day, illustrated our day perfectly and summarised it to perfection.
Today had a fantastic simplicity and straightforwardness to it. Once we'd reached our destination the day unfolded like a British umbrella. But here we are again at what felt like the concluding chapter of summer, August maturing like a good wine, quietly expectant in the sweetest of vineyards. All of those bed and breakfast hotels, pubs, cafes and fish and chip restaurants had been deeply polite and respectful. But there was something missing and it was difficult to know what. It must have been a figment of my imagination but even the gulls weren't quite as noisy and enthusiastic as they might have been in June.
Even Southend's exotic row of palm trees, that always look as though they belong in Monaco, looked flat and lifeless. Of course the sea breezes did briefly ruffle their composed branches but Southend looked just a tad exhausted. weary and lethargic as perhaps it hadn't been for quite a while. We could still hear the gee whizz, raucous screams of the children on the fairground rides, the swinging, swaying, up and down motions of a thousand roller coasters, the ecstatic cries of gulls swooping down on unsuspecting folk with their fish and chips. Oh and before I forget there were the miniature fairy tale castles next to a pub. Of course they were enchanting but we can only assume that Hans Christian Andersen had popped in for a swift half in Southend many, many moons ago.
Oh for the changing moods of the day, then the arrival of normality, the constancy and continuity of summer's pulsing heartbeat. If only summer could give us a guarantee that it might last for ever. But then we'd probably long for the vintage and cosy flavours of autumn and winter, central heating, roaring log fires and hot chicken soups, of privacy and intimacy and being indoors because winter may not be that far away.
At tea time our coach headed back home and for the satisfied reflections of a late summer's day when the early evening sun begins to drop over the rooftops rather reluctantly and much sooner than might have been the case a couple of weeks earlier. Soon autumn will shed its first leaves and memories of fish and chips, seaside resorts, ice-creams, Mo Farah, Usain Bolt and English cricket on those succulent blades of green grass will be just a distant image, like a blackbird that temporarily settles on British turf as if passing through for a while. Southend. I salute you. You remain one of our finest of all seaside resorts. May that always be the case.
Ah Southend, isn't she lovely? Isn't she wonderful? Now we've all heard those song lyrics but perhaps it wouldn't have been quite what Stevie Wonder had in mind just over 41 years. Maybe he did make a fleeting visit to the Essex Riviera but none of us were ever informed and besides it would have been a very private event well away from the dazzling glare of publicity, cameras, inquisitive by passers and those who were just fascinated by the unexpected presence of the Motown legend at the Kursaal or Rossi's famous restaurant in nearby Westcliff.
So here we are in the middle of August and Southend has that end of pier, weatherbeaten and slightly tired look about it. The children are now at home at the beginning of the summer holidays and although Southend looked reasonably busy and thriving there was a sense that summer is now declining and dwindling away into the welcoming arms of autumn.
There is now a sad and regretful air about Southend. There were plenty of families and children in evidence but somehow the numbers weren't quite as impressive as they might have been in May, June and July. The beaches looked empty and forlorn, drained and, to all outward appearances, in desperate need of a holiday or maybe a good old fashioned deckchair. I know. We'll give Southend a break, a change of scenery perhaps or maybe a soothing drop of alcohol by way of complete relaxation.
We are now in the middle of August and even seaside resorts need a break from the toil, sweat and drudgery of workaday life. There they are isolated, side-lined, overlooked, taken for granted during the winter and autumn. Then they expect the whole of humanity to just open for business during the summer without ever considering how they might be feeling.
Our day didn't start promisingly because things just went from bad to worse to almost forgettable. But we could still laugh uncontrollably because even the best laid plans can go to rack and ruin. Our coach was supposed to arrive punctually in Stamford Hill at 10.15 with no complications and problems. And yet there were frustrations, there were difficulties and you know what's it like. You wake up in the morning, full of expectation and childish excitement perhaps but then find that sometimes even the most minor of inconveniences can just spiral out of control.
We were due to leave at roughly 10.00 in the morning but then discovered that fate had something else up its sleeves. The coach had been delayed on the way down to us and we felt like stranded passengers whose train was still stuck at Crewe. We began to bite our finger nails, cursed disgustedly under our breath, suppressed a couple of Anglo Saxon obscenities but then acknowledged that there was no point in getting all hot, bothered and agitated over something we couldn't possibly solve or resolve.
So we waited patiently and we waited even more patiently because we're a hardy, formidable group and we never complain without cause. We're renowned for our tolerance and forbearance, we'll grit our teeth, grin at adversity and then poke fun at the coach driver because it had to be his fault. But we will not be defeated or beaten. We will not accept the inevitability that destiny occasionally throws up and we'll battle on, soldier forwards and just stand our ground.
Thankfully after what seemed an eternity of deliberation, a replacement coach had been found for a coach that had just stubbornly refused to go any further than it should have done. We climbed onto our new, pristine coach with all of the fixtures and fittings of an air conditioner that actually blew out cool air and seats that were warm, comfortable and accommodating.
Then, for reasons best known to him, the coach driver, presumably jokingly, turned up the radio to full deafening blast. My friend and I launched our first bombardment of light hearted banter, wit, sarcasm and then snivelling rage at the realisation that he was just being deliberately awkward and spiteful. Then heading towards Stoke Newington our worst fears were confirmed. Our driver had taken note of our increasing exasperation deciding instantly that two can play at that game.
Suddenly the new coach ground to a shuddering halt. The coach had now pulled sternly into a petrol station and then stopped once again. Initially we assumed that our driver was just seeking some glorious revenge for the facetious jibes we'd aimed at him for being a pain in the neck and late. So it was that our replacement coach finally moved out of the petrol station and into a journey that seemed to be fuelled with just a hint of grudge, anger and vengeance.
Eventually our coach arrived in Southend at roughly lunchtime. According to our watches a journey that should have taken perhaps an hour at the very least, had now taken the best part of half the day. So we sniggered, cackled, took a deep breath and then resigned ourselves to whatever the day might have held. We knew exactly what had happened to us but couldn't rationalise it in our minds because, frustratingly, this shouldn't have been happening to us.
Our bodies had told us repeatedly that our jolly trip to the Essex coast should have started, progressed and concluded at the right time and the right place. None of us for a minute had legislated for a minute for a coach driver we felt had adopted the wrong kind of attitude nor a rattling, decrepit old coach that seemed to break down at the wrong time and the wrong place. But then none of us harboured any kind of resentment because that wouldn't have achieved anything. It was all about time though.
We were still on the road to Southend at mid-day rather than basking in the blossoming rays of August sunshine that Southend had provided for us. The thought occurred to us that we should have been on the beach, tying knotted handkerchiefs on our heads and then staring at acres of seaweed that Southend had so kindly prepared us for.
Sadly though this was not to be the case. Instead we were still racing down towards the coastline and even the gulls had polished off twenty loaves of bread for lunch. Starvation here was not the issue. There was a kind of measured outrage on the coach which, without ever reaching the law courts, would never have been tolerated by any passengers on a day out to the seaside. We kept our feelings to ourselves, gave the coach driver the benefit of the doubt and then just threw in the white towels of surrender, capitulating meekly and then got on with the day in front of us.
Some of us retreated to the traditional seaside lunchtime sustenance of that wonderful culinary treat of fish and chips. This is, as we all know, quintessentially British, richly British, soulfully British, uniquely British, adorably British, the supper of kings and queens, of soldiers and sailors, long distance lorry drivers, holiday makers, day trippers and that stalwart dish of millions of families up and down Britain. It is hard to know whether Britain invented fish and chips because we have got some of the prettiest fishing harbours and ports in the world so maybe that can be our claim.
For so many decades and generations fish and chips has exerted its special influence on the hungry palates of men, women, boys and girls, aunties, cousins, nieces, brothers and sisters. So we tucked into our hearty portions of cod and chips and indeed thought of England because this is the country we were born in and this was the staple food that made us feel good about ourselves at all times.
And then we finally, happily, devoured our fish and chips because it had fully restored our faith in nature because this was the meal that had fed so many generations when the sun shone and it just felt right. Appetites satisfied, some of us treated ourselves to a 99 ice cream with a flake because that was rather like the signature treat at the end of the day, the kind of treat that underlined our day, illustrated our day perfectly and summarised it to perfection.
Today had a fantastic simplicity and straightforwardness to it. Once we'd reached our destination the day unfolded like a British umbrella. But here we are again at what felt like the concluding chapter of summer, August maturing like a good wine, quietly expectant in the sweetest of vineyards. All of those bed and breakfast hotels, pubs, cafes and fish and chip restaurants had been deeply polite and respectful. But there was something missing and it was difficult to know what. It must have been a figment of my imagination but even the gulls weren't quite as noisy and enthusiastic as they might have been in June.
Even Southend's exotic row of palm trees, that always look as though they belong in Monaco, looked flat and lifeless. Of course the sea breezes did briefly ruffle their composed branches but Southend looked just a tad exhausted. weary and lethargic as perhaps it hadn't been for quite a while. We could still hear the gee whizz, raucous screams of the children on the fairground rides, the swinging, swaying, up and down motions of a thousand roller coasters, the ecstatic cries of gulls swooping down on unsuspecting folk with their fish and chips. Oh and before I forget there were the miniature fairy tale castles next to a pub. Of course they were enchanting but we can only assume that Hans Christian Andersen had popped in for a swift half in Southend many, many moons ago.
Oh for the changing moods of the day, then the arrival of normality, the constancy and continuity of summer's pulsing heartbeat. If only summer could give us a guarantee that it might last for ever. But then we'd probably long for the vintage and cosy flavours of autumn and winter, central heating, roaring log fires and hot chicken soups, of privacy and intimacy and being indoors because winter may not be that far away.
At tea time our coach headed back home and for the satisfied reflections of a late summer's day when the early evening sun begins to drop over the rooftops rather reluctantly and much sooner than might have been the case a couple of weeks earlier. Soon autumn will shed its first leaves and memories of fish and chips, seaside resorts, ice-creams, Mo Farah, Usain Bolt and English cricket on those succulent blades of green grass will be just a distant image, like a blackbird that temporarily settles on British turf as if passing through for a while. Southend. I salute you. You remain one of our finest of all seaside resorts. May that always be the case.
Sunday 13 August 2017
Herbert Chapman, Huddersfield Town, the Charleston, the Roaring Twenties and the Premier League business as usual.
Herbert Chapman, Huddersfield Town, the Charleston, the Roaring Twenties and the Premier League business as usual.
Oh well, it was business as usual at the top of the Premier League. The wealthy elite reign supreme at the top of the Premier League tree, the posh plutocracy have once again adopted superior airs and the relationship between master and servant has never been so apparent. In fact below stairs the Premier League have probably never felt so inferior, subordinate or downtrodden. But for one glorious day in the middle of August, it felt as if the lower orders were revolting and not doing what they were told to do.
Ah! A rainbow appeared on the Premier League horizon for just one day, 12 beautiful hours which saw a once famous football club go top of the Premier League. It was almost as if the clock had been turned right back to the 1920s when men and women did the Charleston in fashionably rich dancing salons and when the whole cinema experience was enhanced by voice and sound. But in the world of English football there could only have been one club on everybody's lips. No it wasn't Chelsea, nor was it Manchester City, Arsenal or Spurs because they were just emerging forces in the game.
No, the club I'm talking about is Huddersfield Town and yesterday Huddersfield, aka The Terriers, showed dogged tenacity and grit before biting their teeth into Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park who are known as the Eagles which sounds distinctly unsavoury. Not for the squeamish or those who would rather avoid the sight of blood. Still Huddersfield, on their return to the top flight of English football thumped Palace, brushed them aside almost dismissively and then just ripped them apart with a 3-0 win.
And so it was that Huddersfield were, unbelievably, top of the League and just for one Saturday afternoon this once mighty industrial town in the heart of Yorkshire were lords of English football's manor. Of course Huddersfield will always be regarded as a powerful force of good in their part of Yorkshire. But those long ago cotton and textile mills were silenced and it took the Terriers another 50 years to regain their foothold among the big boys. It's been a long time now but for the first time since 1970 Huddersfield are back where they feel they rightly belong.
It is at this point that my thoughts turn to the Roaring Twenties, the 1920s, and a certain Herbert Chapman. Chapman was the man who breathed life into a team who suddenly found themselves the major talking point in football boardrooms and pubs across Britain. Before Chapman there had been very little to lift the sagging spirits of a team who were going seemingly nowhere. Then an amiable figure wearing football's familiar bowler hat and waistcoat, arrived at Huddersfield's old Leeds Road ground and Huddersfield, on the pitch, wore a significantly smarter attire.
Within the blink of an eye lid Huddersfield snapped up three successive old First Division titles and the world of football looked on with a wide eyed amazement. Over night Huddersfield went from boot polishers in the parlour to the glittering banqueting suite at football's top table. The speed and efficiency with which Huddersfield had conquered all obstacles remains one of football's most remarkable back stories.
Then Chapman began to develop delusions of grandeur and took himself down to London where, with Arsenal he once again he swept through the marble halls of the old Highbury like the proverbial whirlwind. In no time at all Chapman had cracked it again, the formula one that couldn't be bottled and Arsenal were also crowned as the League champions. There must have been something in the North London air and naturally the name of Chapman would be etched indelibly in Arsenal folklore until Bertie Mee, George Graham and now Arsene Wenger worked a similar oracle.
But Huddersfield had to wait quite agonisingly for the next moment in the showbiz glare. In 1970 they returned to a land they thought they'd never see again. Sadly all the glamour and celebrity became too much, engulfing and overwhelming them with all of the pressures that seem to come pre-packaged when you became an old First Division club. Huddersfield were almost immediately relegated back from whence they came and the lower Leagues beckoned for the Yorkshiremen.
Still Huddersfield did have one or two claims to fame. During the 1950s a young Denis Law, who would later grace the red of Manchester United with such luminous distinction, made his debut in the blue and white stripes of Huddersfield Town as a young 17 year old certainly not wet behind the ears. Law may have been raw but even then there were all of the suggestions of greatness. Law was the finished article, a goal scorer with a ravenous hunger for scoring, an obvious desire to succeed and an insatiable hunger for being in the right place and the right time.
And last but not least Huddersfield had one other notable feather in their cap. During the 1960s the Prime Minister of Britain Harold Wilson proudly declared himself an ardent Terrier. Frequently he would pull that celebrated pipe away from his mouth and make bold pronouncements about Huddersfield one day winning the old First Division which seemed a pipe dream at the time. The truth was it was never likely to materialise when their neighbours, Leeds United, Sheffield United and Wednesday promptly muscled them out of the way and said they were infinitely better.
So here we are on the first weekend of the Premier League and another household name have once again re-asserted themselves in quite the most devastating fashion. Manchester United simply crushed West Ham 4-0 at Old Trafford and it almost seems as though Huddersfield's brief tenancy at the top of the League was no more than a flirtation. For one day football seemed to have re-discovered its romantic soul. Then there were aching hearts and anguished sighs as reality set in. The team that Sir Alex Ferguson once took to the top of Mount Olympus had once again found itself back at the summit. Manchester United were back in the place where they'd always felt most comfortable in. Dear Harold would have felt terribly hurt. Still it had to be preferable to an argument with the unions. Prime Ministers were never that keen on beer and sandwiches anyway.
Oh well, it was business as usual at the top of the Premier League. The wealthy elite reign supreme at the top of the Premier League tree, the posh plutocracy have once again adopted superior airs and the relationship between master and servant has never been so apparent. In fact below stairs the Premier League have probably never felt so inferior, subordinate or downtrodden. But for one glorious day in the middle of August, it felt as if the lower orders were revolting and not doing what they were told to do.
Ah! A rainbow appeared on the Premier League horizon for just one day, 12 beautiful hours which saw a once famous football club go top of the Premier League. It was almost as if the clock had been turned right back to the 1920s when men and women did the Charleston in fashionably rich dancing salons and when the whole cinema experience was enhanced by voice and sound. But in the world of English football there could only have been one club on everybody's lips. No it wasn't Chelsea, nor was it Manchester City, Arsenal or Spurs because they were just emerging forces in the game.
No, the club I'm talking about is Huddersfield Town and yesterday Huddersfield, aka The Terriers, showed dogged tenacity and grit before biting their teeth into Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park who are known as the Eagles which sounds distinctly unsavoury. Not for the squeamish or those who would rather avoid the sight of blood. Still Huddersfield, on their return to the top flight of English football thumped Palace, brushed them aside almost dismissively and then just ripped them apart with a 3-0 win.
And so it was that Huddersfield were, unbelievably, top of the League and just for one Saturday afternoon this once mighty industrial town in the heart of Yorkshire were lords of English football's manor. Of course Huddersfield will always be regarded as a powerful force of good in their part of Yorkshire. But those long ago cotton and textile mills were silenced and it took the Terriers another 50 years to regain their foothold among the big boys. It's been a long time now but for the first time since 1970 Huddersfield are back where they feel they rightly belong.
It is at this point that my thoughts turn to the Roaring Twenties, the 1920s, and a certain Herbert Chapman. Chapman was the man who breathed life into a team who suddenly found themselves the major talking point in football boardrooms and pubs across Britain. Before Chapman there had been very little to lift the sagging spirits of a team who were going seemingly nowhere. Then an amiable figure wearing football's familiar bowler hat and waistcoat, arrived at Huddersfield's old Leeds Road ground and Huddersfield, on the pitch, wore a significantly smarter attire.
Within the blink of an eye lid Huddersfield snapped up three successive old First Division titles and the world of football looked on with a wide eyed amazement. Over night Huddersfield went from boot polishers in the parlour to the glittering banqueting suite at football's top table. The speed and efficiency with which Huddersfield had conquered all obstacles remains one of football's most remarkable back stories.
Then Chapman began to develop delusions of grandeur and took himself down to London where, with Arsenal he once again he swept through the marble halls of the old Highbury like the proverbial whirlwind. In no time at all Chapman had cracked it again, the formula one that couldn't be bottled and Arsenal were also crowned as the League champions. There must have been something in the North London air and naturally the name of Chapman would be etched indelibly in Arsenal folklore until Bertie Mee, George Graham and now Arsene Wenger worked a similar oracle.
But Huddersfield had to wait quite agonisingly for the next moment in the showbiz glare. In 1970 they returned to a land they thought they'd never see again. Sadly all the glamour and celebrity became too much, engulfing and overwhelming them with all of the pressures that seem to come pre-packaged when you became an old First Division club. Huddersfield were almost immediately relegated back from whence they came and the lower Leagues beckoned for the Yorkshiremen.
Still Huddersfield did have one or two claims to fame. During the 1950s a young Denis Law, who would later grace the red of Manchester United with such luminous distinction, made his debut in the blue and white stripes of Huddersfield Town as a young 17 year old certainly not wet behind the ears. Law may have been raw but even then there were all of the suggestions of greatness. Law was the finished article, a goal scorer with a ravenous hunger for scoring, an obvious desire to succeed and an insatiable hunger for being in the right place and the right time.
And last but not least Huddersfield had one other notable feather in their cap. During the 1960s the Prime Minister of Britain Harold Wilson proudly declared himself an ardent Terrier. Frequently he would pull that celebrated pipe away from his mouth and make bold pronouncements about Huddersfield one day winning the old First Division which seemed a pipe dream at the time. The truth was it was never likely to materialise when their neighbours, Leeds United, Sheffield United and Wednesday promptly muscled them out of the way and said they were infinitely better.
So here we are on the first weekend of the Premier League and another household name have once again re-asserted themselves in quite the most devastating fashion. Manchester United simply crushed West Ham 4-0 at Old Trafford and it almost seems as though Huddersfield's brief tenancy at the top of the League was no more than a flirtation. For one day football seemed to have re-discovered its romantic soul. Then there were aching hearts and anguished sighs as reality set in. The team that Sir Alex Ferguson once took to the top of Mount Olympus had once again found itself back at the summit. Manchester United were back in the place where they'd always felt most comfortable in. Dear Harold would have felt terribly hurt. Still it had to be preferable to an argument with the unions. Prime Ministers were never that keen on beer and sandwiches anyway.
Saturday 12 August 2017
Gunners firing on all cylinders- Arsenal beat Leicester in seven goal thriller.
Gunners firing on all cylinders- Arsenal beat Leicester City in seven goal thriller.
Across Britain millions of women will be sighing heavily, shaking their heads in complete despair and trying to pretend that it isn't happening. Yes everybody the new Premier League football season is up and running and last night a thousand fireworks exploded into life at the Emirates Stadium, home of Arsenal football club.
It only seems like yesterday since thousands of mutinous Arsenal fans were storming the barricades, demanding the head of Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger, baying for the Frenchman's blood and barely able to suppress fury and indignation. Wenger they insisted, had to go, leave by the back door and never darken the Emirates corridors ever again. In fact they were so angry and livid that there were those among the crowd who began to look back to those halcyon days of Bertie Mee and more recently, George Graham. They wouldn't have allowed Arsenal to deteriorate so rapidly as Arsenal quite clearly did towards the end of last season.
But history is a funny thing. A vast majority of those same dissatisfied Arsenal supporters who wanted Wenger out may have conveniently forgotten that during that season the Gunners remained unbeaten, the Invincibles having successfully negotiated a whole season without losing a single game. Still short though memories are, Arsenal, at the moment, are still regarded as serial underachievers. And yet last night against Leicester City the home side briefly allayed any apparent anxieties with a 4-3 victory. But there were obviously nervous jitters in their defence and the faultlines must be an enormous source of concern.
So it was that Arsenal stepped out to the technicolour fireworks of Sky TV on a Friday evening. Now the traditionalists may well tell you that this is simply beyond a joke. Fridays are reserved for fish suppers, Jewish shabbat chicken suppers, drinking gleefully in the pub after work and many decades ago Crackerjack on BBC One at 5.00. But here we were all again, beers and pizzas by the ready, voices well oiled, football's most melodious choirs chanting their soprano songs on the vast stage that is the Emirates Stadium.
None though had for a moment had any idea of what the 90 minutes would bring. Arsenal, buoyed by the FA Cup Final victory against Chelsea at the end of last season, flew off the starting blocks like a team bursting with confidence, ideas and attacking exuberance. It took them the best part of a minute to announce themselves as potential Premier League contenders and by the end of this remarkable seven goal thriller most of the neutrals were pleading for more.
Arsenal's new signing French striker Alexandra Lacazette was paraded before the adoring Gunners faithful and it almost felt as if Arsenal were holding a reception for the new Thierry Henry but the jury may be out on that one for quite a while. Henry scored some of the most sublime goals ever seen at Arsenal becoming well and truly established as a prolific goal scoring machine at Highbury before it made way for the Emirates.
It took Lacazette just a minute to declare his hand to the expectant Arsenal fans. There have been goals scored in equally as quick a time as the one we witnessed last night but none quite as unexpected. After a typically fluent, flowing attack out on Arsenal's wing, the ball travelled quickly and simply before a cross into the area found Lacazette who nipped in sharply just in front of his marker and firmly flicked his header past Kasper Schmeichel. It was a goal that had no ample warning but was still greeted with the most magnificent roar from the crowd.
This looked as if it could be the opening of the Arsenal floodgates given the speed, seriousness and intensity of Arsenal start. Once Arsenal began to reveal their festival of short passes played at breakneck pace you began to suspect that all of those doubts, reservations and misgivings that seemed to gnaw away at Arsenal last season, had been well and truly extinguished.
Once again Arsenal's ball distribution, such a pleasure to behold, unfolded itself like a colourful silk sheet, the ball zipping around the central midfield area effortlessly, red shirts gratefully receiving, giving it and going as if they'd performed the same training exercise a hundred times. Arsenal's football had an instantly identifiable shape, pattern and geometry that all of us could rightly acclaim and drool over.
In fact ever since Wenger's arrival at Arsenal over 20 years, the blueprint has always been the same, the template unvarying, the tempo just upbeat and almost musical at times. For the best part of an hour, Arsenal passed the ball round and round the pitch so precisely and rhythmically that you had to blink twice if you'd missed the sheer extravagance and ornateness of it all.
But this game had so many wild twists, turns and chicanes that at times the match almost reached legendary heights. Then Leicester equalised and a solemn silence descended across North London. The Arsenal supporters gulped, groaned and began to assume the air of deja vu. Of course they'd all been here before. Another lofted ball into the Arsenal area was narrowly headed back into the six yard box and Shinji Kazaki prodded the ball over the Arsenal line. Back to square one for Arsenal. Back to the drawing board for Arsenal.
It was time for those disgruntled Arsenal fans to vent another barrage of frustration, time to express their grief, those low grumbles of disenchantment and above all it was time for Arsene Wenger to pack his belongings together, clear his desk and just go. Don't we love football supporters? When things go well and swimmingly the manager is somehow the best manager in the world but if by some chance it doesn't the consequences can be too painful to even consider.
This season though Wenger has been given a stay of execution and the guillotine has been kept in cold storage. On the bench Wenger, although immaculately turned out, still looks haunted, gaunt, thin as a bamboo stick and like a man who is simply resigned to his fate. He leans forward with that now almost completely greying hair, hands almost permanently tucked into his pockets, nervously scrutinising every Arsenal pass, tackle and attack.
At times he almost looks as if he's had enough, tolerance tested to the limit and privately longing for the game to end. Any more of this, he must be thinking and he'll have to go the Parisian artists quarter or some remote arrondissement where nobody can find him. Perhaps a cafe au lait with a croissant or two before leafing through Proust.
Minutes later Leicester were in front. Once again Leicester came surging forward and after a teasing ball into the Arsenal area, the ball was driven in low across the Arsenal box with some conviction and Jamie Vardy, the man who just couldn't stop scoring for Leicester in their Premier League title winning season two years ago, now did what seems to come naturally. He slammed the ball into the net from close range heartlessly and almost callously.
Shortly before half time, with Arsenal supporters now in revolt and utterly outraged, Arsenal once again demonstrated a most combative fighting spirit. A neat and attractive exchange of whirlwind one twos and passes outside the Leicester area, reminded you of the proverbial pinball machine, the ball clipped and chipped between a blur of Arsenal feet like the prettiest footballing exhibition. It was football of the finest stock, of the most mature vintage, football with a gold leaf and hallmark. It was superbly constructed, wonderfully executed and, you felt belonged, in a Brazilian or German field. Welbeck finally tapped the ball to Lacazette and the Frenchman just rolled the ball in for Arsenal's equaliser.
The second half re- started in much the way the first half had begun. Arsenal attacked with all the zest of the cavalry. red shirts circling around the centre of the pitch, passes humming around in short, sharp, staccato bursts. players darting and manoeuvring into place as if predestined to be there. In the most confined of spaces, the ball was played smartly and intelligently within metres of the player who had become available. It was lovely, off the cuff and spontaneous football. How watching England manager Gareth Southgate must wish his England team could sing from the same hymn sheet.
Arsenal looked to be in the ascendancy but then they fell again awkwardly like somebody who falls off their bike and then curses themselves because they'd lost control of the handlebars. Arsenal were now stumbling haphazardly through the game. It must have seemed as though they'd fallen into a muddy ditch or those unforgivingly prickly bushes you see in well manicured parks and gardens.
Leicester would now regain the lead and an air of disgust and apprehension fell over the Emirates like a dirty cloth. In fact the cloth was filthy that at times a nasty smell began to spread across North London. It was never a sinister smell, merely one that began to drift disconcertingly across Finsbury Park. Soon though an air freshener was immediately summoned and Arsenal began to unveil their latest instalment of showboating, dreamlike one touch football and the kind of easy on the eye football that has become their customary trademark.
Half way through the second half substitutions and reinforcements became crucial to this worrying Arsenal scenario. In last year's opening match of the season against Liverpool at the Emirates had subsided and crumpled to the floor like a battered and bruised boxer. That day Liverpool beat Arsenal 4-3 and just for a brief moment, the fans on the terraces must have been fearing the worst. But this time fortunes were ironically reversed and this time Arsenal called four. But the Emirates is no golf course and this was the opening evening of the Premier League football season.
Both Olivier Giroud, now probably persuaded to stay at the Emirates and Aaron Ramsey, so nimbly light on his feet, came on to strengthen an Arsenal attack that looked to be wilting and about to run into a series of cul- de sacs with nowhere to go. Ramsey, particularly, is gradually blending into Arsenal's cohesive attack with a lovely air of independence about him.
During Euro 2016 Ramsey looked to be one of the most outstanding Welsh players the nation has ever produced. True, Ryan Giggs may well have challenged that assumption but Ramsey is wholesomely measured and composed with his passing occasionally giving the impression of Liam Brady with some of his ball control. Now Ramsey once again emerged as the goal scoring maestro, the ball falling perfectly into his path before striking the ball low and venomously into the net for Arsenal's third.
The match had now begun to swing favourably in Arsenal's favour, the pendulum going in the right direction for a now rampant Arsenal side. Arsenal began to play with Leicester like a toy from Hamley's. Now Arsenal homed in, arrowed into and converged into the Leicester penalty area, the ball moving almost poetically from one red shirt to the next. Then there were the subtle, delicate one twos, those decorative flourishes that make Arsenal's football so complete.
With minutes to go and the Emirates crowd at more than fever pitch, Arsenal hunted and foraged in packs, pummelling Leicester's well disciplined defence like somebody knocking on a door and finding that they'd gone out for the evening. Suddenly one last rally resulted in a corner for the home side. Every Arsenal shirt packed the penalty area and the ball was swung into the Leicester area. Olivier Giroud, whose future at the club, had been so shrouded in doubt by the unstoppable force that is Alexis Sanchez, jumped commandingly for the ball and glanced his header towards the net. The strength and trajectory of the header was such that the ball was considered to be well over the line for Arsenal's winner.
And that was that. The crowds began to file away in the most orderly fashion, the devoted Gunners happy go lucky and totally exulted by the 90 minutes that had been presented to them. There was a cool and humid August air about the Emirates. Of course the season is barely a game old and there will be childish confrontations and many a heated argument. Across the Premier League there will be spite, malice, bad blood, dreadful gamesmanship, trickery and duplicity. This season though, football has to be on its best behaviour because the rest of the world may be watching us.
Meanwhile a cross section of women will be gnashing their teeth, lowering their heads in despondency and just allowing their menfolk to do what they normally do in August. No, not fly fishing near a river bank nor is it beginning of the darts and snooker season for this is the time of the year when football scarves are wrapped around masculine necks and sales of meat pies at football grounds reach rarefied heights. August will slowly wend its way towards the darkness of autumn and winter and never know whether the Premier League champions of late spring will find a rightful home. How the men have missed Match of the Day. It's almost as if the game has never been away.
Across Britain millions of women will be sighing heavily, shaking their heads in complete despair and trying to pretend that it isn't happening. Yes everybody the new Premier League football season is up and running and last night a thousand fireworks exploded into life at the Emirates Stadium, home of Arsenal football club.
It only seems like yesterday since thousands of mutinous Arsenal fans were storming the barricades, demanding the head of Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger, baying for the Frenchman's blood and barely able to suppress fury and indignation. Wenger they insisted, had to go, leave by the back door and never darken the Emirates corridors ever again. In fact they were so angry and livid that there were those among the crowd who began to look back to those halcyon days of Bertie Mee and more recently, George Graham. They wouldn't have allowed Arsenal to deteriorate so rapidly as Arsenal quite clearly did towards the end of last season.
But history is a funny thing. A vast majority of those same dissatisfied Arsenal supporters who wanted Wenger out may have conveniently forgotten that during that season the Gunners remained unbeaten, the Invincibles having successfully negotiated a whole season without losing a single game. Still short though memories are, Arsenal, at the moment, are still regarded as serial underachievers. And yet last night against Leicester City the home side briefly allayed any apparent anxieties with a 4-3 victory. But there were obviously nervous jitters in their defence and the faultlines must be an enormous source of concern.
So it was that Arsenal stepped out to the technicolour fireworks of Sky TV on a Friday evening. Now the traditionalists may well tell you that this is simply beyond a joke. Fridays are reserved for fish suppers, Jewish shabbat chicken suppers, drinking gleefully in the pub after work and many decades ago Crackerjack on BBC One at 5.00. But here we were all again, beers and pizzas by the ready, voices well oiled, football's most melodious choirs chanting their soprano songs on the vast stage that is the Emirates Stadium.
None though had for a moment had any idea of what the 90 minutes would bring. Arsenal, buoyed by the FA Cup Final victory against Chelsea at the end of last season, flew off the starting blocks like a team bursting with confidence, ideas and attacking exuberance. It took them the best part of a minute to announce themselves as potential Premier League contenders and by the end of this remarkable seven goal thriller most of the neutrals were pleading for more.
Arsenal's new signing French striker Alexandra Lacazette was paraded before the adoring Gunners faithful and it almost felt as if Arsenal were holding a reception for the new Thierry Henry but the jury may be out on that one for quite a while. Henry scored some of the most sublime goals ever seen at Arsenal becoming well and truly established as a prolific goal scoring machine at Highbury before it made way for the Emirates.
It took Lacazette just a minute to declare his hand to the expectant Arsenal fans. There have been goals scored in equally as quick a time as the one we witnessed last night but none quite as unexpected. After a typically fluent, flowing attack out on Arsenal's wing, the ball travelled quickly and simply before a cross into the area found Lacazette who nipped in sharply just in front of his marker and firmly flicked his header past Kasper Schmeichel. It was a goal that had no ample warning but was still greeted with the most magnificent roar from the crowd.
This looked as if it could be the opening of the Arsenal floodgates given the speed, seriousness and intensity of Arsenal start. Once Arsenal began to reveal their festival of short passes played at breakneck pace you began to suspect that all of those doubts, reservations and misgivings that seemed to gnaw away at Arsenal last season, had been well and truly extinguished.
Once again Arsenal's ball distribution, such a pleasure to behold, unfolded itself like a colourful silk sheet, the ball zipping around the central midfield area effortlessly, red shirts gratefully receiving, giving it and going as if they'd performed the same training exercise a hundred times. Arsenal's football had an instantly identifiable shape, pattern and geometry that all of us could rightly acclaim and drool over.
In fact ever since Wenger's arrival at Arsenal over 20 years, the blueprint has always been the same, the template unvarying, the tempo just upbeat and almost musical at times. For the best part of an hour, Arsenal passed the ball round and round the pitch so precisely and rhythmically that you had to blink twice if you'd missed the sheer extravagance and ornateness of it all.
But this game had so many wild twists, turns and chicanes that at times the match almost reached legendary heights. Then Leicester equalised and a solemn silence descended across North London. The Arsenal supporters gulped, groaned and began to assume the air of deja vu. Of course they'd all been here before. Another lofted ball into the Arsenal area was narrowly headed back into the six yard box and Shinji Kazaki prodded the ball over the Arsenal line. Back to square one for Arsenal. Back to the drawing board for Arsenal.
It was time for those disgruntled Arsenal fans to vent another barrage of frustration, time to express their grief, those low grumbles of disenchantment and above all it was time for Arsene Wenger to pack his belongings together, clear his desk and just go. Don't we love football supporters? When things go well and swimmingly the manager is somehow the best manager in the world but if by some chance it doesn't the consequences can be too painful to even consider.
This season though Wenger has been given a stay of execution and the guillotine has been kept in cold storage. On the bench Wenger, although immaculately turned out, still looks haunted, gaunt, thin as a bamboo stick and like a man who is simply resigned to his fate. He leans forward with that now almost completely greying hair, hands almost permanently tucked into his pockets, nervously scrutinising every Arsenal pass, tackle and attack.
At times he almost looks as if he's had enough, tolerance tested to the limit and privately longing for the game to end. Any more of this, he must be thinking and he'll have to go the Parisian artists quarter or some remote arrondissement where nobody can find him. Perhaps a cafe au lait with a croissant or two before leafing through Proust.
Minutes later Leicester were in front. Once again Leicester came surging forward and after a teasing ball into the Arsenal area, the ball was driven in low across the Arsenal box with some conviction and Jamie Vardy, the man who just couldn't stop scoring for Leicester in their Premier League title winning season two years ago, now did what seems to come naturally. He slammed the ball into the net from close range heartlessly and almost callously.
Shortly before half time, with Arsenal supporters now in revolt and utterly outraged, Arsenal once again demonstrated a most combative fighting spirit. A neat and attractive exchange of whirlwind one twos and passes outside the Leicester area, reminded you of the proverbial pinball machine, the ball clipped and chipped between a blur of Arsenal feet like the prettiest footballing exhibition. It was football of the finest stock, of the most mature vintage, football with a gold leaf and hallmark. It was superbly constructed, wonderfully executed and, you felt belonged, in a Brazilian or German field. Welbeck finally tapped the ball to Lacazette and the Frenchman just rolled the ball in for Arsenal's equaliser.
The second half re- started in much the way the first half had begun. Arsenal attacked with all the zest of the cavalry. red shirts circling around the centre of the pitch, passes humming around in short, sharp, staccato bursts. players darting and manoeuvring into place as if predestined to be there. In the most confined of spaces, the ball was played smartly and intelligently within metres of the player who had become available. It was lovely, off the cuff and spontaneous football. How watching England manager Gareth Southgate must wish his England team could sing from the same hymn sheet.
Arsenal looked to be in the ascendancy but then they fell again awkwardly like somebody who falls off their bike and then curses themselves because they'd lost control of the handlebars. Arsenal were now stumbling haphazardly through the game. It must have seemed as though they'd fallen into a muddy ditch or those unforgivingly prickly bushes you see in well manicured parks and gardens.
Leicester would now regain the lead and an air of disgust and apprehension fell over the Emirates like a dirty cloth. In fact the cloth was filthy that at times a nasty smell began to spread across North London. It was never a sinister smell, merely one that began to drift disconcertingly across Finsbury Park. Soon though an air freshener was immediately summoned and Arsenal began to unveil their latest instalment of showboating, dreamlike one touch football and the kind of easy on the eye football that has become their customary trademark.
Half way through the second half substitutions and reinforcements became crucial to this worrying Arsenal scenario. In last year's opening match of the season against Liverpool at the Emirates had subsided and crumpled to the floor like a battered and bruised boxer. That day Liverpool beat Arsenal 4-3 and just for a brief moment, the fans on the terraces must have been fearing the worst. But this time fortunes were ironically reversed and this time Arsenal called four. But the Emirates is no golf course and this was the opening evening of the Premier League football season.
Both Olivier Giroud, now probably persuaded to stay at the Emirates and Aaron Ramsey, so nimbly light on his feet, came on to strengthen an Arsenal attack that looked to be wilting and about to run into a series of cul- de sacs with nowhere to go. Ramsey, particularly, is gradually blending into Arsenal's cohesive attack with a lovely air of independence about him.
During Euro 2016 Ramsey looked to be one of the most outstanding Welsh players the nation has ever produced. True, Ryan Giggs may well have challenged that assumption but Ramsey is wholesomely measured and composed with his passing occasionally giving the impression of Liam Brady with some of his ball control. Now Ramsey once again emerged as the goal scoring maestro, the ball falling perfectly into his path before striking the ball low and venomously into the net for Arsenal's third.
The match had now begun to swing favourably in Arsenal's favour, the pendulum going in the right direction for a now rampant Arsenal side. Arsenal began to play with Leicester like a toy from Hamley's. Now Arsenal homed in, arrowed into and converged into the Leicester penalty area, the ball moving almost poetically from one red shirt to the next. Then there were the subtle, delicate one twos, those decorative flourishes that make Arsenal's football so complete.
With minutes to go and the Emirates crowd at more than fever pitch, Arsenal hunted and foraged in packs, pummelling Leicester's well disciplined defence like somebody knocking on a door and finding that they'd gone out for the evening. Suddenly one last rally resulted in a corner for the home side. Every Arsenal shirt packed the penalty area and the ball was swung into the Leicester area. Olivier Giroud, whose future at the club, had been so shrouded in doubt by the unstoppable force that is Alexis Sanchez, jumped commandingly for the ball and glanced his header towards the net. The strength and trajectory of the header was such that the ball was considered to be well over the line for Arsenal's winner.
And that was that. The crowds began to file away in the most orderly fashion, the devoted Gunners happy go lucky and totally exulted by the 90 minutes that had been presented to them. There was a cool and humid August air about the Emirates. Of course the season is barely a game old and there will be childish confrontations and many a heated argument. Across the Premier League there will be spite, malice, bad blood, dreadful gamesmanship, trickery and duplicity. This season though, football has to be on its best behaviour because the rest of the world may be watching us.
Meanwhile a cross section of women will be gnashing their teeth, lowering their heads in despondency and just allowing their menfolk to do what they normally do in August. No, not fly fishing near a river bank nor is it beginning of the darts and snooker season for this is the time of the year when football scarves are wrapped around masculine necks and sales of meat pies at football grounds reach rarefied heights. August will slowly wend its way towards the darkness of autumn and winter and never know whether the Premier League champions of late spring will find a rightful home. How the men have missed Match of the Day. It's almost as if the game has never been away.
Wednesday 9 August 2017
How we love the TV.
How we love the TV.
It's hard to remember a time when the world somehow got by without a TV? Today we bought a telly, the goggle box, that wonderful piece of furniture which has now become an extended member of our family, presumed to be there, a genuine form of mental and emotional stimulus, a diversion without which we probably couldn't live even if we tried.
Now it is our friendly uncle, auntie, cousin, brother and sister, a tangible accompaniment to our lives when there's nothing on the radio or there's nowhere to go. We could go to see the latest film in our cinemas, we could play cards, Scrabble, Monopoly or pop round to our family and friends, sharing a light hearted discussion on Manchester City or Chelsea, Donald Trump or the shared enjoyment of ten pin bowling and bingo. But maybe TV still hits the right spot for us all and maybe it's something that has always been high on our agenda when those appealing alternatives aren't quite what we've had in mind during the evening.
The fact is that TV has to occupy a prominent place in our cultural lifestyles because without it we'd probably wonder whether we've missed out on some notable event and besides the necessity for information nowadays has never been greater. Maybe we could go out and miss all of those programmes that were hardly compulsive watching anyway. Nowadays TV isn't quite the addictive entertainment it used to be if only because most of us have got our essential Tablets, I-Pads and Spotify for company.
But today my wife, father in law and I drove round to our local Asda supermarket to buy a TV which does admittedly sound ludicrous but supermarkets are the new Curry's and PC World so who were we to argue? So there it was comfortably sitting in the middle of a huge concentration of fruit, vegetables, tins of baked beans, milk, bread and that mouth watering roast chicken counter. Eventually we'll all be doing our shopping in one giant warehouse where everything can be bought at the same time.
A couple of years ago a trip to Costco here in North London truly opened my eyes. There was an enticing combination of everything in huge commercial bulk, electronic and electrical equipment nestling side by side with massive packets of Corn Flakes, kitchen towels, kettles and anything else that looked eminently fashionable, appetising or a must for the family living room. But TV's the size of small countries looked so inviting you felt sure that eventually the whole of those heaving Costco shelves would be completely empty of TVs by the end of the day.
Little did a certain John Logie Baird know way back then that his invention would so transform and revolutionise our way of thinking and seeing that roughly 90 years later it would still be there, staring at us questioningly perhaps, unmoved, unspoilt, humble and just pleased to be part of your home. It never shows any gratitude, but, fundamentally, it has to be in our space, our private domain, our antidote and medicine if we're unwell and irresistibly magnetic and fascinating.
Every day we wake up to breakfast TV followed by lunch TV, then tea time before settling down to evening TV which has to hold our attention because otherwise we'd probably do something completely different. TV has been our permanent ally when all around us is crisis or urgency or just plain boring. After school, work or anywhere in particular we come home and assume that flashing, flickering imagery will maintain its extraordinary ability to control our emotions. provoking us, terrifying us, amusing us and then just leaving us in a surreal state of disbelief.
It's hard to believe that throughout those early decades of the 20th century TV would be the starting point for everything. the catalyst for instinctive human reactions, intriguing thought processes and then a pulsating Premier League match courtesy of Sky on a Monday evening. We all know about TV's full repertoire of the good and the great, the bad and the mad, the crazy and the spectacular. TV transcends everything in our everyday life: the weather, the holiday abroad, the dinner party. At some point during our day TV seems to take an overwhelming priority to everything but now of course we can multi task and find other things to do rather than just find ourselves glued to that box in the corner.
There are of course the DVD box sets, the Play Stations for the kids, X- Boxes for the kids, the I Player, hundreds and thousands of diverse computer games, the vast multitude of Apps on our multi faceted phones that do everything but cook your dinner. But once again you are reminded of just how fortunate we are because during the 1950s and 60s TV was still in monochrome black and white, the picture quality invariably fuzzy, indistinct and often blurred. Then we had to be content with one channel in Britain, the highly esteemed BBC, until the advent of commercial television in 1955.
Then in 1967 BBC 2 blew out a candle on its first night after an industrial dispute had delayed those initial BBC 2 proceedings. Soon though BBC 2 would bombard us with opera, ballet, Shakespeare, classical music, late night interviews with art students, composers and scientists. BBC 2 had and still has controversial, ground breaking plays, earnest news programmes and everything that is both revealing and captivating.
During my childhood though TV was that tiny match box in the corner of our living room. For most of the 1960s my parents rented a DER telly with a screen no larger than a small window. In fact our black and white TV, from what I can remember, was no larger than the conventional gold fish bowl. Around the side of our friendly entertainment, 10 inch box was a dial with a completely random selection of numbers. If memory serves me correctly ITV, Thames or, before I was born, Rediffusion TV was numbered nine and BBC1 and then 2 was probably 34 or 72. But we were blissfully happy, absorbed in the moment, totally transfixed by the startling novelty and freshness of it all.
For years and years our loyal companion survived a thousand broken fuses, frequent problems and those frustrating moments when the screen just went blank and you had to watch the wallpaper or admire the skirting board. Then there was that wonderful period when we just had to bang the top of the TV, adjust the aerial to some of the most wildly improbable areas of the room. Dad and Uncle Pete would grab hold of the aerial and perform some outrageous dancing ritual with the said aerial. They would insist that he go over there, or maybe over there and you might want to go into the kitchen for the best reception.
TV it seemed was simply designed to drive us bonkers. to challenge our perceptions of the real world because suddenly we began to behave in a way that we'd never thought possible 20 years earlier. But then we realised that we were wasting our time so we gave up, called up the TV engineers, watched those wobbly opening credits on Crossroads and decided that there was no point in getting all stressed out and agitated over something as trivial as a blank screen.
Finally BBC 2's magical snooker vehicle Pot Black appeared in colour for the first time rather than that dull, grey black and white version which had shadows and lines with every shot played. BBC 2 had successfully experimented with Wimbledon towards the end of the 1960s but now everything was in colour. Blue Peter was in colour. the evening news was in colour, the weather forecasters had to be in colour and - wait for it- Hilda Ogden and her murals, were in colour. Could life get any better? Absolutely not.
ITV or Thames TV presented us with loads and loads of quizzes, period dramas of real quality such as Upstairs Downstairs. Benny Hill, Tommy Cooper, Crossroads and Coronation Street. Back in the early days of TV the noble Lord Reith stipulated quite clearly that TV had to both inform, educate and entertain. Now they'd fulfilled every part of that demanding criteria. It was indeed informative because World in Action had certainly met with those requirements but now TV had got it wonderfully right.
But there was a much bigger world and the Americans, as we always knew they would, were, seemingly years and decades ahead of us. In fact they were so far advanced that while Britain was labouring under a cloud of bleak black and white, the USA had been transmitting in colour for as long as anybody could remember. The televisual powerhouses of ABC, CBS, and NBC were regularly attracting millions of viewers with live baseball, American football, innumerable cop programmes, nightly chat shows, Soul Train for the movers and groovers and news bulletins that kept rolling on and on throughout the day and night. Then the Americans became the ultimate creative forces in advertising, soap operas, sponsorships, Telethons and ground breaking pioneers in all TV genres.
The Americans, had, it seemed, invented and re-invented the entire concept of TV, a means of not only vital communication but also a platform for more originality, more style, more fun, more comedy, drama, improvisation and much more than the unexpected. It was TV that sung, danced, moved and emotionally gripped us. It almost seemed to good to be true. America were the forerunners of everything that was new and shiny in telly, frontiersmen and women in TV's evolving presentation and delivery.
Meanwhile back on British shores ITV or in earlier years Thames and then Carlton before ITV dramatically re-surfaced, was joined quite amiably by Channel 4 then shortly Channel 5. TV has completed a full evolutionary cycle, finally maturing into a multi channel phenomenon that seems to be completely out of control. TV is that all encompassing, all embracing cultural creation that keeps stretching its tentacles, getting bigger, bolder and more adventurous than ever before. It has networks, franchises, big budget film studios, and epic productions. It is never less than amazing, incredible, desperately infuriating at times but then too much to take in.
So there we were back at home with our new TV. It was a 42inch LED set with HD, Sky, Eurosport, MTV and hundreds of channels that none of us could have possibly imagined when Logie Baird was a teenager. Who'd have thought that when the BBC were setting up their first cameras at Alexander Palace all those decades ago that TV would still be with us, more alive and inventive than ever before, always open to interpretation, controversy, drama, criticism and then fulsome praise when merited.
I can't help but look at our new friend in the corner with approving eyes. It does bear an uncanny resemblance to a cinema screen, larger than ever before in an age where technology seems to get smaller and smaller. One day we'll. quite possibly have Surround sound and vision TV whereby images can be viewed in every part of your living room. It does seem the next logical progression but then what would we make of Hilda Ogden's murals? It hardly bears thinking about.
It's hard to remember a time when the world somehow got by without a TV? Today we bought a telly, the goggle box, that wonderful piece of furniture which has now become an extended member of our family, presumed to be there, a genuine form of mental and emotional stimulus, a diversion without which we probably couldn't live even if we tried.
Now it is our friendly uncle, auntie, cousin, brother and sister, a tangible accompaniment to our lives when there's nothing on the radio or there's nowhere to go. We could go to see the latest film in our cinemas, we could play cards, Scrabble, Monopoly or pop round to our family and friends, sharing a light hearted discussion on Manchester City or Chelsea, Donald Trump or the shared enjoyment of ten pin bowling and bingo. But maybe TV still hits the right spot for us all and maybe it's something that has always been high on our agenda when those appealing alternatives aren't quite what we've had in mind during the evening.
The fact is that TV has to occupy a prominent place in our cultural lifestyles because without it we'd probably wonder whether we've missed out on some notable event and besides the necessity for information nowadays has never been greater. Maybe we could go out and miss all of those programmes that were hardly compulsive watching anyway. Nowadays TV isn't quite the addictive entertainment it used to be if only because most of us have got our essential Tablets, I-Pads and Spotify for company.
But today my wife, father in law and I drove round to our local Asda supermarket to buy a TV which does admittedly sound ludicrous but supermarkets are the new Curry's and PC World so who were we to argue? So there it was comfortably sitting in the middle of a huge concentration of fruit, vegetables, tins of baked beans, milk, bread and that mouth watering roast chicken counter. Eventually we'll all be doing our shopping in one giant warehouse where everything can be bought at the same time.
A couple of years ago a trip to Costco here in North London truly opened my eyes. There was an enticing combination of everything in huge commercial bulk, electronic and electrical equipment nestling side by side with massive packets of Corn Flakes, kitchen towels, kettles and anything else that looked eminently fashionable, appetising or a must for the family living room. But TV's the size of small countries looked so inviting you felt sure that eventually the whole of those heaving Costco shelves would be completely empty of TVs by the end of the day.
Little did a certain John Logie Baird know way back then that his invention would so transform and revolutionise our way of thinking and seeing that roughly 90 years later it would still be there, staring at us questioningly perhaps, unmoved, unspoilt, humble and just pleased to be part of your home. It never shows any gratitude, but, fundamentally, it has to be in our space, our private domain, our antidote and medicine if we're unwell and irresistibly magnetic and fascinating.
Every day we wake up to breakfast TV followed by lunch TV, then tea time before settling down to evening TV which has to hold our attention because otherwise we'd probably do something completely different. TV has been our permanent ally when all around us is crisis or urgency or just plain boring. After school, work or anywhere in particular we come home and assume that flashing, flickering imagery will maintain its extraordinary ability to control our emotions. provoking us, terrifying us, amusing us and then just leaving us in a surreal state of disbelief.
It's hard to believe that throughout those early decades of the 20th century TV would be the starting point for everything. the catalyst for instinctive human reactions, intriguing thought processes and then a pulsating Premier League match courtesy of Sky on a Monday evening. We all know about TV's full repertoire of the good and the great, the bad and the mad, the crazy and the spectacular. TV transcends everything in our everyday life: the weather, the holiday abroad, the dinner party. At some point during our day TV seems to take an overwhelming priority to everything but now of course we can multi task and find other things to do rather than just find ourselves glued to that box in the corner.
There are of course the DVD box sets, the Play Stations for the kids, X- Boxes for the kids, the I Player, hundreds and thousands of diverse computer games, the vast multitude of Apps on our multi faceted phones that do everything but cook your dinner. But once again you are reminded of just how fortunate we are because during the 1950s and 60s TV was still in monochrome black and white, the picture quality invariably fuzzy, indistinct and often blurred. Then we had to be content with one channel in Britain, the highly esteemed BBC, until the advent of commercial television in 1955.
Then in 1967 BBC 2 blew out a candle on its first night after an industrial dispute had delayed those initial BBC 2 proceedings. Soon though BBC 2 would bombard us with opera, ballet, Shakespeare, classical music, late night interviews with art students, composers and scientists. BBC 2 had and still has controversial, ground breaking plays, earnest news programmes and everything that is both revealing and captivating.
During my childhood though TV was that tiny match box in the corner of our living room. For most of the 1960s my parents rented a DER telly with a screen no larger than a small window. In fact our black and white TV, from what I can remember, was no larger than the conventional gold fish bowl. Around the side of our friendly entertainment, 10 inch box was a dial with a completely random selection of numbers. If memory serves me correctly ITV, Thames or, before I was born, Rediffusion TV was numbered nine and BBC1 and then 2 was probably 34 or 72. But we were blissfully happy, absorbed in the moment, totally transfixed by the startling novelty and freshness of it all.
For years and years our loyal companion survived a thousand broken fuses, frequent problems and those frustrating moments when the screen just went blank and you had to watch the wallpaper or admire the skirting board. Then there was that wonderful period when we just had to bang the top of the TV, adjust the aerial to some of the most wildly improbable areas of the room. Dad and Uncle Pete would grab hold of the aerial and perform some outrageous dancing ritual with the said aerial. They would insist that he go over there, or maybe over there and you might want to go into the kitchen for the best reception.
TV it seemed was simply designed to drive us bonkers. to challenge our perceptions of the real world because suddenly we began to behave in a way that we'd never thought possible 20 years earlier. But then we realised that we were wasting our time so we gave up, called up the TV engineers, watched those wobbly opening credits on Crossroads and decided that there was no point in getting all stressed out and agitated over something as trivial as a blank screen.
Finally BBC 2's magical snooker vehicle Pot Black appeared in colour for the first time rather than that dull, grey black and white version which had shadows and lines with every shot played. BBC 2 had successfully experimented with Wimbledon towards the end of the 1960s but now everything was in colour. Blue Peter was in colour. the evening news was in colour, the weather forecasters had to be in colour and - wait for it- Hilda Ogden and her murals, were in colour. Could life get any better? Absolutely not.
ITV or Thames TV presented us with loads and loads of quizzes, period dramas of real quality such as Upstairs Downstairs. Benny Hill, Tommy Cooper, Crossroads and Coronation Street. Back in the early days of TV the noble Lord Reith stipulated quite clearly that TV had to both inform, educate and entertain. Now they'd fulfilled every part of that demanding criteria. It was indeed informative because World in Action had certainly met with those requirements but now TV had got it wonderfully right.
But there was a much bigger world and the Americans, as we always knew they would, were, seemingly years and decades ahead of us. In fact they were so far advanced that while Britain was labouring under a cloud of bleak black and white, the USA had been transmitting in colour for as long as anybody could remember. The televisual powerhouses of ABC, CBS, and NBC were regularly attracting millions of viewers with live baseball, American football, innumerable cop programmes, nightly chat shows, Soul Train for the movers and groovers and news bulletins that kept rolling on and on throughout the day and night. Then the Americans became the ultimate creative forces in advertising, soap operas, sponsorships, Telethons and ground breaking pioneers in all TV genres.
The Americans, had, it seemed, invented and re-invented the entire concept of TV, a means of not only vital communication but also a platform for more originality, more style, more fun, more comedy, drama, improvisation and much more than the unexpected. It was TV that sung, danced, moved and emotionally gripped us. It almost seemed to good to be true. America were the forerunners of everything that was new and shiny in telly, frontiersmen and women in TV's evolving presentation and delivery.
Meanwhile back on British shores ITV or in earlier years Thames and then Carlton before ITV dramatically re-surfaced, was joined quite amiably by Channel 4 then shortly Channel 5. TV has completed a full evolutionary cycle, finally maturing into a multi channel phenomenon that seems to be completely out of control. TV is that all encompassing, all embracing cultural creation that keeps stretching its tentacles, getting bigger, bolder and more adventurous than ever before. It has networks, franchises, big budget film studios, and epic productions. It is never less than amazing, incredible, desperately infuriating at times but then too much to take in.
So there we were back at home with our new TV. It was a 42inch LED set with HD, Sky, Eurosport, MTV and hundreds of channels that none of us could have possibly imagined when Logie Baird was a teenager. Who'd have thought that when the BBC were setting up their first cameras at Alexander Palace all those decades ago that TV would still be with us, more alive and inventive than ever before, always open to interpretation, controversy, drama, criticism and then fulsome praise when merited.
I can't help but look at our new friend in the corner with approving eyes. It does bear an uncanny resemblance to a cinema screen, larger than ever before in an age where technology seems to get smaller and smaller. One day we'll. quite possibly have Surround sound and vision TV whereby images can be viewed in every part of your living room. It does seem the next logical progression but then what would we make of Hilda Ogden's murals? It hardly bears thinking about.
Monday 7 August 2017
The silly season for news
The silly season for news.
Normally this is the silly season for news as opposed to the Donald Trump news which, as we all know by now, is completely fake, sham, insincere, made up, libellous, slanderous, a pack of lies, a distortion of reality or just plainly untrue. We all know by now that August is one of those dry, uneventful summer months when most of the world just shuts down for the duration of the school summer holiday and nothing of any value and significance happens at all.
It's very quiet out there. Today the BBC news have reported a story about pandas celebrating their first birthday, the rather alarming intrusion of modern technology into our lives and its dramatic impact on society, its apparently damaging influence on today's generation . But then we've heard it all before. Then there's the ongoing expansion of London's ever increasing railway stations. So nothing new there hey? Still it does make a change from that 78 vinyl record documenting Jeremy Corbyn's beard, Theresa May's recent investment in a new set of Swiss clocks while holidaying in Switzerland and Vince Cable the new Liberal Democrat leader who must be having the time of his life in some far off exotic island basking in the glow of leadership of his party. Even Cable must be pinching himself because very few saw it coming.
The England cricket team have just cleaned up after their summer revels with a convincing 3-1 series victory against South Africa, one of the classiest international sides in cricket's highest circles. And all is well. In a couple of months, England will be reconciled with their oldest chums or maybe that should be adversaries when the Australians go toe to toe with England in the wintry heat of Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane. It'll be another Ashes showdown and here in Britain the nation will switch on to their nightly diet of winter cricket privately hoping that England can once again make mincemeat of our Aussie acquaintances.
But now though summer is slowly drawing to its inexorable end. We may be at the beginning of August but it does seem as if it's approaching a sad conclusion. Here in Britain there is a sense that although June and July were satisfyingly warm August hasn't quite made up its mind yet. It's still dithering and loitering, uncharacteristically and wildly windy and then redeeming itself when all seems at a loss. The clouds are still moody, dark and ominous and then suddenly the taps release the heaviest and most sustained showers. Oh the British weather. It can never predicted with any degree of accuracy but we love it.
On Saturday evening I did notice something quite unusual. In a small corner of Finsbury Park there was a small music festival. Earlier on this summer, Finsbury Park had shook and trembled to the sounds of low, thudding rock music, thousands of fans presumably moving to an insistent beat, a huge concert whose sound could be heard quite possibly in Wood Green, pounding relentlessly across the North London skies before quietly travelling back to Tottenham and back to Manor House.
But this Saturday concert was much more low key and low profile. In fact it was very much more subdued as if somebody had deliberately turned the sound down. It was hard to see what was happening but it seemed like a strange religious gathering. And then it happened. A small knot of bongos started tapping out morse code, then fiercely beating on their bongos with an almost spiritual fervour.
In the distance I could see some tents fluttering peacefully in the late summer breeze. It sounded like an Indian get together, a meeting of minds, a great philosophical exchange between those of like minds. Then the drums got progressively louder and then slowed again. The rhythms were both infectious and thought provoking. It felt as though something very profound and moving was taking place in Finsbury Park. It may have gone unreported in the BBC news but, away from the Test cricket at Old Trafford and the World Athletics Championships in the London Stadium, it felt like an oasis, a quiet moment of contemplation, a haven of good vibes.
I was reminded of a Hari Krishna meeting, as music from a tiny stage started drifting harmlessly and unobtrusively into the cool summery air. It sounded like the very latest in what I think they call trance music but there was something gently inoffensive and re- assuring about it. Voices could be heard singing into their microphones discreetly before disappearing into the night sky. Nobody, from what I could see or hear, was arrested, hurt, injured or physically attacked with force and aggression. Peace seemed to be the underlying theme, a palpable calm and order followed by a generous layer of contentment. Why can't it always be like this? The bongos sent out the warmest of sentiments and for a minute you knew that Saturday evening had once again triumphed in Finsbury Park.
Meanwhile back on the Seven Sisters Road, the daisy chain of bed and breakfast hotels were undoubtedly doing brisk business and, quite possibly, a roaring trade. This is one part of North London where local businessmen can rest their weary heads and hundreds of tourists will briefly sample the culinary delights of KFC chicken and the beigel shop -cum- bakery nearby. There is also a Best Western Hotel in the Seven Sisters Road, an internationally renowned chain of hotels now thriving prosperously in Finsbury Park. I last saw a Best Western Hotel in Florida so this was a pleasant surprise.
Here Finsbury Park meets sociably with Arsenal's Emirates Stadium and Tottenham's temporary home at Wembley Stadium seems geographically miles away. Will the new White Hart Lane be nearly as comfortable and luxurious as the old White Hart Lane? How many mouth watering breads, cakes and biscuits will the sweetly scented bakery sell on a Saturday evening in Finsbury Park? Who will be able to resist the intoxicating fragrance of sweet Danish pastries and apple strudels in North London? Will there be a prolific run on those creamy chocolate confections? Those beigels will simply fly off the shelves with a delicious regularity and the smell is something else.
Already the probing questions are beginning to emerge. Yesterday Arsenal picked up their first piece of silverware in the Community Shield by beating Chelsea the team they'd overcome in this year's FA Cup Final. This weekend, with the emphasis firmly on the weekend, the new Premier League season starts and the two North London giants will once again jump onto the nine month bandwagon.
August has now arrived in Manor House and although autumn has yet to make its presence felt here you can never tell what's going to happen next. The seasons of course are always changing as well they should. The blackbirds still take up residence in the early morning and the Woodbury Wetlands still looks breathtaking. Soon the leaves will fall from their fragile branches and Strictly Come Dancing will glow from a million wintry TV sets. Donald Trump will continue to intrigue us as the President of the United States and Vladimir Putin may well have finished his fishing holiday in deepest Russia. Summer will shortly wing its way into the distant sunset. And we'll wonder what happened to the silly season. Besides you can only have so much fun and frivolity. Life is indeed sweet.
Normally this is the silly season for news as opposed to the Donald Trump news which, as we all know by now, is completely fake, sham, insincere, made up, libellous, slanderous, a pack of lies, a distortion of reality or just plainly untrue. We all know by now that August is one of those dry, uneventful summer months when most of the world just shuts down for the duration of the school summer holiday and nothing of any value and significance happens at all.
It's very quiet out there. Today the BBC news have reported a story about pandas celebrating their first birthday, the rather alarming intrusion of modern technology into our lives and its dramatic impact on society, its apparently damaging influence on today's generation . But then we've heard it all before. Then there's the ongoing expansion of London's ever increasing railway stations. So nothing new there hey? Still it does make a change from that 78 vinyl record documenting Jeremy Corbyn's beard, Theresa May's recent investment in a new set of Swiss clocks while holidaying in Switzerland and Vince Cable the new Liberal Democrat leader who must be having the time of his life in some far off exotic island basking in the glow of leadership of his party. Even Cable must be pinching himself because very few saw it coming.
The England cricket team have just cleaned up after their summer revels with a convincing 3-1 series victory against South Africa, one of the classiest international sides in cricket's highest circles. And all is well. In a couple of months, England will be reconciled with their oldest chums or maybe that should be adversaries when the Australians go toe to toe with England in the wintry heat of Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane. It'll be another Ashes showdown and here in Britain the nation will switch on to their nightly diet of winter cricket privately hoping that England can once again make mincemeat of our Aussie acquaintances.
But now though summer is slowly drawing to its inexorable end. We may be at the beginning of August but it does seem as if it's approaching a sad conclusion. Here in Britain there is a sense that although June and July were satisfyingly warm August hasn't quite made up its mind yet. It's still dithering and loitering, uncharacteristically and wildly windy and then redeeming itself when all seems at a loss. The clouds are still moody, dark and ominous and then suddenly the taps release the heaviest and most sustained showers. Oh the British weather. It can never predicted with any degree of accuracy but we love it.
On Saturday evening I did notice something quite unusual. In a small corner of Finsbury Park there was a small music festival. Earlier on this summer, Finsbury Park had shook and trembled to the sounds of low, thudding rock music, thousands of fans presumably moving to an insistent beat, a huge concert whose sound could be heard quite possibly in Wood Green, pounding relentlessly across the North London skies before quietly travelling back to Tottenham and back to Manor House.
But this Saturday concert was much more low key and low profile. In fact it was very much more subdued as if somebody had deliberately turned the sound down. It was hard to see what was happening but it seemed like a strange religious gathering. And then it happened. A small knot of bongos started tapping out morse code, then fiercely beating on their bongos with an almost spiritual fervour.
In the distance I could see some tents fluttering peacefully in the late summer breeze. It sounded like an Indian get together, a meeting of minds, a great philosophical exchange between those of like minds. Then the drums got progressively louder and then slowed again. The rhythms were both infectious and thought provoking. It felt as though something very profound and moving was taking place in Finsbury Park. It may have gone unreported in the BBC news but, away from the Test cricket at Old Trafford and the World Athletics Championships in the London Stadium, it felt like an oasis, a quiet moment of contemplation, a haven of good vibes.
I was reminded of a Hari Krishna meeting, as music from a tiny stage started drifting harmlessly and unobtrusively into the cool summery air. It sounded like the very latest in what I think they call trance music but there was something gently inoffensive and re- assuring about it. Voices could be heard singing into their microphones discreetly before disappearing into the night sky. Nobody, from what I could see or hear, was arrested, hurt, injured or physically attacked with force and aggression. Peace seemed to be the underlying theme, a palpable calm and order followed by a generous layer of contentment. Why can't it always be like this? The bongos sent out the warmest of sentiments and for a minute you knew that Saturday evening had once again triumphed in Finsbury Park.
Meanwhile back on the Seven Sisters Road, the daisy chain of bed and breakfast hotels were undoubtedly doing brisk business and, quite possibly, a roaring trade. This is one part of North London where local businessmen can rest their weary heads and hundreds of tourists will briefly sample the culinary delights of KFC chicken and the beigel shop -cum- bakery nearby. There is also a Best Western Hotel in the Seven Sisters Road, an internationally renowned chain of hotels now thriving prosperously in Finsbury Park. I last saw a Best Western Hotel in Florida so this was a pleasant surprise.
Here Finsbury Park meets sociably with Arsenal's Emirates Stadium and Tottenham's temporary home at Wembley Stadium seems geographically miles away. Will the new White Hart Lane be nearly as comfortable and luxurious as the old White Hart Lane? How many mouth watering breads, cakes and biscuits will the sweetly scented bakery sell on a Saturday evening in Finsbury Park? Who will be able to resist the intoxicating fragrance of sweet Danish pastries and apple strudels in North London? Will there be a prolific run on those creamy chocolate confections? Those beigels will simply fly off the shelves with a delicious regularity and the smell is something else.
Already the probing questions are beginning to emerge. Yesterday Arsenal picked up their first piece of silverware in the Community Shield by beating Chelsea the team they'd overcome in this year's FA Cup Final. This weekend, with the emphasis firmly on the weekend, the new Premier League season starts and the two North London giants will once again jump onto the nine month bandwagon.
August has now arrived in Manor House and although autumn has yet to make its presence felt here you can never tell what's going to happen next. The seasons of course are always changing as well they should. The blackbirds still take up residence in the early morning and the Woodbury Wetlands still looks breathtaking. Soon the leaves will fall from their fragile branches and Strictly Come Dancing will glow from a million wintry TV sets. Donald Trump will continue to intrigue us as the President of the United States and Vladimir Putin may well have finished his fishing holiday in deepest Russia. Summer will shortly wing its way into the distant sunset. And we'll wonder what happened to the silly season. Besides you can only have so much fun and frivolity. Life is indeed sweet.
Saturday 5 August 2017
A night for Mo and the remarkable Usain Bolt at the London Stadium.
A night for Mo and the remarkable Usain Bolt at the London Stadium.
There was a pink salmon complexion to the East London night sky. The clouds had a slight purple tint to them and the stars had come out at the London Stadium. The crowds had seen it all before and another memorable evening for athletics had drawn to a close. Oh what a night! Early August 2017 to misquote a 1970s Four Seasons single.
On the athletics track the World Athletics Championship had exploded into life and Stratford had rolled out the red carpet once again. There was a huge welcoming committee for the heroes and legends. It was time to roll back the years again for the great Olympians to stand side by side and milk the rapturous reception of an audience who had seen it all before. It was riveting, it was sensational and you couldn't help but smile.
Five years ago of course the grand old city of London had been the host of an Olympic Games that would enter the record books for ever and never ever be erased from our memories. But here we were again going through all of those marvellous moments, experiencing all of those lovely feelings, cheering it from the rooftops and the connoisseurs of the athletics world were trying hard to remember whether they'd ever felt like this before.
For this had been a night for Jessica Judd, Laura Weir, Laura Weightman. It had been a night for Britain to show off its finest golden talents, for flaunting its most victorious finery and then, last but certainly not least, it was a night for our Mo Farah and the incomparable Usain Bolt. Wow, sport had never been so spoilt and as the dark London sky fell almost hesitantly you began to wonder whether you'd seen much more than history in the making because for all the world it looked as though it had.
So here we were again back in the stadium where all of those supremely fit, honed and toned athletes had captured our imagination in Olympic year 2012. Sadly though it was an evening slightly overshadowed by the news that Usain Bolt had broken the hearts of world athletics. He had announced his retirement. No other athlete in the world had done more to illuminate sport, to touch it with greatness, to sprinkle it with stardust, to invent its most distinctive gesture and then unashamedly reveal his extraordinary gifts before a spellbound crowd.
Now then Usain Bolt had told the world that he was retiring, he was quitting at the top, bowing out with grace and never again would we witness such as a cocky, super confident and self assured athletics champion. Sometimes a man comes along whose presence can never be mistaken, a visible and visually striking man who couldn't help but bathe in his glory without any hint of self consciousness about him.
Bolt had come into this his last of appearances in an athletics stadium utterly convinced that he was the best and the cloak of invincibility looked the perfect fit. Bolt would not be beaten at any time and he knew it. And so I suspect did the crowd. They had come to see a showman, a court jester, a tall and imposing man with so much to give on the night but never enough time to show it all. Still he was there and on a vast Olympic stage in East London he'd carried out his mission without, it seemed, a single drop of sweat although I did spot one or two beads of anxiety.
This time Bolt had been pushed to the limit, taken to the finishing line, stretched to the utmost and by the end of his 100 metres the big man from Jamaica was puffing ever so disturbingly and it was at this point that he knew that the pretenders to his throne were breathing down Bolt's neck. Of course it had been hard. Of course it had been tough. Of course it had been a close shave and as the lights went out at the London Stadium, we all knew that maybe this was the right night for Bolt to pack it all in.
But what a rich legacy Bolt had left behind him. As the pink and orange lights on the electronic scoreboard flashed around the London Stadium almost constantly this basketball tall sprinter towered over his opponents like a man who knew exactly when it was going to rain. Bolt is a giant of a man, that much is obvious. a commanding presence, a man never to be argued with or contradicted, a man enjoying the twilight of his career, a man who seemed to want the evening to go on and on. We all knew genius is the most often over used term in sport. This though was a totally different occasion.
It almost felt as if we would never see an occasion like this for many a year or decade. Yes this was a decade defining evening for world athletics. Britain of course had also known those unique occasions when their athletes had also embraced brilliance. There was the Seb Coe and Steve Ovett rivalry during the 1980s, the 1972 day when that forever cheerful Irish woman Mary Peters heaved her shot put into outer space, the long distance running splendour of Brendan Foster and Steve Cram, Alan Pascoe powering around the track with an imperial air of domination and Dave Bedford who now seems to have been unfairly immortalised by a TV advert.
It was though a night for Usain Bolt, this six foot plus Jamaican athlete with the most engaging air of them all, pointing his fingers with that lightning bolt stance with his arms. The cynics of course would describe it as a cheap display of arrogance while others would insist that Bolt was just showing off, a brazen exhibitionist determined to go out with a flash, bang and wallop. What a picture. What a photograph. Hold on there was neither sight nor sound of Tommy Steele.
Bolt was, quite simply, poetry in motion and yet the 100m heat had not been plain sailing at all. In fact it had been anything but. As Bolt crouched on his starting block there was an uneasy suspicion that something wasn't quite right or maybe we were imagining it. He settled on his blocks, adjusted those long gazelle legs, pressed his fingers on the starting line, looked up briefly and then became suddenly aware of the daunting opposition around him. For instance there was Great Britain's James Dasalou, not exactly in Bolt's league but nonetheless a brooding threat.
There was a haunting lull before the starting gun snapped, cracked and off they went. Bolt has always been a notorious slow starter but this was alarmingly awkward and sluggish. Bolt shot away from his starting block and then seemed to take an age to get into his majestic stride. He lurched forward, lumbering at first and then realising all at once that for a second or two that he was struggling. Now the smiling Jamaican discovered that an explosive burst would be needed, a surge of acceleration wouldn't go amiss and then the after burners would have to go on, a fifth gear essential.
Eventually it all turned out right on the night and Bolt began to eat up the ground, devouring it with all the strength he could muster. Now the Bolt sprint would propel him like a jet engine and this amazing man lifted those thick, muscular thighs, storming to the front, then loping and gliding to a gold medal. For Bolt this had been too close to call, a narrow victory, most of his opponents simply flinging themselves over the finishing line in complete unison. Bolt had just edged it and admittedly made it look much harder than it should have been.
Still the jovial Jamaican bounced up and down with that unchallengeable air of authority that seems to come so naturally to the greats. He kept joking with the crowd, kept making that endearing pose with his fingers and arms and Stratford was like putty in his hands. On his final performance, Bolt was entitled to celebrate, showboating and grandstanding, just being the centre of attention, the centre of the universe.
Meanwhile literally minutes away from the Bolt royal command performance, Mo Farah, Britain's most delightful of Olympians did the business once again. How fortunate Britain are to possess some of the most acclaimed and heralded of Olympic athletes. To quote a former Prime Minister. We've never had it so good or maybe we have but hadn't noticed it before.
During London 2012 Farrah had turned the 10,000 metres into a gentle stroll in the park. On that distant and magical night Farah with that almost trademark, easy going stride, moved away from the rest of the field like a Formula One car following a tyre change. Last night was a masterclass of long distance running, our Mo brilliantly judging and calculating from the back before bursting to the front on the last laps.
To the impartial observer Farah looks as though he needs a good meal. He is stick thin, long legs that seemed to be lengthening with every passing minute of last night's 10, 000 metre battle. For most of the race Farrah seemed to be his own pacemaker. Normally distance runners seem to bunch themselves together like a well disciplined platoon of soldiers running through a forest. And then the dam burst, the rivers flooding and cascading through Stratford. Farah broke away from the marauding pack and the rest, as they say, is history.
With two laps to go. our Mo simply ghosted through a packed field of runners and then just floated through a small batch of speed merchants. In those crucial last and purposeful kicks off the back straight there was a point when it looked as though Farah had stumbled onto some unfortunate landmines. It had all been going so well, Farrah seemingly measuring his strides and smoothly waiting for the right moment to kick from the front with a vengeance. That he did so successfully says so much for the man. Farrah was tripped too frequently for anybody's liking but still came through with merely bruises to a heavily buffeted ankle.
Hovering on the shoulders of fourth and fifth, Farrah began to cruise past his colleagues as if they'd suddenly become invisible which did look to be the case. The bell went for the final lap and the Olmypic Stadium were quite literally lapping it all up. The noise had reached a crescendo and the crowd were up on their feet, willing their man on to victory and perhaps taking it all for granted. It really was easy and straightforward, just another day at the office.
Farrah, with that wide eyed look of wonder on his face, surged his way to the front and never looked in any trouble at all. The legs, arms and shoulders were high and Farah won by a thousand country miles, breaking the tape as if all his challengers were in another city. The gold was his for the taking and the London Stadium couldn't hold itself back any longer.
Our Mo slumped to the ground, momentarily kissed the ground before draping himself in the Union Jack. He then held up his arms aloft and stared across at his loving and doting family. There was his wife and children, faces wreathed in smiles and besides themselves with pride. Then the eyes became wider and wider, almost at a loss of words and barely able to believe what they had just seen. It was gold for Great Britain and another night of sporting achievement that couldn't have been matched. Uganda's Joshua Cheptegi and Kenya's Tanui had done their utmost to make a contest of this 10,000 metres but the final tank of petrol hadn't quite been enough.
The night had also brought us Jessica Judd, valiantly finishing her race and now having done what had to be done. She finished sixth and efficiently so in her distance contest. Laura Muir and Laura Weightman had also completed their job on the night. She was through to the next race. It was a night when London had once again stolen the adoring hearts of the London Stadium. This could have turned into a lovely habit but Farah has now called it a day. It''s time to bring down the curtain on, quite literally, a gold embossed career that could hardly have gone any better.
And yet at the back of our minds are the doping scandals that have partially scarred and harmed these World Athletic Championships. Drug taking of course has left the most revolting smell in the far corners of the Olympic movement. Cheats will, as we know, will never prosper but then that begins to sound like a well worn cliche.
It had been another rousing evening for world athletics. We'd seen one of Usain Bolt's countrymen Yohan Blake imitating perfectly the feats of his fellow Jamaican and we'd seen the cream of the athletic crop going through their paces.
Outside the London Stadium the crowds drifted away in the most civilised fashion. That bizarre looking helter skelter was glowing red and nobody had any cause for complaint. The opening night of the World Athletics Championships had gone like a dream. It'll be some time before we can truly allow the whole occasion to just sink in. This may sound like a trivial request but as a West Ham fan I think I speak on behalf of most Hammers. Could we please have our stadium back as soon as possible? We look forward to the 11th September with great anticipation.
There was a pink salmon complexion to the East London night sky. The clouds had a slight purple tint to them and the stars had come out at the London Stadium. The crowds had seen it all before and another memorable evening for athletics had drawn to a close. Oh what a night! Early August 2017 to misquote a 1970s Four Seasons single.
On the athletics track the World Athletics Championship had exploded into life and Stratford had rolled out the red carpet once again. There was a huge welcoming committee for the heroes and legends. It was time to roll back the years again for the great Olympians to stand side by side and milk the rapturous reception of an audience who had seen it all before. It was riveting, it was sensational and you couldn't help but smile.
Five years ago of course the grand old city of London had been the host of an Olympic Games that would enter the record books for ever and never ever be erased from our memories. But here we were again going through all of those marvellous moments, experiencing all of those lovely feelings, cheering it from the rooftops and the connoisseurs of the athletics world were trying hard to remember whether they'd ever felt like this before.
For this had been a night for Jessica Judd, Laura Weir, Laura Weightman. It had been a night for Britain to show off its finest golden talents, for flaunting its most victorious finery and then, last but certainly not least, it was a night for our Mo Farah and the incomparable Usain Bolt. Wow, sport had never been so spoilt and as the dark London sky fell almost hesitantly you began to wonder whether you'd seen much more than history in the making because for all the world it looked as though it had.
So here we were again back in the stadium where all of those supremely fit, honed and toned athletes had captured our imagination in Olympic year 2012. Sadly though it was an evening slightly overshadowed by the news that Usain Bolt had broken the hearts of world athletics. He had announced his retirement. No other athlete in the world had done more to illuminate sport, to touch it with greatness, to sprinkle it with stardust, to invent its most distinctive gesture and then unashamedly reveal his extraordinary gifts before a spellbound crowd.
Now then Usain Bolt had told the world that he was retiring, he was quitting at the top, bowing out with grace and never again would we witness such as a cocky, super confident and self assured athletics champion. Sometimes a man comes along whose presence can never be mistaken, a visible and visually striking man who couldn't help but bathe in his glory without any hint of self consciousness about him.
Bolt had come into this his last of appearances in an athletics stadium utterly convinced that he was the best and the cloak of invincibility looked the perfect fit. Bolt would not be beaten at any time and he knew it. And so I suspect did the crowd. They had come to see a showman, a court jester, a tall and imposing man with so much to give on the night but never enough time to show it all. Still he was there and on a vast Olympic stage in East London he'd carried out his mission without, it seemed, a single drop of sweat although I did spot one or two beads of anxiety.
This time Bolt had been pushed to the limit, taken to the finishing line, stretched to the utmost and by the end of his 100 metres the big man from Jamaica was puffing ever so disturbingly and it was at this point that he knew that the pretenders to his throne were breathing down Bolt's neck. Of course it had been hard. Of course it had been tough. Of course it had been a close shave and as the lights went out at the London Stadium, we all knew that maybe this was the right night for Bolt to pack it all in.
But what a rich legacy Bolt had left behind him. As the pink and orange lights on the electronic scoreboard flashed around the London Stadium almost constantly this basketball tall sprinter towered over his opponents like a man who knew exactly when it was going to rain. Bolt is a giant of a man, that much is obvious. a commanding presence, a man never to be argued with or contradicted, a man enjoying the twilight of his career, a man who seemed to want the evening to go on and on. We all knew genius is the most often over used term in sport. This though was a totally different occasion.
It almost felt as if we would never see an occasion like this for many a year or decade. Yes this was a decade defining evening for world athletics. Britain of course had also known those unique occasions when their athletes had also embraced brilliance. There was the Seb Coe and Steve Ovett rivalry during the 1980s, the 1972 day when that forever cheerful Irish woman Mary Peters heaved her shot put into outer space, the long distance running splendour of Brendan Foster and Steve Cram, Alan Pascoe powering around the track with an imperial air of domination and Dave Bedford who now seems to have been unfairly immortalised by a TV advert.
It was though a night for Usain Bolt, this six foot plus Jamaican athlete with the most engaging air of them all, pointing his fingers with that lightning bolt stance with his arms. The cynics of course would describe it as a cheap display of arrogance while others would insist that Bolt was just showing off, a brazen exhibitionist determined to go out with a flash, bang and wallop. What a picture. What a photograph. Hold on there was neither sight nor sound of Tommy Steele.
Bolt was, quite simply, poetry in motion and yet the 100m heat had not been plain sailing at all. In fact it had been anything but. As Bolt crouched on his starting block there was an uneasy suspicion that something wasn't quite right or maybe we were imagining it. He settled on his blocks, adjusted those long gazelle legs, pressed his fingers on the starting line, looked up briefly and then became suddenly aware of the daunting opposition around him. For instance there was Great Britain's James Dasalou, not exactly in Bolt's league but nonetheless a brooding threat.
There was a haunting lull before the starting gun snapped, cracked and off they went. Bolt has always been a notorious slow starter but this was alarmingly awkward and sluggish. Bolt shot away from his starting block and then seemed to take an age to get into his majestic stride. He lurched forward, lumbering at first and then realising all at once that for a second or two that he was struggling. Now the smiling Jamaican discovered that an explosive burst would be needed, a surge of acceleration wouldn't go amiss and then the after burners would have to go on, a fifth gear essential.
Eventually it all turned out right on the night and Bolt began to eat up the ground, devouring it with all the strength he could muster. Now the Bolt sprint would propel him like a jet engine and this amazing man lifted those thick, muscular thighs, storming to the front, then loping and gliding to a gold medal. For Bolt this had been too close to call, a narrow victory, most of his opponents simply flinging themselves over the finishing line in complete unison. Bolt had just edged it and admittedly made it look much harder than it should have been.
Still the jovial Jamaican bounced up and down with that unchallengeable air of authority that seems to come so naturally to the greats. He kept joking with the crowd, kept making that endearing pose with his fingers and arms and Stratford was like putty in his hands. On his final performance, Bolt was entitled to celebrate, showboating and grandstanding, just being the centre of attention, the centre of the universe.
Meanwhile literally minutes away from the Bolt royal command performance, Mo Farah, Britain's most delightful of Olympians did the business once again. How fortunate Britain are to possess some of the most acclaimed and heralded of Olympic athletes. To quote a former Prime Minister. We've never had it so good or maybe we have but hadn't noticed it before.
During London 2012 Farrah had turned the 10,000 metres into a gentle stroll in the park. On that distant and magical night Farah with that almost trademark, easy going stride, moved away from the rest of the field like a Formula One car following a tyre change. Last night was a masterclass of long distance running, our Mo brilliantly judging and calculating from the back before bursting to the front on the last laps.
To the impartial observer Farah looks as though he needs a good meal. He is stick thin, long legs that seemed to be lengthening with every passing minute of last night's 10, 000 metre battle. For most of the race Farrah seemed to be his own pacemaker. Normally distance runners seem to bunch themselves together like a well disciplined platoon of soldiers running through a forest. And then the dam burst, the rivers flooding and cascading through Stratford. Farah broke away from the marauding pack and the rest, as they say, is history.
With two laps to go. our Mo simply ghosted through a packed field of runners and then just floated through a small batch of speed merchants. In those crucial last and purposeful kicks off the back straight there was a point when it looked as though Farah had stumbled onto some unfortunate landmines. It had all been going so well, Farrah seemingly measuring his strides and smoothly waiting for the right moment to kick from the front with a vengeance. That he did so successfully says so much for the man. Farrah was tripped too frequently for anybody's liking but still came through with merely bruises to a heavily buffeted ankle.
Hovering on the shoulders of fourth and fifth, Farrah began to cruise past his colleagues as if they'd suddenly become invisible which did look to be the case. The bell went for the final lap and the Olmypic Stadium were quite literally lapping it all up. The noise had reached a crescendo and the crowd were up on their feet, willing their man on to victory and perhaps taking it all for granted. It really was easy and straightforward, just another day at the office.
Farrah, with that wide eyed look of wonder on his face, surged his way to the front and never looked in any trouble at all. The legs, arms and shoulders were high and Farah won by a thousand country miles, breaking the tape as if all his challengers were in another city. The gold was his for the taking and the London Stadium couldn't hold itself back any longer.
Our Mo slumped to the ground, momentarily kissed the ground before draping himself in the Union Jack. He then held up his arms aloft and stared across at his loving and doting family. There was his wife and children, faces wreathed in smiles and besides themselves with pride. Then the eyes became wider and wider, almost at a loss of words and barely able to believe what they had just seen. It was gold for Great Britain and another night of sporting achievement that couldn't have been matched. Uganda's Joshua Cheptegi and Kenya's Tanui had done their utmost to make a contest of this 10,000 metres but the final tank of petrol hadn't quite been enough.
The night had also brought us Jessica Judd, valiantly finishing her race and now having done what had to be done. She finished sixth and efficiently so in her distance contest. Laura Muir and Laura Weightman had also completed their job on the night. She was through to the next race. It was a night when London had once again stolen the adoring hearts of the London Stadium. This could have turned into a lovely habit but Farah has now called it a day. It''s time to bring down the curtain on, quite literally, a gold embossed career that could hardly have gone any better.
And yet at the back of our minds are the doping scandals that have partially scarred and harmed these World Athletic Championships. Drug taking of course has left the most revolting smell in the far corners of the Olympic movement. Cheats will, as we know, will never prosper but then that begins to sound like a well worn cliche.
It had been another rousing evening for world athletics. We'd seen one of Usain Bolt's countrymen Yohan Blake imitating perfectly the feats of his fellow Jamaican and we'd seen the cream of the athletic crop going through their paces.
Outside the London Stadium the crowds drifted away in the most civilised fashion. That bizarre looking helter skelter was glowing red and nobody had any cause for complaint. The opening night of the World Athletics Championships had gone like a dream. It'll be some time before we can truly allow the whole occasion to just sink in. This may sound like a trivial request but as a West Ham fan I think I speak on behalf of most Hammers. Could we please have our stadium back as soon as possible? We look forward to the 11th September with great anticipation.
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