An American in Paris- a West End feast for the eyes.

An American in Paris- a West End feast for the eyes.

George Gershwin would have been immensely proud of his musical masterpiece. In fact his brother Ira would have been beside himself with sibling pride knowing fully that his brother had produced one of the most recognisable and much loved of productions. George Gershwin's An American in Paris is still packing them in at London's Dominion Theatre in the Tottenham Court Road and the public have responded warmly to one of the great and enduring classics of the 20th century, once a film and now a musical still deeply acclaimed by the masses in the 21st century. The theatrical, show stopping musical can never be underestimated as a force for good.

So there we were, my father in law, wife and I at the heart of London's West End in the busy, bustling Tottenham Court Road and there was an autumnal flavour in the air. Suddenly summer 2017 is now no more than a historical footnote and Tottenham Court Road has now prepared for the winter influx of tourists, passers by and those with the most insatiable curiosity.

But Tottenham Court Road has now experienced a noticeable change. It now has the appearance of a proper Tube railway station if indeed proper is the right expression for a station that had always been proper and popular. It is a station with highly decorative mosaics on most of the platform walls and those surrounding it, one that is now bang up to date and modern.

Outside the Tube station the atmosphere and acoustics are those of a London Tube station with its eye set firmly on the future and hearteningly ambitious. Tottenham Court Road now has some of the funkiest glass panelled entrances and exits you're ever likely to see anywhere. The front is a huge testament to glass, a station that now more closely resembles a spacecraft than a railway station.

Now the station is at the heart of the Crossrail revolution currently sweeping through the capital city of London. Tottenham Court Road now looks like a beautifully designed piece of architecture that now bears a favourable comparison to London's more high profile Euston, Paddington and Victoria without being quite as elaborate or ornate.

There is now a much more agreeable and appealing side to this area. Now Tottenham Court Road has its very own loud, pounding rock music appearing live immediately outside the station. It is quite the most extraordinary addition to the street furniture. A spectacular rock band played its heart out on the pavements of the West End and it was almost as if Glastonbury had never gone away. The beat was hypnotic, startling in its vibrancy and intensity. You were reminded of those local bands who set up their equipment in pubs without so much as a second thought. An outdoor concert next to a railway station seemed both unusual and weirdly incongruous but hey anything goes as they say.

And so to the main event of the evening. Gershwin's American in Paris is currently wowing audiences on the outskirts of London's West End theatreland. Originally a box office movie phenomenon many moons ago, An American in Paris starred the twinkle toed Gene Kelly and the quintessentially glamorous Leslie Caron with those sweet and winsome flutters of her very feminine eyelashes.

Essentially, An American in Paris is a throwback, a good, old fashioned musical with all of those sweepingly elegant flourishes that must have come so naturally to that very special Hollywood age. Here though was a West End musical but a West End musical that left you utterly enthralled and totally enamoured by. An American in Paris though was not so much a musical but quite the most expressive ballet that came as a pleasant surprise.

In fact this was the most exquisite ballet of all, one which certainly caught me out completely. A majority of West End musicals are normally toe tapping, foot stomping, finger clicking, hand clapping, boogie woogie and audience participation events with tongues in cheek and large, happy grins on their faces. Admittedly there were the unforgettable show stoppers such as 'I Got Music' but there was an abundance of ballet, delightfully delicate ballet, dancing at its most artistic and beautiful.

So, in many ways An American in Paris had charm, beauty, genuine athleticism and enchanting elegance from beginning to end. It was a swaying, flowing and utterly graceful spectacle. a show that oozed suppleness, nimbleness, flexibility, pliancy and mesmeric movement. It had genuine poetry in motion, a real sense of West End musical authenticity, passion and the now obligatory romance.

As the title suggests it tells the story of a struggling American musician with a groaning repertoire of songs in his songbook before falling helplessly in love, tripping the light fantastic with class and brimming style. Now unfolds the most sugar sweet love story ever told with more changes of scenery than I've ever seen in any West End musical.

Throughout the show there were frequent nods to the D'Oyly Carte and Sadlers Wells where some of the most refined of ballet feet ply their craft. There was a heartfelt sentimentality and dripping nostalgia about this production that must have left most of the audience with several wet tears in their eyes. Girls with pretty ballerina shoes stood on their toes while simultaneously pirouetting on those toes with impeccable poise. It almost felt as if they'd performed the same routine for as long as they could remember. Stunning.

And then the story fluttered and flitted across the Dominion stage in a vast homage to the diverse worlds of art and culture. What we were now presented with was a  singalong, happy go lucky musical with breathtaking ballet, classic tunes and generous helpings of showbiz glitter. Men grabbed hold of their girls and swung them across their bodies with a red blooded masculinity, the girls falling effortlessly into the adoring arms of their men folk. What followed were more balletic gestures, men and women blending effortlessly into floating, angelic and ethereal swishes.

By the end of An American in Paris, most of the audience had been taken right back to that shimmering Hollywood decade when everything seemed possible and nothing was beyond reach. It somehow belonged to an age where children had manners, the dining room was always set at the same time and the same place and everybody communicated with each other in the flesh rather than a Smart Phone. Call it simple innocence but that's what An American in Paris conveyed to us all. My father in law and wife loved it, felt very good about it and admired its splendidly and validly important message.

Meanwhile the rock band on the corner of Tottenham Court Road station had now gone home possibly content with their profitable evening, the rain now falling like rhythmic curtains from a charcoal black sky. Now the darkness had now taken up temporary residence and the new Route Master buses blinked and winked against a constant backdrop of humming West End traffic.

I now began to imagine what must have been going through the prolifically lyrical mind of George Gershwin when the great American songbook was in its infancy and rapidly growing. That whole honeysuckle Hollywood period now seems like a warm wind from the South Seas or a gentle breeze from some island in paradise.  I think we owe an enormous debt of gratitude to both George and Ira. There is a lot to be said for an American next to the Champs Elysses. So right and proper.

The Labour party conference, politicians, aren't they wonderful?

The Labour Party conference- politicians, aren't they wonderful?

I know what you're thinking. It's time to move the conversation back to politics and this week it's the turn of the Labour Party conference. Yes I know not that subject. You may be yawning your indifference and I understand perfectly. We've all had the most magnificent summer without a single mention of Brexit. That word again. And then there were the frequent references to Britain's departure from that huge courtyard of Western and Eastern Europe back biting and squabbling. It's been enough to get on anybody's nerves.

But for one week only it's time for the well drilled squadron of the Labour Party to load up their political ammunition before launching their heavy duty firepower at the Conservative Party. It's time for Theresa May to hide under a table or a dark underground room in case one of those Labour verbal grenades lands in the Tory heartland.

 It could all get very nasty and unseemly, childish and silly but none of us would have it any other way. We're all hardened to these party political conferences and this week sees the opening of the latest instalment of the party political bunfight. Here we are at the point where accusations and counter accusations fly viciously and virulently at anybody who finds them in the wrong place at the wrong time. Once again we'll all converge on the seaside and make ridiculous faces at each other.

Today the Labour Party conference gathered by the bracing, breezy and invigorating seaside resort of Brighton. For years Brighton has hosted that famous end of pier comedy act known as the British political party conference where the argumentative battalions of blue, red and yellow have frequently come to meet if only to get everything off their chest. The forces of Labour socialism will be followed by the prosperous capitalism of the Conservatives next week before the Lib Dems wrap everything up with more muted mutterings among the team of yellow.

Today John Mcdonnell stood up purposefully in front of the Labour faithful and gave us a whole shopping lists of promises and guarantees, declarations of unity and continued cohesion among the grumbling sceptics among his party. It was time to pull together, to round up the troops, become much more positive and assertive and whatever happens, to sing from the same hymn sheet. But poor old Labour are now on the back foot because although they came an admirable runner up to the Tories in the general election, the consensus is that the Tories are just about clinging onto power. This much is all that matters.

Meanwhile there's Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn. Oh dear, what exactly do you tell a man who quite clearly believes in the impossible and miraculous? Do you sit him down in your kitchen or some private room and tell him quite frankly that he's simply whistling in the wind or do you just drum some home truths into the man? Mr Corbyn continues to give the impression of a man who thinks, quite absurdly, that Labour did win a moral battle in the General Election earlier on this year.

But here we are at the end of September and here is a defiant and remarkably delusional man who kids himself that one day 10 Downing Street will become his residence. Call it bravado or maybe just foolhardiness but at the moment Corbyn wanders the corridors of the Westminster like a man searching for any kind of coherent policy. This maybe a tad unfair but at the moment Corbyn carries a Walter Mitty fantasist air about him that is truly laughable.

Wherever Corbyn goes there is the ever present smile, the grey hair and the thick greying beard, the crumpled white jacket and that formidable self confidence that may prove to be his only source of consolation. Now, his critics will snipe and sneer at an apparent lack of fashion sense and political nous. Corbyn leaps onto political stages and platforms rather like some militant Socialist who would re-nationalise the trains, give complete control back to the unions, eradicating both poverty and  deprivation overnight in the inner cities and then waving the ultimate magic wand. He would be the man to wipe the slate clean and turn the Labour party into a credible force.

Sadly the reality is that at the moment Labour are more or less non existent, voices in the wilderness, crying wolves in distant lands, a broken car or piece of machinery, wounded, battered, emotionally exhausted and resigned to their immediate fate. The energy and eloquence that so galvanised them under Tony Blair as Prime Minister has now fizzled out, a distant puff of smoke that now seems like a hollow echo.

Today John Mcdonnell tried desperately to blast out a harmonious note on the Labour bugle and found that even though some were listening others were just mumbling their objections and cynicism. Mcdonnell talked the familiar talk of public finance being transferred back into the right hands, the National Health Service(NHS) addressed as the most important issue of our times, schools and hospitals should be of paramount importance to future generations and Britain should thrust out its chest with a deeply patriotic statement of intent.

And yet as the Labour party brush up on their blusteringly boisterous speeches and the final touches are applied to the popular jokes of the moment, Jeremy Corbyn prepares himself, takes a deep breath and tries to compose himself. Corbyn, we all know is on a hiding to nothing, marooned on some very lonely island where only his most fervent supporters will take his side and just trapped on the most distant sidelines. Maybe he isn't suffering from loneliness because there are some who genuinely believe that things could change. The reality though is entirely different.

Back at Labour party headquarters the party loyalists are sitting tight and biting their lips, hoping against hope that our Jeremy will get it right eventually. Politics is a messy, confusing, complicated business where the men and women in both the Cabinet and the Shadow Cabinet spend all of their lives whispering malicious comments and superficial praise as if it were some kind of children's party game.

 Poor Jeremy Corbyn. There are times when even the most lost causes can seem pretty hopeless. When Mr Corbyn wakes up tomorrow morning he may be hoping that Brighton has still got that pebbly beach and those wonderful Regency properties. It may be time for a radical re-think because 10 Downing Street may be the most optimistic of thoughts. Good luck with that one Mr Corbyn. The jury may be out on that one for quite a while.

Spurs win fiercely contested London derby against West Ham.

Spurs win fiercely contested London derby against West Ham.

Somebody really ought to familiarise West Ham with the ball. At some point the penny will undoubtedly drop for the East London side but for West Ham the unfolding season is beginning to look like a dirty curtain. For most of last season, their first at the London Stadium, there seemed to be an obvious uncertainty and nervous apprehension about them that spread complete havoc within the team. Eight defeats at home should have alerted the club to imminent danger and after their 3-2 defeat against a smoothly functioning Spurs side West Ham once again looked like strangers at lunchtime rather than late evening jazz artists.

Slaven Bilic, the West Ham boss, will now begin to wonder whether the game may well be up for him. Most Premier League managers can never be guaranteed any kind of longevity let alone a permanent appointment but for Bilic this latest defeat against local rivals Spurs must feel like the worst of all nightmares. West Ham, for the time being, are now stuck in the quicksand and the feeling must be that if something doesn't happen quickly for them in the foreseeable future then the man with the dark hood will hover over Bilic's head with the most sinister of glares.

 Surely the man from Croatia couldn't have imagined that football could do this to you particularly when the nights are now drawing in and the cold draughts of autumn are sending sharp shivers down your back. Admittedly West Ham are not the team who performed so efficiently and confidently in their last season at Upton Park and contributed so vastly to their seventh place finish in that season.

Still West Ham may have to get right back to the drawing board. But the pens and pencils have gone missing and the unless the club find the right kind of compass then a season of struggle and hard labour may await. The three defeats away from home which opened up their campaign have now left the most repulsive smell in the air and if they don't found an effective disinfectant at their disposal then the London Stadium may find itself burdened with a terrible sewage problem.

We are now near the end of the second month of the Premier League season and West Ham are treading water so alarmingly that the natives may become restless. This was not the season West Ham were hoping for and after all the high profile signings of Javier Hernandez and Marko Anautovic from Bayer Leverkusen and Stoke City respectively, it must have felt as if all the bolts and nuts had come loose again and the engine was overheating.

When Hernandez signed for West Ham, the home side must have felt as if all their dreams had come true all at once. Although Chicharito did pull one back for West Ham in the second half it was no more than a sticking plaster. The damage had been done quite significantly and West Ham boss Slaven Bilic reminded you of a man waiting for a bus to arrive when quite clearly it was never destined to come.

In brief glimmering patches against Southampton and then the competent 2-0 home victory against promoted Huddersfield West Ham did have focus and clarity of mind. But the jittery faultlines are so evident that the alarm bells must be ringing for West Ham. The Hammers still looked a lumbering, blundering shambles wholly incapable of stringing together any semblance of a passing movement.

For the opening half an hour the claret and blue shirts began to swarm around the Tottenham defence like angry bees but without the sting and sure footedness that might have made made their life so much easier. It is at times like this when you begin to wonder whether they should have resorted to a more aggressive approach rather than the pretty embellishments that Spurs were beginning to impose on the game.

Spurs of course are rather like a puzzle wrapped in a mystery, a case of the Enigma code finally being deciphered. At their temporary home of Wembley Stadium, Spurs have been appallingly out of sorts and the draws at home to Swansea and Burnley may have destabilised Tottenham rather more than they might have thought. For Wembley Stadium read West Ham's first season at the London Stadium and an ordnance survey map maybe the answer to Spurs problems. It is not yet a chronic malaise but it does feel as if a psychological obstacle is holding them back at home.

Once again though when Dele Alli, Christian Eriksen, Harry Kane, Moussa Sissoko and the ever influential Jan Vertonghen began to pick their way beautifully through a static and statuesque defence, you were reminded of a retreating platoon of soldiers. Suddenly there were shadows of the great Bill Nicholson side of the 1960s and 70s, maybe a glimpse of Arthur Rowe's audacious push and run side of the 1950s but that might be pushing analogies too far.

Still once Spurs had overcome their doubts and misgivings moving forward, the football they've now subjected their supporters to for well over a season now under Spurs Mauricio Pochettino is beginning to look like the finished article. There is a completeness and finesse about Spurs football that reminds you of a well varnished mahogany table.

Eriksen, notably is still one of the most polished and artistic midfield playmakers in the country and one of the most outstanding footballers you could ever wish to see. Eriksen, is neat, proper, classically cultured and cultivated, organising, scheming, foraging and finally unlocking West Ham in the most clinical fashion. It may have been a Chubb or Yale key but none at Spurs, for one, are in any mood for complaining.

Spurs took the lead then in the 34th minute when a whirlwind break took from the visitors left West Ham perplexed and internally bewildered. A wayward ball from West Ham's Andy Carroll on the half way line left the Spurs attack with the most perfect licence to thrill. Eriksen found Dele Alli  who swiftly moved into wide open space and his delightfully low cross was sharply headed home by Harry Kane. West Ham goalkeeper Joe Hart could only flap at thin air and the breath had been sucked out of the home side.

Four minutes later another Spurs counter attack of almost lethal ferocity, left West Ham once again gasping and grasping. A ball prodded over the top of the home side's by now besieged defence  eventually resulted in a fierce shot from Spurs which West Ham had no way of clearing and the ball fell straight to Harry Kane. Kane slotted the ball into the West Ham net and, rather like a child with a toy, Kane became the perfect citizen with one of the easiest of finishes he will ever get. Then the impeccable Eriksen rifled home Spurs third which should have taken the game out of West Ham's reach.

In the second half though West Ham rallied gallantly but then found there were no clearings in the rainforest. By now West Ham were chasing a seemingly lost cause. For a period it did seem that West Ham had finally discovered what to do and how to do it. No sooner had they lost their footing in the second half when they finally gained a steady foothold on the game.

Hernandez, who had hitherto looked like a dog hunting that elusive bone, darted into the penalty area with a devastating headed finish which gave West Ham the lifeline they must have thought was beyond them. Then with four minutes left Spurs began to look like an intrepid trapeze artist in a circus. The feet were wobbling, their balance disturbed and to all intents and purposes in danger of falling helplessly into the safety net.

 For West Ham, Cheikhou Kouyate's bullet of a header from Arthur Masuaku running cross thudded into the net almost eloquently. For the last ten to fifteen minutes, Spurs juggled their plates, patiently bided their time and gradually released the pressure valve that may have led to their undoing. A third equaliser had proved beyond West Ham and their North London neighbours finally announced gloating rights. This was no Battle of Agincourt but there are times when you can actually smell the smoke in the air as two sides lock horns in the most competitive mood.

For those of us who have followed  the Hammers for an unfeasibly long period of time, this was another familiar rendition of blood and thunder, a clash of cymbals and a weeping violin accompanying this very discordant orchestra. I ought to be used to these minor footballing disasters in claret and blue, these calamitous pratfalls, these almost clownish indiscretions. Oh to be a West Ham United fan when the autumn conkers fall and the Sword of Damocles falls dangerously over the London Stadium. But maybe this has always been the way.  

Happy New Year, Rosh Hashanah, my barmitzvah, Beehive Lane and the blowing of the shofar.

Happy New Year, Rosh Hashanah and the blowing of the shofar.

Oh well, that's it for another year and what have you done another year over? Sadly John Lennon may never have stepped inside a synagogue nor was he ever spotted wearing a tallit or kippa. But tomorrow marks the beginning of the Jewish New Year and I for one will spend the next two days in the traditional state of prayer, contemplation, remembrance, reflection and deep solemnity with my wonderful family.

 Of course there's time for dwelling on the lighter, happier and brighter aspects of the holiday. The bottom line though is that the Jewish New Year is a time of praying, chanting in harmony with your choir and discovering the profoundly spiritual significance of the Rosh Hashanah service with your family and friends.  It happens every year and there have been 5,777 so far which means we've got plenty of historical ground to cover.

Essentially Rosh Hashanah is also a time for festivity, celebration and rejoicing among the Jewish community. It is a time to look outwards and forwards rather than backwards and stuck in a time warp. This is often a time for repentance, saying sorry, counting our blessings and being terribly remorseful. And yet of course this is not really a time for soul searching particularly if you haven't done anything morally wrong or committed the most heinous of sins.

Here in nearby Stamford Hill the chasidim Orthodox community will be gathering their closely knit communities with their equally as closely knit families and devote many a religious hour to their shuls (synagogues) with love in their hearts, a deeply felt sense of togetherness and a collective joy. Then they'll wander over to the common, throw their sins into the water and pray for the sweetest and most joyous of New Years. It is quite the most moving sight of the year in Stamford Hill.

But once inside the synagogue you're embraced by friends and family with a warmth and cordiality that is heart-warmingly uplifting and restores your faith in human nature. We hug each other tightly, pour out our pleasantries and witticisms before suddenly the shofar is blown loudly and emphatically. We stand together united as Jews, always Jews and proudly Jews. There is an unbreakable spirit that holds us together through thick and thin and always will.

My personal recollections of my childhood Rosh Hashanah are both vivid and I think quite amusing. As members of Beehive Lane shul my parents and grandparents were dedicated and loyal New Year visitors. Every year we sat in the same seats surrounded by the same people, the same stained glass windows and the delicate lace curtain that always seemed to keep the men and women apart. Surely the whole issue of gender inequality and division could be amicably resolved by sitting us together but not at Beehive Lane. Rosh Hashanah, after all, is all about integration and assimilation rather than sexism and exclusion. Or perhaps I've missed something. But oh no the women had to go upstairs while the men stayed put downstairs which in a sense makes no sense. For Gants Hill in Essex this was the time to be among our loved ones.

Just over 40 years ago I'd celebrated my barmitzvah at Beehive Lane synagogue and can still vaguely remember the slight knot in my stomach, the fluttering butterflies that accompanied me as I bravely chanted my barmitvah piece which for that time of the year was Vayera. There was a slight sense of nervousness and trepidation as I bellowed out the most high pitched of Hebrew tunes. On reflection it almost seems like an age ago which indeed it is.

I can still remember being bombarded with the presents of time which seemed at the time hilariously inappropriate and utterly superfluous to requirements. I hated Maths and certainly didn't need a lorry load of the fashionable and brand new calculators with their tiny red numbers, even smaller buttons and barely visible numbers.

 Most of the assembled guests simply assumed that I'd appreciate elegant fountain pens. Phew, fountain pens. What happened there? This was nothing but outrageous presumption. Did they think I'd put away said fountain pens into my beautiful, wood panelled chest of drawers, a mahogany cabinet with ink, quill and  formal letters from the House of Commons? They must have assumed that I was some aspiring literary author whose ancestors were members of Charles Dickens family. Oh for the golden age of the fountain pen.

 They must have thought that- wait for it-  clothes valets would occupy a much cherished place in my teenage wardrobe. But oh no the only presents that had any practical value were the ones that looked like cheques. Money was hugely appreciated and the others had very little in the way of meaning or relevance to anybody in particular.

Anyway both my mum and dad and grandparents annually turned up at Beehive Lane shul for the big get together, the regular pilgrimage. What followed next bordered on the vaguely farcical. The whole shul and the whole congregation could be probably be heard in nearby Barking and Barkingside. There was a loud and constant hum of earnest discussion that seemed to get louder and louder as the service progressed. The hum did become lower and softer eventually but there was never any variation on a theme. It was the religious soundtrack of the year and then the rabbi blared out that booming reprimand that somehow characterised Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur services. You had to stop talking immediately and remain silent throughout the service at all times and that was the final warning.

It was always hard to know what the members were talking about, nattering, chattering, whispering or endlessly engaging each other. Yet why not? This was the ideal chance for friends and family to indulge in talk about their businesses, their livelihoods, gossip about West Ham and Spurs, their opinions of those mouth watering  salmon beigels in the local Sharon bakery and whether the local Maccabi League Jewish football teams would once again walk away with the League and win much coveted trophies.

This was the Jewish narrative, the Jewish way of doing things, the focal point of all communication. But who did those fussy rabbis think they were pontificating on the decencies and protocol that had to be observed on all occasions? Be quiet they told us repeatedly and severely. You'll be ordered to leave the premises if you can't keep quiet. This is a place of religious prayer rather than Petticoat Lane market but no matter how hard he tried the rabbi's learned words fell almost agonisingly on deaf ears. This was no place for babbling on about money, loss and profit figures, bank balances and the financial welfare of all Jewish businessmen.

 It was hysterically funny and yet quite clearly and rightly it shouldn't have been because we were all together to pray, to ask forgiveness and follow the service. We all bowed our heads most respectfully and looked down on the endless pages of  wonderful Hebrew, pages that were heavy with passages of both scholarship and truly academic commentary.

And so it was that the Rosh Hashanah service slowly wound down amid another bout of intense and admittedly confidential conversation between the members. At times it was almost  as if the whole of the Beehive Lane shul simply couldn't hold back their feelings anymore but it didn't really bother me as such because this added to the charm of the day, that determination to articulate thoughts and emotions that had to be expressed now rather than later. What a brilliant festival!

 Besides this was the day of days, Rosh Hashanah, when families met up once again, compared contemporary fashions, hats, suits and ties. What a day! Rosh Hashanah is a time for eating apples and honey, delicious sticky honey and apples, for the celebration of life, the acknowledgement of good and bad times, redressing balances, studying our prayer books and deciding that every moment is precious, while always congregating next to the cafe in Valentines Park during the afternoon.

Next week brings us back to our favourite day of the year Yom Kippur, the day of the 25 hour fast, of suffering, self control, discipline, more forgiveness, no eating or drinking, total abstinence, privacy, temporary withdrawal from the outside world and thinking about that world in its most sober perspective- or maybe just  be grateful for health at all times. Then there's Succot, the harvest festival where the eating of the fruits of life follows logically while Simchat Torah represents that triumphant unfolding of the Torah and the Jewish knees up of wine and song. My Judaism will always be with me and never leave me. As that great and wise actor Topol once cried. L'chaim L'chaim to life.

Essex- cricket's county champions of 2017 and the genius of Neville Cardus.

Essex- cricket's county champions of 2017 and the genius of Neville Cardus.

I'm reading a book by the great cricket writer Neville Cardus at the moment. I have to tell you it is quite the most brilliantly absorbing book on the timeless graces of the summer game. In the book Cardus captures the flavour, essence, savour and lovely fragrances that ooze from the tents and marquees that decorate every single cricket ground both in England and the rest of the world.

 He tells us all about the marvellous Yorkshire and Lancashire rivalries, the Roses battles and that fundamental needle between both sides. But it's all written with a loving tenderness and poetic simplicity. For that  was the literary brilliance of Cardus, a man of wit, description and beautiful lyricism in his bones and blood.

Over the weekend I began to wonder what Cardus would have made of Essex winning the county championship. He would have been sorely disappointed that his native Lancashire had not wrapped up the county championship because in his day Lancashire were one of the greatest, most unstoppable and unplayable team in the land. Nobody could touch Lancashire since the mid 1920s and 1930s onwards because they had everything; the players, the batsmen and bowlers, the whole complement of cricket's most destructive weapons without physically hurting anybody.

But on a personal note I have to admit to taking an unrestrained delight in Essex's notable achievements over the weekend. During a brief and glorious period during the 1980s Essex, rather like the Lancashire side of the 1920s and 1930s, gobbled up the county championship on a number of occasions. As a former Essex resident and growing up within a cricket strip of the Essex beauty spot of Valentines Park, it could be said that Essex were my team although I'm slightly ashamed to say that I've never set foot inside this picture book ground.

Still Essex are the county champions of England and that is one sentence that brings an emotional lump to the throat. Over the years the county of Essex has been cruelly ridiculed for its so called dodgy nightclubs, its graphic reality TV depiction and alleged daftness. But this is an outrageous slur, a foul calumny on a wonderful county with picturesque country lanes, plentiful potato and egg farms and mouth watering strawberry picking spots. How can you possibly criticise this idyllic corner of rural England without singing its praises and eulogising over its epic cricketing days?

For those whose memories can be isolated most specifically and almost perfectly Essex had several players whose talents and skills can now be remembered with a good deal of pleasure. There was the bushy moustache of Graham Gooch, a dashing and cavalier cricketer full of those fierce drives, cuts and magical pulls off the back and front foot that flashed past mid wicket like a missile. Gooch was the complete cricketer, a man with a level headed temperament and a full armoury of cricket's finest strokes. When Gooch once scored 333 against India none were remotely surprised because Gooch loved the big occasion.

Then there was the Australian Ken Mcewan, who, certainly at club level for Essex, devised some of the biggest of scores, many a hundred and who will forget his hunger for savage batting? He elevated Essex to such towering heights that at times the game came to him almost naturally. Mcewan was strong, properly aggressive in the best sense of the word because he would never have hurt a fly and just admirably adventurous. Sometimes a cricketer comes along who dominates a match superbly and doesn't apologise for doing so. Mcewan was no exception to the rule.

Now is not the time to overlook that supreme leader of men Keith Fletcher, a man with cricket and Essex in his veins and sinews. For some time Fletcher was the sparking plug that electrified Essex cricket club. He was captain of Essex and led by shining example. He organised, egged on, drove forward, inspired and energised his team with an almost school boyish enthusiasm and most youthful exuberance. It seems certain that Fletcher both ate, drunk and slept Essex but always in moderation of course.

Finally there was John Lever, the man who I can still see between the prettily clipped hedges and privets that fringed Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex so decoratively.  Lever was just a force of nature, wandering carefully back to the pavilion and then measuring his coolly calculated run up to the wicket before racing into the bowling crease with a ferocious menace. He now hurled down the fastest bowling in the world like a school playground catapult. It was thrilling to watch and you wondered if the crown green bowlers next to the Valentines Park cricket ground were secretly enthralled by their cricketing friends next door.

And so we come to the present day and Alistair Cook's all conquering Essex team who have done their country so excessively proud. We didn't think it would ever happen again because we knew that Essex used to be dreadful underachievers and never recognised for who they were. Essex are the cricketing virtuosos, top of the class and so deservedly the county champions. It is time to fly the county banner in a rich outpouring of celebration.

It is at times like this that I think of Neville Cardus, the man who transformed cricket writing into the purest of literary forms. For Cardus cricket was not so much a summer sport it was a delicate piece of pottery, that stunning sculpture, a Shakespearean play or comedy, a classical piece of music, a soulful sonata or overture, a loud and noisy drama, a quiet interlude, a gentle, balletic dance, an art installation, a flowing paragraph in a book and an operatic masterpiece.

I feel sure that Cardus would have seen and deeply appreciated this Essex coronation and their county championship victory. As a man of Lancashire this cricketing wordsmith would have been both gracious and very gentlemanly about the boys from Essex. As one whose childhood and teenage years were spent in this exquisite suburb it is time to extend my heartiest congratulations to the super and superlative Essex.

  We must have known that one day cricket and Essex would be re-united in the most moving of reunions. County cricket champions once again.  We could easily get used to that winning feeling again.  Maybe it's long overdue. Take your lap of honour gents.

Party political season- let the arguments begin.

Party political conference season- let the arguments begin.

Here in Britain it's the party political conference season shortly and that can only mean one thing. Yes, you've guessed it. It's time for powerful, passionate speeches, plenty of hot air, anger, fury, hundreds of dissenting voices, a hint of anarchy in the air and plenty of secretive discussions behind the scenes. There is bound to be disagreement because a party political conference season wouldn't be the same without  good, old fashioned argy bargy, a good deal of personal name calling, gossipy nonsense, spite, childishness and vindictiveness. In fact it could turn into a war of words on quite the most unbearable scale.

Of course this year brings with it all of that emotional fall out from the General Election earlier this year. You know the one. The General Election that Theresa May won but only by default or so it seemed at the time. She lost her majority but still soldiered on regardless. It was the General Election she may have cause to regret in time but the fact remains that the Tories galloped home like a tired thoroughbred who may have taken part in too many races.

Seen in the cold day of light the Conservative Party were only slightly wounded by the General Election if only because Jeremy Corbyn's much vilified Labour party did rather better than any of us could have expected but not enough to form the next Parliament in Britain. So it was that during the summer Theresa May took stock of her position, went for a leisurely walk in Switzerland, pondered for a while and probably came to the conclusion that Swiss chocolate is the best in the world and those cuckoo clocks are just charming.

On arrival back from the summer recess Prime Minister May may well have walked back into Westminster, hurt perhaps and a little chastened by events around her, but genuinely convinced that Brexit is the perfect addition to the Oxford English Dictionary. She will now shuffle through the copious papers on her desk, listen to her advisors, read the papers and discover everything she knew about it in the first place. This politics malarkey can be awfully tiring but hey it has to be preferable to orienteering in the Alps. Seriously, Theresa yours has to be the most unenviable job in the land. Who needs all of that wearisome hassle and aggravation?

Still, when the Tories begin their party political conference perhaps she'll be afforded some quality time and time to reflect on what might have been and what could still happen. She remains a damaged Prime Minister but when she takes her seat at the Tories party conference this could be time to concentrate on the more pressing issues that Britain has now been forced to face whether she likes it or not. May now has some vitally important work to do on the more knotty ramifications of Brexit. If I've heard that word once I must have heard it a million times.

But the fact remains that the Prime Minister has to tackle a whole portfolio of complicated looking documents, endless reams of papers and more papers on the one subject she may eventually come to hate. At the heart of it all is one of the most contentious political subjects in recent times. In fact the air is so poisonous that there are high ranking EU members who would love to kick Britain out of the European Union without so much as a backward glance.

Still this is the party political conference season, a time for considered judgements, rousing speeches from honourable politicians - or as some would have you believe- dishonourable politicians who are not so much corrupt but barely believable. They will stare out at their adoring party members, take frequent sips of water, address the hall with the most marvellous piece of studied, points scoring oratory and then speak for England on any subject which has its central feature blame, accusation, more condemnation about nothing in particular and a large slice of boasting, bleating and blathering.

Years ago the party political conference season used to be based at some of England's most bracing seaside resorts. During the 1950s it used to be Margate and then the others seemed to join in just for fun of it.  There was Brighton, Blackpool and Bournemouth for both the Tories, Labour Party and then the Liberals as they were then known. They all took it in turns to hold their conference at all of the above locations. Now though all three parties now seem to pick any English provincial business centre or pop concert venue that will happily take them.

Long gone are the days when BBC political correspondents would stand shivering by a Blackpool promenade with the distant illuminations providing the most magnificent backdrop. In the distance the fairground lights could be spotted winking and blinking away while John Sergeant or John Cole bravely battled the blustery winds with a dutiful devotion to duty. Inside those halls of political pontificating there was an entirely different kind of electricity where carefully prepared speeches induced ear splitting and raucous applause from those formidable loyalists.

You're reminded of one of Margaret Thatcher's first conference speeches shortly after wrapping up the 1979 General Election. She came to the microphone and launched into the kind of impassioned language that must have shaken every wall in the conference hall. For what seemed the best part of a compelling hour or so Thatcher would never ever be questioned or contradicted nor would she ever give up in her quest for world domination. She stood her ground stubbornly, maintained firmly that any prospect of chronic unemployment would never take place under her leadership and generally created a huge shift in opinion wherever she went.

We all knew that she was never one for turning because if she did she must have known that the consequences would not to be her liking. Thatcher, of course said no repeatedly in the House of Commons if only for political emphasis. In that by now famous all blue uniform Margaret Thatcher took the whole concept of healthy debate to a completely different level. But even she must have been aware of the piercing stares from the likes of Cecil Parkinson, Norman Tebbit, Geoffrey Howe and Michael Heseltine. Then again they may have been monitoring her every move in case she fluffed her lines.

The fact is that all party political conferences provide most of Westminster's finest with a perfect opportunity to air their grievances, serious soundbites, posh platitudes and the kind of controversial comments that frequently succeed in dividing their party, if only briefly. The whole conference season normally lasts a week but does seem to go on for ever. You begin to wonder if most of the party members actually camp out overnight in the hall if only to ensure a good seat at the front in the morning.

Anyway the nation awaits the Tories, Labour, the courageous Liberal Democrats and any political party that fancies its chances. In the next couple of weeks, the reception areas, lobbies and small meeting rooms will be buzzing with lively banter, cheerful gallows humour, intensive conversations about who knows what and all manner of trivia. Sometimes the impression is that this is a politicians favourite time of the year because this is the one time when they can get everything off their chest.

For the rest of the year, The House of Commons and Westminster becomes a veritable lion's den where reputations are savaged, forthright opinions are fervently expressed and Denis Skinner tells a million jokes. The Trades Union Congress has already had its custard pie confrontations and general flim flam flummery but then the beer and sandwiches brigade always did like their the verbal exchanges. A personal memory was one of a blustering Len Murray calling his troops to order and lecturing his colleagues on whatever the topic of the day might have been.

Essentially the party political conference season is a huge debating chamber where the members of Parliament play Punch and Judy, try desperately to drag their opponents through the mud and behave with a singular lack of decorum. Occasionally it all gets so heated that you begin to wonder why any kind of conference is necessary particularly when it invariably gets completely out of hand.

Still the blue of the Conservatives, the red of Labour and the yellow of the Lib Dems will be descending in their droves just waiting for the moment to cheer loudly, boo senselessly and then just heckle as and when appropriate. It is democracy at its liveliest but so utterly lacking is Conference season in any discipline that you begin to wonder what all the fuss is about.

Britain has had one of its more tempestuous of years and it seems certain that when British politicians do gather at their respective Conferences the talk will inevitably turn to both tragedy and disaster. The terrorist attacks on both the cities of London and Manchester have so scarred the nation that it may be some time before a full, psychological and emotional recovery can be achieved. When the deeply shocking and heartbreaking Grenfell Tower fire so stunned us, it seemed that the whole notion of a party political conference had now become a total irrelevance.

But the season is upon us and for those who believe that very few politicians speak any sense whatsoever a political conference is probably the last thing on your mind. Theresa May, the Tory Prime Minister will, quite obviously sing the praises of her Government, Jeremy Corbyn will deludedly believe that he could do the job with his eyes closed and Vince Cable. Well, Vince Cable is sadly just Vince Cable the leader of the Lib Dems who seems destined to live on the margins of politics.

Yes folks you've guessed it folks. Its the political bunfight of the year, the gathering of the great, good and simply mediocre. The Tories will be at pains to point out that unemployment is now at its lowest and Jeremy Corbyn will tell us that although Britain may be working again it's still up to its eyes in poverty and unrest. The narrative is still Brexit dominated and the feelings are running extraordinarily high. Some EU officials are fuming, the lines of communication blurred perhaps but any resemblance to a very bad TV sitcom may be purely coincidental.

For any followers of the great speech making event of the year here are a few buzzwords and phrases that may be mentioned repeatedly. Listen out for collective bargaining, the art of negotiation, sitting around tables with union bosses and talking with our comrades, brothers and sisters. Pay and money will become an all consuming subject and it could turn very nasty. Still commonsense may well prevail and our perceptions will dramatically change. Once the Labour party wave the red flag and the Tories give us lessons on morality then we'll all know the Conference season is well and truly upon us. I have no particular political allegiance so this is my time to be neutral. May the best political party say all the right things.

It's the West Ham way- Hammers beat the Terriers of Huddersfield Town.

It's the West Ham way- Hammers beat the Terriers of Huddersfield Town.

The rain fell almost remorselessly from a dark East London sky. The London Olympic Stadium, once the stage of Olympic Games and World Athletics champions, had now been returned to its original home of West Ham United football club. It now seems an age since the claret and blue shirts of West Ham had struggled their way towards mid table respectability last season.

Now the slate has been swept clean and the Hammers are back in their original home where some of their more sceptical supporters were still grumbling about the demise of the more intimate Upton Park. The traditionalists were still running their hands through their hair and then bowing their heads in utter disgust. Not another season of toil and trouble, heartache and harrowingly disturbing events, they must have been thinking. Surely things could not slide downhill so rapidly as they did last season.

For most of last season West Ham treated most of their matches at the London Stadium rather like bemused tourists wandering around the Tower of London and then asking for directions to Madame Tussauds. It was very much the learning curve that most of the team were privately fearing. Rather like their London neighbours Arsenal, the move to a bigger, plusher and grander stadium meant much more than a straightforward re-adjustment. Those furniture removal vans must have been so relieved to see the back of both West Ham and Arsenal.

The fact is though that the East London side have still begun this new Premier League season like nervous young lambs gambolling around a strange field in the middle of nowhere. You were reminded of  11 men going around in ever increasing circles in a hotel's revolving doors. Their first three matches away from the London Stadium have been both forgettable and distressing. The 4-0 defeat at Manchester United's Old Trafford was swiftly followed a week later by the narrow 3-2 loss at Southampton before Newcastle rubbed considerable salt in the wound with a 3-0 humiliation at St James's Park.

Needless to say poor Slaven Bilic looked as if he could have done with much more than his birthday cake to cushion the blow. Perhaps a good claret to drown the sorrows. The truth is that the West Ham manager stood in the pouring rain rather like former England manager Steve Mclaren in the World Cup qualifier that led to his downfall. And that was ironically against Bilic's Croatia. How Bilic needed a good tonic to help lift his morose mood.

Here in his first game back at the club's London Stadium he still looks uncomfortable and ill at ease with the rest of the world. Last night his jacket got a complete soaking, his face scowling and disapproving but then he did have a valid excuse for his sullen demeanour. Not for the first time, West Ham are at the wrong end of the Premier League and the top half still looks like an insurmountable mountain best handled with a strong set of crampons. If only somebody could change the script.

Once again West Ham looked like a side that hadn't quite found their bearings and frequently looked disjointed, out of sorts, lifeless, flat and moreover not sure what they were supposed to be doing. For much of the first half their passes were well intentioned but they then resorted to the longer option when the sweet simplicities of the shorter variety looked so much more inviting. The first twenty minutes saw West Ham nervously shifting the ball into no man's land. From time to time the signs were vaguely encouraging but then the ball seemed to drift into tight, claustrophobic areas of the pitch where the ball simply lost its sense of direction.

For a team at the bottom of the Premier League before last night's game against promoted newcomers Huddersfield, West Ham still looked shell shocked and groggy, refusing to accept any responsibility for any of their alleged faults and shortcomings on the pitch. There was something of the novice and newcomer about West Ham, a side yet to be introduced to each other and then finding that they'd lost their way when the guide book had given them conflicting information.

Last season West Ham were beaten eight times at their brand new London Stadium and there were lengthy periods of this game against Huddersfield Town when it certainly looked like as if a similar fate would await them this season although hopefully not. Huddersfield briefly ventured into West Ham's half rather first time swimmers testing the water. West Ham did a considerable amount of toe dipping but still treated the ball like a hot potato. In fact so frustrated had the home supporters become that it only seemed a matter of time before the claret and blue hordes were storming the barricades, throwing their trade union banners at the gates and then going on strike at the Thames Ironworks. Or maybe that it's a historical exaggeration.

Then at the beginning of the second half the West Ham midfield pairing of Chekhou Kouyate, Pedro Obiang gelled together and the superb Michal Antonio began to create havoc on the wing. West Ham began to grab the initiative moving the ball quickly and effectively across the middle of the pitch.  Antonio gladly ran at his defender with startling pace, a fair amount of skill, whole hearted industry and that incisive cutting edge that may have been missing from West Ham's first three matches

But it all looked rather slow and painstaking, a labour of love rather than a beautifully composed piece of art work. Shortly Aaron Cresswell suddenly broke out of his shell at full back and thundered forward on the overlap, picking up the ball neatly in the most dangerous areas and then sizing up low, driven crosses into the Huddersfield penalty area. With Cresswell, Pablo Zabaleta who must have wondered what he was doing at West Ham after winning the Premier League with Manchester City, lent a genuine air of experience and worldly wisdom to the proceedings at the London Stadium.

With captain Winston Reid back in the first team after injury and Jose Fonte still in dominant form, West Ham began to grow into the game and find their feet. Huddersfield's contribution to the game had been pathetically negligible and West Ham looked much more confident and assertive than they'd ever been at any time since the beginning of the season.

Half way into the second half the Hammers finally achieved some semblance of fluency and attacking intelligence. Suddenly a short, quickfire passage of two passes found Pedro Obiang in complete isolation on the edge of the Huddersfield penalty area. Obiang, more in hope than expectation, drilled  a firm shot towards the visitors keeper. The ball, with a mind of its own, took the most fortunate deflection off a Huddersfield defender, swinging wildly over the head of the keeper and looping into the net for the Hammers opening goal of the season at the London Stadium. Luck perhaps but a welcome break from the norm for West Ham.

Minutes later West Ham confirmed their growing stature and there was an air of seniority about West Ham's football from there onwards. They now began to find emptier spaces in the Huddersfield half where none had existed in the first half. Players were now free to express themselves where before they'd previously found dark alleyways.

A corner from the right swerved its way into a congested penalty area and in a muddled melee Andre Ayew poked the ball into the Huddersfield net with the weary resignation of a man who'd seen it all before. It was the second and winning goal and the seasoned West Ham fans drifted into the East London night rather like  battered heavyweight boxers just grateful for a couple of cuts to the head and eye. For those of a claret and blue allegiance this was like spotting water in a vast desert. Oh to be a West Ham United supporter. There's a lot to be said for loyalty to the cause.  

Blondie, Shania Twain and Take That- it was the Proms in Hyde Park.

Blondie, Shania Twain and Take That- it was the Proms in Hyde Park.

After all the flag waving and hullabaloo the previous night, the Proms came to Hyde Park in the heart of London's West End and what a show it proved. The BBC tend to do these events rather well. In fact they really did push the boat out which given the rain on the day, seemed quite an appropriate metaphor for the big event. Everything went off both smoothly and successfully without even the slightest technical hitch.

There was also a special BBC anniversary as well which also seemed to go according to plan. This year Radio One and Two celebrate their 50th anniversary and as Tony Blackburn and Paul Gambaccini were at pains to point out this was the year when everything felt like a major celebration for two of the BBC's two most important radio stations with apologies to Radio Three and Four who should never be overlooked and if anything are equally as good if sometimes better than One or Two. But that may be just an opinion.

Anyway here we were on an early autumn afternoon at Hyde Park just waiting for the dark, grey clouds to open their floodgates which, in due course, they obligingly did. But that was no deterrent for all those devoted camp followers who so valiantly stood in the pouring rain shoulder to shoulder in that tough, stoic British way. The British are just stubbornly determined and indifferent when the rain falls so there was no surprise there.

Here they were, this ocean of humanity, swimming against the tide, brollies and umbrellas by the ready for the inclement weather, happy to be in Hyde Park on a rain swept day. Some of them must have been privately wishing they'd stayed at home. Still it was good to be at an outdoor BBC music concert featuring all of those old favourites from both the late 1970s, 80s and 90s. And of course the headlining act were those exemplary household names Take That. So everything seemed set for a good old fashioned knees up. Who for a moment, cared about the weather? There was some serious music to be appreciated.

This was the BBC's great outdoor music extravaganza, a yearly easy listening music fest for the whole family. It may have none of the hippie appeal of Glastonbury but it looked as if vast swathes of the huge crowd were having the time of their lives. From the early part of the afternoon to the complete darkness of evening and night, the Proms in Park exploded into action, quite literally at times, with the very best in light entertainment.

Then the famous faces began to appear on the stage and all of that careful BBC planning and preparation had come to fruition. The speakers were working, the amplifiers checked and re- checked again thoroughly and the sound systems were in sound working order. No trouble there then. Now there were the stunning visual effects, the colourful backdrops and of course those incessantly fiery flames. There were flames and more flames. In fact there were so many flames that you were reminded of a November bonfire display.

Onto the stage stepped the incomparable Whispering Bob Harris, the man who introduced us to that legendary rock programme The Old Grey Whistle Test which is now sadly just a memory. Harris now provides his radio audience with a large slice of country and western on Radio 2. But when he walked out to a hugely appreciative and discerning audience he knew what the crowd were hoping for. Harris doesn't whisper but he does give us that understated and gentle delivery that hits just the right spot.

Harris was then joined by Jo Whiley, one of a new generation of female DJs whose predecessor Annie Nightingale is still held in the highest esteem. Whiley, like Harris, was casually dressed for the occasion and announced the acts with impeccable timing and a genuine love of music from right across the musical spectrum. Sometimes presenters and radio DJs seem to have the right voice for the radio and as the concert progressed this was a point that was readily reinforced over and over again. And so we came to the acts.

I have to admit that I came into the Proms in the Park at roughly Sunday tea time so didn't catch some of the earlier acts. This may have been an oversight on my part but the impression was that  I had only missed a taste of what was to come. We were, after all, in the presence of one of the best boy bands in recent times. I knew then that all of the supporting acts would simply shimmy onto stage, sling a guitar around their necks and rock the evening away.

There is something to be said for that outdoor music concert vibe and atmosphere. This was just the most visually stunning and acoustically brilliant music concert of the year. It was an electrifying, spectacular feast of rock, pop and country and western. So here we were with some of the finest singing practitioners of their trade, belting out the oldies and goodies with big, bold and boisterous voices that could almost be heard in the City of London.

I caught up with Emeli Sande, the very latest in smooth sophistication. Emeli Sande belongs to today's zeitgeist so it's hard for me to pass considered and objective judgment on a new kid on the pop music block. What I do know is that Sande gave us a rich and meaty mix of soul, anthemic singing and beautifully delivered songs that sounded utterly accomplished.

With a lovely set of wind chimes and the most delightful bongo behind her, Sande launched into her repertoire with that smoky, sultry and rousing voice that was very much in the now. Hers was a full on and passionate voice that reminded you of dark, intimate jazz clubs and a glass of white wine. There were shining  spotlights that pierced through the gathering gloom and then Sande's superb version of Janis Joplin's memorable ' Piece Of My Heart', a true music standard that has quite definitely stood the test of time.

Sande continued to sway from side to side in the most vivid of what looked like a red tartan coat, black boots and and the most moody of backdrops behind her. Every so often she would throw her head back with eyes firmly closed and an inner enjoyment of the song. Now she would click her fingers in perfect time to 'Highs and Lows', another fusion of jazz and rock if that's possible. Then there were the candles flickering seductively at the back and a changing wall of fascinating images and graphics that looked very much like the screen savers on your computer.

Next on stage was that quintessential Englishmen, a man who seems to have stolen so many hearts that he may have to appear before a court of law. That's my corny joke for a Monday morning. The man in question is James Blunt and there is something about Blunt, certainly to my admittedly untrained ears that has echoes of a young Bob Dylan or possibly Van Morrison which may well be a compliment to the man.

Wearing the most ordinary brown shirt and dark trousers there is something of the story teller about Blunt which was most intriguing. His is a heartfelt, tender and sensitive voice that rasps out tellingly to his fans and underlines all of the favourable publicity that has followed him around the world. Blunt, rather like Sande, has a bittersweet and very moving delivery that understandably appeals to the purists.

 There is an aching and yearning tone to the Blunt voice that has just a hint of pain but then a redemptive power. He's very clean cut and respectable and when 'You're Beautiful' flooded Hyde Park Blunt had hit exactly the right spot. There was the fiercely committed and vigorous guitar strumming and a neat name check for his friend Ed Sherran. Blunt was never blunt. More sharp, sincere and full of meaningful conviction.

It was now tea time and most of the Hyde Park crowd were now, quite possibly, wet and completely drenched but undeterred. Tea time meant something very special for the male population. They'd already been spoilt with Emeli Sande and now they were about to be overwhelmed with a generous helping of Shania Twain.

Shania Twain is one of the most successful and phenomenally popular country and western singers of the modern age. But Twain is no Dolly Parton nor does she even remotely look like Tammy Wynette or Crystal Gayle. It should be pointed out that Shania Twain is an immensely likeable and vastly gifted singer with so much more than that country twang and that good ole banjo sound so beloved by those in the country and western fraternity.

From the moment she walked out onto the Hyde Park stage Twain gave us smouldering sensuality, obvious femininity and a raw raunchiness that seemed to spread right out across those wide open green spaces of London. I have to tell you that I'm more of a Mark Twain man than Shania although there was a concerted attempt on Ms Twain's part to reach out to the twenty plus age group. Once Twain had launched into her impressive strutting and tip toeing across the stage, you felt there was no stopping this restless force of nature.

There followed more head throwing, gritty, feisty lyrics and fierce flames that shot up into the night air. Here was Twain clutching her microphone determinedly and more showbiz theatricals. The country and western star was in full flow and in the ascendancy. The violins were up and away, Twain now at her most laid back, relaxed and totally engaged with her adoring audience. Suddenly there was that good old fashioned flavour of Tennessee and the paddle steamer just for good measure.

The hits came thick and fast. 'That Don't Impress Much' was a great throwback to some of her earlier material. It was heavily layered with country and western licks merging cleverly with a hint of rock just for good measure. It was finger clicking, toe tapping line dancing at its most feelgood, full of verve and vitality. Twain knows how to work her audience and at times seemed to be teasing her fans with full renditions of her songs.

There was a quick run through of 'Life is About to Get Good followed by' another set of yellowing flames that soared into the West End air. Twain then slowed everything down with 'Still the One', a real country and western ballad from the heart before the inevitable 'Man, I Feel Like a Woman', a stirring, outstanding party piece of a number that felt like a personal message from Twain. Shania Twain's backing band of rocking guitars continued to perform in perfect harmony and now the leading lady showed the full range of her whole hearted arrangement of songs. It was Hyde Park disguised as Nashville if only for a while.

It was now that Hyde Park took me back to an almost personal journey back into the late 1970s when Britain was gripped by punk, safety pins through noses and jackets and complete rebellion. The Sex Pistols were breaking all the Establishment rules and Margaret Thatcher became the country's very first female Prime Minister. There was a disturbing edge and anarchy in the air and a feeling that revolutionary tendencies were about to rage out of control. But not quite yet or so it seemed.

I'd just left school in May 1979 and from nowhere a girl named Debbie Harry from the USA, shook her hips, pouted almost relentlessly for the video camera, screwed up her face girlishly and addressed her punk audience in punkish black, a woman with a strong female presence about her. Debbie Harry became Blondie and the world acknowledged a singer of character, drive and the most expressive of faces.

Blondie are still together but for most of the late 1970s and early 80s pumped out that endless supply of social commentaries on life and songs about life. There was Deni, repetitive perhaps but nonetheless very much a dance classic that remained in the charts for a reasonable length of time. It was Blondie's introduction to the whole punk movement of the time. It was upbeat, jovial and very much the band's signature tune at the time.

Now though Blondie has matured even more with age. 'Call Me' , when first released, was punk dynamite, fizzing and popping with driving, pumping energy, pleas for recognition which weren't really necessary because everybody had heard of Blondie. Yesterday Debbie Harry was cool, professional, full of polished stage craft, slick and sultry. The 2017 version of 'Call Me' was much calmer, more measured, still tingling and bristling with a sense of urgency but nonetheless took you back to those first angry blasts of punk. And yet Blondie was different, seeming to buck the trend and always sounding inherently confident about herself.

'Rapture' was brilliantly brought back for the benefit of a 2017, a song of light and shade, greyness and brightness, colour and wit, sharp and spiky lyrics that most of Blondie's fans could still hum along to. Once again there were growling and wailing, thrashing guitars, head throwing and shaking but still that identifiably Blondie number 'Heart of Glass' that took you right back. Dressed in a white zipped leather jacket, Harry eventually revealed black top, fishnet stockings, black skirt and long black boots. This was Blondie at her most daring and outrageous.

Finally Hyde Park held its breath. It was time for the headlining act of the day. It was time to take your seat, wave your lights and phones before becoming deeply excited. Most of us knew who we were about to get. It had been widely advertised and the crowd had been whipped into a fine state of hysteria and frenzy. As mentioned at the beginning of this piece the main act of the day were one of Britain's most recognisable of boy bands.

Just over 25 years ago, four happy-go-lucky lads were assembled for a female generation that could hardly believe their luck. Take That bounced onto the Hyde Park stage with an almost feverish enthusiasm that took your breath away. At the beginning of the 1990s Take That were an almost global pop phenomenon who winged their way around the world in whirlwind fashion, conquering every stadium and arena in the pop community.

Here were Gary Barlow, Jason Orange and Mark Owen but now without Robbie Williams who after a brief reunion, has now decided to pursue a solo career. But now the three even more mature boys from Manchester, did it their way. 'Shine' was pleasing, uplifting, designed for the family and toe tapping, a happy clapping feelgood number that kept most of their incredibly large fanbase entranced. There was something very wholesome, homely and old fashioned about Take That which never really faded with the passage of time.

There was 'The Greatest Day', a magnificent,  song that shook the whole of London to its foundations. It was the one song  that was accompanied by an explosion of confetti, as arms and hands moved almost automatically to the whole tempo of the song. 'Could it Be Magic', had once been effectively sung by the crooning Barry Manilow but Take That had taken the song and given it the most satisfactory treatment, melodic and balladic with a touching sweetness.

And right at the end of the Take That set there was 'Everything Changes' which was essentially Take That, an inspirational song bubbling with life and overflowing with Take That harmonies. We had now reached the conclusion of the Hyde Park BBC Park in the Proms. It was time to put your coat hood up once again and remember that autumn was now in full swing in London. The rain kept stopping and starting and everybody filed out of one of London's finest of all parks in that very orderly fashion that London excels at.

In the middle of Hyde Park girlfriends were dropped from the height of their boyfriends shoulders, inflatable saxophones and guitars just drooped sadly and the whole day had now passed by both happily, humorously and very musically. This was almost the BBC patting itself very heartily on the back, congratulating itself rightly for fulfilling its remit to entertain, turning off the lights and paying tribute to those easy listening singers and bands who'd made the day possible. Music had once proved the most unifying influence. If only Robbie had been there. He'd have enjoyed every single moment of it.

Autumn dawns on another English summer.

Autumn dawns on another English summer.

Autumnal mists are gathering on the moors, hills, valleys and dales, those dramatic mountain ranges, the British coastlines with their crashing, tumbling seas, the foaming waters that rise up and fall in a state of revolt. The seaside resorts are beginning to lose that summery complexion and the daytrippers have been and gone. There is something sad, regretful and woebegone about the British isles. The summer is now part of the rich tapestry of history, another season is upon us and 2017 is slowly declining into grey winter or maybe we'll get another temperately mild winter.

The lights are gradually dimming, the daylight no longer visible at roughly 8.00 in the evening and it's becoming increasingly darker as the family barbecues of June and July have now been consigned to a fond corner of our memories. It is now that we begin to think of rich harvests, the season of mellow mists and fruitfulness and playing with conkers at school if indeed this yearly ritual still takes place.

On the ground the yellowing leaves from once heavily laden green trees are circling around our parks, then doing the paso doble with a certain style and grace. It seems to me that the whole population of the blackbird community have now decided to camp out on the vast acres of grass. They jump and skip playfully from one tree to the next indecisively, large birds with  inquisitive eyes and noses. Much to their horror there is very little on offer this morning so it may be advisable to come back later on this afternoon. You never know.

Meanwhile this morning genuinely feels like the end of the British summer. There are the first tentative showers and then more rain is forecast for later on in the day. This is the normally the time of the year when we all shake our heads despairingly, lament the awful British weather and just gaze out of our windows thoughtfully. Then again maybe it wasn't that bad because there were a couple of days and weeks when it felt like 1976 when that remarkable British heatwave kept going and going and only stopped at the August Bank Holiday with a thunderstorm.

But now it's time to withdraw into our living rooms, huddle around the wintry central heating, pull up our coat collars, wear an extra layer of clothing sometime in October or November and reflect on those ripe red strawberries and cold lagers outside timber beamed pubs. This was  the year it didn't quite work out for Andy Murray at Wimbledon and then a largely victorious English cricket team claimed all of the most positive headlines.  But we'll still salute Andy Murray because he has become the first British player to win the men's singles at Wimbledon since Fred Perry way back when. And that has to be worth a round of applause or several.

Still here we are in Britain and most of us, presumably, are looking forward to Strictly Come Dancing, BBC One's Saturday evening programme that hits our TV screens tomorrow night. This is somehow the dress rehearsal for autumn, a happy harbinger of things to come, men and women in glittery clothes, stamping their feet and swaying their partners across a showbizzy dance floor. It has to be one of the best telly programmes ever to fill our TV screens since the Generation Game.

Initially I found Strictly to be something of a slow burner, one of those programmes that I couldn't quite relate to for no particular reason. But now I've been converted to Strictly if only because it's just fun packed and thoroughly entertaining. We all need a good old fashioned waltz or a riotous bout of disco dancing to illuminate our Saturday evenings. Then we look at those gushing celebrities with their breathlessly twinkling feet and tell ourselves over and over again that life is just brilliant.

Shortly Britain will be converging patriotically on the Royal Albert Hall for the Last night at the Proms and then we'll really know that autumn is here. Here we witness Britain in all her richly jolly and jingoistic pomp, waving Union Jacks heartwarmingly and sentimentally because we've always done it like that. This is followed by that charming moment when the audience bob up and down harmoniously in time to Jerusalem and Land of Hope and Glory. Wherever you look at the Royal Albert Hall, the audience will be richly celebrating English classicism and that can be no bad thing.

We shall look at the fine looking bust of Henry Wood and know that a traditional corner of London is in its element, fully enjoying that British sense of occasion, bursting at the seams with pride and looking forward to the changing seasons. Or maybe not depending on your point of view. So we look at the dripping rain on our window sills, wistfully longing for spring daffodils and then resigned to darkness at 4.00 in the afternoon. If only time could, quite literally, fly. Don't you love the transitional nature of the seasons. Great. Good to be alive.

 Outside though, those trees are still shaking and trembling, moving from side to side like those windscreen wipers on your car. The autumnal winds are blowing with an increasing intensity and there is a slight shiver in the air. There seems to have been a huge invasion of gnats and flies hovering and loitering persistently in the British air or maybe that's just summer for you. We're not sure why there have been so many of them but it's hard to know where they're coming from because there's quite clearly no incentive for them to be there.

Anyway summer is winding down, wending its weary way back into a private corner of autumnal seclusion where nobody can find it. The year is now shutting down and locking its front doors, the last orchestral drum roll at the Last Night at the Proms still in our ears and autumn's grand entrance  not that far away. The children are back at school and  the Jewish New Year(Rosh Hashanah) will be with us in a couple of weeks time. Time for apples and honey, repenting our sins at our leisure and exchanging pleasantries, a time to be at one with the world and cherish those frostily pretty landscapes that autumn always brings us.

Soon the combine harvesters will be busy at work on a hundred English fields and farmers all around the country will be planting, nurturing, caring and loving their very own piece of land. It'll be time for the Harvest Festival. The mind goes back to my primary school when every pupil was required to bring in every conceivable food you can think of.

There were rows of tinned baked beans, loaves of bread and what looked like half of our local supermarket. Next to the school assembly hall a wonderful old piano tinkled its ivories and the pre- lesson assembly would sing the praises of  Kingsmill bread and Heinz Baked Beans. Oh for the wheat and barley, warm tomato soups by that roaring log fire, rubbing our hands together, plucking out neat sweat shirts and pullovers out of our chest of drawers before slumping back in the sofa most contentedly. Anybody for a beef stew. If only autumn could speak. Now that would be fun.  

Hold the back page- John Motson is retiring.

Hold the back page- John Motson is retiring.

Hold the back page everybody. John Motson has announced his retirement. Stop the presses and don't put that paper to bed yet. Today is the saddest, most sorrowful of all days. It marks the defining and definitive end of one of the greatest, finest, most precise of all British football commentators. There will never be another commentator quite like John Motson - or as he was affectionately known 'Motty'.

At the end of this Premier League season, one of the most well informed and knowledgeable of any sports commentators will finally hang up both the celebrated microphone and that wonderfully warming sheepskin coat. It brings down the curtain on one of the most illustrious and pre-eminent careers. The bouquets of praise and flattery have already been richly showered on a man who spans four decades of football from the 1970s all the way to the present day.

Motson was one of the most articulate and thorough of all football commentators and the commentaries have stretched beautifully across the years. The catch phrases have now passed into legend, the reactions to goals almost beguilingly beautiful and the timing just perfect. In all weathers and all football environments 'Motty' was our closest football friend with that almost remarkable archive of statistics, lovingly detailed observations, maybe statements of the obvious but a genuine love of the game mixed in with fastidious attention to detail.

But maybe we should have seen this coming. Motson has covered innumerable FA Cup Finals, countless European matches, many an England match, hundreds of vital old First Division and more recently Premier League games. The man now needs a long and well deserved rest. It's been an exhausting schedule but Motson's tireless energy and well researched footballing commentaries may have reached a logical conclusion.

The year was 1972 and this was the year when John Motson made his humble and modest debut in the Match of the Day commentary box. It was an FA Cup tie between tiny Hereford United and the high flying pace setters of First Division Newcastle. It was, allegedly, a walk in the park, a complete mismatch and a cricket score in the making. Hereford, so the cynics said at the time, should have spent most of that afternoon admiring those agricultural cows and sheep nearby. John Motson must have thought it was his birthday.

What followed dramatically changed the course of Motson's career. A tall, gangling forward named Ronnie Radford picked up the ball just outside the Newcastle penalty area, ran forward purposefully, controlled the ball with an almost supernatural comfort, settled himself to shoot in thick mud and then drove the ball fiercely into the back of Newcastle net, a rocket of a shot that flew past  the visitors keeper high and handsomely. It was the Hereford winner and the whole of the cattle industry applauded their heroes.

Motson's career then soared into orbit with frequent verbal masterpieces on BBC's much acclaimed Match of the Day on a Saturday evening. He became immediately associated with all of those epically dramatic and earthy Saturday matches with that incomparable flair for the right phrase at the right time. The words came thick and fast with admirable emphasis and flourish, the pronouns and adverbs flowing like butter and honeyed relish. The sentences were perfectly judged, measured and the descriptions were like sun dappled meadows, neatly chiselled into life before a warmly appreciative TV audience.

Sadly though this is the final season for 'Motty' and there will not be a dry eye in the house next spring when Motson, emotionally, hangs up the sheepskin and scarf, a misty reminiscence on the tip of his tongue and a treasure trove of great goals, astonishing accuracy, the loveliest turns of phrase and a priceless command of the literary niceties.

Personally this is rather like bidding farewell to a dear friend who always knew the exact time of every goal, the number of goals conceded and scored by every team in the Football League and all the minutiae of the game's inner corridors. Motty knew all of the intricacies of football's oddities, its idiosyncrasies, its occasionally confusing complexity. In a world of multi million pound footballers, the Internet- something he is reported to detest- and jet propelled technological advances, Motson may well be regarded as a breath of fresh air.

He quite clearly shuns the immediacy and ready made accessibility of the social media age for a glorious market research clip board studded with hundreds of Post it yellow notes on team sheets. He studies the history of football with a continuous air of fascination. The hard bitten critics - who perhaps should know better - regard him with all the suspicion you would normally reserve for the serious train spotter. But where would we be without John Motson and his vast book of footballing knowledge.

Long gone are the days when the likes of Raymond Glendenning and Kenneth Wolstenholme, Motson's immediate predecessor, caressed our ears with their well clipped and impeccably polished words of wisdom straight into a huge BBC microphone. In a world of increasingly tangled complications and the most garbled language, Motson was, and still is, a man of deeply refreshing simplicity and integrity. Hold on, he hasn't retired yet so therefore this sentence shouldn't be couched in the historic tense. Sorry Motty. You've got one more football season left.

Having read John Motson's autobiography a couple of years ago and his loyal colleague Barry Davies, I found myself drawn kindly to a man of scholarly erudition, carefully crafted commentaries and occasionally mischievous shafts of humour when a match was shrouded in a ghostly fog. Then there were the boggy allotment sites that were football pitches during the 1970s. There was the seasonal fall of rain and snow when Motson found himself safely wrapped and hooded by the famous sheepskin coat.

Then finally there was the 1998 World Cup Final  between France and Brazil when Motson was confronted with a potential crisis. Minutes before the game Motson had been given the wrong information about one of the players due to take his place. Only John Motson could have brushed aside the dawning sense of urgency with a re- assuring message and then showed the kind of extraordinary composure that only the French would later demonstrate against the one and only Brazil.

So a hearty goodbye John Motson. Nobody did it quite like you and your peers can only salivate at the memories you've undoubtedly left behind you. Now we have the bubbling effervescence of Jonathan Pearce, the equally as capable and reliable Guy Mowbary and the nicely restrained Simon Brotherton for future Match of the Day company. Much to my disappointment Barry Davies has quietly retired from football's almost ridiculously noisy bear pit. But Motty, John Motson who should have been rightly honoured by now, will pour out his insatiable passion for football for one last season. And for that we should always be grateful. Match of the Day will be inestimably poorer without those deeply dulcet tones. One John Motson, there's only one John Motson, one John Motson there's only one John Motson.

Rashford does the trick as England beat Slovakia in World Cup qualifier.

Rashford does the trick as England beat Slovakia in World Cup qualifier.

Any more of this and England's musical football fans will have to sit down in a dark corner, take a deep breath and just count to ten. Of course England beat Slovakia 2-1 in their latest test of World Cup qualifying endurance. But sooner or later somebody will need to issue a government health warning and spell out some home truths. How many more games does it take to remind most English football supporters that watching England is rather like a painful operation. You bite your nails for 90 minutes, look away at those crucial minutes and hope that the anaesthetic works. Sometimes you have to believe that it'll all come right on the night. And yet.

For those who take things too seriously it wouldn't have mattered had England lost to Slovakia at Wembley. It would have been nice to think though that at some point England can just cruise through these qualifying stages of a major international tournament with some degree of effortless ease. At times last night it almost felt as if Slovakia were the home side in an opening half an hour when the visitors looked like world champions and poor England hadn't a clue what day it was let alone what the occasion was about.

It does seem that England have become very blase about these games so much so that it's difficult to know whether they should either approach a match without a care in the world or just press down on the accelerator. For the best part of an hour England reminded you of 11 soldiers in the middle of the desert desperately searching for water. It is hard to know what you're going to get but it's safe to assume that you'll eventually be led down some baffling side turning or cul-de-sac where even the most straightforward task looks far more complicated than it should be.

During those opening stages of the first half your mind took you quite disturbingly back to that night in October 1973 when the whole world expected England to trample all over Poland at Wembley in that gruesome last World Cup qualifier. Nobody quite expected the match that the fans were anticipating. Poland would be punch bags, battering rams, soft targets, ready to be punished, pummelled and battered by an England side including the likes of Mick Channon, Martin Chivers, Tony Currie, Norman Hunter, whose mistake cost England the game and Bobby Moore who seven years earlier had lifted the World Cup for England at Wembley. But it happened.

Anyway the fact is that against Slovakia last night England did their very convincing impersonation of an international team who looked for all the world like a side who had assumed that all they had to do was to turn up last night and just coast to emphatic victory. What happened was not so much a shock to the system more a bolt out of the blue. This was not the match that Gareth Southgate's men had prepared for nor was it one they could have foreseen.

From the very first whistle Slovakia tied England in knots with some of the most breathtaking passing ever seen by a visiting side at Wembley in any tournament. It was hardly Hungary 1953 when the Magical Magyars just played pass the parcel with Billy Wright's England. This was a Slovakia side stamping their authority on the match and unashamedly running rings around England, teasing, taunting, demoralising the home side with a giddy, dizzy fairground carousel of short, sweet passes in an out of England's gasping defence.

Somehow Slovakia began to carve England open with impeccably weighted ground based passing that must have taken the home side by complete surprise. Soon the passes would become more lethal and dangerous with every minute that ticked past. The ball would be moved almost impulsively between whole clusters of blue Slovakian shirts. It wasn't quite a masterclass but it certainly felt like one.

After four minutes, with the match barely out of second gear, Slovakia underlined their unexpected superiority with the opening goal. In a matter of seconds the ball was swiftly transferred through a blur of Slovakian feet before a chipped pass into England's six yard box found Lobotka who beautifully dinked the ball over the helpless England keeper Joe Hart.

Now it was that the whole England side would remind you of a group of fifth formers about to undergo a severe examination. You know the scenario. You're taken into the school hall, told to sit in your seat and then you're given the test papers without a word said. That's how it must have felt for England. This was very serious, vitally important and absolutely essential if you wanted to get on in life. Now boys turn over your paper and you can start when they tell you to.

England though had lost their concentration perhaps distracted by some external noise or maybe the realisation that they had a match on their hands. Slovakia were dancing around England with an almost arrogant indifference that somehow defied belief and explanation. Slowly but surely Slovakia lost their tempo and impetus and England began to claw their way back into the game like stranded men at sea who finally spot a life boat nearby.

With minutes to go Eric Dier, Tottenham's responsible and domineering centre half  popped up from defence for an England corner. Marcus Rashford, surely a star for the future, drilled the corner to the near post and Dier, with the most casual flick of his feet, guided the ball magically past a wrong footed Slovakian keeper. It was the equaliser England were hoping for but not the manner or timing of the goal. The psychological balance had now swung very favourably back to England and just at the right time.

It was half time and time to observe some of Wembley Stadium's more commercially pleasing diversions. Running along the whole perimeter of the stadium, Vauxhall Motors were flashing up their latest and sleekest cars. Here was a flattering homage to the thriving car industry and however hard you tried you couldn't help but notice it. Then Mercurial football boots appeared and disappeared rather like those Piccadilly Circus neon signs that are currently undergoing a major re-fit.

Then finally Wembley Stadium invited you to a complete stadium tour with electronic exhortations asking you very politely whether you'd like to spend a couple of hours in the inner sanctum of Wembley. Here you are taken along presumably, along its impressively built corridors, trophy cabinets, old and new photos of old and new teams, the players while always remembering as  first class refreshments. Not forgetting of course the stadium of course, the hundred or steps leading up to the Royal Box and of course the players dressing rooms.

Meanwhile back in the second half and the natives were still slightly restless. The 68,000 crowd at Wembley had to be at their most patient and tolerant. This was never going to be easy and there was an un uncomfortable  suspicion that maybe England were going to blow it on this night of nights. Not this time they weren't. Poland, 1973 and that ill fated Wembley debacle when Steve Mclaren's England faltered against Croatia, were now historical blips, mere clumsy aberrations, banana skins  where everything slipped and slithered out of control never to be retrieved again.

It was now that a young Manchester United striker Marcus Rashford clearly announced himself on the world footballing stage. Rashford is more or less the successor to Wayne Rooney for England and although Rashford may be at the spring chicken stage in his blossoming career, last night at Wembley he gave a faultless demonstration in the arts and crafts of centre forward play.

Many an English centre forward has had to endure the scrutiny of the public eye. From Steve Bloomer, Len Shackleton and Tom Finney, through to Tommy Lawton, Bob Latchford, Trevor Francis, Kevin Keegan and latterly Rooney the England football team have always yearned for that Sir Geoff Hurst moment when the world seemed to stand still and something historic was in the air.

Here though was Marcus Rashford though, 19, tall, fast, lightning quick over the pitch, running with the ball in much the way that Rooney did and shrugging defenders aside with a total disregard of their presence. Rashford is undoubtedly a player with an exceptional football brain, thinking, planning, hunting, foraging and then sprinting past his last man like an express train. He may be at the very beginning of his career but Rashford seems to have all the natural attributes of the striker's trade. Importantly the questions will increase, the pressure may mount and the expectations will grow rapidly. If England do make the World Cup in Russia next year- which now seems highly likely- then Rashford may find himself surrounded by a microscope.

For now though Rashford it was who stole the headlines for England. From another a quickfire exchange of passes on the half way line between captain Jordan Henderson and the ever influential Dele Alli, Rashford burst on to the final, searching ball before blasting a low shot past the flummoxed Slovakian keeper.  Time to break open the bubbly bottles of champagne.

When England finally decided to make their presence felt you became aware that the players who had been summoned  at Wembley finally felt good about themselves. The aforementioned Dele Alli is gradually coming to terms with an extravagant talent, sneaking off on slippery runs that the Slovakians could never deal with, Henderson the skipper continues to grow in stature and style, Alex Oxlade Chamberlain although nippy and genuinely explosive on and off the ball, does lose the ball in critical areas. Harry Kane up front has the air of a man who wants to score a hat-trick which may be wishful thinking but could only be commended.

So here you are then. England are on the verge of qualifying for another World Cup Finals in Russia next year. We know they can do it because they've done it before. Admittedly this whole ritualistic event is almost amusingly inevitable. You could call England qualification past masters but sadly the obstacles, concerns and anxieties begin to appear as soon as they qualify. Proper tournament football seems to confound England completely.

 There's the sudden stage fright on the big night, the incoherent fluffed lines, the dreadful dress rehearsals and the ultimate failure in the spotlight. Oh to be an England supporter. Still, and for some inexplicable reason, France were held to a goal-less draw with Luxembourg. Mind you for France and Luxembourg read England's defeat to Iceland in Euro 2016. Football seems to have its own ready made script. You could hardly make it up.