Darkness falls across Manor House,
A wintry gloom and darkness has fallen across Manor House and the final day of October draws to a close. The traffic on the road inches slowly and deliberately towards the traffic lights, car headlights blinking sharply in the pronounced amber glow of early evening. Once again winter is ready to creep out stealthily from its very clandestine hiding place. People rush hither and thither along well trodden pavements and the commuters from busy offices wind their weary way home. This is the way it has to be for the next six months or so because summer has packed away its suitcase for another year and it won't be coming back for the foreseeable future. At least until the clocks go forward next spring.
Next door to us the hum of commerce and trade is still murmuring away in quite the most profitable fashion. The hair- dressers are sweeping up the last remnants of ladies flowing locks while the hair dryers are applying the final elegant touches. Magazines are neatly tidied away, cups of tea and coffee now no more than a fond reminder of the day's frenetic activities. There follows the final, topical banter of the day gleefully exchanged with a gossipy turn of phrase or just a happy reminiscence of a summer holiday.
On the corner of our road an attractive looking opticians winds down for another day with all manner of signs promoting the very latest of smart glasses, designed exclusively for men and women alike although strangely children have not been included or maybe I've missed something. The window is almost a huge tribute to the glasses industry with the emphasis firmly on dark framed glasses, reactor light glasses, the very latest developments in contact lens technology with just a respectful nod to sunglasses. You can see why this opticians has attracted so much local interest and popularity.
Then your gaze turns towards the neighbourhood chemists, a haven of therapeutic medicine, bottles of cough mixtures and liquids that never seem to work and whole shelves devoted to healthy diet chocolate biscuits. Among this dizzy cornucopia of bottles there are more bottles of restorative liquids, packets and packets of pills and tablets, everything to fend off those draining winter ailments. Two chairs are reserved for the elderly and pregnant and that has to be comforting.
The main attractions though are the two late night mini supermarkets that seem to sell everything. But what catches my eye are the bags of cat litter and the kitchen brooms that sit snugly outside the late night shop immediately next to us. Ordinarily this wouldn't have made much difference to my day today but I couldn't help but notice the huge quantities of cat litter and kitchen brooms on offer. Inside there are the traditional wines and spirits that used to be available quite visibly near the Ilford home I grew up in.
In fact as I walk into the shop I'm reminded of that magical smell of yeast, hops and barley that constituted the regular supply of pale ale, lager and wine in our local Off Licence- or the Offie as it was affectionately known. And if you didn't know it was an Off Licence you could have sworn it was one of the many pubs in Ilford and Gants Hill. I can still hear see those crates of booze rattling around in joyous togetherness, empty bottles of Watney's pale ale stacked on top of each other, the faint scent of alcohol lingering harmlessly on the nose.
Still I digress. Back in the late night mini supermarket there is a flurry of feet, as early evening shoppers wander in for their early evening investment in lottery tickets, alcohol, cigarettes and, quite possibly, the cat litter and kitchen brooms that they may have forgotten. But these are big bags of cat food and you begin to wonder just how ravenous these cats must be because quite frankly these bags are large enough to feed a whole community of tabbies.
Last but not least there is our local dry cleaners. Now no neighbourhood should ever be without its dry cleaners. Over the years our dry cleaners have changed hands quite frequently and cheerfully without any disturbance to the natural order of things. This new dry cleaning incarnation is an extremely pleasant one, a shop owned by a lovely Indian family and to say it's busy and hectic would be a gross understatement. It is when you step inside that you're introduced to a singularly spectacular world of dry cleaning at its most dramatic.
Recently I've had cause to take in a number of suits, jackets, trousers and dresses and it remains a constant source of amazement. This is no ordinary dry cleaners. Suddenly you are surrounded by massive dry cleaning machines that look like washing machines but quite clearly aren't. The machines spin and swirl around almost gracefully while around the shop members of the family industriously beaver away. forever darting in and out of the shop before heading straight back to their customers serving counter and doing the same thing all day long. Wonderful.
In front of the shop a charming old lady concentrates intently on a well worn sewing machine, silky fabrics chattering away furiously next to the heavy, clumping noise of the dry cleaning machine. Clothes bounce up and down while at the back of the shop an elderly man presses shirts with an enormous iron and affectionate care. Then there are the racks of meticulously cleaned shirts and trousers that are hooked off the rails rather like a fishermen grabs hold of a pike.
But overnight something appeared on our street with an almost surreal unexpectedness. Across the road the advertising board was extolling the virtues of summer holidays and a bloke with a bunch of carrots. Everything was as it should be on the crowded roads and streets of Manor House but across the road from where we live there was something that just seemed to drop down from the sky or just moved in without any planning permission from the local council.
Here was the most peculiar street furniture I've ever seen. It was next to our post box and wasn't really recognisable as anything you would normally expect to see in your local street. It looks like a giant electronic scoreboard but without any text. It's sponsored by BT and, on closer inspection, must be a Power Point for USB memory sticks or maybe a charging point for your Tablet or I- Pad. It was hard to tell. There was something very technologically striking about this new addition to our way of life here in Manor House.
Still it was more than welcome even if some of us haven't a clue why it's there. There were numbers to press and an Audio button which looked as if it was designed to be listened to. For a moment it occurred to me that the new electric car is currently being road tested and this could be the facility for this brand new innovation. I suppose we'll all be told much more about this smart looking gadget - whatever it is? For now the anticipation can almost be felt in the air.
So it is that this night of Halloween brings down the curtain of another October in our lives. The pumpkins will look suitably scary and spooky, the deepening mysteries of the night may well remain a mystery. Out there in the dark night sky, witches will fly across Britain inexplicably and children will knock on our doors desperately searching for sweets. It always seems like magnificent nonsense and nicely precedes the weekend's Guy Fawkes celebrations. Hold on who needs fireworks when you've got a BT Power Point on your doorstep? Manor House is quite definitely the happening place.
Tuesday 31 October 2017
Sunday 29 October 2017
Joshua stops Takam in round 10 of 12 round battle
Joshua stops Takam in brutal round 10 of 12 round heavyweight fight.
This was boxing at its most raw and primitive, a heavyweight title fight that once again produced another authentic British fighter who knows how to punch and won't be stopped until he smashes and batters his opponent into submission. It was the kind of boxing most of us thought we'd never see from a British fighter again and for a brief period of time your mind took you back to those stirring nights in the ring when the likes of Frank Bruno and Lennox Lewis did their utmost to re-invigorate British boxing and restore it to full health.
In front of a feverish 75,000 crowd at Cardiff's Principality Stadium, Anthony Joshua retained his world heavyweight boxing title and for the fight fans who thought they'd seen it all, this was a perfect vindication of Joshua's continued supremacy. Sometimes there are nights in British boxing when it all comes together and last night in the Welsh capital, a man called Joshua sent boxing's most seasoned of observers into wild paroxysms of delight. This was indeed the night of nights.
Joshua it was who finally stopped a French fighter called Carlos Takam, a dogged and gritty opponent who wonderfully refused to give in, a model of stubbornness and grim defiance who just wouldn't go down when commonsense should have told him to do just that- and then stay there. But the longer this remarkable fight went on the more likely it seemed that Takam would still be standing upright in Cardiff at midnight.
When Joshua beat the towering giant that was Klitschko, the experts said that nobody could give Joshua a decent fist fight and that all bets would be off for this clobbering, clubbing prizefight. But this was a fight that gave us an evening of bloodthirsty brutality and sadistic savagery. It was boxing at its most gory, gruelling, vicious and confrontational. You were reminded of some of those tremendously riveting classics, those Las Vegas slugfests involving the genius of Muhammad Ali, the epic endurance shown by George Foreman, Joe Frazier and Ken Norton. Boxing sometimes lifts you off your seat and gets you right there.
From round one both Joshua and Takam huddled down with shoulders like mountain tops and muscles like boulders before jabbing at thin air and then measuring their head shots with all the careful calculation of a world chess champion moving both bishops and pawns to devastating effect. Joshua spent the first couple of rounds sparring cautiously with his opponent, searching for weaknesses in his armour and gaping deficiencies in Takam's masterplan that would eventually be ripped open and found exposed.
The rounds would follow in grisly procession with all the warlike attrition of boxing's finest vintage. Joshua slowly moved his adversary into areas of the ring where the body shots and then the head blows would proves to be at their most effective. This was merciless boxing of almost crushing callousness where both Joshua and Takam made it abundantly clear that pain and suffering would be their ultimate objective.
Most of the bookies had predicted that this fight would quite certainly end before it had even started but they didn't bargain on a brief period of concern in the Joshua corner. In the second round Joshua was cut and the blood poured out of his nose like a raging red river. For a moment it seemed that those in the know would have to revise their forecast and look at the whole of this fight in a totally different perspective. Joshua was rocked back on his otherwise sturdy feet and Cardiff held its breath.
But the rounds continued with both men lurching forward and then firing off a series of increasingly destructive hard hooks that some could even hear in Glamorgan. Joshua rolled forward, digging into his repertoire of heavier and more hurtful punches that almost sent Takam toppling into a crumpled heap. But, to Takam's eternal credit, Joshua had work for the spoils of victory, jabbing, pushing back, grappling, eyeing up a lethal hit that would finish the fight.
Then both men would lock arms, shoving each other relentlessly before threatening to knock their heads into another country. For a minute you were reminded of those British heavyweight heroes from other weights who had done so much to electrify fight fans in Britain. There was the rugged, nuggety Alan Minter, the superb Ken Buchanan and of course our legendary 'Enery Cooper. Henry Cooper was the man who almost turned the whole of the boxing universe upside down when Cassius Clay just collapsed in his corner but then came back to dismantle and dismember Cooper.
And then as the fight began to reach its juddering, stunning climax, there was a lengthy passage of head clashing as both boxers simply went in search of that conclusive knockout blow. This was boxing at its most thudding, muscular and hardest. It was a contest involving two boxing gladiators who simply refused to throw in their respective towels. Joshua battered and bludgeoned while Takam valiantly held his gloves together in an impromptu shield that was about as protective as a tea cosy.
Now Joshua, sensing blood and victory, just went for the jugular and drove Takam into helpless defeat. By the eighth and ninth round Takam was similarly bloodied and heading for what seemed like a personal capitulation. But the man from France kept surging forward and at one point almost invited Joshua to hit home with the most teasing of gestures. But the end was in sight for Takam and he probably knew it.
The Takam eyes were now a mass of cuts, blinding blood turning his face a bright crimson. Sadly, Takam's vision had become cruelly shut and obscured by a combination of more cuts to his face. But his resistance was admirable and even though it seemed only a matter of time before the referee had to call it a day, Takam wouldn't let it go, his spirit undimmed and undaunted by the massive magnitude of his task.
In the 10th round, with doctors by the ringside compassionately dabbing his eyes and seemingly holding up the regulation fingers, Joshua came in for the final, gruesome barrage of booming hooks and upper cuts that left the referee with no alternative but to stop this marvellous fight. By now Takam was simply going through the motions of a man who wanted to carry on but knew in his heart that this would not be the most advisable course of action.
There was a flurry of punches from Joshua and the referee pulled Takam mercifully away from his opponent, waving his hands together and sparing the French fighter greater punishment. Joshua had retained his heavyweight title and Britain celebrated a boxing heavyweight champion before his largely jubilant fans. There should be more nights like this for Britain. We may even get used to that sweet scent of victory when the sweet science of boxing comes calling.
Meanwhile thousands of miles away in a hot and beautiful corner of India, England's Under 17 football team had brought their World Cup back to England. How long has Britain had to wait for these richly salad days in October when the clocks have gone back an hour and the BBC Saturday spectacular of Strictly Come Dancing presents its very own tribute to the horrors of Halloween? Boxing and football have surely never had it so good. This is one sporting weekend when everything in the world seemed right and even Donald Trump seemed to be keeping a low profile. It doesn't get any better.
This was boxing at its most raw and primitive, a heavyweight title fight that once again produced another authentic British fighter who knows how to punch and won't be stopped until he smashes and batters his opponent into submission. It was the kind of boxing most of us thought we'd never see from a British fighter again and for a brief period of time your mind took you back to those stirring nights in the ring when the likes of Frank Bruno and Lennox Lewis did their utmost to re-invigorate British boxing and restore it to full health.
In front of a feverish 75,000 crowd at Cardiff's Principality Stadium, Anthony Joshua retained his world heavyweight boxing title and for the fight fans who thought they'd seen it all, this was a perfect vindication of Joshua's continued supremacy. Sometimes there are nights in British boxing when it all comes together and last night in the Welsh capital, a man called Joshua sent boxing's most seasoned of observers into wild paroxysms of delight. This was indeed the night of nights.
Joshua it was who finally stopped a French fighter called Carlos Takam, a dogged and gritty opponent who wonderfully refused to give in, a model of stubbornness and grim defiance who just wouldn't go down when commonsense should have told him to do just that- and then stay there. But the longer this remarkable fight went on the more likely it seemed that Takam would still be standing upright in Cardiff at midnight.
When Joshua beat the towering giant that was Klitschko, the experts said that nobody could give Joshua a decent fist fight and that all bets would be off for this clobbering, clubbing prizefight. But this was a fight that gave us an evening of bloodthirsty brutality and sadistic savagery. It was boxing at its most gory, gruelling, vicious and confrontational. You were reminded of some of those tremendously riveting classics, those Las Vegas slugfests involving the genius of Muhammad Ali, the epic endurance shown by George Foreman, Joe Frazier and Ken Norton. Boxing sometimes lifts you off your seat and gets you right there.
From round one both Joshua and Takam huddled down with shoulders like mountain tops and muscles like boulders before jabbing at thin air and then measuring their head shots with all the careful calculation of a world chess champion moving both bishops and pawns to devastating effect. Joshua spent the first couple of rounds sparring cautiously with his opponent, searching for weaknesses in his armour and gaping deficiencies in Takam's masterplan that would eventually be ripped open and found exposed.
The rounds would follow in grisly procession with all the warlike attrition of boxing's finest vintage. Joshua slowly moved his adversary into areas of the ring where the body shots and then the head blows would proves to be at their most effective. This was merciless boxing of almost crushing callousness where both Joshua and Takam made it abundantly clear that pain and suffering would be their ultimate objective.
Most of the bookies had predicted that this fight would quite certainly end before it had even started but they didn't bargain on a brief period of concern in the Joshua corner. In the second round Joshua was cut and the blood poured out of his nose like a raging red river. For a moment it seemed that those in the know would have to revise their forecast and look at the whole of this fight in a totally different perspective. Joshua was rocked back on his otherwise sturdy feet and Cardiff held its breath.
But the rounds continued with both men lurching forward and then firing off a series of increasingly destructive hard hooks that some could even hear in Glamorgan. Joshua rolled forward, digging into his repertoire of heavier and more hurtful punches that almost sent Takam toppling into a crumpled heap. But, to Takam's eternal credit, Joshua had work for the spoils of victory, jabbing, pushing back, grappling, eyeing up a lethal hit that would finish the fight.
Then both men would lock arms, shoving each other relentlessly before threatening to knock their heads into another country. For a minute you were reminded of those British heavyweight heroes from other weights who had done so much to electrify fight fans in Britain. There was the rugged, nuggety Alan Minter, the superb Ken Buchanan and of course our legendary 'Enery Cooper. Henry Cooper was the man who almost turned the whole of the boxing universe upside down when Cassius Clay just collapsed in his corner but then came back to dismantle and dismember Cooper.
And then as the fight began to reach its juddering, stunning climax, there was a lengthy passage of head clashing as both boxers simply went in search of that conclusive knockout blow. This was boxing at its most thudding, muscular and hardest. It was a contest involving two boxing gladiators who simply refused to throw in their respective towels. Joshua battered and bludgeoned while Takam valiantly held his gloves together in an impromptu shield that was about as protective as a tea cosy.
Now Joshua, sensing blood and victory, just went for the jugular and drove Takam into helpless defeat. By the eighth and ninth round Takam was similarly bloodied and heading for what seemed like a personal capitulation. But the man from France kept surging forward and at one point almost invited Joshua to hit home with the most teasing of gestures. But the end was in sight for Takam and he probably knew it.
The Takam eyes were now a mass of cuts, blinding blood turning his face a bright crimson. Sadly, Takam's vision had become cruelly shut and obscured by a combination of more cuts to his face. But his resistance was admirable and even though it seemed only a matter of time before the referee had to call it a day, Takam wouldn't let it go, his spirit undimmed and undaunted by the massive magnitude of his task.
In the 10th round, with doctors by the ringside compassionately dabbing his eyes and seemingly holding up the regulation fingers, Joshua came in for the final, gruesome barrage of booming hooks and upper cuts that left the referee with no alternative but to stop this marvellous fight. By now Takam was simply going through the motions of a man who wanted to carry on but knew in his heart that this would not be the most advisable course of action.
There was a flurry of punches from Joshua and the referee pulled Takam mercifully away from his opponent, waving his hands together and sparing the French fighter greater punishment. Joshua had retained his heavyweight title and Britain celebrated a boxing heavyweight champion before his largely jubilant fans. There should be more nights like this for Britain. We may even get used to that sweet scent of victory when the sweet science of boxing comes calling.
Meanwhile thousands of miles away in a hot and beautiful corner of India, England's Under 17 football team had brought their World Cup back to England. How long has Britain had to wait for these richly salad days in October when the clocks have gone back an hour and the BBC Saturday spectacular of Strictly Come Dancing presents its very own tribute to the horrors of Halloween? Boxing and football have surely never had it so good. This is one sporting weekend when everything in the world seemed right and even Donald Trump seemed to be keeping a low profile. It doesn't get any better.
Friday 27 October 2017
Shakespeare - but not Craig, the former Leicester City manager
Shakespeare- but not Craig, the former Leicester City manager.
Football management can, as we all know, be a cruel business. One minute everything is hunky dory and roses around cottages and then it comes back to bite you when you should have known that something was amiss and the results wouldn't come down in your favour. Last week Craig Shakespeare was sacked by Leicester City, somewhat deludedly you felt, by a chairman convinced that the Premier League title could be won every season. This was clearly a case of wishful thinking.
When Claudio Ranieri was given the old heave ho by Leicester last season, some of us thought they had indeed lost the plot. Ranieri, after all, was the man who'd achieved the impossible dream of winning the Premier League title. Then Shakespeare arrived and even the most discerning of Leicester fans thought that Macbeth had paid a visit to the King Power Stadium. It would have been nice to know who were the heroes and villains in this plot. Suffice it to say that no witches spells were cast over the Midlands club and dear old Banquo had nothing to do with Leicester's temporary blip in form.
This seems the perfect opportunity to imagine what the great Bard would have thought of today's Premier League football had he been alive today. For a start the offside rule would have been some garbled language and law that Shakespeare would have found completely incomprehensible. The Arsenal back four of Tony Adams, Steve Bould, Nigel Winterburn and Lee Dixon would probably have driven Shakespeare mad. What was all that histrionic waving and gesturing about when quite obviously all that was needed was a good old fashioned helping of poetic verse? But then Shakespeare never met George Graham and marbled halls would have made an excellent Shakespearean location.
What, for instance, would Shakespeare have made of goal line technology, players surrounding referees when dubious goals are scored, the half time break, those goal posts and crossbars? And there is something about those nets that may have been lost in even the Bard's understanding of sport. Why are there two nets at opposite ends of a football pitch when the whole story could have been summed up much more succinctly with a classic quote and soliloquy or two on stage?
Then you'd have to explain to our great playwright that the only reason a football match lasts for 90 minutes is because an hour and half is long enough to resolve some tribal argument. You suspect that one of Britain's finest of story tellers would simply have been perplexed by all that diving, ducking, tackling and, every so often that wretched gamesmanship on the pitch where players seem to pay a flattering homage to Othello.
Now of course we all know about the FA Cup third round at the beginning of January. Here Shakespeare would have had a field day. The FA Cup third round is an obvious reference to Romeo and Juliet. It could hardly be anything else. The romance and passion is somehow integral to the whole narrative but no football club ever suffered a tragic fate at the end of it all although non League Sutton United did once beat the high flying old First Division side Coventry in 1989. Some dreams do indeed come true.
Suddenly complications would set in. How to explain the meaning of the high pressing game, the tracking back of forwards to defend their goal in a mini crisis, the finer nuances of probing and scheming, hunting in packs, putting the ball into the mixer, the art of the perfectly placed tackle, the stopper or sweeper or the fluid formations and the diamond formations? The Bard, you feel sure, may well have needed time to take in too much information and besides England's greatest of story tellers certainly didn't need any sponsorship or advertising.
Football remains essentially the simple and most easily understood of all sports but the feeling is that the Stratford-on- Avon wordsmith may well have been at a complete loss when wrestling with the mazy complexities of 4-4-2 or 4-3-3, even 5-4-3-2-1 because 4-2-4 didn't make any sense and besides the wing backs weren't supporting the inside rights and outside lefts while those strikers were lying far too deep. Phraseology was always Shakespeare's strongest asset but even the most complicated of words would have needed proper explanation for the great man.
What, you suspect, would Shakespearean have made of all those furious and irate football managers on the touchline constantly punching their fists while jumping up and down like one of those 1970s space hoppers that the kids once so adored. The purists have always regarded football as a logical extension of the theatre anyway. But how would our William have reacted to the likes of Jose Mourinho with those impassioned rants, that moody and morose body language, the barely concealed contempt that the Portugese maestro can hardly hold back?
There was of course Sir Alex Ferguson and this is one subject matter Shakespeare may well have gone into chapter and verse about. For 90 minutes of almost every Manchester United match Ferguson was a one man chewing gum machine, forever rolling gum in his mouth and slowly descending into a world of gnawing anxiety and red faced anger. You suspect that even Shakespeare wouldn't have been able to find an appropriate role for Ferguson in any of his plays. He would undoubtedly have been enormously fascinated by Ferguson's changing expressions and pained facial mannerisms. To be or not to be may well have been the Fergie mantra. How desperately frustrating football could be for Ferguson.
On Wednesday football would have offered more than adequate material for the Bard. Slaven Bilic stood on a Wembley touchline watching his West Ham side sinking lower and lower into a deep, dark pit of hellish agony. For almost the entire first half Bilic once again watched his West Ham team being completely embarrassed by a Tottenham team who had taken Liverpool apart last Sunday. The Carabao Cup may well be backed by a Thai energy drinks company but it was West Ham who looked drained of energy and far more in need of something distinctly stronger.
But then as if Shakespeare had come back to life for just one more time Bilic emerged for the second half visibly more sure of himself and full of the joys of autumn. Suddenly a great literary genius had worked a miracle on the West Ham manager. The slumped shoulders and the bent back were no longer in evidence and Shakespeare had turned Bilic into Puck from A Midnight Summer's Dream. The transformation was now complete and when Angelo Ogbonna scored West Ham's winning third goal against Spurs, Bilic must have felt a kindly tap on his shoulder from many centuries ago. It isn't often that Premier League footballers can find salvation in a writer from Stratford Upon Avon.
So it is that we remember the legend of Shakespeare and take our imagination back to the present day. Football managers and referees would have been a sitting target for the man who so revolutionised the world of English literature. They fold their arms with that very judgmental look on their faces, glaring and sneering their disapproval, always frowning and squinting in the bright autumnal sun light, then letting off steam like the proverbial pressure cooker. If only Shakespeare had met Craig in the middle of a Leicester car park. Richard the Third would have been such an apt title for a play about Leicester managers. Besides this will be Leicester's third manager in just over a year.
Football management can, as we all know, be a cruel business. One minute everything is hunky dory and roses around cottages and then it comes back to bite you when you should have known that something was amiss and the results wouldn't come down in your favour. Last week Craig Shakespeare was sacked by Leicester City, somewhat deludedly you felt, by a chairman convinced that the Premier League title could be won every season. This was clearly a case of wishful thinking.
When Claudio Ranieri was given the old heave ho by Leicester last season, some of us thought they had indeed lost the plot. Ranieri, after all, was the man who'd achieved the impossible dream of winning the Premier League title. Then Shakespeare arrived and even the most discerning of Leicester fans thought that Macbeth had paid a visit to the King Power Stadium. It would have been nice to know who were the heroes and villains in this plot. Suffice it to say that no witches spells were cast over the Midlands club and dear old Banquo had nothing to do with Leicester's temporary blip in form.
This seems the perfect opportunity to imagine what the great Bard would have thought of today's Premier League football had he been alive today. For a start the offside rule would have been some garbled language and law that Shakespeare would have found completely incomprehensible. The Arsenal back four of Tony Adams, Steve Bould, Nigel Winterburn and Lee Dixon would probably have driven Shakespeare mad. What was all that histrionic waving and gesturing about when quite obviously all that was needed was a good old fashioned helping of poetic verse? But then Shakespeare never met George Graham and marbled halls would have made an excellent Shakespearean location.
What, for instance, would Shakespeare have made of goal line technology, players surrounding referees when dubious goals are scored, the half time break, those goal posts and crossbars? And there is something about those nets that may have been lost in even the Bard's understanding of sport. Why are there two nets at opposite ends of a football pitch when the whole story could have been summed up much more succinctly with a classic quote and soliloquy or two on stage?
Then you'd have to explain to our great playwright that the only reason a football match lasts for 90 minutes is because an hour and half is long enough to resolve some tribal argument. You suspect that one of Britain's finest of story tellers would simply have been perplexed by all that diving, ducking, tackling and, every so often that wretched gamesmanship on the pitch where players seem to pay a flattering homage to Othello.
Now of course we all know about the FA Cup third round at the beginning of January. Here Shakespeare would have had a field day. The FA Cup third round is an obvious reference to Romeo and Juliet. It could hardly be anything else. The romance and passion is somehow integral to the whole narrative but no football club ever suffered a tragic fate at the end of it all although non League Sutton United did once beat the high flying old First Division side Coventry in 1989. Some dreams do indeed come true.
Suddenly complications would set in. How to explain the meaning of the high pressing game, the tracking back of forwards to defend their goal in a mini crisis, the finer nuances of probing and scheming, hunting in packs, putting the ball into the mixer, the art of the perfectly placed tackle, the stopper or sweeper or the fluid formations and the diamond formations? The Bard, you feel sure, may well have needed time to take in too much information and besides England's greatest of story tellers certainly didn't need any sponsorship or advertising.
Football remains essentially the simple and most easily understood of all sports but the feeling is that the Stratford-on- Avon wordsmith may well have been at a complete loss when wrestling with the mazy complexities of 4-4-2 or 4-3-3, even 5-4-3-2-1 because 4-2-4 didn't make any sense and besides the wing backs weren't supporting the inside rights and outside lefts while those strikers were lying far too deep. Phraseology was always Shakespeare's strongest asset but even the most complicated of words would have needed proper explanation for the great man.
What, you suspect, would Shakespearean have made of all those furious and irate football managers on the touchline constantly punching their fists while jumping up and down like one of those 1970s space hoppers that the kids once so adored. The purists have always regarded football as a logical extension of the theatre anyway. But how would our William have reacted to the likes of Jose Mourinho with those impassioned rants, that moody and morose body language, the barely concealed contempt that the Portugese maestro can hardly hold back?
There was of course Sir Alex Ferguson and this is one subject matter Shakespeare may well have gone into chapter and verse about. For 90 minutes of almost every Manchester United match Ferguson was a one man chewing gum machine, forever rolling gum in his mouth and slowly descending into a world of gnawing anxiety and red faced anger. You suspect that even Shakespeare wouldn't have been able to find an appropriate role for Ferguson in any of his plays. He would undoubtedly have been enormously fascinated by Ferguson's changing expressions and pained facial mannerisms. To be or not to be may well have been the Fergie mantra. How desperately frustrating football could be for Ferguson.
On Wednesday football would have offered more than adequate material for the Bard. Slaven Bilic stood on a Wembley touchline watching his West Ham side sinking lower and lower into a deep, dark pit of hellish agony. For almost the entire first half Bilic once again watched his West Ham team being completely embarrassed by a Tottenham team who had taken Liverpool apart last Sunday. The Carabao Cup may well be backed by a Thai energy drinks company but it was West Ham who looked drained of energy and far more in need of something distinctly stronger.
But then as if Shakespeare had come back to life for just one more time Bilic emerged for the second half visibly more sure of himself and full of the joys of autumn. Suddenly a great literary genius had worked a miracle on the West Ham manager. The slumped shoulders and the bent back were no longer in evidence and Shakespeare had turned Bilic into Puck from A Midnight Summer's Dream. The transformation was now complete and when Angelo Ogbonna scored West Ham's winning third goal against Spurs, Bilic must have felt a kindly tap on his shoulder from many centuries ago. It isn't often that Premier League footballers can find salvation in a writer from Stratford Upon Avon.
So it is that we remember the legend of Shakespeare and take our imagination back to the present day. Football managers and referees would have been a sitting target for the man who so revolutionised the world of English literature. They fold their arms with that very judgmental look on their faces, glaring and sneering their disapproval, always frowning and squinting in the bright autumnal sun light, then letting off steam like the proverbial pressure cooker. If only Shakespeare had met Craig in the middle of a Leicester car park. Richard the Third would have been such an apt title for a play about Leicester managers. Besides this will be Leicester's third manager in just over a year.
Wednesday 25 October 2017
A glorious halo of summer dawns at Valentines Park.
A glorious halo of summer dawns at Valentines Park.
If you didn't know it was the beginning of autumn you'd have been forgiven for thinking that today felt like a direct throwback to high summer when the sweet crack of cricket ball and tennis ball resounds like a thrilling classical music overture blending seamlessly with the sleepy languor of a July afternoon. But this is the end of October and for whatever reason October did bear an uncanny resemblance to June, July and, quite possibly, August. The seasons have now been plunged into a state of chronic confusion and none of us have got a clue what's happening out in the ether.
This morning Britain awoke to the gentle rhythms of whispering breezes, warm fronts from what seemed like the Mediterranean and the suggestion of a mini heatwave. For a moment this morning my mind briefly took me back to that brilliant heatwave summer of 1976 which, having taken up residence in Britain back in early May of that year, never looked like departing our shores until the August Bank Holiday of 1976. Then thunder, lightning and rivers of rain swept dramatically across the South Downs, the Pennines, the Lake District and right up into the Scottish highlands where even the most intrepid walker had to put up their umbrella.
At Valentines Park in the town where yours truly grew up, all was stillness, quiet, silence and solitude. The swings and roundabouts were beginning to click into first gear, the kids are now on their half term holiday and the schools are taking their brief educational break. On the ground the distinctive snap and crackle sounds made by weatherbeaten leaves are punctuated by the distant sound of an Ilford train grinding to a standstill. But there's something missing here. What Ilford seems to be missing is continuity, familiarity and general normality.
You see the point is that we are now deep into the depths of late autumn and winter is beckoning with its subtle hints, its aching cries and dark moods. But not yet. Well, not quite anyway. Nobody gave these last days of October any semblance of warning, no premonition that summer hadn't quite finished and that there was a final, stirring flourish that none of us would ever forget. I can remember no time, certainly in October, when T-shirts and shorts would be the sartorial order of the day. In fact I could swear I saw totally inappropriate bottles of sun factor lotion standing idly on the fields of Valentines Park.
Here in beautifully bucolic Ilford, the blackbirds and crows are multiplying by the day, the twigs and branches chasing each other frantically into blustery corners of the park. This should be the grumpiest and most cantankerous time of the year. We should all be cowering and hiding in the domestic and cosy comforts of our snug living rooms, curtains and blinds securely protecting us from those noisy turbulences of louder winds and imminent winter storms. And yet this is quite the strangest of October evenings.
There are none of those sinister howls and whistles that normally provide this time of the year with its most definitive soundtrack. Instead this morning you were tempted to fling off your inhibitions, sprint down to the coast and hit the seaside with an overwhelming relish. Sadly it wasn't quite warm enough to bask in the sweltering glow of a gloriously hot summer's day. What became obvious though is that at no point that did it ever feel genuinely summery because there were no bare chests, suntans, swimming trunks and men wearing knotted handkerchiefs in their hair.
Over the years Valentines Park has retained its character and hasn't changed at all or certainly not noticeably so. Admittedly, outside the cafe there is something very striking that I hadn't really noticed before. There are large black sign posts indicating where you should be going should you get completely lost. Now for those who regard this as ever so slightly patronising to those who know exactly where they're going then maybe you're right. One of the directions tells you where the crown bowling greens are, another where the tennis courts can be located and if you've totally lost your bearings then you could always ask the park rangers who never seem to be there when you need them.
When I was a teenager Valentines Park was a hive of activity. Now the pace is much slower and there is a more measured restraint about the park that may still be there but I couldn't feel. Now there is an exercise park with the full complement of much smaller running machines, bikes that I had to admit were disappointingly slow and ineffectual and things that were supposed to pull and stretch your muscles that simply didn't live up to anybody's expectations. They seemed to be designed for those who simply want to do nothing but let off some steam. Not too demanding but fun all the same.
Then there were the tennis courts. Now here we have the most extraordinary of experiences. Valentines Park has potentially the finest and most well appointed of tennis courts. But here's the grievance which I'm loathe to tell you about but it has to be said. These tennis courts are superb theatres of fun and healthy exercise. But when will somebody tell them that some of the surfaces are just appalling? The courts are peppered with large faultlines and embarrassing cracks. In fact it has to be said that, quite honestly, most of the courts are cracked, withering away and in desperate need of a radical overhaul.
But maybe nobody cares or seems unduly concerned which I think is hilarious. The long standing joke of course is that nobody uses the tennis courts anyway apart from Wimbledon fortnight. It is at this point that the courts become conveniently busy and packed at times. Suddenly the whole community suddenly digs out its well strung set of rackets from their cupboards and hurls itself into an epic sequence of pulsating rallies, running forehand returns from the most impossible angles and then those rocket 120mph serves that come hurtling down the centre at blistering speed.
Regrettably though they discover, much to their horror, that time has never been a great healer to these poorly tennis courts. For years and years the deterioration in quality may have been too much to bear without ever being addressed. Unfortunately the tennis nets are not in the rudest of health and there is a sagging, drooping appearance about them that is so sad and forlorn looking that perhaps there seems no point in repairing the damage anyway.
By mid-day autumn still has an identity, the customers at the gorgeous Valentines Park Mansion are enjoying their cream teas, sandwiches and their delicious selection of scones, jam and cream and for all I know there was a barbecue and a liberal sprinkling of Pimms. There are always an abundance of large and small dogs although our bigger canine friends seem to outnumber their smaller acquaintances. The pale. pallid looking leaves are the only indication that the seasons aren't teasing us. A swirl and flutter there and the winds strike up the band, strengthening and whipping up into a frenzied dance.
Now here we are on a late October evening and, after a tragic series of global hurricanes and earthquakes it is hard to escape the feeling that maybe Britain should thank its lucky stars. Today provided Britain with a welcome reminder that sometimes it does gets its own weather forecast dreadfully wrong. At this rate we may well be preparing for a vast outpouring of picnics in the park over the weekend, hugely populated swimming lidos and splashing about in fountains. Oh and we mustn't forget about hose pipe bans, train carriages that feel like saunas and excessive drinking of water because it's too hot. Summer, it seemed had popped in for a quick re-visit. It was so good to see you. Please come back next year.
By next week though it does seem inevitable that winter will come knocking on our doors with a vehement crash, bang and wallop. We'll be staring up at those steel grey skies, pulling up our coat collars in unison and then struggling with yet another collection of umbrellas. We;ll be sneezing incessantly, coughing and hacking, fretting and frowning, wishing somehow that winter would just go away.
So it is that Britain gets ready for another edition of the winter blues where everything outside sways about wildly and furiously, joggers pitifully wiping the sweat and rain from their eyes, traffic lights blinking in the misty murk and a disciplined procession of car windscreen wipers swinging whimsically from side to side as the rain gets heavier and heavier.
Today may have felt like the most false of dawns but surely this late Indian summer day will be no more than some bizarre, unseasonal day of the year when nothing seemed the way it should. Soon the winter pullovers will be unfurled, icy blasts will be cutting deeply into the hardy souls of the British psyche and it'll be raining, snowing and drizzling at exactly the same time. Then we'll let out another one of those long, frustrated bouts of sighing, cursing that wretched British climate and then criticising the rubbish on the TV. Sometimes October has much to commend it. Oh for the days of wine, roses and astonishing, sun-kissed days in October. We adore the English weather.
If you didn't know it was the beginning of autumn you'd have been forgiven for thinking that today felt like a direct throwback to high summer when the sweet crack of cricket ball and tennis ball resounds like a thrilling classical music overture blending seamlessly with the sleepy languor of a July afternoon. But this is the end of October and for whatever reason October did bear an uncanny resemblance to June, July and, quite possibly, August. The seasons have now been plunged into a state of chronic confusion and none of us have got a clue what's happening out in the ether.
This morning Britain awoke to the gentle rhythms of whispering breezes, warm fronts from what seemed like the Mediterranean and the suggestion of a mini heatwave. For a moment this morning my mind briefly took me back to that brilliant heatwave summer of 1976 which, having taken up residence in Britain back in early May of that year, never looked like departing our shores until the August Bank Holiday of 1976. Then thunder, lightning and rivers of rain swept dramatically across the South Downs, the Pennines, the Lake District and right up into the Scottish highlands where even the most intrepid walker had to put up their umbrella.
At Valentines Park in the town where yours truly grew up, all was stillness, quiet, silence and solitude. The swings and roundabouts were beginning to click into first gear, the kids are now on their half term holiday and the schools are taking their brief educational break. On the ground the distinctive snap and crackle sounds made by weatherbeaten leaves are punctuated by the distant sound of an Ilford train grinding to a standstill. But there's something missing here. What Ilford seems to be missing is continuity, familiarity and general normality.
You see the point is that we are now deep into the depths of late autumn and winter is beckoning with its subtle hints, its aching cries and dark moods. But not yet. Well, not quite anyway. Nobody gave these last days of October any semblance of warning, no premonition that summer hadn't quite finished and that there was a final, stirring flourish that none of us would ever forget. I can remember no time, certainly in October, when T-shirts and shorts would be the sartorial order of the day. In fact I could swear I saw totally inappropriate bottles of sun factor lotion standing idly on the fields of Valentines Park.
Here in beautifully bucolic Ilford, the blackbirds and crows are multiplying by the day, the twigs and branches chasing each other frantically into blustery corners of the park. This should be the grumpiest and most cantankerous time of the year. We should all be cowering and hiding in the domestic and cosy comforts of our snug living rooms, curtains and blinds securely protecting us from those noisy turbulences of louder winds and imminent winter storms. And yet this is quite the strangest of October evenings.
There are none of those sinister howls and whistles that normally provide this time of the year with its most definitive soundtrack. Instead this morning you were tempted to fling off your inhibitions, sprint down to the coast and hit the seaside with an overwhelming relish. Sadly it wasn't quite warm enough to bask in the sweltering glow of a gloriously hot summer's day. What became obvious though is that at no point that did it ever feel genuinely summery because there were no bare chests, suntans, swimming trunks and men wearing knotted handkerchiefs in their hair.
Over the years Valentines Park has retained its character and hasn't changed at all or certainly not noticeably so. Admittedly, outside the cafe there is something very striking that I hadn't really noticed before. There are large black sign posts indicating where you should be going should you get completely lost. Now for those who regard this as ever so slightly patronising to those who know exactly where they're going then maybe you're right. One of the directions tells you where the crown bowling greens are, another where the tennis courts can be located and if you've totally lost your bearings then you could always ask the park rangers who never seem to be there when you need them.
When I was a teenager Valentines Park was a hive of activity. Now the pace is much slower and there is a more measured restraint about the park that may still be there but I couldn't feel. Now there is an exercise park with the full complement of much smaller running machines, bikes that I had to admit were disappointingly slow and ineffectual and things that were supposed to pull and stretch your muscles that simply didn't live up to anybody's expectations. They seemed to be designed for those who simply want to do nothing but let off some steam. Not too demanding but fun all the same.
Then there were the tennis courts. Now here we have the most extraordinary of experiences. Valentines Park has potentially the finest and most well appointed of tennis courts. But here's the grievance which I'm loathe to tell you about but it has to be said. These tennis courts are superb theatres of fun and healthy exercise. But when will somebody tell them that some of the surfaces are just appalling? The courts are peppered with large faultlines and embarrassing cracks. In fact it has to be said that, quite honestly, most of the courts are cracked, withering away and in desperate need of a radical overhaul.
But maybe nobody cares or seems unduly concerned which I think is hilarious. The long standing joke of course is that nobody uses the tennis courts anyway apart from Wimbledon fortnight. It is at this point that the courts become conveniently busy and packed at times. Suddenly the whole community suddenly digs out its well strung set of rackets from their cupboards and hurls itself into an epic sequence of pulsating rallies, running forehand returns from the most impossible angles and then those rocket 120mph serves that come hurtling down the centre at blistering speed.
Regrettably though they discover, much to their horror, that time has never been a great healer to these poorly tennis courts. For years and years the deterioration in quality may have been too much to bear without ever being addressed. Unfortunately the tennis nets are not in the rudest of health and there is a sagging, drooping appearance about them that is so sad and forlorn looking that perhaps there seems no point in repairing the damage anyway.
By mid-day autumn still has an identity, the customers at the gorgeous Valentines Park Mansion are enjoying their cream teas, sandwiches and their delicious selection of scones, jam and cream and for all I know there was a barbecue and a liberal sprinkling of Pimms. There are always an abundance of large and small dogs although our bigger canine friends seem to outnumber their smaller acquaintances. The pale. pallid looking leaves are the only indication that the seasons aren't teasing us. A swirl and flutter there and the winds strike up the band, strengthening and whipping up into a frenzied dance.
Now here we are on a late October evening and, after a tragic series of global hurricanes and earthquakes it is hard to escape the feeling that maybe Britain should thank its lucky stars. Today provided Britain with a welcome reminder that sometimes it does gets its own weather forecast dreadfully wrong. At this rate we may well be preparing for a vast outpouring of picnics in the park over the weekend, hugely populated swimming lidos and splashing about in fountains. Oh and we mustn't forget about hose pipe bans, train carriages that feel like saunas and excessive drinking of water because it's too hot. Summer, it seemed had popped in for a quick re-visit. It was so good to see you. Please come back next year.
By next week though it does seem inevitable that winter will come knocking on our doors with a vehement crash, bang and wallop. We'll be staring up at those steel grey skies, pulling up our coat collars in unison and then struggling with yet another collection of umbrellas. We;ll be sneezing incessantly, coughing and hacking, fretting and frowning, wishing somehow that winter would just go away.
So it is that Britain gets ready for another edition of the winter blues where everything outside sways about wildly and furiously, joggers pitifully wiping the sweat and rain from their eyes, traffic lights blinking in the misty murk and a disciplined procession of car windscreen wipers swinging whimsically from side to side as the rain gets heavier and heavier.
Today may have felt like the most false of dawns but surely this late Indian summer day will be no more than some bizarre, unseasonal day of the year when nothing seemed the way it should. Soon the winter pullovers will be unfurled, icy blasts will be cutting deeply into the hardy souls of the British psyche and it'll be raining, snowing and drizzling at exactly the same time. Then we'll let out another one of those long, frustrated bouts of sighing, cursing that wretched British climate and then criticising the rubbish on the TV. Sometimes October has much to commend it. Oh for the days of wine, roses and astonishing, sun-kissed days in October. We adore the English weather.
Sunday 22 October 2017
Gunners blow away Everton.
Gunners blow away Everton.
The daggers are out at Goodison Park. The knives have been sharpened and the fans are understandably restless. Now an Everton decline looks to be much steeper than any had thought possible before the beginning of the Premier League season. There is a definite air of hostility at good old Goodison and those far distant days of Colin Harvey, Alan Ball and Howard Kendall must be rather like crackling old footage of a once great Hollywood era. The reality is though that Everton have now dropped into the Premier League relegation zone although worryingly for Everton this is not the first time this has happened.
After a multi million pound expenditure on new players, Everton boss Ronald Koeman, who once knocked England out of a crucial World Cup qualifier in 1993, must have wished that he'd have been able to rely on as accommodating a defence as England offered that night. The truth is though that Everton now look like an ageing gnarled tree, a knotted and twisted mass of sloppiness and slovenliness. Harry Catterick would have hidden his face away shamefacedly in the hope that nobody could see him.
Sadly Koeman was burdened with an Everton team torn to shreds by an Arsenal side of such overwhelming brilliance and virtuosity that even Everton chairman Bill Kenwright had to grudgingly applaud through gritted teeth. Life was never like this for Kenwright in Coronation Street. Mind you he probably didn't have to face the likes of Hilda Ogden or Ken Barlow at Goodison. One soap opera is more than enough to prey on Kenwright's troubled mind.
Arsenal gorged on a five goal feast at Goodison and even Wayne Rooney's opening goal against Arsenal which mirrored his remarkable goal on his teenage debut seemed redundant as the goal he scored almost 15 years later was no more than a token consolation against a much more lenient Everton defence. Rooney shortly vanished from areas of the pitch he may well have taken full advantage of in his Everton youth. This time it was Arsenal who seemed to take the Mickey out of Everton's once prodigal son.
Now in this Sunday goal- scoring blizzard of goals a much more lethal Arsenal devoured Everton with all the hungry rapacity of a team whose dazzling variety of passing left the neutrals gasping for superlatives. It was short, short, short, quick, quick, quick, the ball speeding from one Arsenal foot to another with a beguiling artistry and freedom. Arsenal were once again treating the ball with all the care and benevolence that a mother affords her young child.
From the very start Arsenal announced themselves as prominent contenders for the Premier League title. This was much more like the Arsenal side who once swept all comers side almost arrogantly away from their Emirates Stadium. They flicked and tapped the ball between themselves as if Everton were just a creaky blue fence about to be blown down by an autumnal wind. There was an animal magnetism about their passing that must have rankled with all the Goodison grumblers. Even the ever present church overlooking Goodison looked suitably sombre. The local parishioners will attend their Sunday mass with faces like thunder.
Once Mezut Ozil, Aaron Ramsey, Granit Xhaka with the capable co-operation of Nacho Monreal darting forward with tireless overlaps from his defensive role, Arsenal purred and flowed across these once unforgettable 1966 World Cup acres with all the mastery and sophistication that we've come to expect from a side built by Arsene Wenger. There is a classical poise and precision about Arsenal's football that perhaps their most critical fans must have thought they'd completely forgotten about.
When Nacho Monreal equalised for Arsenal after a Xhaka shot had kindly rebounded to him with the firmest shot, Arsenal's football rippled and glistened across Goodison. It was the kind of football that used to distinguish Everton's neighbours Liverpool during the hazy days of the 1970s and 80s. There was a bewitching speed and accuracy about their passing that almost bordered on the gold standard. The passes and angles were an almost object lesson to the rest of the Premier League season in how to both pass and move simultaneously without pausing for breath. It was indeed breathless at times.
In the second half Arsenal once again picked up the baton and once again the ball seemed to ping and whizz like the proverbial silver ball on a pinball machine. Every time Arsenal surged forward, a huge sigh could be heard across most of Merseyside. Mezut Ozil headed home Arsenal's second following another perfectly weighted Sanchez cross and once again looked the player who had once given such radiant promise last season. He continues though to look like a bear with a sore and very irascible head and the moping self pity at times must be infuriating for the Emirates faithful. Still the German midfielder showed himself off to flattering effect and frequently dictated the tempo of the game in central areas of the pitch.
When Alexandra Lacazette simply took any remaining sting with Arsenal's third goal after yet more jiggery pokery down the flanks, Arsenal had entered another realm of superiority. The game had now become a simple formality for Arsenal and finally Arsene Wenger could unzip his grey track suit with complete impunity. The good times were now rolling for the black shirted men from the Emirates. How dark can the soul of the game be for an Everton side who are not only struggling but are also completely devoid of attacking ideas.
Then the increasingly impressive Aaron Ramsey added salt to Everton's festering wounds with a superbly taken fourth for Arsenal following hard on some more devious scheming from the men in black with pink sponsors on their shirts. It had to be seen to be believed. The Highbury traditionalists would have been speechless. Football has become more daring and garish than ever before but an Arsenal side in black felt like the deepest insult to the club's history. There were players wearing boots that must have followed Judy Garland on the Yellow Brick Road when the Wizard of Oz turned technicolour.
By now the howling and raging hordes on the vast Goodison terraces were beginning to bay for blood but totally unaware of how to solve a problem like Ronald Koeman. Some were even harking back wistfully to the days when Howard Kendall sprinkled the Midas touch over all Evertonians. Oh for the old First Division League championship when everything seemed perfectly right. Kevin Sheedy, Trevor Steven and Paul Bracewell combined to give the Everton supporters some of their finest hours of their footballing lives. How different and happier were times for the blue side of Merseyside.
Right at the end Arsenal did have one of their more embarrassing moments when Niiasse nipped in to poke home what amounted to nothing more than just a second goal for Everton after Arsenal keeper Petr Cech decided to have a rush of blood to his head. It was hard to know what Cech was both thinking about and doing but it was by some distance one of the game's funniest moments.
Arsenal though were far from finished and it almost felt that the convincing margin of their victory had not been sufficient. The now fit and influential Jack Wilshere had now come on for the game's flickering embers. It was a Wilshere and Sanchez collaboration which now carved open a non existent Everton defence. Now Sanchez gave us another tantalising glimpse of his genius as the Chilean glided across a static Everton defence and drove the ball handsomely wide of a now inconsolable Everton keeper Jordan Pickford. A fifth goal for Arsenal was now no more than they deserved because this was the Arsenal at their very best.
In much the way that West Ham's supporters had shown how they felt against Brighton on Friday, the supporters streamed for the exits looking like men who could hardly wait to down their first pint. We have now discovered that Everton's legendary neighbours Liverpool had also been demolished by Arsenal's neighbours Spurs at Wembley. There is something geographically intriguing about football that is simply without equal. North London 2 Merseyside 0. The script writers would have been lost for words.
The daggers are out at Goodison Park. The knives have been sharpened and the fans are understandably restless. Now an Everton decline looks to be much steeper than any had thought possible before the beginning of the Premier League season. There is a definite air of hostility at good old Goodison and those far distant days of Colin Harvey, Alan Ball and Howard Kendall must be rather like crackling old footage of a once great Hollywood era. The reality is though that Everton have now dropped into the Premier League relegation zone although worryingly for Everton this is not the first time this has happened.
After a multi million pound expenditure on new players, Everton boss Ronald Koeman, who once knocked England out of a crucial World Cup qualifier in 1993, must have wished that he'd have been able to rely on as accommodating a defence as England offered that night. The truth is though that Everton now look like an ageing gnarled tree, a knotted and twisted mass of sloppiness and slovenliness. Harry Catterick would have hidden his face away shamefacedly in the hope that nobody could see him.
Sadly Koeman was burdened with an Everton team torn to shreds by an Arsenal side of such overwhelming brilliance and virtuosity that even Everton chairman Bill Kenwright had to grudgingly applaud through gritted teeth. Life was never like this for Kenwright in Coronation Street. Mind you he probably didn't have to face the likes of Hilda Ogden or Ken Barlow at Goodison. One soap opera is more than enough to prey on Kenwright's troubled mind.
Arsenal gorged on a five goal feast at Goodison and even Wayne Rooney's opening goal against Arsenal which mirrored his remarkable goal on his teenage debut seemed redundant as the goal he scored almost 15 years later was no more than a token consolation against a much more lenient Everton defence. Rooney shortly vanished from areas of the pitch he may well have taken full advantage of in his Everton youth. This time it was Arsenal who seemed to take the Mickey out of Everton's once prodigal son.
Now in this Sunday goal- scoring blizzard of goals a much more lethal Arsenal devoured Everton with all the hungry rapacity of a team whose dazzling variety of passing left the neutrals gasping for superlatives. It was short, short, short, quick, quick, quick, the ball speeding from one Arsenal foot to another with a beguiling artistry and freedom. Arsenal were once again treating the ball with all the care and benevolence that a mother affords her young child.
From the very start Arsenal announced themselves as prominent contenders for the Premier League title. This was much more like the Arsenal side who once swept all comers side almost arrogantly away from their Emirates Stadium. They flicked and tapped the ball between themselves as if Everton were just a creaky blue fence about to be blown down by an autumnal wind. There was an animal magnetism about their passing that must have rankled with all the Goodison grumblers. Even the ever present church overlooking Goodison looked suitably sombre. The local parishioners will attend their Sunday mass with faces like thunder.
Once Mezut Ozil, Aaron Ramsey, Granit Xhaka with the capable co-operation of Nacho Monreal darting forward with tireless overlaps from his defensive role, Arsenal purred and flowed across these once unforgettable 1966 World Cup acres with all the mastery and sophistication that we've come to expect from a side built by Arsene Wenger. There is a classical poise and precision about Arsenal's football that perhaps their most critical fans must have thought they'd completely forgotten about.
When Nacho Monreal equalised for Arsenal after a Xhaka shot had kindly rebounded to him with the firmest shot, Arsenal's football rippled and glistened across Goodison. It was the kind of football that used to distinguish Everton's neighbours Liverpool during the hazy days of the 1970s and 80s. There was a bewitching speed and accuracy about their passing that almost bordered on the gold standard. The passes and angles were an almost object lesson to the rest of the Premier League season in how to both pass and move simultaneously without pausing for breath. It was indeed breathless at times.
In the second half Arsenal once again picked up the baton and once again the ball seemed to ping and whizz like the proverbial silver ball on a pinball machine. Every time Arsenal surged forward, a huge sigh could be heard across most of Merseyside. Mezut Ozil headed home Arsenal's second following another perfectly weighted Sanchez cross and once again looked the player who had once given such radiant promise last season. He continues though to look like a bear with a sore and very irascible head and the moping self pity at times must be infuriating for the Emirates faithful. Still the German midfielder showed himself off to flattering effect and frequently dictated the tempo of the game in central areas of the pitch.
When Alexandra Lacazette simply took any remaining sting with Arsenal's third goal after yet more jiggery pokery down the flanks, Arsenal had entered another realm of superiority. The game had now become a simple formality for Arsenal and finally Arsene Wenger could unzip his grey track suit with complete impunity. The good times were now rolling for the black shirted men from the Emirates. How dark can the soul of the game be for an Everton side who are not only struggling but are also completely devoid of attacking ideas.
Then the increasingly impressive Aaron Ramsey added salt to Everton's festering wounds with a superbly taken fourth for Arsenal following hard on some more devious scheming from the men in black with pink sponsors on their shirts. It had to be seen to be believed. The Highbury traditionalists would have been speechless. Football has become more daring and garish than ever before but an Arsenal side in black felt like the deepest insult to the club's history. There were players wearing boots that must have followed Judy Garland on the Yellow Brick Road when the Wizard of Oz turned technicolour.
By now the howling and raging hordes on the vast Goodison terraces were beginning to bay for blood but totally unaware of how to solve a problem like Ronald Koeman. Some were even harking back wistfully to the days when Howard Kendall sprinkled the Midas touch over all Evertonians. Oh for the old First Division League championship when everything seemed perfectly right. Kevin Sheedy, Trevor Steven and Paul Bracewell combined to give the Everton supporters some of their finest hours of their footballing lives. How different and happier were times for the blue side of Merseyside.
Right at the end Arsenal did have one of their more embarrassing moments when Niiasse nipped in to poke home what amounted to nothing more than just a second goal for Everton after Arsenal keeper Petr Cech decided to have a rush of blood to his head. It was hard to know what Cech was both thinking about and doing but it was by some distance one of the game's funniest moments.
Arsenal though were far from finished and it almost felt that the convincing margin of their victory had not been sufficient. The now fit and influential Jack Wilshere had now come on for the game's flickering embers. It was a Wilshere and Sanchez collaboration which now carved open a non existent Everton defence. Now Sanchez gave us another tantalising glimpse of his genius as the Chilean glided across a static Everton defence and drove the ball handsomely wide of a now inconsolable Everton keeper Jordan Pickford. A fifth goal for Arsenal was now no more than they deserved because this was the Arsenal at their very best.
In much the way that West Ham's supporters had shown how they felt against Brighton on Friday, the supporters streamed for the exits looking like men who could hardly wait to down their first pint. We have now discovered that Everton's legendary neighbours Liverpool had also been demolished by Arsenal's neighbours Spurs at Wembley. There is something geographically intriguing about football that is simply without equal. North London 2 Merseyside 0. The script writers would have been lost for words.
Saturday 21 October 2017
Hammers founder on Brighton Rock
Hammers founder on Brighton Rock.
This is neither the time or place for gallows humour nor should there be any talk of guillotines or public execution. West Ham manager Slaven Bilic has got enough on his plate as it is and certainly doesn't need to be reminded of what happened last night at the London Stadium.
There are moments in football when you simply look around you and find that everything is bleak, dark and pessimistic. No matter how hard you try the scenery around you is dull and grey. You wait for one home defeat to happen and then, shortly afterwards, another one comes up when least expected. Once the anger had subsided inside the London Stadium and the dust settled West Ham's glum and disenchanted supporters simply drifted back to Stratford station, walked past the Westfield Shopping Centre and must have contemplated a drop of alcohol to drown their sorrows.
After an excellent draw at Burnley last week and a painful 1-0 victory against Swansea at the London Stadium before the international break, West Ham must have thought their fortunes were about to turn for the better. Instead they slid helplessly into the murkiest of waters only to find that there were no lifeguards around to help them out of their predicament. Nobody knew how to console them because consolation seemed to be thin on the ground.
Last night's horror show against newly promoted Brighton was so appallingly lifeless that by the end of the game, you began to wonder whether any of the obvious excuses would be both plausible and acceptable. West Ham have now had a whole season at their London Stadium home to settle down in and meet the new neighbours and not for the first time the front door was locked, the key had been mislaid and West Ham looked generally disoriented.
In the end West Ham were conclusively beaten and crushed into the ground. Brighton's 3-0 victory was so outright and emphatic that the claret and blue faithful in the 56,000 plus crowd were probably longing for the miserable train home. This is now West Ham's second home defeat of the season and although they may well have considered themselves a tad unlucky against Spurs even damage limitation couldn't come to their rescue against Brighton. The wins against Huddersfield and Swansea at the London Stadium must seem like a classic case of straw clutching. Both games were far from pretty ornaments and West Ham still look a shell shocked team who are neither here nor there.
For much of last night's game against Brighton West Ham looked like sitting tenants in a home that strictly wasn't theirs. During the rockiest of opening exchanges West Ham did admittedly move the ball around with the sweetest of touches but Real Madrid or Barcelona they were not and after half an hour there was a frightening lack of fluency and attacking co-ordination about their football. The ball would be shifted tentatively around like a group of bomb disposal experts nervously defusing a Second World War grenade. They fumbled and stumbled around as if a major power cut had reduced them to candles.
Brighton, to their eternal credit, came to the London Stadium with a well constructed masterplan and carried it out to perfection. The Seagulls have been flying at a reasonable height in their first season back in football's top flight since 1983. The horrible memory of Gordon Smith missing an open goal in that year's FA Cup Final with Manchester United against goalkeeper Gary Bailey must still hang heavy on the minds of all Brighton fans but now the Premier League has given those same fans much to cheer and enthrall.
A number of decades ago Brighton were still languishing in no man's land and were very much caught between a rock and a hard place. The Goldstone Ground had now become enshrined in the club's history books never to re-surface and Brighton slouched around despondently desperately searching for a new home and seemingly trapped at the Withdean Stadium. Needless to say this did nothing to alleviate the blues - or maybe that should be the blue and white stripes.
Still time is a great healer and now under the intelligent guidance of manager Chris Houghton Brighton are no longer Graham Greene's favourite seaside resort. West Ham began like first time swimmers treading water, confidently passing the ball for a quite a while but doing little to suggest that a goal would be forthcoming shortly. It was the same old story and Brighton seemed to sense rich pickings. You began to yearn for the intimacy of Upton Park and the electricity generated during a mid week game in the old First Division. Under such circumstances it was hard to think Brighton would have had everything their own way last night.
But sour grapes for West Ham supporters are more like badly made scrambled eggs and the home side, for roughly the first 25 minutes, had almost lost the game before they'd had to time to acclimatise to their London Stadium surroundings. And then the ground quite literally, seemed to open up for West Ham. After a brief period of ball possession, the wheels came off the claret and blue bandwagon and Brighton helped themselves to a large portion of attacking space on lightning quick counter attacks.
A couple of minutes into the game, West Ham conceded a cheap free kick from deep inside the Brighton half. The ball was swung viciously and directly into the Hammers penalty area and a gaggle of claret and blue defenders froze like characters from an Ealing comedy. Somebody snapped the clapperboard and the whole of the West Ham defence simply disintegrated, a line of West Ham's defenders all running back farcically together and not sure why this was the case. Nobody though had spotted 34 year old Glen Murray in the tiniest pocket of space and Murray headed the ball firmly past a luckless Joe Hart who must now be thinking back to those sunny days of Premier League trophies with Manchester City.
It was only now that West Ham suddenly came to life rather like those spring tulips who emerge from their winter hibernation and then blossom beautifully. There was now a crispness and intent about West Ham's passing, the ball now skimming around the pitch with a much greater purpose and ambition. The ball was now well and truly camped inside Brighton's half and it seemed only a matter of time before West Ham would discover a well deserved equaliser.
Once again though it all became stutteringly to a standstill and sadly lacking in the game's finer rudiments. Chekhyou Kouyate, tall and gangling, strode forward commandingly but failed to get anywhere remotely close to a clarity of mind. Pedro Obiang looks a skilful attacking midfielder but rather like his midfield colleague, carelessly lost possession of the ball in vital areas of the pitch. Both reminded you of those sweat stained country farmers mopping their fevered brows. There would be no Harvest Festival at the London Stadium apart from a couple of muddy radishes and a sorry looking beetroot stuck in the ground.
And then there was a man called Marko Arnautovic. Bought from Stoke City during the summer for roughly £25 million there are those who must have thought 25p would have been much more of an accurate value. Arnautovic, whose goal-scoring reputation at Stoke had so convinced West Ham of his overall worth, roamed about and galloped around like a lost horse. Quite how Slaven Bilic became so deeply impressed with Arnautovic's better qualities is now a source of great mystery. Last night Arnautovic reminded you of a man who'd lost his passport. Wherever he went a yellow Brighton shirt followed and finally the Austrian attacker found himself crowded out of the game with nowhere to go.
But then West Ham's bustlingly aggressive winger Michal Antonio began to turn on the after burners, running at pace and surging towards the Brighton by line like a player in a permanent hurry. West Ham have always been renowned for their wingers throughout the ages and from Harry Redknapp and Johnny Sissons to the likes of Mark Ward and Bobby Barnes in more recent years the club have prided themselves on their outside rights and lefts. Antonio though seems to be cut from the same cloth and now sprinted past his opponents as if his life depended on it.
Sadly though Antonio, although holding the ball up cleverly and adeptly, frequently lost out on the ball with an awkwardness that must have been enormously disturbing to their fans. Last season Antonio was one of West Ham's most effective and brightest of talents. Now though Antonio looks slightly clumsy and cumbersome and is easily knocked off his feet. When he briefly went down with what appeared a serious injury, West Ham knew they'd lost their way. The West Ham winger was never the same player from that point onwards.
Brighton though still breathed fire and brimstone and although outclassed towards the end of the first half, continued to toil and battle, forever competing on the same level as West Ham. With half time beckoning and West Ham still with a definite spring in their step, the sucker punch was delivered and West Ham sunk to the ground totally dumbfounded.
After a neatly conceived and executed break on the half way line Colombian striker Jose Izquierdo skipped and tricked his way towards the edge of the West Ham 18 yard box. Izquierdo, with a splendid change of feet, a shuffle, shimmy and change of direction, cut inside Obiang and cracked the ball fiercely into the back of the net. Now Brighton must have harked back to those wonderful days when Alan Mullery was in charge and Michael Robinson was scoring goals as if it was something that came perfectly naturally. The Brighton of 2017 now had the most comfortable of two goal cushions and the second half became an assault course for the Hammers.
Just on the hour mark and after repeated huffing and puffing, the home side came dreadfully unstuck. Pablo Zabaleta, so polished up until that point, found the ball at his feet with an onrushing Brighton forward behind him, before rashly lunging out and taking down his man. Once again Glen Murray, who must have thought his career had been left well behind him, stepped up to fire home the penalty for Brighton's third and clinching goal. Joe Hart had now picked the ball out of his West Ham net for the umpteenth time and the thoughts going through his mind can only be imagined.
So what next for my deeply besieged and troubled football team. For those who are now conditioned to these claret and blue Greek tragedies this is nothing new. There were times during the 1970s when you were never sure what West Ham would turn up for a game. Sometimes even the most devoted supporters were tempted to tear up their season tickets in half before every game. But unswerving loyalty does have its good points and for every shattering defeat there has to be a crowning moment of glory when it does go right. The silver lining is genuinely precious.
At the game's end, with West Ham almost terribly humiliated on their home hearth, the fans trudged their way back to the Westfield Shopping Centre and Stratford no longer seemed the centre of anybody's universe. On their way out they will have taken another second look at that helter skelter shaped object known as the Orbit. The bubbles had floated into the dark, chilly night and all was now desolate and distraught.
Your mind wandered back to those simple, innocent days when Sir Trevor Brooking swaggered, Alan Devonshire, skipped, darted and danced while Pat Holland and Geoff Pike ran themselves tirelessly into the ground. How times and mannerisms change over the years. Slaven Bilic will now spend his weekend mulling over the trials and tribulations of football management. He may find the world can be a very lonely place. Some of us though still believe that an indomitable East End spirit still lurks beneath the surface. Next stop for West Ham is an invitation to the Palace. Most fans will hope that Roy Hodgson has yet to find his way out of Iceland. If Chelsea can do it then anybody can surely.
This is neither the time or place for gallows humour nor should there be any talk of guillotines or public execution. West Ham manager Slaven Bilic has got enough on his plate as it is and certainly doesn't need to be reminded of what happened last night at the London Stadium.
There are moments in football when you simply look around you and find that everything is bleak, dark and pessimistic. No matter how hard you try the scenery around you is dull and grey. You wait for one home defeat to happen and then, shortly afterwards, another one comes up when least expected. Once the anger had subsided inside the London Stadium and the dust settled West Ham's glum and disenchanted supporters simply drifted back to Stratford station, walked past the Westfield Shopping Centre and must have contemplated a drop of alcohol to drown their sorrows.
After an excellent draw at Burnley last week and a painful 1-0 victory against Swansea at the London Stadium before the international break, West Ham must have thought their fortunes were about to turn for the better. Instead they slid helplessly into the murkiest of waters only to find that there were no lifeguards around to help them out of their predicament. Nobody knew how to console them because consolation seemed to be thin on the ground.
Last night's horror show against newly promoted Brighton was so appallingly lifeless that by the end of the game, you began to wonder whether any of the obvious excuses would be both plausible and acceptable. West Ham have now had a whole season at their London Stadium home to settle down in and meet the new neighbours and not for the first time the front door was locked, the key had been mislaid and West Ham looked generally disoriented.
In the end West Ham were conclusively beaten and crushed into the ground. Brighton's 3-0 victory was so outright and emphatic that the claret and blue faithful in the 56,000 plus crowd were probably longing for the miserable train home. This is now West Ham's second home defeat of the season and although they may well have considered themselves a tad unlucky against Spurs even damage limitation couldn't come to their rescue against Brighton. The wins against Huddersfield and Swansea at the London Stadium must seem like a classic case of straw clutching. Both games were far from pretty ornaments and West Ham still look a shell shocked team who are neither here nor there.
For much of last night's game against Brighton West Ham looked like sitting tenants in a home that strictly wasn't theirs. During the rockiest of opening exchanges West Ham did admittedly move the ball around with the sweetest of touches but Real Madrid or Barcelona they were not and after half an hour there was a frightening lack of fluency and attacking co-ordination about their football. The ball would be shifted tentatively around like a group of bomb disposal experts nervously defusing a Second World War grenade. They fumbled and stumbled around as if a major power cut had reduced them to candles.
Brighton, to their eternal credit, came to the London Stadium with a well constructed masterplan and carried it out to perfection. The Seagulls have been flying at a reasonable height in their first season back in football's top flight since 1983. The horrible memory of Gordon Smith missing an open goal in that year's FA Cup Final with Manchester United against goalkeeper Gary Bailey must still hang heavy on the minds of all Brighton fans but now the Premier League has given those same fans much to cheer and enthrall.
A number of decades ago Brighton were still languishing in no man's land and were very much caught between a rock and a hard place. The Goldstone Ground had now become enshrined in the club's history books never to re-surface and Brighton slouched around despondently desperately searching for a new home and seemingly trapped at the Withdean Stadium. Needless to say this did nothing to alleviate the blues - or maybe that should be the blue and white stripes.
Still time is a great healer and now under the intelligent guidance of manager Chris Houghton Brighton are no longer Graham Greene's favourite seaside resort. West Ham began like first time swimmers treading water, confidently passing the ball for a quite a while but doing little to suggest that a goal would be forthcoming shortly. It was the same old story and Brighton seemed to sense rich pickings. You began to yearn for the intimacy of Upton Park and the electricity generated during a mid week game in the old First Division. Under such circumstances it was hard to think Brighton would have had everything their own way last night.
But sour grapes for West Ham supporters are more like badly made scrambled eggs and the home side, for roughly the first 25 minutes, had almost lost the game before they'd had to time to acclimatise to their London Stadium surroundings. And then the ground quite literally, seemed to open up for West Ham. After a brief period of ball possession, the wheels came off the claret and blue bandwagon and Brighton helped themselves to a large portion of attacking space on lightning quick counter attacks.
A couple of minutes into the game, West Ham conceded a cheap free kick from deep inside the Brighton half. The ball was swung viciously and directly into the Hammers penalty area and a gaggle of claret and blue defenders froze like characters from an Ealing comedy. Somebody snapped the clapperboard and the whole of the West Ham defence simply disintegrated, a line of West Ham's defenders all running back farcically together and not sure why this was the case. Nobody though had spotted 34 year old Glen Murray in the tiniest pocket of space and Murray headed the ball firmly past a luckless Joe Hart who must now be thinking back to those sunny days of Premier League trophies with Manchester City.
It was only now that West Ham suddenly came to life rather like those spring tulips who emerge from their winter hibernation and then blossom beautifully. There was now a crispness and intent about West Ham's passing, the ball now skimming around the pitch with a much greater purpose and ambition. The ball was now well and truly camped inside Brighton's half and it seemed only a matter of time before West Ham would discover a well deserved equaliser.
Once again though it all became stutteringly to a standstill and sadly lacking in the game's finer rudiments. Chekhyou Kouyate, tall and gangling, strode forward commandingly but failed to get anywhere remotely close to a clarity of mind. Pedro Obiang looks a skilful attacking midfielder but rather like his midfield colleague, carelessly lost possession of the ball in vital areas of the pitch. Both reminded you of those sweat stained country farmers mopping their fevered brows. There would be no Harvest Festival at the London Stadium apart from a couple of muddy radishes and a sorry looking beetroot stuck in the ground.
And then there was a man called Marko Arnautovic. Bought from Stoke City during the summer for roughly £25 million there are those who must have thought 25p would have been much more of an accurate value. Arnautovic, whose goal-scoring reputation at Stoke had so convinced West Ham of his overall worth, roamed about and galloped around like a lost horse. Quite how Slaven Bilic became so deeply impressed with Arnautovic's better qualities is now a source of great mystery. Last night Arnautovic reminded you of a man who'd lost his passport. Wherever he went a yellow Brighton shirt followed and finally the Austrian attacker found himself crowded out of the game with nowhere to go.
But then West Ham's bustlingly aggressive winger Michal Antonio began to turn on the after burners, running at pace and surging towards the Brighton by line like a player in a permanent hurry. West Ham have always been renowned for their wingers throughout the ages and from Harry Redknapp and Johnny Sissons to the likes of Mark Ward and Bobby Barnes in more recent years the club have prided themselves on their outside rights and lefts. Antonio though seems to be cut from the same cloth and now sprinted past his opponents as if his life depended on it.
Sadly though Antonio, although holding the ball up cleverly and adeptly, frequently lost out on the ball with an awkwardness that must have been enormously disturbing to their fans. Last season Antonio was one of West Ham's most effective and brightest of talents. Now though Antonio looks slightly clumsy and cumbersome and is easily knocked off his feet. When he briefly went down with what appeared a serious injury, West Ham knew they'd lost their way. The West Ham winger was never the same player from that point onwards.
Brighton though still breathed fire and brimstone and although outclassed towards the end of the first half, continued to toil and battle, forever competing on the same level as West Ham. With half time beckoning and West Ham still with a definite spring in their step, the sucker punch was delivered and West Ham sunk to the ground totally dumbfounded.
After a neatly conceived and executed break on the half way line Colombian striker Jose Izquierdo skipped and tricked his way towards the edge of the West Ham 18 yard box. Izquierdo, with a splendid change of feet, a shuffle, shimmy and change of direction, cut inside Obiang and cracked the ball fiercely into the back of the net. Now Brighton must have harked back to those wonderful days when Alan Mullery was in charge and Michael Robinson was scoring goals as if it was something that came perfectly naturally. The Brighton of 2017 now had the most comfortable of two goal cushions and the second half became an assault course for the Hammers.
Just on the hour mark and after repeated huffing and puffing, the home side came dreadfully unstuck. Pablo Zabaleta, so polished up until that point, found the ball at his feet with an onrushing Brighton forward behind him, before rashly lunging out and taking down his man. Once again Glen Murray, who must have thought his career had been left well behind him, stepped up to fire home the penalty for Brighton's third and clinching goal. Joe Hart had now picked the ball out of his West Ham net for the umpteenth time and the thoughts going through his mind can only be imagined.
So what next for my deeply besieged and troubled football team. For those who are now conditioned to these claret and blue Greek tragedies this is nothing new. There were times during the 1970s when you were never sure what West Ham would turn up for a game. Sometimes even the most devoted supporters were tempted to tear up their season tickets in half before every game. But unswerving loyalty does have its good points and for every shattering defeat there has to be a crowning moment of glory when it does go right. The silver lining is genuinely precious.
At the game's end, with West Ham almost terribly humiliated on their home hearth, the fans trudged their way back to the Westfield Shopping Centre and Stratford no longer seemed the centre of anybody's universe. On their way out they will have taken another second look at that helter skelter shaped object known as the Orbit. The bubbles had floated into the dark, chilly night and all was now desolate and distraught.
Your mind wandered back to those simple, innocent days when Sir Trevor Brooking swaggered, Alan Devonshire, skipped, darted and danced while Pat Holland and Geoff Pike ran themselves tirelessly into the ground. How times and mannerisms change over the years. Slaven Bilic will now spend his weekend mulling over the trials and tribulations of football management. He may find the world can be a very lonely place. Some of us though still believe that an indomitable East End spirit still lurks beneath the surface. Next stop for West Ham is an invitation to the Palace. Most fans will hope that Roy Hodgson has yet to find his way out of Iceland. If Chelsea can do it then anybody can surely.
Thursday 19 October 2017
The Great British Bake Off and the TV history of cooking.
The Great British Bake Off and the TV history of cooking. .
You must have seen it by now. It's TV's most guilty pleasure. A couple of nights ago we settled down to watch that compulsively watchable, highly entertaining BBC mini classic. It's called the Great British Bake Off and it's all about cakes and baking, ambitious bakers, tongue in cheek presenters, two very knowledgeably professional bakers and a marquee in the middle of the country. It was the most perfect formula for a TV programme in the busy BBC autumn schedule and designed to satisfy the fussiest of appetites.
At first I approached the whole subject of TV cooking and baking with a considerable amount of scepticism because, quite apart from anything else, I'd be the first to shamefully admit that my culinary expertise extends no further than the boiling of eggs, peeling potatoes or simply putting a chicken in the oven for the further delectation of those who choose to sample my feeble attempts at cooking.
My first brief encounter with the Great British Bake Off came as a most pleasant surprise. In the last BBC series both the marvellous Mary Berry and her assistants Mel and Sue took us on a whirlwind tour of the cake baking world where members of the public would create mouth watering concoctions with plenty of cream, icing, sugar and plenty of honest effort into the bargain. The contestants would whisk the ingredients in their bowls vigorously, frantically cutting, slicing and thumping their respective doughs. Then the whole package would be shoved unceremoniously and hilariously into the oven.
I have no divine right to judge the prowess of those whose baking masterpieces would proudly decorate any business function or party. I have though nothing but admiration for those who just enjoy the process of producing their very own piece of creative cake making. Week after week we've seen four very dedicated bakers who have taken a pleasurable pastime and turned it into a BBC work of art.
My mind takes me back to the very origins of the TV cooking show. There was a rich selection of TV programmes where the sampling of well cooked, cost effective meals were proudly displayed before a hungry audience. At the time they were a revelation and novelty to those who had never seen them before. Suddenly the kitchen became the new environment for those who had yet to be introduced to a kitchen. I'd always seen my mum at her industrious best whipping up those sumptuous Wednesday spaghetti spectaculars. But the frying pan, the pressure cooker, the saucepan and the smell of soup did much to stimulate my salivating taste buds.
Many decades ago there was the eccentric Fanny Craddock with her jolly husband Johnny Craddock and Johnny brought a whole new dimension to the attractively presented evening meal. Both Fanny and Johnny were TV pioneers and brought the most unorthodox of approaches to cooking. Cooking became much more accessible than it had ever been before. Fanny Craddock was this very posh speaking but terribly enthusiastic cook who threw herself wholeheartedly into the creation of her impeccably presented dinners. Johnny, for his part, would always be available with a glass of red wine in his hands without getting completely sozzled. The Craddocks appeared at Olympia and Earls Court with those huge cooking exhibitions and cooking on TV had its very own unique platform.
Then towards the end of the 1960s my senses were once again heightened by another telly cooking programme. The Galloping Gourmet was introduced by the equally as effervescent Graham Kerr, an Australian cook who at times seemed to get completely carried with himself while cooking, totally absorbed in a whirl of pots, rolling pins and classy haute cuisine. Kerr would run around his TV kitchen like some very skilled middle distance runner in a hurry to get the race over once and for all. He would dash and dart around the studio as if some invisible stopwatch were timing him. Kerr was though very suave and debonair without any of the airs or graces of those who thought they knew better.
The Galloping Gourmet was a fast moving and energetic show where the TV audience would learn those very important cooking techniques and then become emotionally involved in the whole gastronomic drama of it all. In between throwing casserole dishes onto a hot stove and carefully chopping up tomatoes and onions with a very meticulous attention to detail, Kerr would laugh, joke, smile, slurp down glass after glass of wine and then after what seemed roughly five minutes proudly present the most beautifully cooked meal for two, three or even four people. Now we'd entered the age of the dinner party with just a hint of spicy conviviality.
During the 1970s Thames TV lunchtimes consisted of Farmhouse Kitchen with the emphasis firmly on home made cooking, warm bread making and comfort food meals that were easy to make and steaming with meaty flavours. Then a woman appeared on our screens whose simple and down to earth approach to cooking would leave those who were cooking novices spellbound and totally fascinated.
Delia Smith was a refreshing breath of fresh air, a smiling and informative cook with another dollop of straightforwardness and integrity that never really went away. Smith's pies, flans, stews, desserts, starters and delicately fashioned potato based dishes looked out of this world. Then the spoons, knives and forks would whip up quite literally a feeding frenzy. Soups would be left to cook lovingly on a low gas and chocolate profiteroles would leap out at you teasingly and temptingly. It all looked so easy and perfectly understandable and our Delia has been on British TV screens for what seems like an eternity. When she gave that rousing half time speech at Norwich City football club you knew that here was not a lady not to be messed with.
In recent times the likes of Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsey have brought the TV cooking experience to the modern palates. Both Oliver and Ramsey are witty, humorous, enormously versatile and in the case of Ramsey, very direct. Ramsey brings a sharp tongued approach to cooking that some may regard as too offensive and unnecessary for anybody's liking. Jamie Oliver of course is bubbly, personable and utterly down to earth. Both men have reached the pinnacle of their profession and are enormously successful owners of Michelin starred restaurants. There can be no higher praise.
So now we come finally to the present day. The Great British Bake Off looks terrific fun and tailor made for those dark wintry evenings where we all find ourselves drawn to when all you want to do is wind down and relax.
The new presenters are Sandy Toksvig, comedian Noel Fielding and the already established Paul Hollywood. Toksvig, in my opinion, seemed like a fish out of water. As the new presenter of BBC's highly academic QI quiz show which tests its contestants with odd facts, Toksvig didn't seem quite the right fit for the Great British Take Off. But she does seem to have adapted to the show's very specific format and suddenly there does seem a more positive engagement with the show.
Comedian Noel Fielding is an alternative comedian with what seems a quirky sense of humour and reminds you of one of those Goth punk singers who gave the British music scene a sarcastic and irreverent dig in the ribs. With that long black hair and a face that looks as if it has been powdered over and over again, Fielding wouldn't have seemed the ideal choice for a popular TV vehicle on the joys of cooking. But the blend and chemistry does seem to be emerging quite fruitfully and the Great British Bake Off has sparked off a fizzing frisson of interest in cake baking. What would the Craddocks and Smiths have thought of today's generation of bustling bakers. Marie Antoinette would have heartily approved.
You must have seen it by now. It's TV's most guilty pleasure. A couple of nights ago we settled down to watch that compulsively watchable, highly entertaining BBC mini classic. It's called the Great British Bake Off and it's all about cakes and baking, ambitious bakers, tongue in cheek presenters, two very knowledgeably professional bakers and a marquee in the middle of the country. It was the most perfect formula for a TV programme in the busy BBC autumn schedule and designed to satisfy the fussiest of appetites.
At first I approached the whole subject of TV cooking and baking with a considerable amount of scepticism because, quite apart from anything else, I'd be the first to shamefully admit that my culinary expertise extends no further than the boiling of eggs, peeling potatoes or simply putting a chicken in the oven for the further delectation of those who choose to sample my feeble attempts at cooking.
My first brief encounter with the Great British Bake Off came as a most pleasant surprise. In the last BBC series both the marvellous Mary Berry and her assistants Mel and Sue took us on a whirlwind tour of the cake baking world where members of the public would create mouth watering concoctions with plenty of cream, icing, sugar and plenty of honest effort into the bargain. The contestants would whisk the ingredients in their bowls vigorously, frantically cutting, slicing and thumping their respective doughs. Then the whole package would be shoved unceremoniously and hilariously into the oven.
I have no divine right to judge the prowess of those whose baking masterpieces would proudly decorate any business function or party. I have though nothing but admiration for those who just enjoy the process of producing their very own piece of creative cake making. Week after week we've seen four very dedicated bakers who have taken a pleasurable pastime and turned it into a BBC work of art.
My mind takes me back to the very origins of the TV cooking show. There was a rich selection of TV programmes where the sampling of well cooked, cost effective meals were proudly displayed before a hungry audience. At the time they were a revelation and novelty to those who had never seen them before. Suddenly the kitchen became the new environment for those who had yet to be introduced to a kitchen. I'd always seen my mum at her industrious best whipping up those sumptuous Wednesday spaghetti spectaculars. But the frying pan, the pressure cooker, the saucepan and the smell of soup did much to stimulate my salivating taste buds.
Many decades ago there was the eccentric Fanny Craddock with her jolly husband Johnny Craddock and Johnny brought a whole new dimension to the attractively presented evening meal. Both Fanny and Johnny were TV pioneers and brought the most unorthodox of approaches to cooking. Cooking became much more accessible than it had ever been before. Fanny Craddock was this very posh speaking but terribly enthusiastic cook who threw herself wholeheartedly into the creation of her impeccably presented dinners. Johnny, for his part, would always be available with a glass of red wine in his hands without getting completely sozzled. The Craddocks appeared at Olympia and Earls Court with those huge cooking exhibitions and cooking on TV had its very own unique platform.
Then towards the end of the 1960s my senses were once again heightened by another telly cooking programme. The Galloping Gourmet was introduced by the equally as effervescent Graham Kerr, an Australian cook who at times seemed to get completely carried with himself while cooking, totally absorbed in a whirl of pots, rolling pins and classy haute cuisine. Kerr would run around his TV kitchen like some very skilled middle distance runner in a hurry to get the race over once and for all. He would dash and dart around the studio as if some invisible stopwatch were timing him. Kerr was though very suave and debonair without any of the airs or graces of those who thought they knew better.
The Galloping Gourmet was a fast moving and energetic show where the TV audience would learn those very important cooking techniques and then become emotionally involved in the whole gastronomic drama of it all. In between throwing casserole dishes onto a hot stove and carefully chopping up tomatoes and onions with a very meticulous attention to detail, Kerr would laugh, joke, smile, slurp down glass after glass of wine and then after what seemed roughly five minutes proudly present the most beautifully cooked meal for two, three or even four people. Now we'd entered the age of the dinner party with just a hint of spicy conviviality.
During the 1970s Thames TV lunchtimes consisted of Farmhouse Kitchen with the emphasis firmly on home made cooking, warm bread making and comfort food meals that were easy to make and steaming with meaty flavours. Then a woman appeared on our screens whose simple and down to earth approach to cooking would leave those who were cooking novices spellbound and totally fascinated.
Delia Smith was a refreshing breath of fresh air, a smiling and informative cook with another dollop of straightforwardness and integrity that never really went away. Smith's pies, flans, stews, desserts, starters and delicately fashioned potato based dishes looked out of this world. Then the spoons, knives and forks would whip up quite literally a feeding frenzy. Soups would be left to cook lovingly on a low gas and chocolate profiteroles would leap out at you teasingly and temptingly. It all looked so easy and perfectly understandable and our Delia has been on British TV screens for what seems like an eternity. When she gave that rousing half time speech at Norwich City football club you knew that here was not a lady not to be messed with.
In recent times the likes of Jamie Oliver and Gordon Ramsey have brought the TV cooking experience to the modern palates. Both Oliver and Ramsey are witty, humorous, enormously versatile and in the case of Ramsey, very direct. Ramsey brings a sharp tongued approach to cooking that some may regard as too offensive and unnecessary for anybody's liking. Jamie Oliver of course is bubbly, personable and utterly down to earth. Both men have reached the pinnacle of their profession and are enormously successful owners of Michelin starred restaurants. There can be no higher praise.
So now we come finally to the present day. The Great British Bake Off looks terrific fun and tailor made for those dark wintry evenings where we all find ourselves drawn to when all you want to do is wind down and relax.
The new presenters are Sandy Toksvig, comedian Noel Fielding and the already established Paul Hollywood. Toksvig, in my opinion, seemed like a fish out of water. As the new presenter of BBC's highly academic QI quiz show which tests its contestants with odd facts, Toksvig didn't seem quite the right fit for the Great British Take Off. But she does seem to have adapted to the show's very specific format and suddenly there does seem a more positive engagement with the show.
Comedian Noel Fielding is an alternative comedian with what seems a quirky sense of humour and reminds you of one of those Goth punk singers who gave the British music scene a sarcastic and irreverent dig in the ribs. With that long black hair and a face that looks as if it has been powdered over and over again, Fielding wouldn't have seemed the ideal choice for a popular TV vehicle on the joys of cooking. But the blend and chemistry does seem to be emerging quite fruitfully and the Great British Bake Off has sparked off a fizzing frisson of interest in cake baking. What would the Craddocks and Smiths have thought of today's generation of bustling bakers. Marie Antoinette would have heartily approved.
Monday 16 October 2017
Stormy weather- Britain remembers 1987 and now for Ophelia.
Stormy weather- Britain remembers 1987 and now for Ophelia.
The Manor House sky has turned a peculiar and haunting shade of grey. In fact it looks like the setting for some eerie Gothic novel set in some mysterious castle where thunder and lightning crack and flash with frightening frequency. The grey is battleship grey, with occasional glimpses of an orange sun, threatening, bubbly banks of cloud which suggest rain by the bucketload but then seem to hover in the air as if waiting for something ominous to happen. But it hasn't and nor does the rain look likely in the foreseeable future.
Today's news has given us fair warning of Hurricane Ophelia, a meteorological phenomenon blasting and powering its way around the world like a stampeding herd of grey elephants charging across the savannahs and plains of Africa. Hurricane Ophelia has already hit and tragically destroyed major parts of Ireland and it looks as if it's left some of its unfortunate carnage in some parts of Britain. This is the weather forecast you've probably heard a thousand times today so maybe it's best not to remind you of the obvious.
The winds and tempests of Mother Nature have ripped out the very heart of everything we hold so precious: telegraph poles, once impregnable buildings, house tiles from roofs, chimney stacks, shops, the coastal shoreline defences and the very fabric of society. Hurricanes and earthquakes have somehow dominated the news agenda in recent times but then there does seem an enduring fragility about the world order. But there are things that often seem unavoidable regardless of the time of the year.
In fact 30 years ago exactly Britain was given the most distressing shake up it had ever had by the forces of nature. In 1987 the nation awoke to the most incredible scene of destruction, mayhem, chaos and long term damage. The weather had literally turned Britain upside down, terrified the vulnerable, sent most of our cats and dogs straight for the back of the sofa and all around us storms were battering every house, every street and road before sweeping across the land in a disastrous fit of rage.
On that morning I woke up, took one look out of my parents window and thought the world had indeed fallen apart. It felt as though somebody had taken a sledgehammer and wrecking ball and swung it across the whole of our road. At the bottom of our road, my dad's grey Cortina had been given a severe bashing by a very loose and crumbling wall on the corner of a road next to ours. One minute all was calm and serenity and then Michael Fish, with able assistance from his fellow BBC weatherman Bill Giles, had confidently believed that none of us had anything to worry about.
Then to the eternal horror of Britain we flung open our curtains that fateful October morning only to find that everything had gone, everything had been broken, seemingly irreparably wherever you looked. Dustbin lids had travelled to another neighbourhood, things had been swept away and then scattered into some far distant land of obscurity where the essential infrastructure of the country had been totally lost. Everything lay in tattered ruins and insurance policies were the most obvious concerns of the day.
The contrasting moods and whims of the British climate can often play havoc with the best laid plans but when the storms and turbulences of early October announce themselves then nothing can stand in their way. Somehow we are at the mercy of those sharp, biting winds of mid- December, the relentless moaning, growling and wailing of those blustery gale force noises that whistle and howl like some Edgar Allan Poe murder mystery story.
This morning though it felt like mid-summer and some of us were scratching our heads in utter bewilderment. There was a warm but cool air about us that felt almost strangely confusing. Even the crows in Valentines Park were at a complete loss and began to ask questions. We are in now in the tender embrace of Autumn but today seems to have sent all of us into a state of puzzled incredulity. It does seem that Storm Ophelia has caught us completely off guard and by this afternoon most of the nation seemed to be under some mystical blanket of cloud.
I. for one, looked out of a train carriage window and couldn't believe what I was looking at. There was a mournful sadness about the North London sky. In fact the sky looked grief stricken and inconsolable, barely able to hold back its tears. But the rain, amazingly, held back and didn't do what it looked as if it had been threatening to do for the best part of the afternoon.
How the British weather has cast an almost magical spell over us. This afternoon it certainly held me in the most mesmeric of trances. I was reminded of one of those classic Victorian period dramas where white winter fogs swirl around lantern lit streets. And yet there were no fogs and no lanterns just a traumatised grey, hovering, lingering, fearing the worst but in its way a source of great fascination.
We have now been told that the weird orange sun in the British skies isn't something out of the ordinary. Apparently Britain is currently catching the remnants of Storm Ophelia . It almost felt like some elaborate science fiction movie set had suddenly arrived, heavy with doom and gloom. But that greyness was much darker and more forbidding than the normal grey of a winter day. There was a supernatural feel about the day that certainly sent a shiver down my spine.
Now that evening is with us the day has now slipped inexplicably into the mists of history. For some of us the advent of Storm Ophelia and that historic day back in October seem like the most morbid of coincidences. At some point the storms, hurricanes and earthquakes will subside and we will then we'll all sigh philosophically at the British weather. But then we've always wondered and sighed or maybe we're just resigned to whatever will be will be que sera sera.
The words of BBC weatherman Michael Fish resonate down the decades. Fish had tried to re-assure us that nothing untoward would happen to the people of Britain and we'd be perfectly safe from the predicted terrifying storms. That lady had got it all wrong and we should all turn over on our pillows, sleep soundly and just ignore the weathermen. How dreadfully and unforgivably wrong were they. And so here we are 30 years later and none the wiser about the weather. Global warming, Donald Trump, that bloke in North Korea? Somebody has got to be responsible for this. There is an inherent blame culture at work here but maybe the sun will come out tomorrow bet your dollar it will come out. There will be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover. Undoubtedly.
The Manor House sky has turned a peculiar and haunting shade of grey. In fact it looks like the setting for some eerie Gothic novel set in some mysterious castle where thunder and lightning crack and flash with frightening frequency. The grey is battleship grey, with occasional glimpses of an orange sun, threatening, bubbly banks of cloud which suggest rain by the bucketload but then seem to hover in the air as if waiting for something ominous to happen. But it hasn't and nor does the rain look likely in the foreseeable future.
Today's news has given us fair warning of Hurricane Ophelia, a meteorological phenomenon blasting and powering its way around the world like a stampeding herd of grey elephants charging across the savannahs and plains of Africa. Hurricane Ophelia has already hit and tragically destroyed major parts of Ireland and it looks as if it's left some of its unfortunate carnage in some parts of Britain. This is the weather forecast you've probably heard a thousand times today so maybe it's best not to remind you of the obvious.
The winds and tempests of Mother Nature have ripped out the very heart of everything we hold so precious: telegraph poles, once impregnable buildings, house tiles from roofs, chimney stacks, shops, the coastal shoreline defences and the very fabric of society. Hurricanes and earthquakes have somehow dominated the news agenda in recent times but then there does seem an enduring fragility about the world order. But there are things that often seem unavoidable regardless of the time of the year.
In fact 30 years ago exactly Britain was given the most distressing shake up it had ever had by the forces of nature. In 1987 the nation awoke to the most incredible scene of destruction, mayhem, chaos and long term damage. The weather had literally turned Britain upside down, terrified the vulnerable, sent most of our cats and dogs straight for the back of the sofa and all around us storms were battering every house, every street and road before sweeping across the land in a disastrous fit of rage.
On that morning I woke up, took one look out of my parents window and thought the world had indeed fallen apart. It felt as though somebody had taken a sledgehammer and wrecking ball and swung it across the whole of our road. At the bottom of our road, my dad's grey Cortina had been given a severe bashing by a very loose and crumbling wall on the corner of a road next to ours. One minute all was calm and serenity and then Michael Fish, with able assistance from his fellow BBC weatherman Bill Giles, had confidently believed that none of us had anything to worry about.
Then to the eternal horror of Britain we flung open our curtains that fateful October morning only to find that everything had gone, everything had been broken, seemingly irreparably wherever you looked. Dustbin lids had travelled to another neighbourhood, things had been swept away and then scattered into some far distant land of obscurity where the essential infrastructure of the country had been totally lost. Everything lay in tattered ruins and insurance policies were the most obvious concerns of the day.
The contrasting moods and whims of the British climate can often play havoc with the best laid plans but when the storms and turbulences of early October announce themselves then nothing can stand in their way. Somehow we are at the mercy of those sharp, biting winds of mid- December, the relentless moaning, growling and wailing of those blustery gale force noises that whistle and howl like some Edgar Allan Poe murder mystery story.
This morning though it felt like mid-summer and some of us were scratching our heads in utter bewilderment. There was a warm but cool air about us that felt almost strangely confusing. Even the crows in Valentines Park were at a complete loss and began to ask questions. We are in now in the tender embrace of Autumn but today seems to have sent all of us into a state of puzzled incredulity. It does seem that Storm Ophelia has caught us completely off guard and by this afternoon most of the nation seemed to be under some mystical blanket of cloud.
I. for one, looked out of a train carriage window and couldn't believe what I was looking at. There was a mournful sadness about the North London sky. In fact the sky looked grief stricken and inconsolable, barely able to hold back its tears. But the rain, amazingly, held back and didn't do what it looked as if it had been threatening to do for the best part of the afternoon.
How the British weather has cast an almost magical spell over us. This afternoon it certainly held me in the most mesmeric of trances. I was reminded of one of those classic Victorian period dramas where white winter fogs swirl around lantern lit streets. And yet there were no fogs and no lanterns just a traumatised grey, hovering, lingering, fearing the worst but in its way a source of great fascination.
We have now been told that the weird orange sun in the British skies isn't something out of the ordinary. Apparently Britain is currently catching the remnants of Storm Ophelia . It almost felt like some elaborate science fiction movie set had suddenly arrived, heavy with doom and gloom. But that greyness was much darker and more forbidding than the normal grey of a winter day. There was a supernatural feel about the day that certainly sent a shiver down my spine.
Now that evening is with us the day has now slipped inexplicably into the mists of history. For some of us the advent of Storm Ophelia and that historic day back in October seem like the most morbid of coincidences. At some point the storms, hurricanes and earthquakes will subside and we will then we'll all sigh philosophically at the British weather. But then we've always wondered and sighed or maybe we're just resigned to whatever will be will be que sera sera.
The words of BBC weatherman Michael Fish resonate down the decades. Fish had tried to re-assure us that nothing untoward would happen to the people of Britain and we'd be perfectly safe from the predicted terrifying storms. That lady had got it all wrong and we should all turn over on our pillows, sleep soundly and just ignore the weathermen. How dreadfully and unforgivably wrong were they. And so here we are 30 years later and none the wiser about the weather. Global warming, Donald Trump, that bloke in North Korea? Somebody has got to be responsible for this. There is an inherent blame culture at work here but maybe the sun will come out tomorrow bet your dollar it will come out. There will be blue birds over the white cliffs of Dover. Undoubtedly.
Saturday 14 October 2017
Back to the football- the Premier League bread and butter
Back to the football- the Premier League bread and butter.
After England's crushingly anti climactic World Cup qualification and the sorry tale of Scotland's narrow failure in the same World Cup group, it was time to return to the Premier League drawing board. Quite what must be going through Welsh minds doesn't really bear thinking about. Besides, they did reach the semi- finals of Euro 2016 only to be denied by the irrepressible Cristiano Ronaldo and his slightly fortunate Portugal team who went on to win the competition. For their part Northern Ireland may have to bite their finger nails in a World Cup play off. All in all it wasn't the worst of weeks for Britain's finest in World Cup action but it could have been a whole lot better.
Back at the Premier League coal face the top has rather a juicy regional flavour about it. At the moment the top four have been monopolised by Manchester and London which has invariably been the way of it for a number of seasons. Besides if Stoke City or Bournemouth had been in complete charge at the summit of the Premier League we may have wondered whether the world was indeed flat. But the inevitabilities and certainties of life have made sure that some things never change.
At the top of the two Manchester powerhouses United and City are beginning to look like grizzly bears in the middle of a forest about to pounce unsuspectingly at their prey. Neither Jose Mourinho at United or Pep Guardiola at City can in any way be described as a latter day version of Tommy Docherty or Malcolm Allison. Mourinho, for his part, has no Scottish cousins and would never claim to have had as many clubs than Jack Nicholas. Pep Guardiola of course doesn't sit smugly in the director's box with a fedora on his head nor does he smoke a cigar when things are going well for him. Guardiola is much more restrained than Malcolm Allison ever was although he may well think he's the best thing since sliced bread at times.
Meanwhile behind the Manchester clubs the London regiment are breathing down the necks of City and United with all the fire and fury bitter rivals normally harbour for each other. At roughly this point last season Chelsea were demolished by Arsenal at the Emirates and now London has come calling again. This time both Spurs, Chelsea and Arsenal are hanging onto the coat tails of the teams above them with all the ferocious tenacity of bloodhounds scenting something in the air.
Behind Manchester United and City are a Spurs side who at times look almost sublimely perfect, an unplayable attacking force whose quick, short passing game is so hypnotic and entrancing that you begin to wonder if the spirit of Bill Nicholson is still with Spurs. Under the immensely amiable Mauricio Pochettino the emergence of Harry Kane as an explosive young striker of international stature has now sent Tottenham into a footballing stratosphere where only the best belong.
Premier League champions Chelsea, although still a formidable force against any team in the country, still get the collywobbles and the opening day defeat at home to Burnley, left a horrible scar on Chelsea's otherwise unblemished skin. The critics were sniping and snarling, quite clearly convinced that last year's imperious form had suddenly vanished and would never be replaced. But Antonio Conte's team still has that unmistakable stateliness about them that has to be reckoned with. Their lethal striker Diego Costa may well have sulked his last and left the club but Morata looks as if he has rather more to offer than childish petulance.
And then there's Arsenal. They say patience is a virtue but for Gunners boss Arsene Wenger it may just as well be a game of cards. Last season, even by their own high standards, Arsenal were very much a busted flush particularly after the 3-0 hammering by Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park towards the end of last season. But the gamblers may well be tempted to put good money on Arsenal challenging the top three and even quite possibly winning the Premier League.
But the FA Cup holders may well have to err on the side of a caution and prudence may be the watchword at the Emirates. At Anfield back in August, Liverpool trampled all over Arsenal rather like Captain Mainwaring in that famous sketch where most of Dad's Army could hardly wait to get out of the cinema. Arsenal though are now back in their groove, reverting happily back to that quick passing, cultured passing game that picks off defenders and is frequently impossible to counter.
Once the likes of Mezut Ozil and Alexis Sanchez finally decide where the future lies then maybe Arsenal can forget all about Liverpool and concentrate on the intricacies and delicacies of their beautiful passing triangles. Sometimes watching Arsenal is rather like watching a symphony orchestra where the sounds and verses are all executed with a breathtaking economical stride.
The Arsenal fans, who sometimes seem to expect perfection from their team, will now be monitoring their side rather like some very critical teacher who demands that their students are pushed to their academic limit. It is hard to know what exactly what may be going through Arsene Wenger's mind but as the years go by it does seem that management can be doing no favours to his health.
In his technical area Wenger sits there with hands stuffed firmly into his grey track suit pockets, gazing out with that grey, gaunt and haggard face, a man wrestling with some private anguish that he can never properly express. It does look at times as if Wenger is suffering for no particular reason but his team can still play some of the most artistic football ever seen. Arsenal do know how to look after and cherish the ball and do so with an almost romantic tenderness. The halcyon days of George Graham were superbly successful and the last gasp League Championship title win at Anfield in 1989 now seems a glorious microcosm of what would follow in later years for Arsenal.
So there you have it. The top five at the Premier League have revved their engines and seem to be laying their concrete foundations for the rest of the season. Some of them will have to hold onto their cement mixers and others will just have to chip and carve their way through well marshalled defences. Autumn has now well and truly settled and although Jose stubbornly refuses to smile and Pep isn't exactly forthcoming with his feelings we shall have to be content with the slow burning Arsene Wenger grin. Oh to be a Premier League manager.
After England's crushingly anti climactic World Cup qualification and the sorry tale of Scotland's narrow failure in the same World Cup group, it was time to return to the Premier League drawing board. Quite what must be going through Welsh minds doesn't really bear thinking about. Besides, they did reach the semi- finals of Euro 2016 only to be denied by the irrepressible Cristiano Ronaldo and his slightly fortunate Portugal team who went on to win the competition. For their part Northern Ireland may have to bite their finger nails in a World Cup play off. All in all it wasn't the worst of weeks for Britain's finest in World Cup action but it could have been a whole lot better.
Back at the Premier League coal face the top has rather a juicy regional flavour about it. At the moment the top four have been monopolised by Manchester and London which has invariably been the way of it for a number of seasons. Besides if Stoke City or Bournemouth had been in complete charge at the summit of the Premier League we may have wondered whether the world was indeed flat. But the inevitabilities and certainties of life have made sure that some things never change.
At the top of the two Manchester powerhouses United and City are beginning to look like grizzly bears in the middle of a forest about to pounce unsuspectingly at their prey. Neither Jose Mourinho at United or Pep Guardiola at City can in any way be described as a latter day version of Tommy Docherty or Malcolm Allison. Mourinho, for his part, has no Scottish cousins and would never claim to have had as many clubs than Jack Nicholas. Pep Guardiola of course doesn't sit smugly in the director's box with a fedora on his head nor does he smoke a cigar when things are going well for him. Guardiola is much more restrained than Malcolm Allison ever was although he may well think he's the best thing since sliced bread at times.
Meanwhile behind the Manchester clubs the London regiment are breathing down the necks of City and United with all the fire and fury bitter rivals normally harbour for each other. At roughly this point last season Chelsea were demolished by Arsenal at the Emirates and now London has come calling again. This time both Spurs, Chelsea and Arsenal are hanging onto the coat tails of the teams above them with all the ferocious tenacity of bloodhounds scenting something in the air.
Behind Manchester United and City are a Spurs side who at times look almost sublimely perfect, an unplayable attacking force whose quick, short passing game is so hypnotic and entrancing that you begin to wonder if the spirit of Bill Nicholson is still with Spurs. Under the immensely amiable Mauricio Pochettino the emergence of Harry Kane as an explosive young striker of international stature has now sent Tottenham into a footballing stratosphere where only the best belong.
Premier League champions Chelsea, although still a formidable force against any team in the country, still get the collywobbles and the opening day defeat at home to Burnley, left a horrible scar on Chelsea's otherwise unblemished skin. The critics were sniping and snarling, quite clearly convinced that last year's imperious form had suddenly vanished and would never be replaced. But Antonio Conte's team still has that unmistakable stateliness about them that has to be reckoned with. Their lethal striker Diego Costa may well have sulked his last and left the club but Morata looks as if he has rather more to offer than childish petulance.
And then there's Arsenal. They say patience is a virtue but for Gunners boss Arsene Wenger it may just as well be a game of cards. Last season, even by their own high standards, Arsenal were very much a busted flush particularly after the 3-0 hammering by Crystal Palace at Selhurst Park towards the end of last season. But the gamblers may well be tempted to put good money on Arsenal challenging the top three and even quite possibly winning the Premier League.
But the FA Cup holders may well have to err on the side of a caution and prudence may be the watchword at the Emirates. At Anfield back in August, Liverpool trampled all over Arsenal rather like Captain Mainwaring in that famous sketch where most of Dad's Army could hardly wait to get out of the cinema. Arsenal though are now back in their groove, reverting happily back to that quick passing, cultured passing game that picks off defenders and is frequently impossible to counter.
Once the likes of Mezut Ozil and Alexis Sanchez finally decide where the future lies then maybe Arsenal can forget all about Liverpool and concentrate on the intricacies and delicacies of their beautiful passing triangles. Sometimes watching Arsenal is rather like watching a symphony orchestra where the sounds and verses are all executed with a breathtaking economical stride.
The Arsenal fans, who sometimes seem to expect perfection from their team, will now be monitoring their side rather like some very critical teacher who demands that their students are pushed to their academic limit. It is hard to know what exactly what may be going through Arsene Wenger's mind but as the years go by it does seem that management can be doing no favours to his health.
In his technical area Wenger sits there with hands stuffed firmly into his grey track suit pockets, gazing out with that grey, gaunt and haggard face, a man wrestling with some private anguish that he can never properly express. It does look at times as if Wenger is suffering for no particular reason but his team can still play some of the most artistic football ever seen. Arsenal do know how to look after and cherish the ball and do so with an almost romantic tenderness. The halcyon days of George Graham were superbly successful and the last gasp League Championship title win at Anfield in 1989 now seems a glorious microcosm of what would follow in later years for Arsenal.
So there you have it. The top five at the Premier League have revved their engines and seem to be laying their concrete foundations for the rest of the season. Some of them will have to hold onto their cement mixers and others will just have to chip and carve their way through well marshalled defences. Autumn has now well and truly settled and although Jose stubbornly refuses to smile and Pep isn't exactly forthcoming with his feelings we shall have to be content with the slow burning Arsene Wenger grin. Oh to be a Premier League manager.
Thursday 12 October 2017
Another wonderful Jewish festival season.
Another wonderful Jewish festival season.
Oh well there it goes. It's the end of another Jewish festival season. Simchat Torah marks the end of our glorious holiday season where rejoicing meets celebration and every Jewish community spends most of the next couple of days singing and dancing. Of course this is not to forget the excessive indulgence of the food and drink type.
We've loved every single moment and in a world of dreadful instability and explosive volatility it's nice to know that somewhere we can still link arms, form a circle and just trip the light fantastic with carefree and cheerful abandon. We can still believe that the families of the world and the children of the world can pass the baton onto the next generation without fearing for their life because the murderous elements that can't be seen are ready and waiting to dwell on our misfortune.
As the last glasses of wine, vodka and brandy were slurped down gleefully and a lavish spread of fish balls, carrots, crisps, cakes and biscuits were consumed with not a pang of guilt, the members of our Finchley Reform synagogue surrendered ourselves blithely to riotous partying and sizzling saturnalia. This was quite truly another one of those joyous days in the Jewish calendar where rabbis and melodious guitarists combined to present us with another display of unfettered music making.
There were times throughout this memorable service today when you could have been forgiven that you were at some very mellifluous folk gathering where folksy hymns became a full blooded homage to the richly expressive world of the Jewish singing community. Occasionally there were nods to the world of the Christian gospel, as the whole Finchley congregation sung at the tops of their harmonious voices totally oblivious to the outside world.
After considerable reading from the Torah and sweetly tuneful prayer renditions from all the congregation, I suddenly noticed out of the corner of my eye a small file of children with equally as little toy Torahs, dazzling fancy dress and some of the most colourful costumes I've ever seen. Both mothers, fathers and grandparents weaved their way around the hall in and out of tables of well covered food, children with cheeky grins joined in and then delirious dancing broke out before lunchtime arrived. Another Simchat Torah entered its way into the archives of history.
On Yom Kippur day I had experienced perhaps one of the most intensely and musically rewarding of all moments. Nothing had prepared me for the most unlikely or improbable of any locations for a Yom Kippur service. But Saracens rugby union club in North London was the host for this amazingly unconventional religious gathering. But hey who cares? Last year I'd witnessed my first Saracens sing song and I just want to keep going back. It was simply stunning.
I have to tell you it was indeed the loveliest of all occasions. Suddenly I was transported to a world of wonderfully and spiritually uplifting choir led singing one which was a privilege to be associated with. Our voices blended almost angelically in beautiful unison. Throughout the whole of that long and emotionally tiring day, Jewish larynxes sang in heavenly harmony like ethereal angels that had just been prompted by some distant harp. It sent the warmest feeling of belonging into every bone and muscle in my body and for that I felt deeply honoured.
Today then we did it all over again. The whole of the Finchley community had gathered to sing, to celebrate, to rhapsodise, to acknowledge and express vast outpourings of gratitude to those around us, to neighbours, friends, friendly shopkeepers, sympathetic doctors, those who may be well intentioned and those who may think that they've been overlooked and forgotten. Fear not the Jewish community is full of cheerful, amiable fun, full of bubbling bonhomie and good wishes for the season. I know it's only October but Happy and Healthy New Year to you all. I think I'll swig down that final small glass of whiskey. Cheers everybody.
Oh well there it goes. It's the end of another Jewish festival season. Simchat Torah marks the end of our glorious holiday season where rejoicing meets celebration and every Jewish community spends most of the next couple of days singing and dancing. Of course this is not to forget the excessive indulgence of the food and drink type.
We've loved every single moment and in a world of dreadful instability and explosive volatility it's nice to know that somewhere we can still link arms, form a circle and just trip the light fantastic with carefree and cheerful abandon. We can still believe that the families of the world and the children of the world can pass the baton onto the next generation without fearing for their life because the murderous elements that can't be seen are ready and waiting to dwell on our misfortune.
As the last glasses of wine, vodka and brandy were slurped down gleefully and a lavish spread of fish balls, carrots, crisps, cakes and biscuits were consumed with not a pang of guilt, the members of our Finchley Reform synagogue surrendered ourselves blithely to riotous partying and sizzling saturnalia. This was quite truly another one of those joyous days in the Jewish calendar where rabbis and melodious guitarists combined to present us with another display of unfettered music making.
There were times throughout this memorable service today when you could have been forgiven that you were at some very mellifluous folk gathering where folksy hymns became a full blooded homage to the richly expressive world of the Jewish singing community. Occasionally there were nods to the world of the Christian gospel, as the whole Finchley congregation sung at the tops of their harmonious voices totally oblivious to the outside world.
After considerable reading from the Torah and sweetly tuneful prayer renditions from all the congregation, I suddenly noticed out of the corner of my eye a small file of children with equally as little toy Torahs, dazzling fancy dress and some of the most colourful costumes I've ever seen. Both mothers, fathers and grandparents weaved their way around the hall in and out of tables of well covered food, children with cheeky grins joined in and then delirious dancing broke out before lunchtime arrived. Another Simchat Torah entered its way into the archives of history.
On Yom Kippur day I had experienced perhaps one of the most intensely and musically rewarding of all moments. Nothing had prepared me for the most unlikely or improbable of any locations for a Yom Kippur service. But Saracens rugby union club in North London was the host for this amazingly unconventional religious gathering. But hey who cares? Last year I'd witnessed my first Saracens sing song and I just want to keep going back. It was simply stunning.
I have to tell you it was indeed the loveliest of all occasions. Suddenly I was transported to a world of wonderfully and spiritually uplifting choir led singing one which was a privilege to be associated with. Our voices blended almost angelically in beautiful unison. Throughout the whole of that long and emotionally tiring day, Jewish larynxes sang in heavenly harmony like ethereal angels that had just been prompted by some distant harp. It sent the warmest feeling of belonging into every bone and muscle in my body and for that I felt deeply honoured.
Today then we did it all over again. The whole of the Finchley community had gathered to sing, to celebrate, to rhapsodise, to acknowledge and express vast outpourings of gratitude to those around us, to neighbours, friends, friendly shopkeepers, sympathetic doctors, those who may be well intentioned and those who may think that they've been overlooked and forgotten. Fear not the Jewish community is full of cheerful, amiable fun, full of bubbling bonhomie and good wishes for the season. I know it's only October but Happy and Healthy New Year to you all. I think I'll swig down that final small glass of whiskey. Cheers everybody.
Tuesday 10 October 2017
Oh Boris Johnson- that Tory toff with a heart of gold.
Oh Boris Johnson- that Tory toff with a heart of gold.
Ladies and Gentlemen. I give you a man by the name of Boris Johnson. After the disastrous fiasco that was the Tory party conference last week the dust has now settled and the Prime Minister Theresa May has recovered her composure. Maybe we all have the kind of day that she had last week where everything that could go wrong does. Still she's a resilient character and the probability is that it may have hardened and strengthened her so all is not lost or maybe she glanced over to Boris Johnson and found that here was an almost reluctant ally in a moment of crisis. He admires her but would really like her job if she doesn't mind.
A week in the life of a politician can often be fraught with danger and may seem a lifetime. When the applause had died down after the Prime Minister had completed her rather unfortunate key speech, a blond haired gentleman had to be almost dragged kicking and screaming to his feet. He ruffled that wild blond thatch on his head, looked up at Amber Rudd and the body language was almost self explanatory. Do I have to clap that infernal nuisance of a woman? Is it really worth my while getting to my feet and applauding an intolerably ineffectual Prime Minister when quite clearly I should be the man up there leading the country. Britain, quite definitely, needs me in charge and he doesn't mind showing it.
So how to explain away the mindset of this remarkable politician? Throughout the land there are those who either loathe or love Boris Johnson. Johnson has divided the whole of Britain but perhaps feel more than comfortable with the mood of the nation or would just like to put the record straight. There is a strange dichotomy of opinion about Boris that reminds you of his fellow Tory Jeffrey Archer. Archer, you suspect, would have had a field day with Johnson as a central character in one of his novels.
Yesterday Boris was keeping his head beneath the parapet as the missiles were still flying at the Government. You feel sure that deep within his mind there is an irresistible compulsion to challenge the Prime Minister in a leadership contest. Johnson looks power crazy and if given half the chance would probably love nothing better than to collaborate with US president Donald Trump in a desperate quest for world domination.
These then are the descriptive words, adjectives, adverbs and nouns that seem to sum up Boris perfectly. You probably know them by now but, whether right or wrong, the impressions are almost unmistakable. He's vain, egotistical, conceited, ambitious, self possessed, self absorbed, narcissistic, ruthless, scheming, shrewd and, quite possibly, pompous. There you are I've said it. Now to those who worship Boris Johnson I heartily apologise but to the most impartial observer, these references do seem to be much closer to the truth.
Admittedly Boris is a towering intellectual, can speak about 20 languages and remains one of our most intelligent, hugely articulate and studious of all politicians. Nobody would deny for a minute that the man has an academic and ingenious mind because he always seems to give ample demonstrations of his genius, intelligence and verbal dexterity. Of course he's a polyglot and polymath but there is something of the alarming megalomaniac about Johnson that does send a shiver down the spine.
This is not to imply that he has racist, homophobic or sexist tendencies. But there is a sense here that the old Etonian in Johnson is still firing on all cylinders. The dinner party giving, champagne quaffing, cigar smoking toff and snob is an inescapable image and perhaps an unfair stereotype. There is a growing belief that this outrageous good time hedonist and eccentric loves to be the centre of attention at all times. Who cares if I look as though I haven't brushed my blond hair for five years? Who cares if I ride my bike through the streets of London? Who cares about my eccentricities because I'm the best politician Britain has ever had and that's the truth.
What is undeniable is that Boris just loves himself and everything associated with himself. Whether he combs his hair in the morning or not is neither here or there. Boris has written books about Churchill, written for the Daily Telegraph, appeared on TV chat shows, written for the Spectator magazine and I do really think I'm the greatest public figure of all time. Occasionally an underlying modesty and charm defines the man but then he opens the wrong door and a complete lack of tact seeps out of him.
Above all, and perhaps most importantly, Johnson does have one very noteworthy addition to his CV. For a number of years he was Mayor of London which sounds pretty commendable. True he attracted some vile abuse and heavy criticism at times and he'd have needed the thickest skin not to feel it. But Boris Johnson was entrusted with perhaps the most wearisome responsibility ever undertaken by one man in a position of authority.
Johnson was attacked and pilloried for the Boris bikes but was promptly let off the hook when it was discovered that the bikes were not the bad idea some thought they would be. Around the West End and City of London the Boris Santander bikes have their very own bike parks with their snazzy designs and suddenly all is well in the world of Boris Johnson.
Then there was Boris banging the drum for London when the capital city was awarded the Olympic Games in 2012. So he did it get right sometimes if not always. The memory, amusingly, takes me back to that famous moment in the Bejing Games in 2008 when Boris looked forward to watching games of wiff waff or words to that effect. Suddenly Boris had become a man of the people, campaigning on behalf of London and unashamedly patriotic.
Still there can be few who would argue that his tenure as Mayor of London passed off without any major international incidents and it could have been a whole lot worse. There is the quiet humanitarian about him that may have been overlooked. He genuinely cares about both London and the rest of Britain and you often detect signs of an endearing vulnerability that makes him very human.
Now of course Boris has got one of the top jobs in the country and may have to tone down the buffoonish tomfoolery for the cameras. Because this is serious and this is very critical. If he gets this one wrong then Prime Minister Theresa May may have to re-consider her options. Boris Johnson is now the Foreign Secretary which means the rules of diplomacy have to be observed whether he likes it or not.
It is hard to know quite what occupies the Johnson mindset. Does he really want to be our all conquering international negotiator or would he rather be renowned for riding bikes around London or quoting Latin to anybody who comes into his circle of discussion. Academic, writer, Mayor of London, bike rider, bluff humorist, multi lingual and lovable eccentric? Is this the way Boris Johnson would like to be remembered? At times it almost looks as if this is the way he'd like to be perceived because this is the way it's always been.
Even so, none can deny that these are intriguing times within the hallowed corridors of the Palace of Westminster. Nobody quite knows where Britain stand in the general scheme of things. This massively complex issue of Brexit or not Brexit that is the question why is beginning to grate upon those who would much rather our politicians change the record and move onto something much more interesting and less repetitive.
But the world loves a joker, a prankster, a seemingly bumbling and blundering individual and Boris seems to fit the bill perfectly. Then somebody asks him the most awkward of questions and Boris stumbles over his words, tongue tired, monosyllabic mess who would rather be pedalling his bike, running frantically around the streets and roads of London, playing table tennis or perhaps writing his speeches. Now that would be worth listening to.
These are difficult and uncertain times for the Tory Government and the tasks ahead are almost unenviable But with Boris Johnson minding his business and trying almost comically to keep a straight face the future could be much brighter than was at first thought possible. Besides it couldn't possibly get any worse. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Denis Skinner as the Prime Minister of Great Britain. Now that's a West End musical begging to be be written. Hey ho!
Ladies and Gentlemen. I give you a man by the name of Boris Johnson. After the disastrous fiasco that was the Tory party conference last week the dust has now settled and the Prime Minister Theresa May has recovered her composure. Maybe we all have the kind of day that she had last week where everything that could go wrong does. Still she's a resilient character and the probability is that it may have hardened and strengthened her so all is not lost or maybe she glanced over to Boris Johnson and found that here was an almost reluctant ally in a moment of crisis. He admires her but would really like her job if she doesn't mind.
A week in the life of a politician can often be fraught with danger and may seem a lifetime. When the applause had died down after the Prime Minister had completed her rather unfortunate key speech, a blond haired gentleman had to be almost dragged kicking and screaming to his feet. He ruffled that wild blond thatch on his head, looked up at Amber Rudd and the body language was almost self explanatory. Do I have to clap that infernal nuisance of a woman? Is it really worth my while getting to my feet and applauding an intolerably ineffectual Prime Minister when quite clearly I should be the man up there leading the country. Britain, quite definitely, needs me in charge and he doesn't mind showing it.
So how to explain away the mindset of this remarkable politician? Throughout the land there are those who either loathe or love Boris Johnson. Johnson has divided the whole of Britain but perhaps feel more than comfortable with the mood of the nation or would just like to put the record straight. There is a strange dichotomy of opinion about Boris that reminds you of his fellow Tory Jeffrey Archer. Archer, you suspect, would have had a field day with Johnson as a central character in one of his novels.
Yesterday Boris was keeping his head beneath the parapet as the missiles were still flying at the Government. You feel sure that deep within his mind there is an irresistible compulsion to challenge the Prime Minister in a leadership contest. Johnson looks power crazy and if given half the chance would probably love nothing better than to collaborate with US president Donald Trump in a desperate quest for world domination.
These then are the descriptive words, adjectives, adverbs and nouns that seem to sum up Boris perfectly. You probably know them by now but, whether right or wrong, the impressions are almost unmistakable. He's vain, egotistical, conceited, ambitious, self possessed, self absorbed, narcissistic, ruthless, scheming, shrewd and, quite possibly, pompous. There you are I've said it. Now to those who worship Boris Johnson I heartily apologise but to the most impartial observer, these references do seem to be much closer to the truth.
Admittedly Boris is a towering intellectual, can speak about 20 languages and remains one of our most intelligent, hugely articulate and studious of all politicians. Nobody would deny for a minute that the man has an academic and ingenious mind because he always seems to give ample demonstrations of his genius, intelligence and verbal dexterity. Of course he's a polyglot and polymath but there is something of the alarming megalomaniac about Johnson that does send a shiver down the spine.
This is not to imply that he has racist, homophobic or sexist tendencies. But there is a sense here that the old Etonian in Johnson is still firing on all cylinders. The dinner party giving, champagne quaffing, cigar smoking toff and snob is an inescapable image and perhaps an unfair stereotype. There is a growing belief that this outrageous good time hedonist and eccentric loves to be the centre of attention at all times. Who cares if I look as though I haven't brushed my blond hair for five years? Who cares if I ride my bike through the streets of London? Who cares about my eccentricities because I'm the best politician Britain has ever had and that's the truth.
What is undeniable is that Boris just loves himself and everything associated with himself. Whether he combs his hair in the morning or not is neither here or there. Boris has written books about Churchill, written for the Daily Telegraph, appeared on TV chat shows, written for the Spectator magazine and I do really think I'm the greatest public figure of all time. Occasionally an underlying modesty and charm defines the man but then he opens the wrong door and a complete lack of tact seeps out of him.
Above all, and perhaps most importantly, Johnson does have one very noteworthy addition to his CV. For a number of years he was Mayor of London which sounds pretty commendable. True he attracted some vile abuse and heavy criticism at times and he'd have needed the thickest skin not to feel it. But Boris Johnson was entrusted with perhaps the most wearisome responsibility ever undertaken by one man in a position of authority.
Johnson was attacked and pilloried for the Boris bikes but was promptly let off the hook when it was discovered that the bikes were not the bad idea some thought they would be. Around the West End and City of London the Boris Santander bikes have their very own bike parks with their snazzy designs and suddenly all is well in the world of Boris Johnson.
Then there was Boris banging the drum for London when the capital city was awarded the Olympic Games in 2012. So he did it get right sometimes if not always. The memory, amusingly, takes me back to that famous moment in the Bejing Games in 2008 when Boris looked forward to watching games of wiff waff or words to that effect. Suddenly Boris had become a man of the people, campaigning on behalf of London and unashamedly patriotic.
Still there can be few who would argue that his tenure as Mayor of London passed off without any major international incidents and it could have been a whole lot worse. There is the quiet humanitarian about him that may have been overlooked. He genuinely cares about both London and the rest of Britain and you often detect signs of an endearing vulnerability that makes him very human.
Now of course Boris has got one of the top jobs in the country and may have to tone down the buffoonish tomfoolery for the cameras. Because this is serious and this is very critical. If he gets this one wrong then Prime Minister Theresa May may have to re-consider her options. Boris Johnson is now the Foreign Secretary which means the rules of diplomacy have to be observed whether he likes it or not.
It is hard to know quite what occupies the Johnson mindset. Does he really want to be our all conquering international negotiator or would he rather be renowned for riding bikes around London or quoting Latin to anybody who comes into his circle of discussion. Academic, writer, Mayor of London, bike rider, bluff humorist, multi lingual and lovable eccentric? Is this the way Boris Johnson would like to be remembered? At times it almost looks as if this is the way he'd like to be perceived because this is the way it's always been.
Even so, none can deny that these are intriguing times within the hallowed corridors of the Palace of Westminster. Nobody quite knows where Britain stand in the general scheme of things. This massively complex issue of Brexit or not Brexit that is the question why is beginning to grate upon those who would much rather our politicians change the record and move onto something much more interesting and less repetitive.
But the world loves a joker, a prankster, a seemingly bumbling and blundering individual and Boris seems to fit the bill perfectly. Then somebody asks him the most awkward of questions and Boris stumbles over his words, tongue tired, monosyllabic mess who would rather be pedalling his bike, running frantically around the streets and roads of London, playing table tennis or perhaps writing his speeches. Now that would be worth listening to.
These are difficult and uncertain times for the Tory Government and the tasks ahead are almost unenviable But with Boris Johnson minding his business and trying almost comically to keep a straight face the future could be much brighter than was at first thought possible. Besides it couldn't possibly get any worse. Ladies and Gentlemen I give you Denis Skinner as the Prime Minister of Great Britain. Now that's a West End musical begging to be be written. Hey ho!
Sunday 8 October 2017
Manor House in all its glory.
Manor House in all its glory.
The Manor House landscape is quite unlike any other landscape in Britain. Or maybe it's the same but it just looks markedly different. When the old Woodberry Down estate came tumbling down like an enormous set of dominoes, most of the local residents around here looked on with a combination of breathless relief and perhaps a tinge of nostalgic regret. After all, most of the old flats had been there for as long as anybody could remember and it was a crying shame to see them go in one big, radical change for the better.
But now Manor House is gradually turning into a mini city, a huge, sprawling mass of million pound tower blocks, modern and soaring blocks of architectural virtue that look like the 21st century and feel like the 21st century. When my wife moved into Manor House in 2003 the whole of Woodberry Down resembled some fading post war block of flats that hadn't been touched since Churchill was a boy. They were never run down or derelict as such because I feel sure that the people who had lived in them were more than satisfied with their lot. It was a home from home, it had provided a roof over their heads but maybe they'd become too settled and the march of time had caught up with them and passed them by.
My mum has lived in the same house for over 51 years now and there is a sense that many of us develop a deeply felt emotional connection with the home we were brought up with. When my parents moved into their home our living room was roughly the size of a match box, a piano stood bravely in the corner of the living room and a small goldfish bowl that we called a TV rented from DER was tucked away unobtrusively in the corner just waiting to be switched off and on without the aid of a remote control. But hey we were happy. Of course we were happy.
Now 51 years later in a quiet corner of North London suburbia we are now surrounded by renewal, regeneration and just a hint of funky modernity. Around the corner to us there is a trustworthy post office, a Tesco Metro that reminds you of those corner shop supermarkets that once flourished in the 1970s and a cheerful newsagents. I can still see the much smaller, much cosier Sainsbury's next to Gants Hill station in Ilford, Essex where I grew up, with two aisles selling tinned food on the middle shelf and frozen food in the surrounding freezers.
There were no big, bumper crops of food occupying huge acres of space, just a couple of meat counters, cheese slicing counters and quite the largest cash register at the front of the shop, a cash register with those lovely clunking keys. It was, perhaps,10 shillings for cakes and biscuits, 20 shillings for a tin of baked beans and a loaf of bread would probably have set you back an extortionate 15 shillings. Everything seemed to be cheap back in the 1960s so these are just estimates. I'm sure you'll tell me that I'm way off the correct price but everything in those days seemed a couple of shillings, in let's say, 1965. How we lived life to the full back then but in retrospect this is the way we'd always shopped and in an age before rampant consumerism maybe we've lost sight of our material values.
Today's giant food amphitheatre with its expansive walkways and giant price signs tends to lose its customers in some desolate wasteland. It is a world of detachment and isolation from the rest of the world that seems almost tragic in its way. Everybody knew everybody back then or maybe not everybody but it just seemed that way. The whole Gants Hill community was squeezed into this quaint looking corner shop that would one day become a giant supermarket with bells and whistles, immense choice and a superabundance of everything. We are now spoilt for choice and maybe that's a good thing.
Anyway back in Manor House here we are in the middle of what seems like Europe's biggest building site. My wife made that observation and I have to tell you she's absolutely right. It is almost as if a brand spanking new community has popped up overnight. All of the residents knew it was coming and were powerless to stop it. You can never stop the rapid pace of progress, that sweet air of ambition, forward thinking and that vastly impressive hint of rich renaissance that has now transformed the whole of Manor House into a upwardly mobile community with new shiny flats and new everything.
Suddenly the professional classes have moved into Woodberry Down, aspirational dotcom businessmen and women, IT experts, high tech offices with high tech minds and high tech computers for good measure. They represent the future of London's new zeitgeist, its organic coffee drinking masses, its environmentally friendly neighbours. Suddenly Manor House is the fashionable place to live, the place for stretching out its influence on a global scale and growing together. The flats look scenically over the placid waters of Woodberry Wetlands with its great crested grebes, herons, kingfishers and herons. But then this maybe not be everybody's cup of tea.
Next door to us a wooden lattice fencing divides us from a world that so severely polarises opinion. For as far as I can see here is a scene of heavy industry, masses of building paraphernalia and everything that could possibly go into the creation of an exciting new world. None of us thought we'd ever see such revolutionary change, a stunning sense of evolution and a completely re-furbished new London suburb. But I think we've got to used to all of this upheaval and this is here to stay.
Here I can see what seem to be hundreds of cement mixers, tiny white Portakabins, burgeoning paths and tiny roads, a multitude of diggers and JCB's, huge bags of sand and cement, tall and imposing forklift trucks with yellow arms, knees, legs, shoulders and toes. All human life is not quite here but it does look the kind of place where everything is unceremoniously dumped and just forgotten about over the weekend. It looks very sad and neglected over the weekend when most of the men onsite are either supping their Sunday pint of lager or playing football at Hackney Marshes.
I think it's the yellow forklift trucks that capture my attention. They seemed to be sandwiched in between tiny mounds of sand that look as if they should be gracing a seaside resort rather than a dynamic housing project. There are tightly packed yellow bags accompanied by large grey bricks and breeze block bricks that must have been bought in by the local timber merchants. This is a very active and vibrant area where the dramatic housing re-development meets head on with go- ahead plans and a thrilling sense of innovation.
We could never have imagined that one day that an old fashioned council estate would one day become a super sized and glamorous housing phenomenon. The Woodberry Down estate is still there but some of the old currency has now gone and the millions of pounds that are now being poured into this residential paradise may not be the dream properties as described in the brochure. My wife tells me that most of these new flats are disappointingly, much smaller than you would have thought. But there is a towering splendour about some of these new apartment blocks that do catch the eye.
Still here we are on a Sunday morning in early October and all is well with the world. A dark green boarding carefully protects the main building area. On the pavements yellowing leaves are scattered around like lost strangers with nowhere to go. The colour of the trees has turned a darker and distinctly duller shade. The leaves now look completely brown and, it has to be said sadder. They fall off the trees in dejected clusters, bowing their heads and then slumping to the ground in resigned acceptance.
Today is the Harvest Festival, a Christian tradition that used to be the cue for much merriment, song and applause at my primary school. Many was the occasion when the children at our school would be regularly requested to bring in tins of food, loaves of bread and mouth watering delicacies. Then one of our brilliant teachers would turn into a well motivated pianist and tinkle the ivories at the morning Assembly, a place where resounding hymns were reverentially sung. Oh happy days. For the Jewish kids such as myself a Jewish room would be set aside but the Harvest Festival was the equivalent of the Jewish succot so nobody questioned the status quo.
So there you have it. Manor House is quite literally singing from the same hymn sheet. All around us Sunday is the day for slowing down and taking it easy. On my run around Woodberry Wetlands, the whole community seemed to be strolling around the gravelled pathways with a noticeable calm and ease. There's no point in running after buses or trains because Sundays are still reserved for rest and recreation.
Next door to us, and most conveniently so, is our precious health centre, a doctor's surgery that looks completely out of character in relation to all of the brand new structures around us. It looks as if it was built at the beginning of the 1950s and inside the surgery noticeable improvements have been made but there is a sense even now that Cliff Richard had just popped into the surgery after an appearance on Oh Boy.
But it's now time to prepare for the winter ahead in London suburbia. It still feels as if summer has paid us the most fleeting of visits. Most of us have our considered opinions on the British summer and wherever you are and whatever your personal take may be Manor House is still alive and well, functioning purposefully and just switching the lights on 4.00 in the afternoon. Soon the all enveloping darkness will draw in and the gathering gloom will be relieved by Lithuania taking on England in a pointless World Cup qualifier. Life doesn't get any better. Life is indeed precious.
The Manor House landscape is quite unlike any other landscape in Britain. Or maybe it's the same but it just looks markedly different. When the old Woodberry Down estate came tumbling down like an enormous set of dominoes, most of the local residents around here looked on with a combination of breathless relief and perhaps a tinge of nostalgic regret. After all, most of the old flats had been there for as long as anybody could remember and it was a crying shame to see them go in one big, radical change for the better.
But now Manor House is gradually turning into a mini city, a huge, sprawling mass of million pound tower blocks, modern and soaring blocks of architectural virtue that look like the 21st century and feel like the 21st century. When my wife moved into Manor House in 2003 the whole of Woodberry Down resembled some fading post war block of flats that hadn't been touched since Churchill was a boy. They were never run down or derelict as such because I feel sure that the people who had lived in them were more than satisfied with their lot. It was a home from home, it had provided a roof over their heads but maybe they'd become too settled and the march of time had caught up with them and passed them by.
My mum has lived in the same house for over 51 years now and there is a sense that many of us develop a deeply felt emotional connection with the home we were brought up with. When my parents moved into their home our living room was roughly the size of a match box, a piano stood bravely in the corner of the living room and a small goldfish bowl that we called a TV rented from DER was tucked away unobtrusively in the corner just waiting to be switched off and on without the aid of a remote control. But hey we were happy. Of course we were happy.
Now 51 years later in a quiet corner of North London suburbia we are now surrounded by renewal, regeneration and just a hint of funky modernity. Around the corner to us there is a trustworthy post office, a Tesco Metro that reminds you of those corner shop supermarkets that once flourished in the 1970s and a cheerful newsagents. I can still see the much smaller, much cosier Sainsbury's next to Gants Hill station in Ilford, Essex where I grew up, with two aisles selling tinned food on the middle shelf and frozen food in the surrounding freezers.
There were no big, bumper crops of food occupying huge acres of space, just a couple of meat counters, cheese slicing counters and quite the largest cash register at the front of the shop, a cash register with those lovely clunking keys. It was, perhaps,10 shillings for cakes and biscuits, 20 shillings for a tin of baked beans and a loaf of bread would probably have set you back an extortionate 15 shillings. Everything seemed to be cheap back in the 1960s so these are just estimates. I'm sure you'll tell me that I'm way off the correct price but everything in those days seemed a couple of shillings, in let's say, 1965. How we lived life to the full back then but in retrospect this is the way we'd always shopped and in an age before rampant consumerism maybe we've lost sight of our material values.
Today's giant food amphitheatre with its expansive walkways and giant price signs tends to lose its customers in some desolate wasteland. It is a world of detachment and isolation from the rest of the world that seems almost tragic in its way. Everybody knew everybody back then or maybe not everybody but it just seemed that way. The whole Gants Hill community was squeezed into this quaint looking corner shop that would one day become a giant supermarket with bells and whistles, immense choice and a superabundance of everything. We are now spoilt for choice and maybe that's a good thing.
Anyway back in Manor House here we are in the middle of what seems like Europe's biggest building site. My wife made that observation and I have to tell you she's absolutely right. It is almost as if a brand spanking new community has popped up overnight. All of the residents knew it was coming and were powerless to stop it. You can never stop the rapid pace of progress, that sweet air of ambition, forward thinking and that vastly impressive hint of rich renaissance that has now transformed the whole of Manor House into a upwardly mobile community with new shiny flats and new everything.
Suddenly the professional classes have moved into Woodberry Down, aspirational dotcom businessmen and women, IT experts, high tech offices with high tech minds and high tech computers for good measure. They represent the future of London's new zeitgeist, its organic coffee drinking masses, its environmentally friendly neighbours. Suddenly Manor House is the fashionable place to live, the place for stretching out its influence on a global scale and growing together. The flats look scenically over the placid waters of Woodberry Wetlands with its great crested grebes, herons, kingfishers and herons. But then this maybe not be everybody's cup of tea.
Next door to us a wooden lattice fencing divides us from a world that so severely polarises opinion. For as far as I can see here is a scene of heavy industry, masses of building paraphernalia and everything that could possibly go into the creation of an exciting new world. None of us thought we'd ever see such revolutionary change, a stunning sense of evolution and a completely re-furbished new London suburb. But I think we've got to used to all of this upheaval and this is here to stay.
Here I can see what seem to be hundreds of cement mixers, tiny white Portakabins, burgeoning paths and tiny roads, a multitude of diggers and JCB's, huge bags of sand and cement, tall and imposing forklift trucks with yellow arms, knees, legs, shoulders and toes. All human life is not quite here but it does look the kind of place where everything is unceremoniously dumped and just forgotten about over the weekend. It looks very sad and neglected over the weekend when most of the men onsite are either supping their Sunday pint of lager or playing football at Hackney Marshes.
I think it's the yellow forklift trucks that capture my attention. They seemed to be sandwiched in between tiny mounds of sand that look as if they should be gracing a seaside resort rather than a dynamic housing project. There are tightly packed yellow bags accompanied by large grey bricks and breeze block bricks that must have been bought in by the local timber merchants. This is a very active and vibrant area where the dramatic housing re-development meets head on with go- ahead plans and a thrilling sense of innovation.
We could never have imagined that one day that an old fashioned council estate would one day become a super sized and glamorous housing phenomenon. The Woodberry Down estate is still there but some of the old currency has now gone and the millions of pounds that are now being poured into this residential paradise may not be the dream properties as described in the brochure. My wife tells me that most of these new flats are disappointingly, much smaller than you would have thought. But there is a towering splendour about some of these new apartment blocks that do catch the eye.
Still here we are on a Sunday morning in early October and all is well with the world. A dark green boarding carefully protects the main building area. On the pavements yellowing leaves are scattered around like lost strangers with nowhere to go. The colour of the trees has turned a darker and distinctly duller shade. The leaves now look completely brown and, it has to be said sadder. They fall off the trees in dejected clusters, bowing their heads and then slumping to the ground in resigned acceptance.
Today is the Harvest Festival, a Christian tradition that used to be the cue for much merriment, song and applause at my primary school. Many was the occasion when the children at our school would be regularly requested to bring in tins of food, loaves of bread and mouth watering delicacies. Then one of our brilliant teachers would turn into a well motivated pianist and tinkle the ivories at the morning Assembly, a place where resounding hymns were reverentially sung. Oh happy days. For the Jewish kids such as myself a Jewish room would be set aside but the Harvest Festival was the equivalent of the Jewish succot so nobody questioned the status quo.
So there you have it. Manor House is quite literally singing from the same hymn sheet. All around us Sunday is the day for slowing down and taking it easy. On my run around Woodberry Wetlands, the whole community seemed to be strolling around the gravelled pathways with a noticeable calm and ease. There's no point in running after buses or trains because Sundays are still reserved for rest and recreation.
Next door to us, and most conveniently so, is our precious health centre, a doctor's surgery that looks completely out of character in relation to all of the brand new structures around us. It looks as if it was built at the beginning of the 1950s and inside the surgery noticeable improvements have been made but there is a sense even now that Cliff Richard had just popped into the surgery after an appearance on Oh Boy.
But it's now time to prepare for the winter ahead in London suburbia. It still feels as if summer has paid us the most fleeting of visits. Most of us have our considered opinions on the British summer and wherever you are and whatever your personal take may be Manor House is still alive and well, functioning purposefully and just switching the lights on 4.00 in the afternoon. Soon the all enveloping darkness will draw in and the gathering gloom will be relieved by Lithuania taking on England in a pointless World Cup qualifier. Life doesn't get any better. Life is indeed precious.
Friday 6 October 2017
England narrowly beat Slovenia and claim World Cup place in Russia.
England narrowly beat Slovenia and claim World Cup place in Russia.
It was indeed rather like watching paint dry or having your teeth pulled by the most respected dentist in the world. Oh how dreadful this was. Inside the vast sporting theatre that is Wembley Stadium, you could almost hear a collective snoring such had been the unrelenting tedium that they'd just witnessed. Sooner or later an extensive inquest will be held into this mind numbingly atrocious and incompetent England display. The boo hiss, pantomime villain season had well and truly arrived in North London and only Gareth Southgate, the England boss, could possibly give an adequate explanation that sounded vaguely convincing.
Of course England have now claimed their World Cup place next summer in Russia but what exactly were they doing last night? Did somebody spike their energy drinks with some illicit substance. Surely not? The very thought of such nasty malpractice would have been clamped down upon almost immediately by both the FA and FIFA. But there was something terribly amiss and there was an underlying current of embarrassment running right through the England team that had to be seen to be believed.
For the entire 90 minutes England not only huffed and puffed but were leggy and leaden, flat footed at times, awkward, pedestrian, sloppy, careless and just for good measure, pathetic for the whole duration of the match. When some wag in the crowd threw a paper plane onto the pitch in the second half it was followed ironically by another set of aircraft with even bigger fuselages. Then there was another chorus of jeering, sneering and sighing as Gareth Southgate's one paced men staggered around the national stadium as if barely acquainted with each other.
Your mind flitted back to a similar scenario at this time of the year in 1973. Then England's fate was sealed painfully in another World Cup qualifier when Poland came to Wembley and sent Sir Alf Ramsey's England packing denied the opportunity to go to West Germany for what should have been a well deserved place in the 1974 World Cup. But Alan Clarke's equalising penalty for England was not enough and England and Sir Alf Ramsey walked the plank. Sometimes you get the impression that England genuinely enjoy tormenting their fans.
Admittedly last night's narrow 1-0 victory did have different repercussions and the result worked in their favour this time but you would never have known it. England never really started the game against Slovenia and when the passes began to go astray and the thought processes became inextricably tangled up in a complex web of muddle and blunder, the fans slowly became aware of England's complete lack of any direction, method, shape and a helpless ineptitude.
Not for the first time during their uncomfortable if triumphant roller coaster of a World Cup qualifying campaign, England left it until injury time of the 90 minutes before finally saving us all the humiliation of watching the national side being held to a goal-less draw by a Slovenia side who would probably have struggled to beat Rochdale on a good day.
This is no good for the blood pressure for those of us who have given such emotional investment to the national team for so many years. In fact there were frequent points during the match when some of the fans may have been tempted to drive home in one of the Vauxhall cars being widely advertised around Wembley. Certainly the engine and carburettor were sadly missing and nobody had bothered to put any petrol into England's tank last night.
In fact at some point somebody may have to take this vehicle in for a good service and MOT. This was a ridiculously hard watch and by the end of the game most of us were desperately searching for the off button. It was excruciatingly painful and not for those who like their England football matches straightforward.
We knew that Slovenia would probably take the game much more seriously than their predecessors but apart from sporadic moments of a Slovenia threat this was not a complicated task. You shuddered to think what England's next two friendly opponents Brazil and Germany would have made of this frivolous music hall comedy. Maybe they'd have taken England to cleaners but then the laundry bill would have been far too expensive. Suffice it to say that England looked washed out, disorganised and dishevelled. It was both clean and respectable but then you thought of Brazil and Germany and wondered whether they'd be quite so compassionate towards England.
Once again though England did bear an uncanny resemblance to the celebrated Leeds United side of the late 1960s and 70s under the growling and grumbling Don Revie. Revie, as may well be remembered, didn't believe in outward emotion and anything that could be regarded as open and demonstrative. Management for Revie seemed a workaday chore rather than something to get excited about. In that thick brown sheepskin coat, Revie was initially acclaimed the saviour of the England football team but then a whole group of Arab sheikhs came along and it all went disastrously wrong.
Last night England wore the same kind of white shirts and red socks that so distinguished Revie's showboating 11. Here though the parallels ended because at no point did last night England have a Norman Hunter lashing out with ferocious tackles or a Peter Lorimer firing thunderbolts at terrified goalkeepers. And Harry Kane was no Billy Bremner with his fiery ginger head and temperamental outbursts. Jordan Henderson is slowly growing into his very specific midfield playmaking role but Johnny Giles he most certainly isn't yet.
Still when all the dust settles down and the all the fuss subsides the truth is that England have made it to another World Cup and those Russians had better be watching. Or perhaps not. For whatever reason England spent a whole match looking for avenues that were quickly closed down, channels that were completely shut and a goal that looked to be in some remote part of the world where no civilisation has been spotted.
At times England seemed to be looking for a pot of gold that was hidden deep in the bowels of earth. England must have felt that their terms of engagement came with several clauses and no real guarantee. All too often Gareth Southgate's men built what looked like an impressive head of steam only to find that the passes were intended for no man's land. The complete lack of joined up thinking and co-ordination within this England team verged on the amateurish at times. There must have been something in their tea.
You looked up to the VIP box at Wembley and spotted the legendary Sir Bobby Charlton staring down on the pitch he once so illuminated 51 years in England's one and only World Cup. What must have been going through his mind. How today's England would have snapped up a player of Charlton's explosive shooting power and all around presence on the pitch. Where Charlton once glided England last night crawled sluggishly, forever losing the ball in potentially rewarding areas of the pitch.
True Spurs Eric Dier did have one of his typically sure footed and composed games for England, protecting the ball shrewdly in his holding midfield player role before finally discovering that it was safe to come out of defence. Dier's distribution of the ball was once again clever and sensible, a player of commonsense and discretion being the better part of valour.
Ryan Bertrand and Gary Cahill were dependably secure at the back as well and although caught out on one or two occasions both Bertrand and Gary Cahill looked like shopkeepers doing their utmost to make sure that the shelves were fully stocked up. Cahill, who guided Chelsea to last season's Premier League, looked as if he'd been around for much longer than some might have thought. Cahill was solid and immovable, smart in his interceptions and decisive in the tackle.
Once again Jordan Henderson in England's midfield boiler room looked suitably in control, a player with innumerable creative juices, a wonderful footballing brain and splendidly poised on the ball. There were times when Henderson had something of the Bryan Robson, David Beckham and further back Johnny Haynes about him. Henderson is very driven, commanding, controlled and completely disciplined. His passing has a sumptuous quality and there is perhaps an embryonic Trevor Brooking about Henderson which may be the ultimate compliment you could pay him. But last night wasn't quite Henderson's night nor for his colleagues.
Then there was Raheem Sterling and Alex Oxlade Chamberlain accompanying Henderson on his travels. Sterling is an exceptionally gifted winger but any comparisons to Steve Coppell or Peter Barnes may be reserved for another day. Wingers were always Sir Alf Ramsey's public enemy number one although John Connelly and Terry Paine could always be called upon when necessary.
In Sterling's case the jury may have to go into deliberation for some time. Sterling has a brilliant turn of pace and can run at defenders with insolent ease. But insolence is not what English football requires at the moment and there are moments when Sterling overplays the sorcery and chicanery. He tricks his way past opponents as if were all done on impulse. Then the ball makes other decisions for him and the moment passes. If only he could score every time he touches the ball then football would be the essentially simple game it's always been.
Then he wastefully loses the ball and looks aghast at the rest of the world as if life is one big conspiracy. Sterling almost scored with the ball that fell straight at his feet. The shot was heading for the net before a Slovenian foot diverted the ball away. Sterling looked to the skies in astonishment as if he fervently believed that a goal was the least he deserved. Sadly for all his scheming, conniving and foraging the magician from Manchester City found a rabbit but little else. Sterling remains an integral part of England's World Cup plans but there is a worrying tendency towards over elaboration. When Sterling collides into a wall of defenders you begin to think about that unnecessary expenditure of energy. Still Sterling is worth his weight in gold, a valuable player in every sense of the word.
For Alex Oxlade Chamberlain the sentiments are much the same. At Arsenal Oxlade Chamberlain could have been Anders Limpar or Marc Overmars in disguise although both Limpar and Overmars had that hint of subtlety and mystery that Oxlade Chamberlain has yet to achieve at the moment. But then Arsene Wenger began to have lingering doubts about Oxlade Chamberlain and although outstandingly imaginative with the ball at times Oxlade Chamberlain now wears the red shirt of Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool. Like Sterling, Chamberlain has a glorious lightness of touch and sensitivity on the ball that few of his peers can boast. He weaves, dodges, cuts inside full backs deviously, steps over and drags back with admirable consistency.
And then right at the very end of this terribly anti climactic World Cup qualifier that man struck again. At Tottenham the fans can hardly believe that years after the immortal Jimmy Greaves, Martin Chivers and more recently the Gary Lineker goal scoring spree, they can once again hold their heads high. His name is Harry Kane and he is currently setting the world alight with his natural flair for scoring goals from all angles. Kane is scoring goals for fun and the recent spectacular at Everton from way out on the touchline and the two he pocketed almost naturally at West Ham have now been topped off and tailed for England.
With the minutes ticking away last night and their patience worn thin, Kane did something that a vast majority of England football fans thought had been beyond his capacity. Kyle Walker who seems to getting faster and faster with every game at Manchester City, ran into a space from another poor Slovenian defensive clearance. Walker charged forward into acres of space, spotted Kane running sharply into the Slovenian penalty area in anticipation before connecting instantly and slipping the ball into the back into the net under a flailing Slovenian keeper. England are World Cup bound next year.
Meanwhile back on the Wembley pitch injury time had been completed, Kane leaping into the air with his jubilant jump and celebratory fist pump. Wembley Stadium still looked in a state of shock rather than celebration. For 90 minutes England's fans. who must have wished they'd spent their evening at Homebase or doing the weekly shop at Tesco, exploded into life as if all England games should be decided at nigh on midnight. Bring on those Russian Cossacks.
It was indeed rather like watching paint dry or having your teeth pulled by the most respected dentist in the world. Oh how dreadful this was. Inside the vast sporting theatre that is Wembley Stadium, you could almost hear a collective snoring such had been the unrelenting tedium that they'd just witnessed. Sooner or later an extensive inquest will be held into this mind numbingly atrocious and incompetent England display. The boo hiss, pantomime villain season had well and truly arrived in North London and only Gareth Southgate, the England boss, could possibly give an adequate explanation that sounded vaguely convincing.
Of course England have now claimed their World Cup place next summer in Russia but what exactly were they doing last night? Did somebody spike their energy drinks with some illicit substance. Surely not? The very thought of such nasty malpractice would have been clamped down upon almost immediately by both the FA and FIFA. But there was something terribly amiss and there was an underlying current of embarrassment running right through the England team that had to be seen to be believed.
For the entire 90 minutes England not only huffed and puffed but were leggy and leaden, flat footed at times, awkward, pedestrian, sloppy, careless and just for good measure, pathetic for the whole duration of the match. When some wag in the crowd threw a paper plane onto the pitch in the second half it was followed ironically by another set of aircraft with even bigger fuselages. Then there was another chorus of jeering, sneering and sighing as Gareth Southgate's one paced men staggered around the national stadium as if barely acquainted with each other.
Your mind flitted back to a similar scenario at this time of the year in 1973. Then England's fate was sealed painfully in another World Cup qualifier when Poland came to Wembley and sent Sir Alf Ramsey's England packing denied the opportunity to go to West Germany for what should have been a well deserved place in the 1974 World Cup. But Alan Clarke's equalising penalty for England was not enough and England and Sir Alf Ramsey walked the plank. Sometimes you get the impression that England genuinely enjoy tormenting their fans.
Admittedly last night's narrow 1-0 victory did have different repercussions and the result worked in their favour this time but you would never have known it. England never really started the game against Slovenia and when the passes began to go astray and the thought processes became inextricably tangled up in a complex web of muddle and blunder, the fans slowly became aware of England's complete lack of any direction, method, shape and a helpless ineptitude.
Not for the first time during their uncomfortable if triumphant roller coaster of a World Cup qualifying campaign, England left it until injury time of the 90 minutes before finally saving us all the humiliation of watching the national side being held to a goal-less draw by a Slovenia side who would probably have struggled to beat Rochdale on a good day.
This is no good for the blood pressure for those of us who have given such emotional investment to the national team for so many years. In fact there were frequent points during the match when some of the fans may have been tempted to drive home in one of the Vauxhall cars being widely advertised around Wembley. Certainly the engine and carburettor were sadly missing and nobody had bothered to put any petrol into England's tank last night.
In fact at some point somebody may have to take this vehicle in for a good service and MOT. This was a ridiculously hard watch and by the end of the game most of us were desperately searching for the off button. It was excruciatingly painful and not for those who like their England football matches straightforward.
We knew that Slovenia would probably take the game much more seriously than their predecessors but apart from sporadic moments of a Slovenia threat this was not a complicated task. You shuddered to think what England's next two friendly opponents Brazil and Germany would have made of this frivolous music hall comedy. Maybe they'd have taken England to cleaners but then the laundry bill would have been far too expensive. Suffice it to say that England looked washed out, disorganised and dishevelled. It was both clean and respectable but then you thought of Brazil and Germany and wondered whether they'd be quite so compassionate towards England.
Once again though England did bear an uncanny resemblance to the celebrated Leeds United side of the late 1960s and 70s under the growling and grumbling Don Revie. Revie, as may well be remembered, didn't believe in outward emotion and anything that could be regarded as open and demonstrative. Management for Revie seemed a workaday chore rather than something to get excited about. In that thick brown sheepskin coat, Revie was initially acclaimed the saviour of the England football team but then a whole group of Arab sheikhs came along and it all went disastrously wrong.
Last night England wore the same kind of white shirts and red socks that so distinguished Revie's showboating 11. Here though the parallels ended because at no point did last night England have a Norman Hunter lashing out with ferocious tackles or a Peter Lorimer firing thunderbolts at terrified goalkeepers. And Harry Kane was no Billy Bremner with his fiery ginger head and temperamental outbursts. Jordan Henderson is slowly growing into his very specific midfield playmaking role but Johnny Giles he most certainly isn't yet.
Still when all the dust settles down and the all the fuss subsides the truth is that England have made it to another World Cup and those Russians had better be watching. Or perhaps not. For whatever reason England spent a whole match looking for avenues that were quickly closed down, channels that were completely shut and a goal that looked to be in some remote part of the world where no civilisation has been spotted.
At times England seemed to be looking for a pot of gold that was hidden deep in the bowels of earth. England must have felt that their terms of engagement came with several clauses and no real guarantee. All too often Gareth Southgate's men built what looked like an impressive head of steam only to find that the passes were intended for no man's land. The complete lack of joined up thinking and co-ordination within this England team verged on the amateurish at times. There must have been something in their tea.
You looked up to the VIP box at Wembley and spotted the legendary Sir Bobby Charlton staring down on the pitch he once so illuminated 51 years in England's one and only World Cup. What must have been going through his mind. How today's England would have snapped up a player of Charlton's explosive shooting power and all around presence on the pitch. Where Charlton once glided England last night crawled sluggishly, forever losing the ball in potentially rewarding areas of the pitch.
True Spurs Eric Dier did have one of his typically sure footed and composed games for England, protecting the ball shrewdly in his holding midfield player role before finally discovering that it was safe to come out of defence. Dier's distribution of the ball was once again clever and sensible, a player of commonsense and discretion being the better part of valour.
Ryan Bertrand and Gary Cahill were dependably secure at the back as well and although caught out on one or two occasions both Bertrand and Gary Cahill looked like shopkeepers doing their utmost to make sure that the shelves were fully stocked up. Cahill, who guided Chelsea to last season's Premier League, looked as if he'd been around for much longer than some might have thought. Cahill was solid and immovable, smart in his interceptions and decisive in the tackle.
Once again Jordan Henderson in England's midfield boiler room looked suitably in control, a player with innumerable creative juices, a wonderful footballing brain and splendidly poised on the ball. There were times when Henderson had something of the Bryan Robson, David Beckham and further back Johnny Haynes about him. Henderson is very driven, commanding, controlled and completely disciplined. His passing has a sumptuous quality and there is perhaps an embryonic Trevor Brooking about Henderson which may be the ultimate compliment you could pay him. But last night wasn't quite Henderson's night nor for his colleagues.
Then there was Raheem Sterling and Alex Oxlade Chamberlain accompanying Henderson on his travels. Sterling is an exceptionally gifted winger but any comparisons to Steve Coppell or Peter Barnes may be reserved for another day. Wingers were always Sir Alf Ramsey's public enemy number one although John Connelly and Terry Paine could always be called upon when necessary.
In Sterling's case the jury may have to go into deliberation for some time. Sterling has a brilliant turn of pace and can run at defenders with insolent ease. But insolence is not what English football requires at the moment and there are moments when Sterling overplays the sorcery and chicanery. He tricks his way past opponents as if were all done on impulse. Then the ball makes other decisions for him and the moment passes. If only he could score every time he touches the ball then football would be the essentially simple game it's always been.
Then he wastefully loses the ball and looks aghast at the rest of the world as if life is one big conspiracy. Sterling almost scored with the ball that fell straight at his feet. The shot was heading for the net before a Slovenian foot diverted the ball away. Sterling looked to the skies in astonishment as if he fervently believed that a goal was the least he deserved. Sadly for all his scheming, conniving and foraging the magician from Manchester City found a rabbit but little else. Sterling remains an integral part of England's World Cup plans but there is a worrying tendency towards over elaboration. When Sterling collides into a wall of defenders you begin to think about that unnecessary expenditure of energy. Still Sterling is worth his weight in gold, a valuable player in every sense of the word.
For Alex Oxlade Chamberlain the sentiments are much the same. At Arsenal Oxlade Chamberlain could have been Anders Limpar or Marc Overmars in disguise although both Limpar and Overmars had that hint of subtlety and mystery that Oxlade Chamberlain has yet to achieve at the moment. But then Arsene Wenger began to have lingering doubts about Oxlade Chamberlain and although outstandingly imaginative with the ball at times Oxlade Chamberlain now wears the red shirt of Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool. Like Sterling, Chamberlain has a glorious lightness of touch and sensitivity on the ball that few of his peers can boast. He weaves, dodges, cuts inside full backs deviously, steps over and drags back with admirable consistency.
And then right at the very end of this terribly anti climactic World Cup qualifier that man struck again. At Tottenham the fans can hardly believe that years after the immortal Jimmy Greaves, Martin Chivers and more recently the Gary Lineker goal scoring spree, they can once again hold their heads high. His name is Harry Kane and he is currently setting the world alight with his natural flair for scoring goals from all angles. Kane is scoring goals for fun and the recent spectacular at Everton from way out on the touchline and the two he pocketed almost naturally at West Ham have now been topped off and tailed for England.
With the minutes ticking away last night and their patience worn thin, Kane did something that a vast majority of England football fans thought had been beyond his capacity. Kyle Walker who seems to getting faster and faster with every game at Manchester City, ran into a space from another poor Slovenian defensive clearance. Walker charged forward into acres of space, spotted Kane running sharply into the Slovenian penalty area in anticipation before connecting instantly and slipping the ball into the back into the net under a flailing Slovenian keeper. England are World Cup bound next year.
Meanwhile back on the Wembley pitch injury time had been completed, Kane leaping into the air with his jubilant jump and celebratory fist pump. Wembley Stadium still looked in a state of shock rather than celebration. For 90 minutes England's fans. who must have wished they'd spent their evening at Homebase or doing the weekly shop at Tesco, exploded into life as if all England games should be decided at nigh on midnight. Bring on those Russian Cossacks.
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