West Ham chewed up by hungry Everton toffees.

West Ham chewed up by hungry Everton toffees.

For the small contingent of West Ham supporters at Goodison Park last night this was one of the occasions where you simply wanted to close your eyes, look at the ground and think of more pressing issues. Most of the claret and blue huddle on Merseyside must have been cursing their decision to jump onto a train or into a car and make that nightmarishly long journey from East London to Merseyside to support their struggling, angst ridden team.

But they did make it in the end and such loyalty and devotion to the cause was almost rashly overlooked by a West Ham team who, quite clearly, seem to be going nowhere fast and sinking deeper into the quicksand of relegation. For some of us this is such a familiar story that some of us already know how the book ends. We may hope that everybody lives happily ever after but the suspicion is that it'll end in tears, tantrums and boardroom upheaval is too well founded

What we had at Goodison was a spicy reunion of one former player with his old club, a manager who had now returned to his former stomping ground and a manager in waiting who used to be charge of last opponents. Football loves its coincidences and quirky back stories but this was too much to take in the space of 90 minutes of football.

In the blue Everton corner there was David Unsworth, formerly a tall, strapping central defender for West Ham for whom opposing forwards feared to tread. Last night Unsworth was back on his hometown guiding Everton in a caretaker capacity. By the end of this game Unsworth could lock up the gates, drop the keys into his pocket and then store away the bucket and mop. His job had been done and none could have asked anymore of him. This caretaker manager malarkey isn't that bad and he could probably could get used to it but Everton had other ideas.

In the claret and blue corner there was David Moyes, formerly the consistently and impressively successful manager of Everton. Moyes was back at Goodison cobbling together the broken pieces of a West Ham side who at the moment look like a team in sharp decline, accidentally slipping down some stairs but trying to avoid the bumping and rolling towards the ground floor.

After three Premier League matches in charge Moyes is beginning to look almost as haunted as he was with Sunderland and nobody could stop them from relegation to the Championship.When Sir Alex Ferguson recommended Moyes as his replacement at Manchester United the whole footballing community must have thought Fergie had been reading too many fairy stories. But as usual Ferguson always know best or at least thinks he does.

Once everything went disastrously wrong for Moyes at United it was widely felt that Moyes would never ever be employed by any football club again. The fit was entirely wrong at United and the former Preston boss was too wet behind the ears for professional football management. United were a big, plush, wealthy and world renowned football team for whom Moyes was not the man to take them to an even more exalted level than they already were.

And then there is Sam Allardyce. Now the movements of Sam Allardyce are a fascinating study into the mindset of a modern day football manager. For years Allardyce took Bolton Wanderers to such rarefied heights that even Nat Lofthouse would have been deeply envious. But Allardyce was never a footballing purist and that was the point when Allardyce was told to leave by the back door and told to shut it in no uncertain terms.The presence of Jay Jay Ockocha at Bolton still sounds like some weirdly incongruous chapter in the club's history but it did happen.

On a freezing cold night by the Mersey it was thought Everton would be permanently anchored on the docks such was the prevailing mood of pessimism. After they were thumped by Southampton at St. Mary's some of the Everton fans must have been tempted to throw a lifeboat at the players. These are stressful and worrying times at Goodison and after the departure of Ronald Koeman the ranks of disgruntled blue were about to throw their team overboard.

Last night was another demonstration of football at its most unpredictable and capricious. Everton and West Ham were stuck firmly in the Premier League relegation mud and muck. It can never be easy when your team suddenly find themselves trapped in a corner they simply can't escape from no matter how hard they tried.

Finally though the defensive rock of Ashley Williams, blended effectively with Jonjoe Kenny, Mason Holgate and Idrissa Gueye. Finally Everton had finally managed to tune into the same wavelength as each other without any interference from know all foreign owners. It was interesting to note though that Everton had one Farhad Moshiri looking down quizzically from the director's box. Oh for the days when football chairmen wore bowler hats, waistcoats and were the principal owners of local timber merchants.

Next to Moshiri was Bill Kenwright who knows a good deal more about smoking chimneys and cobbled streets on Coronation Street which gives him a perfect insight into football's industrial past. Then there was Sam Allardyce, once heavily criticised and maligned by the football boo boys who insist that football should have a strong hint of caviar rather than steak and kidney pie pragmatism.

Recently Allardyce began to develop a reputation for collecting football clubs rather than the most hardened coin operator. In no time to all Allardyce paid a flying visit to West Ham, Sunderland and Crystal Palace in quick succession before finally landing up with the England job. We all know what happened there. Allardyce, whose childhood dream was to be the boss of the England football team was cunningly drawn into a honey trap from which there was no way out.

In a secret hotel bar, Allardyce was the victim of the ultimate of stings, the victim of circumstances and a man whose integrity was fatally undermined by hush hush taped interviews and what seemed like financial jiggery pokery. Poor Sam. He may have been sadly naive and gullible but that almost seems to come with the football management manual at times.

Anyway Allardyce 's new Everton team did much to endear him to the Goodison sceptics. For the first time in what seems like ages Everton looked a completely different side to the one the locals had seen  undressed by Arsenal, sliced open and then stuffed like a taxidermist's proudest creation. Everton were smashed to pieces by Arsenal with the most one sided 5-2 victory the Everton faithful had ever seen by the away side.

Everton had a refreshing vibrancy and lethal attacking efficiency that had almost been embarrassingly deficient from the game until the visit of West Ham. There was a liveliness and vitality about their football that some believed may have deserted them for ever. Their football had that vital spark of imagination and cohesion that simply blew West Ham aside in no time at all. There was a comfortable togetherness and unity about Everton that none of their fans had bargained on seeing again.

Then the veteran Aaron Lennon who rose to prominence at Spurs and played some of his best football, joined forces with Tom Davies, the beautifully proportioned Iceland international Gylfi Sigurdsson and the rapidly blossoming Dominic Calvert Lewin. Suddenly Everton were firing on all cylinders, the passes were fluent, foot loose and fancy free, the angles were splendidly measured and those in a blue shirt were finally discovering a new found karma. Occasionally there were howls of anguish and then Everton found a renewed poise and direction

After only 10 minutes Everton opened the scoring. The prodigal son Wayne Rooney stroked home a penalty at the second attempt after a blue tide surged into the penalty area. Joe Hart fell at the feet of Calvert Lewin and hauled down the Everton forward like the proverbial sack of potatoes. Now West Ham were scrambling for possession and balance. For next half an hour or so West Ham looked as though somebody had deliberately given them the wrong instructions. Once again the feebleness and nervousness that had almost swallowed them up against both Leicester and Watford had now taken root in their game once again. Claret and blue men went missing and the SOS signals were more or less ignored.

When Rooney swept through the defence like the most gentle of breezes to joyously steer the ball home for Everton's second, the game looked absolutely up for the visitors. Not for the first time this season, Joe Hart's cardboard cut out of a defence folded in front like a deck of cards. Hart is still one of the more reliable of goalkeepers when the mood suits him. But Hart is now shipping more goals than he could have possibly imagined at Manchester City. Everton of course were naturally in cruise control and Everton reminded you of a graceful liner floating serenely towards the sunset.

Come the second half and Everton eased back on the throttle and fell into a state of sleepy complacency. Now those grumpy voices in the Everton crowd were expressing yet more disenchantment. West Ham's excellent and continually inventive Argentine midfield play maker Manuel Lanzini had finally come out to play. He was picking up the ball in all the most crucial areas of the pitch and either running gingerly towards the Everton goal or getting up to all manner of scheming and plotting before carving open a now alarmed Everton defence.

Suddenly there was life in an otherwise lifeless West Ham defence. The bleary eyed indifference was now replaced with a much more determined and purposeful team. Claret and blue shirts were now finding each other confidently and substitute striker Diafro Sakho came on, ran strongly into the penalty area and then was carelessly bundled over for a West Ham penalty.West Ham had already seen an Aaron Cresswell shot snap a cross bar and Lanzini volunteered for the spot kick. In retrospect he may be regretting that on the spur of the moment decision. The Argentinian stepped up, clipped the ball almost too softly for words and Everton keeper Jordan Pickford must have thought all of his birthdays had come at once with an excellent save with both hands.


Everton, as if reprieved, were now revitalised by this single moment of good fortune. Half way through there occurred one of those glorious moments in a football match when something unique happens which simply distinguishes it from the run of the mill and ennobles it to a much higher plateau.

Several seasons Wayne Rooney scored a spectacular goal from the half way line for Manchester United against West Ham. Last night Rooney uncannily memorised that goal and performed the same function. Once again it was quite the most astonishing goal, a classic fusion of perception, clever thinking and brilliant intuition. West Ham keeper Joe Hart must have thought the moment of danger had passed but he hadn't accounted for the quick witted genius of Rooney at his goal-scoring best. It was quite the most incredible goal of any season and although far from the consistent goal scorer he was at Manchester United this was still a state of the art display from Rooney.

By the time Ashley Williams had added a fourth with a glancing header from yet another Everton corner West Ham were much more concerned with the coach journey home. This was another flat, disjointed and totally asymmetrical performance from the visitors. The brief signs of productive football they'd shown at home to Leicester had now vanished into the winter Mersey mist. There were flashes of co-ordinated passing across the whole length and breadth of the pitch but then it all fizzled out rather pathetically on the edge of the 18 yard area.

Pedro Obiang looked positive and energetic in the middle of West Ham's midfield and Chekyou Kouyate tried to impose himself on the game without ever really knowing what he was supposed to be doing. Kouyate does look polished on the ball but seems to going backwards rather than forwards at times. Aaron Cresswell ventured forward into promising crossing positions but it all seemed very hurried and under rehearsed. And last but not least there is a man called Marko Arnautovic. This is a man who seemingly defies description and belief.

Last season Arnautovic scored goals by the dozen and almost unstoppably at Stoke City. Now the torrent has turned into a complete drought. The Austrian forward must be longing for a hole in the ground to disappear as lolloping runs on the flank just peter out lethargically. For a man who cost West Ham £25 million this may not be the right time to write Arnautovic off as both liability or a waste of money.

It had been a long, hard and depressing night for those with a claret and blue loyalty. Yet another dreadful and meekly submissive evening for West Ham had dragged the club into those stormy waters of another relegation battle against the odds. David Moyes really did look as though he'd been waiting for a bus in some country shelter and with forthcoming games against leaders Manchester City at the Etihad Stadium followed by Chelsea and Arsenal another helter skelter of a season for West Ham could find its way into the darkest tunnel. It is indeed hard to know whether to laugh or cry at Moyes dilemma. If only he could recall those blue blooded years at Everton. Oh to be a Premier League manager.

Congrats Meghan and Prince Harry- a right royal romance. Good news at last.

Congrats Meghan and Prince Harry- a right royal romance. Good news at last.

Oh my goodness me. A good piece of news at long last. I didn't think the day would ever come. How long is it now? A whole year, perhaps a decade, maybe six months or so. It's certainly been one of those years hasn't it? Wherever you've looked if it hasn't been one thing it's been another. Quite frankly it's been sickeningly depressing until yesterday.

 Oh yes it had to happen. We've heard it on the grapevine and we knew it was much more than a rumour because we just had that sixth sense, a premonition that there was something good in the air. We could sense it. We could almost hear it. And it almost seemed like the worst kept secret. But yesterday the incurable romantics and royalists among us had suddenly found that our dreams had come true.

For yesterday the engagement of Prince Harry, son of Prince Charles and the deeply missed Princess Diana, to American actress Meghan Markle was announced triumphantly to a world that must have despaired at times throughout the year. Wow, at long last something to get excited about, something to look forward to, clutch to its breast in wondrous anticipation. Another royal wedding will shortly be with us and the nation holds its breath. It's next spring so time to pencil this very royal do clearly into our consciousness because it's about time something nice happened.

For those who are emotionally torn about the Royals and the monarchy it has to be said that a good, old fashioned wedding somehow lifts the entire mood of the nation. The unfortunate story of the Royal Family marriages has now been extensively documented and maybe conveniently forgotten for obvious reasons. We all now know every detail, fact, reason, trauma and tragedy which is now sadly associated with each of Her Majesty's children.

But this is not the time to be heavily critical and judgmental on delicate issues which are still so raw in the minds. Personally I'm a strong, staunch royalist who believes quite fervently that Her Majesty the Queen has done a remarkable job in the line of duty and service to both Britain, the Commonwealth and the world. It would be easy to say that Her Majesty hasn't really had it easy throughout her noble and distinguished reign as Queen. In fact that may be considered as one of the greatest understatements I've ever made.

It's undeniably true to say though that all of the Royal Family continue to provide the United Kingdom with its most identifiable figurehead, models of stability and continuity in an otherwise volatile and troubled world. Her Majesty is a warm, understanding, humane, compassionate and benevolent woman with the most human touches, an exemplary Queen with the most stunning of smiles, an ever present sense of humour and an intimate understanding of society, technology and the latest developments of the day.

And now Her Majesty is about to see her grandson tying the marital knot. A marriage is in the air and ding dong the bells are going to chime. For some time we've seen Prince Harry develop into an intelligent, charming and extremely eloquent man. The gossip mongers of course have picked up on all of Harry's so called wild child antics, the rebellious streak, the late nights at tempting wine bars and the hundreds of female admirers who just want to be seen with royalty.

Throughout Harry's eventful youth there were of course the flirtations, the smouldering dalliances, the dates with girls that were no more than flings and then painting the town an even deeper shade of red. A young man's attentions are often turned to female flesh and Harry seemed to revel in the giddy moments of fun and the adulation of those who may have thought he was jolly good company.

Of course there were the nights of booze, drink and unashamed indulgence, the relentless partying, the late night enjoyments of high society, the recognition of his peers, the aristocrats, the high fliers, the businessmen and women, the artists, the sculptors and the writers who follow him around the country in a determined attempt to be one of the crowd.

There is though much more about Harry than the son of the future King because this is not the way he would prefer to be recognised. Harry is much more than the popular perception of those who see him as nothing more than some party loving prince, a man rather of humanity, heart, substance and distinction, a hard working, thoughtful man who just wants to get on with the business of living his life in the way he wants it to be lived.

Once again this summer Prince Harry presented his brainchild, a project closest to his heart and a cause he feels a very personal connection with, an idea he wanted to tell the rest of the world about it. The Invictus Games was once again held this year, an event that came to fruition as a result of Harry's personal dedication to those in the Armed Forces who had now become permanently disabled.

Harry's future wife Meghan Markle is an American actress whose CV consisted of a couple of commercials, a sprinkling of appearances in American TV films and perhaps one or two Hollywood star turns. To all outward appearances Meghan Markle is pretty, photogenic, slightly star struck, bewildered at the speed of events but very feminine and charmingly demure. She flutters her eye lashes, holds the hand of her husband to be with a protective charm and effusive love in her heart.

So there you have it. Britain can now brace itself for another bombardment of glitzy, glamorous celebs sending their heartfelt congratulations to the royal couple. Here in Manor House we'd like to say mazzeltov and wish Meghan and Harry a healthy and happy future together. Earlier a flock of gulls circled over Green Lanes as if paying their personal homage to Meghan and Harry. For a minute it looked as if they'd lost their way but on they went, swooping low then soaring into the crisp, bright, end of November blue sky. There was a brief moment of squawking and then spinning around in ever increasing circles. At last it was a good news day and not before time.   

Football on Christmas Eve.

A case of history repeating itself.

It almost seems like a case of history repeating itself. Many decades ago football matches were played on both Christmas Day, Boxing Day and New Year's Day. Now, in their infinite wisdom, the FA have done it again. As if the football fixture list wasn't congested enough as it is football, or so the rumour has it, has taken upon itself to stipulate that football be played on Christmas Eve and if the FA gets its way, then football would probably be played on each of the 12 Christmas days without so much as a break for mulled wine or a cracker.

What on earth happened to that festive spirit of goodwill when the footballers of the Premier League were spared their taxing duties over Christmas? Surely this is the time of the year when a football is locked away in a cupboard, football's families don a festive paper hat and cracker, told quite firmly to don the red coat, the white beard and then go tumbling down a chimney because mum is still cooking the turkey and the roast potatoes have to be in the oven as soon as possible.

But there are no concessions or sacrifices to be made for our lithe, athletic Premier League players because they're the ones who have to forsake the pleasures of Christmas and run themselves into the ground and deliver three valuable points for their relegation threatened team. Football over Christmas was designed for Boxing Day and essentially it was the game we played before the Christmas pantomime and usually in the morning quite inexplicably.

Then there were the Boxing Day afternoon matches which were normally light hearted affairs where local derbies between bitter rivals would be slugged out remorselessly with heavy stomachs and the leftovers of the previous day's mince pies. The winters were harder and colder, snow engulfing the touchlines, making football more or less impossible.

 But the kids had fun and that's all that seemed to matter and groundsmen across the country diligently cleared the white stuff with huge shovels while the players wore natty leggings, gloves, long sleeves and shivered bravely in the freezing cold. On the terraces the fans, in admirably good humoured form, would jump up and down to keep warm while playfully chucking snowballs at each other. The game though had to go on and it was only when conditions became desperately treacherous that matches would be called off.

Here we are though again and this time the FA have announced their latest piece of inspired thinking and forward planning. How about playing a Premier League fixture list on Christmas Eve when most of Britain are planning their Mass visit at mid- night or stocking up on those last minute presents. Crazy but true. What were the FA thinking of at the time if indeed they were thinking at all? Surely it must have occurred to somebody that a team at one end of the country would have to trundle all the way across admittedly empty motorways and play football on Christmas Eve. It seems too absurd for words.

This though is yet another example of the FA's complete disregard for both the players and fans who, whether they like it or not, must travel the length and breadth of the country on the most religious and holiest of holiday periods. Still it could be worse but not that much . Isn't it bad enough that our precious and  brilliant players have to go through an entire winter without so much as coming up for air or pausing for breath?

In Britain the almost deafening cry and clamour for a proper winter break has become an almost a boisterous din. We now know that in both France, Germany, Spain and most of the teams who will be adorning next year's World Cup in Russia will be safely tucked up in the warm sanctuary of their homes celebrating the Yuletide with their kith and kin and relishing the resumption of their season sometime in the middle of January or perhaps later.

Maybe this is an opportune time to recall that bizarre, surreal Boxing Day football fixture list in the winter of 1963. In isolation the whole day itself  must have made little or no sense to anybody but it happened. Appropriately pantomimes were about to be released on the British public but nobody could have foreseen that Aladdin would be wearing a football shirt. By the end of that day Jack and His Beanstalk must have been totally flummoxed.

Now what took place that day could never be fully explained or summarised to those with the driest of humour. It can only be assumed that most of the players who took to their muddy pitches that day had to be under the strongest influence of a few mischievous glasses of alcohol too many. In total, 66 goals were scored in the old First Division that amazing Boxing Day and you can only imagine that some of the defences that day must have had their minds on a some desert island where the palm trees wave and the sun beats down.

By the River Thames, Fulham met Ipswich Town and nobody had the slightest inkling of the astonishing events that would follow at Craven Cottage. Fulham promptly beat Ipswich 10-1. 10-1! Fulham rattled home 10 goals in a Boxing Day footballing banquet. The Fulham of Bobby Robson, Jimmy Hill and 'Tosh' Chamberlain feasted insatiably on 10 golden goals on a Boxing Day that the fans at the Cottage must have thought they were imagining it all. But on a day of complete footballing madness and bedlam everything that seemed normal on the outside world had been rendered abnormal on the First Division pitches of that day.

My team of course had to become deeply and emotionally involved in the weird sense of unreality that had now made a mockery of all of those pundits who think they can predict any result. West Ham met Blackburn Rovers at the old Upton Park on Boxing Day and must have wondered whether they should have stayed in bed. Some of us are faced with the most challenging of decisions and most of them are right. This was not the case for West Ham on a day of unrelenting nightmares.

Before the Hammers had had time to launch their first attack of the game Blackburn were opening up West Ham's ultimately helpless and fragile defence rather like the child who rips open the paper of their Christmas present. Goals were peppering the West Ham net as if an overnight deluge had flooded Upton Park. West Ham were beaten 8-2 at Upton Park and for those who were still in their cot that day it is a result that somehow defies belief and if any consolation was to be found in this dizzying East End disaster then the chances are that it may never happen again. Well, hopefully not.

The point is though that now in 2017 the Premier League is about to undergo it's first taste of Christmas tomfoolery and silliness. My father in law tells me that there was a full Christmas Day fixture list back in the mists of time. Back in the 1950s and 60s, the underground Tube trains would run and football was played against a suitably festive backdrop of well decorated Christmas trees, mistletoe and holiday time hilarity.

For whatever reason football fans probably didn't care when the game was played but not on the one day when families would gather together from all over the country with no other thought than a Christmas knees up. Then the voice of commonsense was heard and what had hitherto been some stupidly demanding schedule had now been an altogether more sensible arrangement. Football would only be played on Boxing Day and possibly New Year's Day.  Still the prospect of three or four games within such a confined space of time smacks of complete madness but then again where would we be without our forward thinking and visionary FA?

But football on Christmas Eve is the proposition to be put before British football fans. One day the FA will come to its senses with a bold announcement of a complete winter break for the game. With the World Cup now within our sights we know that it has to be enforced sooner or later because without that football free zone English football may have to suffer the inevitable consequences. Once again we may have to face another World Cup in a state of mental and emotional meltdown.

Next week the draw for next summer's World Cup in Russia will be held in the Kremlin which does conjure up some splendid images but comment may have to be reserved. Most of England will be hoping that England are joined in their group by those world beaters Panama, Australia and Egypt. The truth is though that most of world football has become a level playing field and the nations who would be customarily dismissed and underestimated before a World Cup are now ready and waiting and champing at the bit.

Still, we'll all be ready and waiting for the big Kremlin hoe down where tight lipped and straight faced Russian football officials will be doing everything by the book. Holding a football World Cup draw in the Kremlin still seems the unlikeliest location for any sporting occasion. Even now there are cynical voices who will insist that the whole draw will be rigged, the KGB will muscle their way into the hall with the direct result that a major international incident will happen in Red Square.

It is at times like this that you wonder what may be going through the mind of a man called Vladimir Putin or maybe his illustrious predecessors for that matter. Leonid Brezhnev never looked the happiest of souls but a football World Cup might have brought a wry smile to his wizened eyes. Boris Yeltsin, another former Russian president was renowned for his love of a cheap vodka or two  and conducting orchestras did provide him with a welcome diversion but it's hard to imagine how he would have fitted into a Dynamo Kiev team.

So it is that the Christmas festivities are almost upon us and all thoughts will turn to Moscow sooner or later. English football on Christmas Eve and a World Cup in Russia still seems like some weird fantasy that will never come to pass. Now though is the time to accept the unacceptable and believe that things will turn out for the best. For all my Russian readers you must forgive my world weary scepticism. Those Cossack dancers are truly exceptional and those samovars make a wonderful cup of tea. Football has much to look forward to.

Black Friday- did you get that bargain?

Black Friday- did you that bargain?

Phew! What a day that was? I thought it would never end. Well then, did you get that elusive bargain on Black Friday? All of that fuss and commotion for what? An unnecessary and desperate rush for that special something for your side board, mantelpiece or the shelf groaning with glittering ornaments and family photos.

You've got it. It was Black Friday, that mad stampede on the heart of London's West End department shops and shops around the country, for something that may be conveniently and temptingly cheap but can't be resisted.  There they are, the baubles, gadgets, souvenirs or dining room furniture knocked down dramatically at the most mouth watering bargain basement price and designed to remove our wallets of valuable money for Christmas almost exactly a month from today.

Yes, Black Friday is the day when people from all over the country and city spend a whole day worshipping at the shrine of commerce and free flowing consumerism. This is the age of the high tech investment, the age of instant gratification, the must have commodity, an unreasonable hunger for something that may be regarded as vitally important at the time but on reflection can be no more than some tacky excuse to spend money on some trivial gadget. Or maybe not.

In recent years the scenes at Oxford Street have been nothing less than outrageously chaotic, the crazy, surging hordes converging on shops as if their life depended on it,  where hundreds of over enthusiastic shoppers and bargain hunters fall over each other determined to get their hands on the latest 84 inch Plasma TV set, washing machines that can sing Happy Birthday to you and sofas so large and luxurious that you may need three or four living rooms to squeeze them into your home.

It's Black Friday, the day of obscene spending and extravagant buying where the people of Britain find any reason to dig deep into their pockets for money they can ill afford to throw away. Or maybe we get a kick out of this day of utter lunacy where for one day only London, certainly, is overwhelmed by seasoned grabbers who love nothing better than a good old fashioned push and shove. They scramble, jostle, lunge and grasp desperately at goods that may look enticing but are no more than attractive shop window decorations.

But then again I may have got it completely wrong and Black Friday is that mindless psychological game where for one day only department stores tell us quite convincingly that you've got to buy it today because tomorrow is just another day and Christmas is that very persuasive advertising campaign when the stuff you could have got on Black Friday may look entirely different on extortionately expensive Saturday. So roll up roll up everybody, show us the colour of your money.

And so it is that the good people of Oxford Street will wend their weary home from their very beneficial shopping excursions undoubtedly exhausted from their huffing and puffing, their gallivanting and traipsing, weighed down by a huge cargo of shopping bags full of whatever it was they couldn't wait to buy tomorrow. But then we love the British and we love their shopping habits, their darting in and out of big department stores, sprinting after their Route Master buses and then trudging back to their bus stops in utter frustration.

Oh if only we'd remembered that armchair, that beautiful carpet, that lovely wardrobe or that irresistible coffee or latte machine, that bean bag, those gorgeous chandeliers or the studio spot lights for the kitchen. It's first come first serve and if you do happen to miss out today there's always next November and the opportunity to do Black Friday all over again.

It's been widely reported that some of the brisk Black Friday trade is also been transacted as an online Internet business. This may be regarded as a most attractive alternative to all of that hustling and bustling, the hurrying and scurrying, lunging at and pulling at clothes, furniture, more bean bags, exotic plants perhaps and all in the name of money and finance.

Now Black Friday may well be drawing to a close and those bright eyed bargain hunters may well be taking a deep breath, looking at their well stocked shopping bags and wondering why? Why did we spend last night camping outside Debenhams and Selfridges when we could have popped into Poundland for something significantly more desirable. But it is Black Friday and it really is side splittingly cool. Besides Black Friday is a day for sweeping up all those goodies in one huge bulk without a moment's regret. Oh Black Friday. And it's only 60 odd days to Christmas. It's too exciting for words. 

It's that birthday feeling again.

It's that birthday feeling again.


It hardly seems possible but it's that day of the year again. With a delightful regularity it's the one day of the year when you suddenly become aware of the passing years, the logical progression of time and impending old age. Only kidding of course. Well not quite old age as such but it now occurs to me that maybe I do need to slow down, smell the roses and coffee and just take it easy. To be honest though I've never felt fitter and happier, free from the constraints of working life and now blogging with the clearest of minds.

 Early retirement has now opened up my otherwise closed mind to the wide expanses of free thinking. But I have to admit that I now tend to get up in the morning in instalments rather than seconds and the process of waking up is a major operation, one that is carried out in painstaking stages with the gradual realisation that all of the vital organs are working and nothing needs a thorough medical examination. Still, the arms and legs are fully functioning and all things considered I'm in good nick. My health is still my wealth and to quote Bill Shankly's mum if you've got your health every day is a holiday. Shankly always did have his pearls of wisdom.

Tomorrow marks my 55th birthday all being well and I have to tell you that 55 is the new 25. Birthdays have always represented something much more than the celebration of the day you were born. It is a time for taking stock, sober reflection, the enjoyment of being among family and friends and a moment or two for self analysis and introspection depending on who you are and whether you attach any importance to birthdays.

Birthdays, when all is said and done, should be the cause for much rejoicing, hip-hip hooray exultation, excessive partying, dancing, eating and drinking for as long as you like and whenever you like. It should be a day for spoiling yourself, pampering yourself something silly and blowing out the candles on your cake with the heartiest of all flourishes. Go on, paint the town red, dance along your street with the silliest smile on your face before abandoning yourself to riotous revelry in your local pub.

When I think back to my childhood I've no clear recollection of properly organised birthday parties. This is not to suggest that I was somehow deprived of a wild day of cake, jelly and ice-cream consumption. My parents always lavished me with train sets and Lego sets on the said day but I don't think birthday parties figured prominently on their yearly agenda or were heavily prioritised as the most important landmark on the social calendar.

I can vaguely remember being invited to my childhood friend's birthday party and dutifully passing the parcel or running around a living room and then waiting for the music to stop before we were all told to grab a seat and then slumped exhausted onto the nearest available seat. Oh for the sweet joys of children's birthday parties. It all seemed so long ago and as the years went by it all seemed like a passing phase in our lives and then we reached those gilded teenage years where time suddenly flew and in no time at all adolescence came knocking on the door and it was time to grow up.

In a sense though birthdays have now assumed a much lower key, more modest, more understated feel. Of course by the time you reach that momentous 50 plus period of your life you're almost inevitably bombarded with more thick and woolly pullovers than your wardrobe can possibly take. And then there are the  sheepskin coats perhaps, the reassuringly warm scarves, the natty hats or caps and the kind of clothing that must come as a painful reminder of not only how old you feel but how much younger you'd like to be.

That's the annoying thing of course. Why do people stop buying you train sets, Lego and Meccano sets, toys that go whizz and bang, board games that fill us with hours of pleasure and gadgets that engage and absorb us for hours on end when quite clearly this should not be the case? But hey hold on it is time to stop living in the past, wake yourself out of this juvenile dream and realistically accept that eventually we do grow up and our expectations are no longer the youthful desires of a five year old.

So here we are in the throes of maturity and now you're given shirts, watches, jewellery, vinyl 1970s records, 1980s tapes, albums and singles, stereo music record players and tape decks with hundreds of buttons that can be turned off and on with the greatest of ease. Now though birthdays assume the kind of impressive hi-tech sophistication that as very young kids we thought we'd never see.

There we were joyfully whizzing around our back roads on our green lime bikes with stabilisers, totally immersed in the overflowing happiness of being children. Summer holidays and birthdays seemed to be held on a daily basis. I can now remember being presented with my first bike on some very early birthday occasion and oozing with immense gratitude. Bikes would provide me with my first mode of transport to far off and exotic locations where the smell of hibiscus and jasmine would drift languidly from magnificent coconut trees and the BBC World Service would crackle magically from a distant hut.

And then I would wake up from my stupid reverie the following morning, climbing reluctantly into my school uniform and then school friends would chuck you shamelessly into a sand pit and give you something called the Bumps. Birthdays would be days to be fondly treasured and stored away into some nostalgic chest of drawers along with the balloons, streamers, silly party hats and all the cheesy remnants that accompanied that year's birthday party.

Still most of us still look forward to our birthday for no obvious reason other than a simple recognition of your special day rather than somebody else's special day. We all look for the love and approval of family and friends because we know that this is our time to share those good times, days of congratulation, feeling quite naturally that we deserve to be the centre of attention. So it's time to book that restaurant, settle back to watch that much anticipated film in the cinema and then open those lovingly beribboned birthday boxes while you feast ravenously on several layers of cream cake.

Nowadys of course presents come in hi- tech electronic packages with thousands of Apps, thousands of games and an astonishing multitude of programmes, sounds and colours that look as though they were made in some in some scientific space station millions of miles away from Planet Earth. Me? Well, tomorrow my wife and I will be spending a quiet evening in a location which will never be revealed. Sadly the days of jelly, ice- cream and fish finger sandwiches belong to some now historic tense where everything was in black and white and a pint of milk was a mere shilling or two. But to all those who are celebrating their birthday have a good one folks and be uninhibited with your alcohol but go carefully with the orange juice. Happy Birthday everybody. Mine's a half a lager. 

    

Brexit, Angela Merkel and much blathering.

Brexit, Angela Merkel and much blathering.

So here we are in the third week of November and you'll never guess what the dominant topic of conversation is. Yes folks you've got it. I'll give you three guesses and it isn't the size of Robert Mugabe's ego although that would hardly come as a major surprise in the general scheme of things. No, it's time to dig out that old chestnut called Brexit. Who on earth saw that coming when it all looked so cut and dried, decisions had been made and it was only a matter of time before Britain  finally left the building? Since when did Britain need the intervention of some petty, interfering busybody organisation who did nothing but hold the United Kingdom back.

 For what seems like several centuries now the leading movers and shakers in European Union and Customs House circles have driven us to the point of insanity. In fact at some point shortly the English middle classes may get so annoyed and intolerant that indecisiveness, dithering, dilly dallying, second thoughts and heated discussions will just be too much to take. We shall have to fire off irate e-mails to the letters page at the Times or, more pertinently, the Financial Times.

Still, Prime Minister Theresa May and Angela Merkel, the now helpless and beleaguered German leader, squabble and bicker like infants in the playground tugging at the skipping rope and refusing to be friendly. It is hard to know where to place our sympathies in what seems like the most complex political fiasco since - well, the last political fiasco.

 Every time David Davis looks as though he's come to some sort of a plausible agreement about   Brexit, the rest of Europe looks at us furiously and disdainfully as if we've just carried out an armed robbery and broken into a bank. Where do Britain go from here? To the outsider the whole of the European Union has now lost any love and faith in Britain because perhaps, understandably, we won't play ball, we have to leave that cosy little gang of European trading partners with whom we've always felt such a close affinity. And now we want out and that's final.

You can almost feel their sense of rejection and disaffection as dear old Britain sticks to its guns and insists that if you don't allow us to leave your ancient, creaking and stuffily paternalistic club we'll scream and scream. It all seems like stuff and nonsense to the uninitiated but the longer this charade goes on the more indifferent most of us are certain to become. Who would have thought that one political hot potato could turn into sour grapes on all sides? Sooner or later somebody will call a halt to this incessant blathering and pontificating and say enough is enough.

But you know what's it like. Once somebody gets a bee in their bonnet about something they won't leave it alone. Not a day has passed during the year when Brexit hasn't been top of the breakfast discourse. Occasionally there's some light relief but quite clearly this is just one relentless backing track that seems to have got its needle stuck in the middle of the record. This though is not the time though to panic and throw something at the TV because this is a counter productive exercise that will only make things a whole lot worse than they may be already.

Some time last week Prime Minister Theresa May, David Davis and Boris Johnson all seemed to get stuck in a Swedish smorgasbord of trouble and strife. The Swedes do love their salted herrings and for most of the visit by May, Davis and Johnson it all seemed very fishy. But we knew what an unseemly pickle this whole predicament has now become with European officials boiling over with impatience, threatening to pull the political rug from under the British and everybody getting very hot and bothered for reasons that have yet to become patently obvious.

So what was the outcome of the latest round of talks, whispers, those famous negotiations where nobody seems to know who's doing what and why they're doing it. Government ministers are now purple with rage and seemingly pointing the proverbial two fingers at the United Kingdom. The next two years before Britain's final withdrawal from the EU will probably seem like the longest two years of any life time.

 Over and over again the airwaves will be alive with the sound of heavy sighing, knuckle crunching and much procrastination. Shall we leave the EU or maybe we should change our minds at the last moment? Can we have more time to think about it Europe please? Should Basil Brush or Peyton Place make a long overdue comeback to our TV screens? Can we consult our back benchers or maybe we should ask the British public to undergo the same humiliating game of referendums? Maybe we should ask them to vote on issues for which very few of us can get our heads around? Sometimes the British public deserve a medal for their traditional understanding and sheer tolerance in such moments of crisis.

And then there is Boris Johnson. Perhaps British politics most unorthodox and unconventional of Foreign Secretaries is once again upsetting everybody without perhaps doing it deliberately. One minute he's passing judgment about a woman training journalists in Iran and then making a rod for his own back by saying something else that he shouldn't have said in the first place. It's the wrong kind of diplomacy Boris and somebody should really take him to one side and tell him before he does any more damage to the rest of his Cabinet.

Wherever the news takes us it invariably goes all the way back to the same soundtracks, the same characters, the same plots and the same old uncertainties. Every time we switch on our radios and TVs, there is an almost obsessive insistence on homing in on one subject and not a moment of consideration for our feelings. Soon battle fatigue will set in and we'll just explode with exquisite exasperation. How much longer is this likely to drag on without one of us demanding a coherent explanation for this pointless game of political table tennis.

Still the year is drawing closer to the end and we must hope that sometime before Christmas or Chanukah we'll all be the wiser and much more enlightened. Meanwhile somewhere in a stuffy corridor in Brussels the bulky documents are shuffling and rustling and a thousand members of the Green Party will be heartily complaining about the disappearance of yet more rainforests. This all seems unnecessary and pointless. Surely they could have resolved this issue sooner or later but then  perhaps this is the way British politics have always done these things just out of spite.

Which in a way brings us back neatly to where we before the latest episode of Brexit got under our nose. In a sense the downfall of Robert Mugabe in Zimbabwe and European disharmony seem totally unrelated to anything in particular. What fate becomes both Mugabe and the EU can only be guessed at. But Mondays are always shrouded in mystery and muddle. Same issues but complete variations on a theme.

What to do with Robert Mugabe? How did he appear on the news radar without our permission? And quite frankly who cares? Here is a 93 year old tyrant and dictator who has cold bloodedly murdered people on the most monumental scale without a single apology and never a murmur of remorse. How did one man kill and massacre human flesh without just a second pang of conscience? It hardly seems possible that men like Mugabe can still get away with it. Then he drops off to sleep and a nation curses over and over again. One day a major war crimes trial will deliver the ultimate judgment on Mugabe's evil machinations. Until then contempt has to be our only emotion and for the time being that seems to be enough.

In the meantime it's back to the drawing board in Brussels and those bustling conference rooms where everybody tries to look as though they're doing something important. But then the impression persists that it was  just a false alarm and there proceeds another round of thumb twiddling, staring at the ceiling, flicking pieces of paper across a huge desk and then gulping another glass of water. Oh why or when is it ever going to become clearer or perhaps it'll never sort itself out and we'll all be left in the dark. It's at a time like this when the result of Strictly Comes Dancing becomes a foremost concern. A night in Blackpool was always a blissful escape. Bring on the frothy, frivolous fun. 

The popular voices of the BBC from yesteryear.

The popular voices of the BBC from yesteryear.

Last night BBC Four did it again. They gave us one of those intriguing retro- cum nostalgia music programmes that seem to be turning into their hallmark. The 'Popular Voices of the BBC' was very tastefully presented and allowed us another glimpse into those apple cheeked years when everything was in grainy black and white, the TV set resembled a goldfish bowl and pop music in both the USA and Britain enjoyed one of those idyllic periods of go ahead dynamism, sing along musicality, two of the most influential bands ever to take the stage and  happy go lucky, danceable songs that most of us would hum along to for weeks and months afterwards.

This time the BBC went on its very own magical, mystery tour around those imposing music cathedrals where everything was, quite literally groovy, stylish, hip, far out, mainstream and commercially acceptable at the same time. It was pop music of the 1960s, that quite definitely belonged to that very revolutionary decade where the likes of photographer David Bailey, fashion designer Mary Quant and a band called the Beatles changed the whole dynamic of the decade both culturally and emotionally.

The first familiar face was the one and only Ella Fitzgerald, that legendary American singer with a voice like a jet engine and presence on stage that commanded attention and comment. Not only was Ella Fitzgerald one of the most popular voices of all time she could also project her voice into another country without the need to check the map to find out where it was going. It was a powerful and all conquering voice with a full petrol tank of deeply felt emotions, raw earthiness and clear articulation.

When Ella Fitzgerald belted out her standards the world seemed to stop on its axis, a thunderous thorax of a voice that once broke a glass in a 1970s TV advert for tapes. Fitzgerald's treatment of the magnificent 'Mack The Knife' seemed almost an apt metaphor for this woman of substance. Effortlessly, the voice could conceivably cut through butter. Then it became progressively louder and more authoritative as the song reached its most spectacular crescendo.

 In last night's show, the BBC showed that big voice at its mightiest and weightiest, the best notes soaring into the air like a flight of geese. There was a genuine conviction, meaning and purpose about this showbiz queen that illustrated that this woman was back in town and meant business. Fitzgerald almost seemed to own the stage with the kind of swooping and swelling jazz voice that seemed to change its key without even thinking about it.

Fitzgerald's voice had that passionate, driven quality that conveyed something that was personal to her. The pitch and tone of the voice had a force and gravitas that very few black singers could achieve. When she hit the highest of notes it almost felt like a major news story had broken, an earth shattering announcement from an ABC news room. It was a large, majestic voice, strong and propulsive, handling the classics with both grace and dignity.

 It was heartfelt and meaningful, full of shade and light, smoky, urgent and evocative of the whole jazz scene of America during the 1960s. There was the almost regulation finger clicking, eyes closed, smouldering performance that most Ella fans had always known, a microphone in her hands held with an almost tender possessiveness.

Shortly afterwards there was Joe Cocker whose voice will always be associated with that feelgood, 1980s box office movie phenomenon Dirty Dancing. In the final moments of the film, alongside the  melodious Jennifer Grey, Cocker's growling, gravelly voice provided the perfect backing sound track to a film that gushed with schmaltzy saccharine sweetness.

In this BBC tribute to the outstanding singers from long ago, Cocker paid his own unique tribute to the Beatles with 'A Little Help from my Friends. Here Cocker launched into a red blooded version of the song, a gutsy and feisty rendition full of crashing, clamorous drums and screeching, raucous guitars that almost seemed to assume a mind of  their own. Cocker dominated the song with aggressive vocals that bellowed out of an extraordinary mouth.

Then it was time for that soul diva Aretha Franklin, an American soul singer whom the Americans took to their hearts with her distinctive Motown air of magic. For most of the 1960s Franklin made all the right noises and never ever descended into mediocrity. Her lyrics were carefully arranged and produced and 'Spirit in the Dark, although one of her lesser known songs, still resonated clearly across the airwaves.

Franklin had always been steeped in heartfelt gospel and once again we saw her in almost triumphant mood and much closer to those gospel roots than ever before. Last night's performance showed her comfortably taking her place at the piano, tinkling the ivories and imagining perhaps that she was still that little girl in a Sunday morning church choir. For a moment she almost looked completely at ease with the world, self absorbed and moving her body to the rhythmic beat, one very happy lady.

Up next the remarkable Shirley Bassey made her grand performance. There have been few if any Welsh singers who have straddled so many generations and still sounded as good as ever. Throughout the decades Bassey has made the world of showbusiness her personal domain. In the 'Popular Voices of the the BBC, Bassey was at her irrepressible and untouchable best.

Maybe it was inevitable that the 'Goldfinger' should be the BBC's preferred choice of song for the night. Here we saw a very fitting example of one woman who just takes hold of a song and gives it her personal seal of approval. The Bassey voice was at its most expressive and richly vocal. With that familiar blur of fingers and gestures, Bassey seemed to spell out 'Goldfinger' with an almost erotic sexuality. There was something very open and expansive about her whole on stage persona. In fact there came a point when Bassey seemed to be making a bold declaration, the tips of her finger nails twisting sensuously and the eyes telling their own story.

Representing Britain again were one of the finest rock bands stepping out for another trip down memory lane. Queen are one of the most colourful rock bands Britain had ever produced during the 1970s. Queen had an unmistakable quality and identity that had to be seen to be believed. Queen had class and originality, rock stars with startling lyrics and a high level of productivity about them. Sadly the passing of Freddie Mercury denied the world of rock music its most creative force and for every 'Bohemian Rhapsody', 'We Are The Champions' and 'We Will Rock You' there were the moments when it didn't always work for Mercury, Brian May and Roger Taylor.

But genius did manifest itself and last night Queen were shown at the very beginning of their glamorously successful career. 'Killer Queen' was the band's first hit, an explosive introduction into the Top 40 charts, an in your face, uncompromising rock anthem that seemed to break every radio speaker in the land. Electric guitars blasted out their message of the ages and Roger Taylor's furious and fully motivated drums were energised and ready for action.

Finally in this glittering cavalcade of soft and hard voices from another era, one female singer brought the curtain down on an enjoyable hour of song and good, old fashioned standards. There could only be one woman who moved us to so many tears and tears of happiness. To those on the outside it felt like some bittersweet conclusion to a programme charged with heartbreaking poignancy. She was the singer who died in the most tragic circumstances but was fondly revered by those who love to listen to torch songs, those beautifully layered love songs where rejection meets happy ever after and everybody sniffles into a handkerchief.

Whitney Houston became America's sweetheart of the 1980s, an often troubled soul whose very public vulnerabilities became deeply exposed in the public domain. Houston then married Bobby Brown and then it all got terribly complicated. The BBC, in their eternal wisdom, plumped for 'Saving All My Love For You' the ultimate end of party ballad that unites male and female in the last dance.

Houston, whose auntie was the equally as famous Dionne Warwicke, slumped into the deepest of dark holes and was eventually killed by a toxic combination of an abusive husband, rampant drug taking and that all enveloping spiral of self destruction. It was the most unsightly and gruesome fall from grace ever seen in Hollywood. Houston had so much love to give but then found that when she needed it most nobody within her closest circles felt capable of helping her.

If 'Popular Voices of the BBC' told us anything it did give broad brush strokes on the surface of a pop music industry at its classical best and catastrophic worst. Sometimes the voices of the great and good can often be drowned out by those whose lifestyles could only be described as less than normal. But for those who have survived the often torrid currents of showbusiness, last night's programme was a stark reminder to all of us that although you can have some of the cake you may not be able to eat it. 

England hold five time World Cup champions Brazil to a goal-less draw in friendly,

England hold five time World Champions Brazil to a goal-less draw.


If all goes according to plan then both England and Brazil will approach their World Cup campaigns in Russia next summer in a completely different frame of mind to the one they adopted in last night's friendly. There were moments during this game when you began to wonder whether indeed this game had been dipped in chloroform and used as some kind of strange laboratory experiment.

The game itself seemed the ideal opportunity for England to test themselves against some of the greatest footballing nations in the world if not the greatest. Sadly Brazil were simply demolished by Germany in the 2014 World Cup held in their very own backyard. Since then a huge rehabilitation programme in Brazil has meant that the international team have been left in a temporary state of limbo.

Three years later and the recovery may take rather longer than they might have expected but there were signs last night that the medicine does seem to be working . For long spells at Wembley last night Brazil had so much possession of the ball that it almost seemed a crime to take it away from them. They nursed the ball, treasured the ball, caressed the ball and spun ever increasing webs around the home side with mesmerising ease. In fact England must have felt completely trapped by a Brazilian side who had just ambushed their opponents and refused to let them go.

So it is that England found themselves on the end of two goal-less draws against multiple winners of the World Cup in years gone by. Against Germany at Wembley England found themselves drawn into complex maze that became more and more frustrating with every passing minute. In fact so disciplined and methodical had the Germans become that England looked as though they'd been hypnotised.

A couple of days later and England found themselves up against a completely new mathematical equation. Where Germany had presented England with mixed and matched  chemicals, Brazil had just used the silkiest gossamer to weave their very own brand of geometric patterns. The Germans, for their part, seemed hell bent on carrying out what became a very practical demonstration of draughtsmanship on England.

What became abundantly clear last night at Wembley is that both sides had succeeded in giving England the complete run around without ever suggesting at any point that England would ever crumble under any sustained attacking threat. In fact in both friendlies against Germany and Brazil it felt as though the visitors had given England the benefit of the doubt. Both of these matches had the air of a gracious compromise rather than some dangerous warning. Maybe England had been left off the hook without anybody getting hurt into the bargain.

The critics of course would have been at pains to point that no useful purpose had been served by these potentially entertaining friendlies. Of course England came out of both games with not even the hint of a bloodied nose and simply glad that both Brazil and Germany were in a particularly charitable mood. How else to explain the explosion of intricate passing movements that Brazil did their utmost to weave around their opponents?

We all know about the beautiful football that the Brazilians have delighted us with throughout the ages. Theirs is a history, tradition and legacy that is unquestionable and, pleasingly, the real Brazil seemed to have returned last night. Their sweet, short passing philosophy regularly left England gasping for breath and tangled in terrible knots. By the end the home side were pleading for mercy and leniency.

By the end of last night's friendly England looked as if they were watching stars in front of their eyes such had been the cat's cradle of passes that Brazil had stitched together. There was that pure and instinctive movement that has become second nature to Brazilian football. When Neymar, the Paris St Germain magician took hold of the conductor's baton, the rest of his team mates took out their woodwind and percussion instruments and Brazil became a symphony of colour.

For the best part of 90 minutes Manchester City's Gabriel Jesus, Liverpool's Phillip Coutinho, Paulinho once of Spurs, Augusto. Marcello, the ever adventurous and visionary Danny Alves and eventually Chelsea's Wilian and Fernandinho conjured, schemed, invented and created in varying degrees. There was a genuine air of conspiracy in the Brazilian gameplan as Brazil stroked their passes around with a delicacy and daintiness that only they are capable of. Their passing was both circular, triangular and a simple joy to the eye so it was business as usual for the men in yellow.

But for all the hundreds and thousands of passes that Brazil had fashioned without even thinking about, the number of real goal scoring chances were so few and limited that you began to wonder what all the fuss was about. Of course their passing game should be almost compulsory at any level of the game because the purist you suspect would much prefer artistry to demoralising long ball dullness.

Your mind was taken back to your childhood when you first discovered all about Brazil. In the 1970 World Cup held in the sweltering heat of Mexico City, Gerson, Tostao, Rivelino, Carlos Alberto and the incomparable genius of Pele had left Sir Alf Ramsey's wilting England in the dizziest of mid-day dehydration. That day Brazil had left their most indelible imprint on my eight year old mind. Their football was of a magical and mystical nature that seemed to endure through the following decades.

That day we became totally enamoured with the style and subtlety of Brazilian football. We knew that there was no secret about their approach because quite clearly there is a unique imprint and template about them that never fails to enchant. Their football is indeed both off the cuff, spontaneous, theatrical and unashamedly flamboyant. It has a richly dramatic quality, a sense of cabaret and burlesque that leaves you both stunned and transfixed, salivating at their touch, the quick witted sensitivity, that breathtaking samba dance of sexy sensuality.

Still England were not to be frightened by their supposedly illustrious opponents. Gareth Southgate had sent out another team that reminded you of a chemistry teacher toying with his test tubes. But throughout this game there seemed to be no definitive formula to England's game. Once again the sense of experimentation and another dress rehearsal had lulled everybody into a false sense of security.

West Ham goalkeeper Joe Hart made some outstanding saves while the back four of Manchester City's now domineering centre half  John Stones, the slowly blossoming Liverpool full back Joe Gomez and the remarkably fast Kyle Walker raided  positively down the flank on consistent overlaps. Your faith  in the England football team was restored to some extent. But last night there was something distinctly lacking about England, a cumbersome slovenliness about their football that was disturbing. At times England seemed to create their own set of difficulties when the simpler options were there on offer.

The midfield trio of Harry Maguire, Jake Livermore and Ruben Loftus Cheek battled heartwarmingly for possession but at times they reminded you of young children asking for the ball back when they had quite obviously done very little to deserve it. That garden fence must have seemed the most insurmountable of obstacles and how polite those youngsters must have been.

Maguire toiled and sweated away in a white England shirt, exploring new areas and angles without deeply impressing as such. For Maguire this was all about gritty determination, perseverance and hoping against hope that eventually the Brazilians would give him a clearing in the forest. Ruben Lofuts Cheek represents an England that may come to fruition at some far distant World Cup but Loftus Cheek is lithe, lively, agile and commendably athletic. He has a natural skill that may need to be nurtured  with care and love but Russia may be a World Cup too soon for the Crystal Palace youngster.

And finally there is Jamie Vardy, the Leicester striker who still seems to need, for reasons that may remain a mystery, long shirt sleeves. Admittedly it was a cold evening in North London but you had to wonder why the Vardy arms needed what looked to be an extra layer of clothing. Of course Vardy had a major influence in Leicester's Premier League title winning side but now he begins to look a paler imitation of his former self. Vardy is 30 now which, while not pensionable, means that the limbs and bones may not be as responsive as they used to be.

Manchester United's immensely talented striker Marcus Rashford once again showed some moments of fabulous individuality and creativity that may just provide England manager Gareth Southgate with the answer to his striking headache. Rashford seems to glide past his opponents as if they were somehow not there and his willingness to run at defenders and beat them at lightning pace will surely bring a much more noticeable twinkle to Southgate's eyes.

Still England saw out their high profile friendlies with an honourable share of spoils. The feeling persists that Gareth Southgate's England are still an ongoing project. Southgate once again looks like your friendly high street building society manager ever ready to co-operate with a pressing financial problem. The dark blue waistcoat is a perfect fit and that dreadful penalty disaster in Euro 96 against the Germans now seems like ancient history. Soon the England side will be opening their festive presents and looking forward to the ultimate challenges that will make or break them. Russia has always been the most grizzly bear but England have got enough problems as it is. Roll on Moscow.         

Remembrance weekend- a time for reflection.

Remembrance weekend - a time for reflection.

A solemn hush fell over Whitehall. Thousands of cars, buses and lorries were thundering past in hot pursuit of some important or perhaps insignificant destination. Yesterday though, London came to a deeply respectful halt for just a couple of minutes or so. It does seem that London has little or no time for a sober perspective on world events but then we bowed our heads. There's too much to do, too much to agonise and worry over when perhaps the harsh reality is that yesterday's yearly Remembrance service underlined the depth of sorrow and compassion we will always reserve for those who made the ultimate sacrifices.

 And yet on a sharply cold morning in London's Whitehall they came from far and wide to pay their respects to their loved ones, to those who fell so horribly and tragically on the global fields of wars past and present. They came to march and march with their heads held high, proud to be associated with the one day of the year when sadness and private loss can never be measured.

 So it was that on a blustery but bright morning in Whitehall, old soldiers, old veterans, battle hardened campaigners and heroic figures all joined together united in silent grief, hardened by the passage of time and strengthened by the knowledge that the human spirit is still flourishing. Whatever the future might hold they can still share a common belief in goodness triumphing over the dark and evil ravages of war.

Once again the mighty columns of humanity gathered to pay their Remembrance respects to those who were barbarically killed, stabbed and cruelly murdered in cold blood. We remembered those who were shot down on the bloodiest of battlefields when death reared the ugliest of heads and ensured that future generations lives would never be the same again. But we cared deeply of course we did. Our hearts went out to the maimed, the unforgivably disabled, and those who never came home again because vile dictators rendered them helpless and permanently scarred, emotionally and physically broken with nowhere to go.

The focal points of our attention were the Second World War survivors who went beyond the call of duty and emerged into the bright sunlight of 1945 with spirits uplifted and morale boosted immeasurably by powers of human resilience. There they all were resplendent in immaculate black jackets, smart attire and medals glittering in victorious unison.

They were the essential representatives of military greatness. There was the Royal Navy, the Royal Artillery, the British army, the Royal Air Force, the splendid regiments and battalions in grey, the Royal Marines and the vast array of men and women, swinging their arms purposefully, saluting the Royal Family and steadfast in their determination to keep the peace in a society that remains as volatile and violent as ever.

Thousands of faces lined the streets of London, thickly wrapped in warm coats with bright red poppies decorating their lapels. There was a stern acknowledgement that had it not been for the brave and honest deeds of their ancestors none of us would still be here.  Sundays have always been contemplative days but now we reflected thoughtfully with understandable concerns and anxieties lodged firmly at the back of our minds.

At 11.00 Big Ben briefly came out with those low and haunting chimes. There were the by now familiar sounds of London, 11 sombre bells echoing over Westminster, the City of London and the West End. It was indeed the most humbling of sounds, Big Ben at its most resounding, confident and traditional. But by Monday morning Big Ben went back for major repairs and a heavy scaffolding almost seemed to disfigure this remarkable time-piece.

Now though it was for perhaps the most moving and extraordinary piece of music that can ever be heard at any time of the year. The Last Post has always sent the most emotional shiver down my spine and has a chilling finality about it that hits at the very core of your being. It is that slow, funereal dirge that is both shudderingly mournful and gravely tragic. All around Whitehall there were men in grey coats and busbys blowing wholehearted trumpets, faces rigid and unmoving, the sound of awful melancholy drifting inexorably towards Trafalgar Square.

Then the politicians emerge, briefly setting aside their difference of opinion just for one Sunday morning. Theresa May, the Prime Minister, stepped forward gingerly to lay her dark red wreath at the Cenotaph, a timeless memorial to the fallen and gallant. Jeremy Corbyn, the leader of the Labour Party, also leaned over to place his wreath and Sir Vince Cable completed the wreath laying ceremony.

The politicians were preceded by the Prince of Wales who was acting on behalf of Her Majesty The Queen, the rest of the royal family and a whole procession of world leaders, dignitaries, clusters of religious denominations, prime ministers, former British Prime Ministers and important ambassadors from far and wide. For just a few hours, London stopped what it was doing and prayed for permanent peace around the world. We must hope that somebody is listening.

Above all it was a Sunday to stand together in harmony, remembering the precious liberties and freedoms that mankind has so much to be grateful for. We know that blood has been shed, lives have been wantonly lost by the bullet, gun and the bomb. But yesterday should have reminded us that we have a long way to go before the ever present threat of terrorism can be completely eradicated.

At the end of the Remembrance service another silence fell and once again you could hardly hear a pin drop. There was a rustling of leaves across the Cenotaph, furiously chasing each other before just tiring of it all. Throughout the morning distant traffic lights were still winking despite the gravity of the occasion.Along Whitehall Her Majesty's armed forces were still assembled, their thoughts barely imaginable before the cannons exploded, booming and thudding, heavy and somehow forbidding.

It was now that our wonderful army veterans began to drift away into the watery November sunlight, always dignified and courteous, believing in their heart of hearts that the world will never ever see another First or Second World War. Their hair is now a snowy white and their cheeks are still healthily red, faces still glowing but age has certainly not withered them. They smile warmly for their grand and great grand children and then the thoughts that can't be spoken are painfully etched on pre-occupied foreheads. The suffering and heartache may never go away but they can still tell today's generation about their unsung deeds.

The Remembrance ceremony was now over and Sunday lunchtime had arrived in Whitehall. The trumpets and trombones had been packed away, the uniforms ready to be neatly folded away for another year. It is time to get back to the everyday business of every day life and light a candle for those whose lives can never see the light of day again. It is a truly a day that should never be forgotten and always recognised. Lest we ever forget. 

Stale goal-less draw between England and Germany.

Stale goal-less draw between England and Germany.

This really was a damp squib. Recent confrontations between England and Germany have been so amiable and relaxed that on this Remembrance weekend you're reminded of that famous First World War truce between the countries when a football match broke out on Christmas Day right in the middle of the muck, bullets, bombs and trench warfare.

Of course we've all been here with both England and Germany because the rivalry between the two has always been both fierce but fair. Essentially the Germans love to lock the horns with their English counterparts because they know that without fail, both will shake hands with each other and honourably declare a mutual appreciation of each other's strengths and weaknesses.

Last night there was a diplomatic goal-less draw in the air and all was well in the world. In fact so diplomatic had relations seemingly become that for a  minute you half suspected Henry Kissinger to walk out onto the Wembley pitch and sign a permanent peace agreement. Matches between England and Germany can never really be considered as friendlies in the literal sense but it did seem as though as a truly negotiated settlement had been sealed between both nations last night.

Memories of the 1966 World Cup Final have now been completely obscured by both time and the fall of the Berlin Wall at the end of the 1980s. Since then there have been light hearted skirmishes, one or two English and German humiliations and a general acceptance of what will be will be. For reasons that never became obvious the England of 2017 wore dark navy shirts while Germany wore their traditional white. Some things simply defy explanation.

It was seven years ago that England were quite literally stretched and pulled, torn apart, eaten up and then spat out by a hungry and merciless Germany in the 2010 South African World Cup. The Germans may have beaten England 4-1 but it was a result that did little to cover any of the gaping defensive shortcomings in England's defence. If Fabio Capello, England's boss at the time, could have asked the ground to swallow him up then the ground may well have granted him his wish.

Then of course there was the memorable night in Germany in September 2001 when England ensured their qualification for the following summer's World Cup in Japan and South Korea with a sparkling 5-1 victory in Munich. That was the night Michael Owen spread havoc among a sheepish German defence and Emile Heskey got on the score sheet for England. If that electronic scoreboard in Munich could have cried that night then maybe it would have done so. This constituted one of English football's most satisfying of nights and no questions were asked about the legitimacy of Sir Geoff Hurst's goal.

The Germans, for their part, will never tire of reminding the English national side that they were the last country to beat England at the old Wembley Stadium. Even now the sight of Dietmar Hamann's shot nestling in David Seaman's net on a sodden Wembley evening still haunts and darkens the corridors of the FA. Why. of all the teams in the world, did it have to be the Germans after all that had taken place before? Still it could have been Iceland but let's not go there shall we?

So it was that England and Germany came face to face in a friendly and there were times when this famous old fixture began to resemble a genial five-a-side match or just an attractive exhibit in a museum. If you didn't know any better you could have sworn that somebody had told both of these teams to play keep ball for 90 minutes rarely venturing any further than their respective penalty areas.

What we had last night was some gentle dress rehearsal for a far more important occasion. There was none of the electricity, urgency or excitement that normally accompanies these fixtures. The Germany and England of 2017 could hardly have been more far removed from that epic day 51 years ago when overjoyed England fans splashed around gleefully in the Trafalgar Square fountains. This was both a sterile and lacklustre game of football genuinely lacking in any competitive element, a game that seemed to drift towards some very amicable conclusion without anything that could be accurately construed as out of the ordinary or exceptional.

Quite what if any long term benefit could be taken out of this game is quite literally guesswork. There was an almost cautionary and deeply restrained air about both of these teams that was both startling and baffling. Comparisons with chess and similar games of high strategy had to be at the forefront of our minds. The game itself seemed to have a weirdly tactical blanket thrown over it which more or less stifled any semblance of attacking fluency from either side. Were both Germany and England saving themselves for the main dinner party in next year's World Cup in Russia? Certainly most of the England supporters looked in dire need of a strong vodka or two.

Still it was interesting to watch the body language of England's reasonably new manager Gareth Southgate. Now here is a man who looks as if he's just been asked to attend a job interview and is doing his utmost to impress his prospective boss. In his perfectly, made to measure dark navy suit and that rather dashing waistcoat Southgate was smart, presentable, personable and utterly respectable, perhaps terrified of defeat and its repercussions, hoping against hope that nobody would be disappointed with him.

Throughout last night's match Southgate paced his technical area like a late night commuter waiting for the last train to arrive and checking his watch in a mild state of anxiety. With that hint of a beard on his face, Southgate did throw his body to one side in utter frustration and exasperation when Jessie Lingard missed what looked like the winning goal right at the end of the game. Nowadays Premier League managers tend to indulge themselves in some irrational bout of water bottle throwing but Southgate did look at ease with himself and a satisfied grin suddenly appeared on his face.

So how are we to pass considered assessments on this clearly experimental England team? Jordan Pickford, England's keeper for the night, must have been relieved to take time away from a struggling Everton side producing an excellent performance for England that must have been immensely pleasing for both Pickford and those with understandable concerns about England's defence. Pickford made some exemplary saves when he was called into action but then he would probably have spent his time more constructively tackling the Times crossword.

Both Kieran Trippier, Phil Jones at full back linked up with John Stones at the heart of the defence effectively and proficiently but that probably says more about the match itself than their respective performances. Stones, in particular, looks easy on the eye, confident in possession and never afraid to carry the ball out of England's defence with a knowing and streetwise air about him. Stones is no Bobby Moore- far from it- nor does he resemble the equally as noble Beckenbauer but he does know when to tackle before striding assertively towards the half way line.

Eric Dier, the Tottenham central defender has all the hallmarks of a sturdy and steadfast captain if indeed he is appointed as England's captain in future international matches. Dier is a tall and upright figure who shows every sign of securing regular participation in an England shirt. His positional sense is immaculate and reading of the game has become almost second nature. Dier's increasing footballing knowledge and awareness of the game and his opponents have to be an enormous source of encouragement.

Further forward were both Jake Livermore and Harry Maguire, two players who are still wet to the point of soaking behind the ears at international level. It would be horribly unfair to say that both Livermore and Maguire are just passing ships in the night for England. Over the years England have chosen players for inclusion who would never have been otherwise even thought about. For instance when Carlton Palmer once pulled on a white England shirt the critics were ready to inflict grievous bodily harm on the England manager. Sadly Palmer never fully recovered his composure and was never seen at Wembley again.

Livermore did as much as he could to put forward his name as one of England's main midfield contenders. He was full of honest, whole hearted endeavour if indeed such qualities were ever required against Germany last night while Maguire, now at Leicester was sound, competent and unspectacular. It was hard to know whether both players needed any kind of job application for last night's display. You almost felt as if you'd been invited to some leisurely picnic in the park where the summer sun glanced flirtatiously on a mouth watering plate of sandwiches and glasses of lemonade.

And then there was Ruben Loftus Cheek. Now here my friends is one footballer whose name is never likely to be forgotten. This is the age of the aristocratic hyphenated player. At Everton Goodison is currently enjoying Dominic Calvert Lewin. Eventually English football matches will be held on country estates or sprawling stately homes. Perhaps butlers will be serving the half time tea and the occasional click of the croquet ball will be followed by a discreet cup of Earl Grey tea.

For what it's worth Loftus Cheek looked full of running, full of the joys of the season and full of beans. But you began to wonder whether Loftus Cheek will be uppermost in his mind come next June when the World Cup begins next summer. Of course he was well intentioned and desperate to create an impression but still looks like a work in progress ready perhaps for the 2022 World Cup - wherever that happens to be. The youngster looked powerful and purposeful but then so were many of England's post 1966 generation.

Finally I give you last night's England's forward combination Jamie Vardy and Tammy Abraham who in all fairness looked as compatible as Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor. Vardy of course must be cherishing his Premier League title with Leicester City rather like somebody carefully preserving a valuable painting or a sentimental keepsake. Approaching that difficult age of 30, Vardy can still score goals but the pace may desert him shortly and there are very few Ryan Giggs left in the game.

As for Tammy Abraham the jury may well be out for a considerable length of time. True Abraham did all that was required and galloped around Wembley like a young foal. But the Swansea youngster still looks as if he should be carefully wrapped in cotton wool for another day.  Abraham is slowly finding his feet at Swansea and any more exposure to the big time at international level could be more of a hindrance than a help.

By the end of this goal- less mystery of a match the England supporters disappeared into the North London night and perhaps glanced at that brightly lit red arch that is Wembley at night. It was a cold November evening and a vast majority of England's supporters were questioning the necessity for a meaningless football friendly when they could have been looking at beer mats. Sometimes even the daftest ideas seem almost credible. But then nobody could possibly have imagined how on earth a football match could suddenly emerge on a First World War battlefield. Still even the impassive Sir Alf Ramsey would have broken into a smile. England awaits Brazil. Football has so much time for its friendlies.

Need good books to read? Look no further. No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics are finger clicking, foot stomping, happy -go- lucky read.

Need good books to read? Look no further.

Now where was I? Oh yes it's time to tell you about my books, a subject for which I've made frequent reference to in recent blogs but I thought you'd need some good books to read. So here goes. This is your book promoter calling and here are some notes about the three books that made me both laugh and cry with laughter, moved me to floods of poignant tears and took me on the kind of journey I'd never forget.

My second book No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Amazon Kindle, Waterstones online market place and Books A-Million online. No Joe Bloggs is my funny, moving, nostalgic and lyrical memoir which covers among a whole load of other things Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Sammy Davis Junior, Dean Martin, Woody Allen, Johnny Carson, the wonderful United States of America, my parents, grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, my favourite movies, music, singers, bands, radio stations, an abundance of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, amusing descriptions and pen portraits of football teams such as Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester United, Manchester City, Ipswich Town, Aston Villa, Chelsea, Spurs and Wolves.

Throughout No Joe Bloggs there is a constant theme of triumph over adversity, a sense that there is a sliver lining and setbacks and tragedies can be conquered. I write about Ilford, Essex where I grew up with some vividly affectionate accounts of Valentines Park in Ilford and this is followed by some more picturesque prose about London, the capital city my late and wonderful dad had such a soft spot for. There are references about Piccadilly Circus, the West End of London, the great touristy landmarks of London and my take on everything that makes London tick.

In one chapter I describe, fictitiously, my dad's Las Vegas paradise where both he, Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Sammy Davis Junior and Dean Martin converge on the Las Vegas gambling casinos the pool tables.

In another chapter I give another imaginary account of what happened on the day of the 1966 World Cup Final between England and West Germany as a father and son set out for Wembley Stadium. Then I move on to discuss the many showbiz celebrities who have been a guiding light for both TV, film and theatre. I also talk about those legendary TV programmes during the 1960s and 70s in both the USA and Britain over the years.

Above all though No Joe Bloggs is not only a social commentary book but a book about real feelings, real vulnerabilities, real emotions, my adolescent struggles, those extremely difficult teenage years when it all went so sadly wrong for me. I talk about the inevitable loneliness, the shy awkwardness, the failure to connect with kids of my age, my complete lack of any social skills, the lack of social interaction, perhaps a private yearning to be like the rest of my generation and not knowing how to communicate for fear that the kids of my age at the time would laugh at and mock me.

No Joe Bloggs is a huge illustration of my helplessness, my solitary solitude that left me totally ill equipped to face both the world, the future and what must have seemed like the rest of my life. I do hope that you won't get the impression that this is some sob story about a painfully shy kid from Essex. I want no sympathy but what I hope you get from No Joe Bloggs is a story about the subjects that animate me, fascinate me and enthrall me.

So I said at the top of my blog here. If you need a good book and books to read then my book No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you. It's heartwarming, uplifting and uplifting, a story about a kid who grew up in a warm hearted, brilliant and closely knit suburb of Essex and just wanted to be accepted for who he was rather than what he might have been.

I would never dream of asking you to understand why I was so shy and reserved because this is one subject that can never be properly explained. For those who didn't know me as a 11 year old I'd just like to re-assure you that it wasn't personal and I wasn't being deliberately snobbish. Let me tell you right away that of course I should have played football with the lads, table tennis into the late hours of the evening and generally doing the kind of things that came naturally to kids of my age. But now I know that it wasn't my fault because I now realise that I had none of the motivations and ambitions that the other kids had.

For me the image of my dad lovingly coaxing me to go into Barkingside Youth Club in Essex as an 11 year old is an image that I'd rather forget. Of course I wanted to be like the other kids of 1974, of course I should have learnt to drive when I was 17 or 18 and of course I should have been ambitious. If only I could have hung out with my Jewish friends rather than hiding away in my bedroom and pretending that the outside world wasn't really for me. I can still remember the overwhelming fear and terror that being 11 years old had brought to me at the time.

Hindsight though is a wonderful thing and when we look back on our lives we all make mistakes, we all get it wrong when we're young or maybe we get it right but don't know how or why. I suppose what I'm really trying to say that although the kids who went to Barkingside Youth Club on that fateful evening in September have no recollection of me then I apologise. My life and mindset at 11 bore no relation to your mindset. Call it immaturity or somebody who just didn't want to join with teenagers of my age, the truth was that I was different, I was socially uncomfortable, terrified and scared and it's only now that I can reconcile myself to the fact that some things were somehow fated to happen.

Anyway the fact is that No Joe Bloggs will give you broad brush strokes of the kind of man I am today. It is a book of observation, humour, clear insights into my character and my love of English grammar as well as language. So if you fancy a good old fashioned laugh, chuckle and giggle then I would heartily recommend No Joe Bloggs. It's a foot stomping, finger clicking, happy go lucky read.

Meanwhile my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes will take you on a different kind of journey but still waxes lyrical about my personal take on the English middle classes, England, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, England's football World Cup triumphs and disasters, the victories and defeats, the trials and tribulations, the players and managers, British seaside resorts from my perspective, West End department stores, more about wonderful Ilford and a large summary of everything that brings a smile to my face.

Like No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes is available at Amazon, Amazon Kindle, Waterstones online market place and Books- A-Million online. It's another descriptive book about my personal take on the ordinary and the extraordinary. I also talk about my favourite sports personalities from the 1970s and more of the TV shows that took the world by storm. So Joe Jolly's Japes is definitely the book I'd recommend for a festive read. You'll like what you read.

 My first book Victorian Madness Lyrics, which by the way is still available at FeedaRead.com, is I think a hilarious totally bonkers book that is both in turns crazy, zany and outrageously incomprehensible. But hold on it may be incomprehensible but for all its ludicrously over the top language you might just find it enjoyable.

In Victorian Madness Lyrics, an affectionate homage to the great British ska band, I've transformed most of Suggs and the lads back catalogue of hits into a grammatical festival of words that may sound excessively posh and ridiculously silly but might tickle your funny bone on the train to work. Here are examples from Victorian Madness Lyrics. The House of Fun - Establishment of Amusement, Our House - One's Abode and Baggy Trousers- Ill fitting Pantaloons. So if you're in the mood for some good, honest fun in your book Victorian Madness Lyrics will make you laugh and laugh and laugh.   

Slaven Bilic- West Ham's victim of circumstances

Slaven Bilic - West Ham's victim of circumstances.

Slaven Bilic looked across the vast green acres of the London Stadium and must have wondered why it had to be him rather than somebody else. What on earth had he done to deserve this ghastly fate? Why did he have to be the easy scapegoat for something that was probably wasn't his fault in the first place. And yet it was and life can be grossly unfair when you're a Premier League manager and time is always of the essence.

 Football management is just a hellish imposition. When your team keep winning you're the flavour of the month and more than worth a knighthood. But when it all seems to go down the proverbial plug hole it's time to move on and look for something more emotionally rewarding. For the former manager of the Croatian national side this had to be the worst news any manager of football club can ever receive on a Monday morning.

This morning Slaven Bilic was sacked by West Ham because after a difficult first season at their plush new London Stadium the second is becoming even more chronically indigestible. After their first three away games at the beginning of the season owing to the World Athletics Championship West Ham have stumbled and now tumbled over after a hurtful 4-1 defeat at home to Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool and a series of clod-hopping calamities that has now seen them sink into the Premier League's relegation zone.

Now though West Ham face what seems like a familiar predicament, a side of excellent individuals but a side without a rudder, steering wheel and an over heating engine. During their desperately humiliating defeat to Liverpool Bilic simply looked a doomed and condemned man who could hardly believe what he was seeing. In fact so inept and spineless were West Ham that at times your heart wept profusely for this decent, well intentioned man.

After their unforgettable last season at Upton Park Bilic presided over a team who could do no wrong at any time. West Ham recorded their first win at Anfield since 1963 and in their following Premier League visit to the Etihad Stadium, Manchester City were overwhelmed by West Ham and a brilliant goal by Victor Moses who subsequently went straight back to Chelsea and won the Premier League. On reflection West Ham may have cause to kick themselves but maybe not that hard.

At the end of that season Bilic celebrated wildly with his team after the Hammers finished seventh and qualified for the Europa League qualifying rounds through the back door. He may have been tempted to think back to that incredible night when Croatia reduced Steve McClaren, the former England boss to that famous umbrella as the rain poured from the old Wembley skies.

This season though, his second at the London Stadium, was an almost identical dry run of the last. In mitigation Bilic did have Dimitri Payet in his first team. Payet emerged as one of the most imaginative midfield players the club had been able to boast since perhaps the glory, glory days of Trevor Brooking. It was Payet's free kick prowess that had left the supporters in breathless raptures and his witty improvisations convinced the West Ham faithful that happy days were here again.

Then Payet deserted his post and suddenly discovered that his family hadn't settled in East London and therefore it was time to up sticks heading back to Marseille in no time at all. Now West Ham had been left heartbroken, desolate and bereft and Bilic was now a man under the closest scrutiny. One of their paint brushes had gone missing and while not a blank canvas as such, it did look as if Bilic was just filling in cracks that were becoming much wider than was first thought.

In Manuel Lanzini Bilic may have felt that the creative hiatus was just a temporary setback. Lanzini, a lovely midfield player with a low centre of gravity and the most delicate of touches, decided to inherit the legacy that Payet had left behind. Lanzini is still at the club and continues to enchant with those darting runs and attacking spurts cutting inside opponents and then creating neatly carved spaces for his team mates to run into. Lanzini is no Alan Devonshire but those gallivanting gallops towards his opponents goal have yet to be replicated.

The little Argentinian is still highly regarded at the London Stadium but even Bilic's motivational powers were not enough to inspire both Lanzini and West Ham. When Robert Snodgrass was signed from Hull City last January in the transfer window it seemed as though the Scottish international had adequately filled the play making gap that was left wide open by Payet's departure. But in retrospect there are now West Ham supporters who must be wishing that that window had been slammed shut. Snodgrass is a hard working and progressive midfielder- cum winger but was certainly no Payet and the beard was a transient fashion statement. Snodgrass is currently on loan at Aston Villa and those of a claret and blue disposition will be hoping that the other claret and blues keep him.

So it is then that West Ham face the most gruelling of ordeals. During the summer West Ham bought the former Manchester United favourite Javier Hernandez and Marko Arnautovic from Stoke City for substantial amounts of money. The reaction from the London Stadium Hammers loyalists was so favourable that many of them began to dream about Champions League qualification  and champagne celebrations in the Westfield Shopping Centre in Stratford. The opposite though has taken place and now West Ham find themselves in the thick of a relegation battle.

Hernandez, for all his willing heart and hurrying scurrying enthusiasm on and off the ball, is still some way short of the player who won the Premier League for Manchester United. The pace is undoubtedly electrifying and the Mexican trickery is a pleasure to watch but the impact is not the desired one. He may have scored a sprinkling of goals for West Ham but the much more profound influence he had at Manchester United is no more than a shallow pool at West Ham.

Arnautovic, who came on as a sub against Liverpool on Saturday evening, looks, to the untrained eye, the worst piece of business that Bilic had ever conducted at West Ham. So far the Austrian forward looks like the stereotyped square peg in a round hole. Loping down the flanks like a lost stallion in some remote field, Arnautovic is simply rambling and roaming around in ever increasing circles. For a striker who scored goals, seemingly on tap for Mark Hughes Stoke, Arnautovic has quite literally forgotten which way to go.

But then this morning Bilic was summoned to that fateful meeting where football's sack race continued apace. Last week Everton showed Ronald Koeman the door and now Bilic has been given his marching orders. We know how unforgiving football management can be and the days of unwavering loyalty in football seem like ancient history, an anachronism that seems almost as old as two points for a win and the European Cup knock out competition.

Still football does provide one or two minor consolations when managers are driven out by a whole succession of bad results. Slaven Bilic, ladies and gentlemen, is an accomplished rock guitarist and in the next few days he will think about his future and wonder if he could have succeeded in becoming the next Eric Clapton. Bilic will look at his plectrum and those well tuned strings, fondly imagining perhaps a new career in music and looking forward to a more positive future.

In his lowest moments Bilic might be interested to think about the fate that befell some of his managerial predecessors. Brian Clough lasted 44 days at a demanding Leeds United because Cloughie angrily chucked all of the Leeds league championship winners medals into a training ground bin. More recently poor Sam Allardyce accidentally shot himself in the foot when the England FA hierarchy rumbled Allardyce's involvement in some newspaper sting, one that saw him leave the England job in disgrace before he'd even started. But our Sam was not to be deterred and Allardyce remains firmly in the club management shop window.

On Saturday BBC's Football Focus featured a John Motson interview with former Southampton manager Lawrie Mcmenemy. Mcmenemy discussed his beginnings at Grimsby before Southampton came calling. Here was an immensely respected manager who remained with the South Coast club through thick and thin. In 1976 Southampton beat Manchester United in the FA Cup Final and those far off days of wine and song at the Dell, including the likes of Mick Channon, Peter Osgood and Alan Ball, seemed to bring a pronounced lump to Mcmenemy's throat.

For Slaven Bilic the claret and blue memories may be slightly blurred and fractured by those twin evils of defeat and crisis. No chairman or chairmen or women need to be reminded of these harsh truths when they may be quite clearly staring them in the face. Bilic never really looked happy or comfortable with his lot at West Ham and that very noticeable stoop forward in his posture and those anguished glares at his players should have given us a much clearer indication of what was happening at West Ham.

The memory goes back to those two legendary West Ham managers who gave the East London club its most identifiable template. Both Ron Greenwood and then John Lyall were both pioneers and revolutionaries, idealists and dreamers and if there is a silver lining for Bilic then perhaps the eras of Greenwood and Lyall should offer a salutary reminder that things can only get better. Never mind Slaven what the football world has temporarily lost rock music has gained considerably. Now where's that old guitar Slaven. Oh yes it's over there gently weeping with the late and great George Harrison. Oh happy days.