England let slip of the Ashes, Donald Trump and more festive fun.
There comes a point in our lives when the fickle finger of fate always seems to point in the wrong direction. No matter how hard we try to force the issue, nothing seems to go right. We search for reasons and ask persistent questions and it just seems so predictable. We open up our newspapers, watch the breakfast morning news or tune into the radio and those same sentences and paragraphs keep cropping up.
Yesterday the English cricket team lost hold of the Ashes once again in Australia. Now how often have we heard that old chestnut? It now feels like an eternity since England came home from Down Under with that little urn. Still you have to take your hat off to our boys in the Antipodes. They do give it a go, their persistence remarkable, their honest endeavour seemingly unquenched. But the reality is that it never seems to go our way and not for the first time English cricket received a damaging blow to its solar plexus. That punch to the ribs really did achieve maximum penetration.
England's relatively new captain Joe Root will now begin to carry out a huge inquest into how and why things went so dreadfully wrong for his team. After the magnificent victories against South Africa during this summer, Root must be deeply hurt by the humiliation of England's belly flops in Australia. After all, this is not the way it was meant to be for the England team. Still these things happen in international sport. One moment you're at the summit planting your flag and the next you're languishing near the bottom without a friend in sight. Such are the thin dividing lines between success and failure.
This time there were no silver linings for England and when they come to review the somewhat unfortunate headlines that followed them around Australia they may be tempted to think that Christmas at home with their families would have been a much more appealing proposition. True they did throw one or two jabs at their opponents but eventually the cotton reel unravelled and England simply found themselves in a terrible tangle.
But when we come to look back at the Ashes it's the behaviour of the players and the less than favourable publicity the tour has generated that will always be remembered. There were those awkward and spiky exchanges between the players as they walked off the pitch after a stressful day out in the field. Joe Root was to be seen glaring at the Aussies rather disapprovingly and then muttering what looked to be withering insults and derogatory comments. There were, shall we say, some unnecessary confrontations between the players that could have been avoided.
The fact is though Australia have quite handsomely outplayed England and the 3-0 defeat leaves most of England wondering whether it could have done anything different. The answer has to remain in the negative and Steve Smith's Australia, with dignity restored and that ageless urn under lock and key, will be feeling rather smug and self satisfied with life at the moment.
With Mitchell Starc frightening the life out of the somewhat fragile English batting attack, a bowler of lethal and terrifying speed, Pat Cummins also tearing great lumps out of our batsmen and Josh Hazelwood emerging quite rightly as one of the many heroes in the Australian side it all seemed to fall apart from the first Test onwards.
New boys James Vince and Mark Stoneman seemed to have no answer to the Aussie's powerhouse bowling and batting. Johnny Bairstow, from whom much was expected, almost vanished from view and only Dawid Malan emerged with flying colours. But the entire Ashes conflict just seemed to escape from English clutches, the familiar drift towards some lonely shore nothing less than tragic.
True, the legend that is Jimmy Anderson did some extremely convincing impersonations of Ian Botham at his peak but that bright red cricket ball became like a bar of soap in English hands. Anderson's bowling was perhaps the most impressive feature of the whole tour. He bowled straight, kept a firm line and length and the ball seemed to zip through at a fair rate of knots. Anderson bowled with fearsome accuracy and a punitive ferocity that Botham could only swoon at.
Meanwhile back on the political stage, Donald Trump must be looking forward to his Christmas pinching himself constantly at the sheer audacity of of it all. The year for Trump has been nothing short of miraculous and if somebody had told him that by the end of 2017 he'd still be President of the United States he would almost certainly have looked at them in wonderment. Or maybe his sense of vanity and narcissism would have kicked in and he'd have told us that he knew he'd still be in office.
Still the farce and soap opera that is the Trump presidency rolls on and on like an endless old Hollywood western that keeps going on relentlessly without pausing for breath. Nobody quite knows what to expect from Trump because, in his private moments, maybe even he doesn't know. Suffice it to say that the American nation are braving the elements, keeping their heads down and longing to watch James Stewart's epic Christmas film 'It's A Wonderful Life'.
So where are we with Donald Trump? Here is the social media commentator extraordinaire tweeting and twittering his frustrations, his endless propaganda about nothing of any significance and then blaming the milkman, the neighbours and quite possibly the dogs for everything and anything. Trump has become a man on a mission, an angry, one man crusader, a furious, incensed and morally outraged campaigner who loves his country but is never quite sure whether his country loves him.
It is hard to know how Trump will be spending his Christmas this year. Will he hire out the whole of Trump Towers for one extravagant party, a shin dig that none of his guests will ever forget? Will his wife and children sit around the Christmas tree trembling in case he suddenly launches into an explosive tirade against North Korea or Russia? Will Trump exercise his already well employed vocal chords with his version of Bing Crosby's wonderful 'White Christmas'? Or will he sit back in his well padded arm-chair and just entertain everybody with those bizarre finger gestures? Answers on a postcard please!
On the shiveringly cold streets of New York and Washington there is an overwhelming sense of wonderment and an obvious suspension of belief. Here is a once bankrupt billionaire businessman holding the reins of one of the most important jobs in the political universe and some of us are still trying to figure out how it all happened and whether anything can be done to rectify the problem. If indeed it needs to be fixed.
Trump is breathing fire and menace wherever he goes in the world and from our perfect vantage point here in Britain it all seems barely believable. Trump, who to some may be regarded as completely clueless, could be seen as a fumbling and bumbling figure, sniggering mischievously behind everybody's back, drinking his twentieth can of Diet Cola and then attacking Vladimir Putin for being Russian. You really couldn't make it up. From here in Britain it all looks and sounds complicated.
Still you never know. Maybe Trump will find a red coat and white beard. The chances are that he may find a sack of presents for the American children although sacking may not be the word Trump will want to hear at the moment. But as for fairies on tops of trees and turkey with all the trimmings, Trump may decide that you can only have too much fun.
And finally we come to Britain, Prime Minister Theresa May and that broken record known as Brexit. May of course did win the General Election back in June and she did hold onto power by her fingertips. But her majority was blown out of the water and when she limped back to 10 Downing Street there were very few bandages and bottles of medicine so she had to make do with what she had.
So what are we left with? We have a British government considerably weakened, damaged, wounded, injured and undermined by forces that could be said to be beyond them. The Tories may hold the balance of power but when somebody tips the scales they may find a Prime Minister who doesn't know which way to look, who smiles obligingly for the cameras but in her heart of hearts knows that some of her Cabinet colleagues are restless and muttering their discontent.
Oh well come on Prime Minister. Kick off those heels, put your feet up and let's play Scrabble or Monopoly on Christmas Day with your family and friends. You deserve a break. To quote one of your Labour adversaries from yesteryear. Things can only get better. Or maybe they have and we didn't really notice. It may be safe to show your face since the disappearance of Nigel Farage and Jeremy Corbyn is no more than a political lightweight although Corbyn may think not. It's time to hang up some more mistletoe. We can only imagine what Santa will bring Corbyn. Perhaps another injection of humour. Ho Ho Ho!
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