Boxing Day- the day after that day.

Boxing Day- the day after that day.

Boxing Day is normally the day of recovery, repercussions, re-appraisal, for looking back on that previous day when huge family networks slump on their respective sofas in collective states of exhaustion and sozzled intoxication. There may be an underlying sense that it may have been worth it all if only our friendly cousin hadn't been quite so obsessed with the Fosters lager or that third bottle of Jack Daniels.

So what to do when the Christmas Day family films have run their course, when all you can do is indulge in that yearly session of heavy snoring, wearing silly paper hats still tilting over to one side of the head at some weird mathematical angle and tinsel delightfully sprinkled over the comfortable slippers that your auntie brought last Christmas. All around the family there is a giggly mayhem and carnage that none of them can quite explain.

Grandfathers are still smoking their tenth Havana cigar, uncles proudly displaying that almost cliched Christmas pullover with the familiar snowman. In a small corner of the sofa the TV remote channel is beginning to look very sorry for itself, subjected as it has been to that yearly ritual of being thrown heartlessly across the living room. This is quite definitely cruel and merciless, the kind of punishment most of us would never think of repeating throughout the year. And yet how we love it.

The fact remains though that Boxing Day leaves us all anti climactic, wondering what on earth possessed us to spend all of that hard earned money on some crazy food and drink spending spree. The family have generally had a terrific time, eating and drinking extravagantly, playing board games they haven't seen for at least a year and then ripping open more wrapping paper because it seems the best thing you can ever do on the day after Christmas Day.

But generally most of us are in an advanced state of grogginess, sluggishness, heavy with the scent of rich booze on our lips. We know we've had the most unforgettable day of the year but if only we'd remembered why we'd drunk like fish and eaten as if it were going out of fashion then perhaps we could rationalise with everything we've done to our digestive system.

Now though is the time for sober reflection and focusing on that long, gruelling walk through the park, sauntering over sturdy bridges, strolling happily by ponds and lakes of utter serenity, hills that challenge not only the muscles and joints but our infinite capacity to climb steep hills, stamina sapping treks through muddy, slippery forests. We then turn to our loyal and trustworthy dogs who always love a thrillingly invigorating run in the park, barking and yapping, relieved and just overjoyed to be out in the fresh air and chasing branches.

And then we consider the Boxing Day pantomime but only briefly when we suddenly recognise that our children are no longer children and pantomimes are designed for today's generation of  children. It always felt good to be a parent when our children just laughed themselves shamelessly over the exploits of Jack and the Beanstalk and the nasty baddies deserved nothing more than hatred and revulsion. But they've now grown up and are consenting adults who are rightly allowed to vote and drink. Still, it  may be possible to re-capture our childhoods who ever we are because that's our prerogative whether we be a man or woman.

For some of us this is still the day when our football team, now 55 years ago, were battered, crushed and left out in the cold to lick our painful wounds. West Ham, bless their cotton socks, were roundly thumped on this day in 1963. On a day when the goals rained down on the old First Division in almost biblical fashion, West Ham entertained Blackburn on a thick, muddy Upton Park gluepot. It still seems like some terrible calamity that never happened but it did. Blackburn came away from East London with an 8-2 victory that was only redressed two days later with a 3-1 win for the Hammers at Ewood Park.

And so Boxing Day now draws to another close and the nation begins to fixate on those perennial winter department shop sales where we all jostle and push each other out of the way in the relentless pursuit of the cheapest bargain. It all seems so hilariously predictable because we're all somehow conditioned to behave this way at this time of the year. Some of us are now off to demolish the remnants of yesterday's feast and launch another search party for the TV remote channel. Keep celebrating everybody! 

Twas the night before Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas

Last night a heavy darkness fell over North London like a languid curtain during a hot summer. It was only 5pm in the afternoon but even the birds were turning over for the night for a spot of shut eye. There is an air of brooding introspection in the winter night outside that just seems to be grim, dreary and all pervasive. It seems to drop like a blanket, swallowing up any mere chinks of fading December light before taking up permanent residence during the winter months and not budging for a second.

The bed and breakfast hotels in Manor House were still preparing for the big day, bright specks of silver and white Christmas trees glistening and glimmering in the full expectation that the guests will just party away for the whole duration of the festive period. The Best Western Hotel, which used to be commonly associated with America, is still doing a roaring trade in the Seven Sisters Road in North London.

Everywhere the world continues to spin relentlessly. The doctors and those vital emergency services will always be available in times of need, stress, infirmity and medical necessity. The little huddle of newsagents and sweet shops next to us will be a hive of activity with their varied selection of Lottery tickets, chocolates, bottles of alcohol, cigarettes, brooms and mops temptingly arranged outside the shop, loaves of bread, frozen vegetables, milk and cheese in abundance while not forgetting the cat food.

The commercial fairground that is Christmas just seems to go around faster and faster. This year the vast array of boxes of chocolates and biscuits seemed to arrive in June. As for all of those big and bustling supermarkets the TV advertising campaigns seem to get more elaborate and cheesier by the year. All around us is a huge collision of cultures, a festival of symbolic reds and greens blending, mixing and matching with the timeless decor. It could only be Christmas and the blatant festive references are quite obviously all around us.

All around the shops a wall of joyous humanity shifts nervously from one giant aisle to the next, crowds of people pottering around slowly but surely, pausing for what seems like an entirety and then shuffling. Yes folks, this is the season for shuffling, tentative shuffling, leisurely shuffling, smiling fulsomely over heaving supermarket trolleys full to the brim with excessive merchandise. Then they seem to lean their arms on the said trolley, glancing up at the starry ceiling with all the enthusiasm of the young children they used to be.

Then very young babies wearing thick coats and hoods are plonked onto the trolley, squeezed tightly into a very confined space while mum and dad spend the best part of an hour or two deciding what exactly to get and then possibly regretting it on the day after Boxing Day.  Then the older kids jump out of the trolley, go on what seems like a frantic half marathon around the sweets for the 20th time and then just demand that mum and dad empty those sweet shelves immediately before we kick up a fuss. Oh for the festive season. Isn't this fun?

But this happens ever year doesn't it?  There are no variations on a theme, the queues still stretch as far as Belgium and that's on a good day. The tills are ringing almost constantly, the patient and kindly cashiers try desperately to put on a facade of happiness and joy to all and that melodious muzak which plays Slade's classic Christmas number at least 300 times a day, just seems to have got trapped in a repetitious loop that keeps pumping out the same old tunes hour after hour. It's enough to drive you crazy if you let it.

And yet we really wouldn't have it any other day. We love to be spend money, barrow loads of money on presents, shopping and shopping until we drop, getting completely exhausted mentally and emotionally, shoving our way fearlessly past another mass of urgency and emergency. This feels like the most pointless stampede. How to explain the one time of the year when we all fall over each other, grasping and grabbing acquisitively, earnestly pleading for the manager for the one thing the supermarket has just run out of?

Then we blame the supervisors, the staff and managers for being so absent mindedly out of stock. Suddenly, panicky brows filled with sweat will be wiped while mum and dad sigh impatiently at the abruptness of the supermarket customer services. They just seem to fob us all off with excuse after excuse and when are they going to get their act together and how dare they be so bolshy and unhelpful?

So here we are again on the verge of Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, followed by Boxing Day which then gives away to yet more turkey leftover consumption, fridges loaded with more booze than an old fashioned pirate ship, mince pies that the dogs and cats are determined to nab and more gastronomic goodies that we can still salivate on until, quite probably, next Christmas.

Many decades ago the trains used to run on Christmas Day, a full football fixture list would encompass the whole of the Christmas period and Boxing Day could only be reserved for the traditional family pantomime. Then aunties, uncles and cousins would very grudgingly go home on the day after the Boxing Day, the carpet will still be liberally sprinkled with a mosaic of tattered, snapped crackers, carrots and brussel sprouts sadly and forlornly scattered around the floor.

Then the youngerkids  will leave a piles of toys have unashamedly under the Christmas tree only to run out of batteries seconds later. It is at this point that sobbing cries freely emerge from the mouths of heartbroken children who will now become inconsolable. This is all too much for some, a vast majority of whom have been stuck in front of the TV since, seemingly, the 15th century.

Anyway folks, it's time to dust the shelves, now groaning with cards, arrange the chairs and tables, grapple with those final light bulbs on the trees, adjust the star on the tree, wrap some more papier mache lanterns next to the log fire and then count the innumerable Christmas cards which seem to multiply by the hour. Oh go on then spoil yourself. It is Christmas after all. Ding Dong Merrily On High everybody. Have that cracking Christmas, folks- the one you'd always promised yourself. Ho Ho Ho!

The pantomime season has arrived.

The pantomime season has arrived.

The pantomime season has well and truly arrived at the House of Comedy. Oh yes it has! Oh no it hasn't! At a very specific point during yesterday's blistering, boiling and overheating row in Westminster Towers we reached the lowest common denominator when one of the scruffy kids in the school corridor told their teacher that they were saying naughty things about something they were alleged to have said.

 Then the headmaster or headmistress came into the room and told everybody that if they didn't sit down and behave themselves they'd all have to come back after school and just sit there for an hour or so and just cool off. Maybe if you'll just simmer down, stop fighting and listen to the voices of commonsense then perhaps we'll think about giving you the benefit of the doubt. But if you can't behave yourself then we'll have to re-consider that trip to the British Museum in the New Year.

Yesterday though Theresa May, the British Prime Minister and Labour leader Jeremy Corbyn squared up to each other like feuding neighbours over the garden fence. They eyeballed each other fiercely and ferociously, barely holding back for any longer than was necessary. There was the most pungent smell of blood and explosive cordite in the air, passions raging, shirt buttons bursting with hatred, shirt collars oozing poisonous bile and vitriol. It was rather like watching the most ludicrous wrestling match in a political ring.

With the Christmas break just a day away now, May and Corbyn were shouting at each other, hollering, heckling and haranguing, needling and provoking each other as if determined to humiliate one another without quite knowing why. The whole Brexit debate has now become such a nonsensical charade that none of us can quite believe what we're witnessing.

On the last few days before the festive feasting, the eminent and not so eminent politicians of the so called British parliament will kick off their shoes for the tinsel and glitter of the Christmas holiday and try to relax. But what we saw yesterday can only reinforce the growing conviction that some of our cabinet ministers and shadow cabinet flowery orators may have lost the plot. In fact, some of them, you feel sure, should be condemned to a dark room and only let out when we tell you to come out.

The accusation was- and this seemed to be the central bone of contention- that Jeremy Corbyn made an openly sexist comment about Theresa May and was deeply unapologetic about it all. Corbyn apparently mumbled something outrageously insulting about women. It was horribly offensive and definitely derogatory so take that Prime Minister. Corbyn thought that May was just a stupid woman who hadn't a clue what she was talking about. You've never heard anything quite so preposterous.

Then May got out her own verbal toy gun, poked out her playful tongue at Corbyn and memorably dismissed him as some sham figure of fun, a loose cannon, a no good for nothing maverick, that wicked character in the Christmas pantomime who the children boo and hiss incessantly. May ordered Corbyn to look behind him suggesting all the while that the man with the appropriate white beard should just take himself off to some remote island in the middle of nowhere where nobody can see or hear him.

By now the House of Comedy had descended into thigh slapping territory where Dick Whittington meets Window Twankey and, quite literally, bumps into those sinister, narrow eyed villains who are just obnoxious and scandalously silly. Theresa May leaned forward urgently, glaring and glowering at her opponent, eyes now blazing, nostrils flaring, incensed with that typical man who only believes that a woman's place is in the home, cooking, cleaning, preparing meals for the family and scrubbing the floor vigorously.

But May hadn't finished yet because she knew with some certainty that lines had been crossed, disciplinary measures should be imposed immediately and Corbyn should just leave the building pronto, packing up his belongings and just keeping his misogynistic feelings to himself. Around her, hundreds of Tories roundly bellowed their approval of the Prime Minister, otherwise slightly sceptical backbenchers cheering like the Tories at a triumphant party political conference. This almost felt like some gospel gathering where a vast majority of the congregation gets slightly carried away.

At the heart of it all was what at first could have been rightly described as an innocent argument over the cheese and pineapple sticks which eventually turned into a muddled and desperately complicated disagreement over who pays the bill in a restaurant. Suddenly, it seems to be getting very personal and before you know it, somebody will simply storm out into the late night cold with none of us the wiser as to why it had to happen like this in the first place.

Still, as yesterday's last Westminster dust up drew closer to the end, May and Corbyn were still at each other's throats and you half expected a law abiding police force to sensibly intervene and clip both around the ear with a firm warning never to step out of line again. Because if you do we'll have to take you back to your parents where the only punishment would be a strict command to get straight to bed.

And so it was that everybody packed up for the festive knees up, bottles of finest Scotch whisky in tow, a box of chocolates waiting for them on an expectant coffee table and just a nostalgic tear or two for Christmases past. You remembered the words of a certain Harold MacMillan, a Conservative Prime Minister who insisted that Britain had never had it so good. In many ways the Tories have always believed this to be the case but as the two main political parties put down their elastic bands  for a while you longed for a cessation of hostilities and just let bygones be bygones. Besides, it is Christmas and Brexit has just turned absurd. It's time to join hands and just make up. 

  

Jose Mourinho -The Special One becomes football history.

 Jose Mourinho- The Special One becomes football history.

So poor old Jose Mourinho has been sacked by Manchester United. The man who unequivocally believes that he has no equal as football manager and insists that he is the greatest thing since sliced bread was given the old heave ho, kicked into touch, told to leave by the back door in no uncertain terms. The truth is of course that this has been coming for quite some time so maybe we shouldn't have been entirely shocked.

The truth is of course that Mourinho is no longer the Special One. In fact the Portuguese was simply asking for it, almost staring into the abyss because the time had come, the signs were there, patience had run dry, the excuses were no longer credible or plausible and United had had enough. They'd had enough of the sneering and snarling, the vanity, the narcissism, the giant inflated ego, the sense that he was in charge, he was morally and intellectually superior and nobody could possibly argue with his record because that spoke for itself. But Jose always seemed to have an answer to his critics.

So perhaps sadly, although perhaps with a sense of relief, Mourinho was shown the exit door at Old Trafford and a vast majority of Manchester United fans may think that this was a blessing in disguise. Mourinho was just a moping, sulking, discontented liability and just kidding himself. Recently, his press conferences have assumed a soap opera quality, full of impassioned rants, agitated grumblings and personal attacks on anybody prepared to listen to him. Jose was sound and fury, a man who felt the whole world was against him.

It's easy to assume that he had the most gigantic chip on his shoulder since the persecution complex and paranoia that accompanied him may have been the final words on the matter. It is well known that Mourinho hasn't been a happy bunny but then when was that ever the case anyway? He remains that morbid, morose and cantankerous figure in the managerial dug out who never smiled even when United were winning. So what was the point of making my voice heard when nobody would give him the time of day?

High above were those footballing legends who so dramatically transformed United's image to such an extent that Mourinho must have thought that there were red hot pokers in his back. Sitting in the directors box at Manchester United were Sir Alex Ferguson, now thankfully back to full health and the glorious Sir Bobby Charlton, the man who survived the most tragic of air disasters and then breathed new life back into football's most cherished national treasure.

What must be going through the minds of both Ferguson and Charlton at the moment? Do they think that the rashest of decision making was made, that when Louis Van Gaal and David Moyes were no longer applicable or suitable for the manager's job at United, Manchester United simply panicked. Did they think that a more high profile and richly successful football man who had already proved his Premier League title winning credentials would do the same with Manchester United?

But clearly Mourinho was the wrong fit, the wrong man for the job. He didn't quite meet up to the job specifications, he had turned United into a very cautious, negative, functional team whose intentions were probably honourable but were so far removed from the traditional style that United had always advocated that they may just as well have been Newton Heath and still playing in that brief season of yellow and green.

Now though the man from Portugal is no longer the precious one, the beloved and respected one who lifted the Premier League for Chelsea in two back to back seasons. Then Mourinho had a black mop of hair, everything was good and healthy. Frank Lampard was scoring goals from a very advanced attacking midfield role, Didier Drogba had become a world class striker and Chelsea seemed to run away with the Premier League when April's spring's gambolling lambs had just appeared for the first time.

Mourinho's hair is a whiter and greyer shade, the chin thick with increasingly noticeable tufts of stubble, a man who looks out of his dug out  staring daggers at all who may pass him. He sits there hunched and haunted, still convinced that the evil spirits are out to get him and indeed there is a full blooded conspiracy against him.

A couple of weeks ago Mourinho seemed to quite literally see the red mist. Sensing that one of the opposition's coaches had deliberately wound him up and made fun of him, Jose flipped by dashing angrily after his man, threatening to create a civil war if United dared to lose. But then he calmed down, saw everything in a much sober perspective because he privately knew that he was never going to win any battles.

Today though the hierarchy at Manchester United have spoken and it's safe to say that they're livid. What on earth possessed them to appoint this sour, sullen man with a permanent grudge against anybody who challenged him on any subject. It's frightening to think what Sir Matt Busby would have made of Jose since Sir Matt was the gentle and reasonable one, the complete pacifist, the man who smoothed out all the wrinkles and internal conflicts with the minimum fuss. Busby would have probably told Mourinho to quietly leave and then hand him the inevitable P45.

This all seems a ghastly and grisly episode in the history of this world famous, globally loved football team. There is a nasty and acrid smell of terrible mismanagement that could have been avoided much sooner. Mourinho must have known the immense size of his job and the responsibility that came with it. But then the defeats started coming and the shattering 3-1 defeat to Liverpool on Sunday was somehow preordained. Jose had to go and the line had to be drawn in the sand.

Now of course United are rudderless, drifting precariously although in no immediate danger of sinking. The captain is still steering the ship but he may need to change direction sooner rather than later. United have always had those awkward moments in their life when managers are chopped and changed and nothing seems to flow. Perhaps they need a decent sextant to guide them properly.

When Sir Matt Busby left United there was a dreadful flapping and commotion as both Wilf McGuinness and Frank O' Farrell were entrusted with this most daunting of assignments. For a number of seasons United were neither here nor there, a team slipping and sliding ominously before heading for horrific obscurity and then relegation to the old Second Division towards the end of the 1970s.

Then there was David Sexton, wonderfully philosophical about the Beautiful Game with radical ideas as to how the way should be played. There was Tommy Docherty, a man who some might have led you to believe had something of the roguish gangster about him. Docherty was a refreshing breath of air but when United met Southampton of the old Second Division in the 1976 FA Cup Final, Docherty didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Football management has always been littered with trap doors and minefields. But you'd probably be forgiven for thinking that it does need several back up contingency plans if it goes all wrong. It is hard to know what Mourinho is thinking of at the moment. The chances are that he won't be inconsolable because the vast amounts of money he may be receiving as a result of his departure will only leave him cackling like Vincent Price in one of those epic, blood sucking films. Oh to be a fly on the wall in the Jose Mourinho living room tonight. Seasons greetings Jose.   

West Ham beat Fulham in repeat of the 1975 FA Cup Final.

West Ham beat Fulham in repeat of the 1975 FA Cup Final.

The dark winter skies were weeping over West London like a child at the end of their birthday party. It was a Saturday evening at Craven Cottage and that dear old ground by the Thames riverside might have harked back ever so briefly to the days of that lovely comedian Tommy Trinder and that gold embossed season back in the 1970s when those two hardened stagers Rodney Marsh and the peerless George Best had everybody reeling in the aisles.

 Maybe their minds were cast back to the jutting chin and beard of Jimmy Hill, the ever composed Johnny Haynes, a midfield technician with a sharp and intuitive mind and an imperious England player. Or maybe they were thinking of what might have been had that special May day in 1975  turned out differently. They might have been thinking of Bobby Moore, the one player who must have been deeply torn because for a large chunk of his career Moore, then with Fulham could only look at his claret and blue opponents and smile wistfully at the reflection bouncing back at him in the mirror.

Yesterday West Ham, 43 years on from that sentimental day in 1975 and Fulham, met again under completely different circumstances but convinced that this was still a no old pals act. In the 1975 FA Cup semi final Fulham had taken the game to Birmingham City so convincingly that even now it feels like one of those sepia tinted moments when the world suddenly stops still. Viv Busby and John Mitchell terrorised the Birmingham defence cruelly that day and Fulham knew that this would be their year.

For those of a claret and blue attachment though this had been a year to remember. Adolescence was about to set in with a vengeance and West Ham had done sufficiently well to catch my heart. Since my grandfather had passed on his claret and blue wisdom it only seemed natural that something would hook me. But West Ham it was to be and the unstinting support has been severely tested over the years. Still Plashet Grove in Upton Park has a lot to be said for it and, subconsciously at least, West Ham have always been the perfect footballing liaison.

So it was that the claret and blue of West Ham, led out by the bearded and formidable Billy Bonds, marched out alongside the ever dependable Alan Mullery, formerly and unmistakably the leader of the pack at Tottenham - but now distinctively in the white shirt of Fulham. That day West Ham became one of the last all English teams to reach and win an FA Cup Final which may still be regarded by some as a victory for patriotism but now has an old fashioned feel about it. Still, the Premier League is nonetheless wonderfully richer for its global reach and besides who cares?

That year West Ham's yellow brick road to the FA Cup Final had started very humbly at Swindon, moved seamlessly through Queens Park Rangers, Arsenal in a veritable mud bath at Highbury and then the triumphant icing on the cake against Bobby Robson's Ipswich Town which went to a semi final replay at Stamford Bridge. Their path to the Cup Final had been relatively easy apart from Arsenal but one man stood head and shoulders above the rest.

Alan Taylor, who came from the old Fourth Division, plied his trade at Rochdale, who were so miserably anchored near the bottom of the Football League that nobody seemed to bat an eyelid when John Lyall paid the princely sum of £40,000 for a striker nobody had ever heard of. At Highbury Arsenal simply couldn't handle Taylor which, given the fact that most of the players needed a good, sturdy pair of galoshes to wade through the treacly mud, now seems like an achievement in itself.

When Taylor came sliding into meet the low cut back cross into the Arsenal six yard box, the ball seemed to quite literally stick in the cloying glue pot that was the penalty area. You were reminded of the conventional allotment site where rhubarbs join forces with tomatoes and weeds. For a split second a static and frozen Arsenal defence stood stock still in a state of shock. Taylor, anticipating the cross, tapped the ball into the net, grabbed hold of the net and swung elatedly on to it. West Ham were on the way to Wembley Stadium.

The spine of that team back in 1975 was somehow destined to win an FA Cup. Mervyn Day was a young and potentially brilliant England goalkeeper whom West Ham must have felt sure would be a permanent England fixture. Day freely admits that whole day was a blur but when the final whistle went that day, Day had still won the FA Cup, showing exemplary reflexes and  an excellent command of his penalty area.

At the heart of the West Ham defence the blond haired Kevin Lock had been a mature, reliable and cool, calm and collect full back, sensibly doing the simple thing at all times. Frank Lampard senior was still galloping down the flanks and sending logical passes into the right areas. Tommy Taylor, although possibly cumbersome at times, cleared any hint of danger at centre half with a nerveless display of the defender's art.

And then there was Billy Bonds, a model of tireless athleticism, rugged steeliness and the most commanding of auras. Having joined West Ham from Charlton Athletic in 1967, Bonds melted the hearts of the Upton Park loyalists. Bonds was brave, heroic, here there and everywhere, ubiquitous, boldly buccaneering, up and down the sapping Wembley pitch seemingly constantly. The sense of fan identification had become a real one. Bonds knew all about those hard working East End dockers who would go straight to Upton Park and demand entertainment for their hard earned money.

In midfield that sun lit Cup Final day of 1975 three homegrown West Ham academy products would wear their claret and blue cap and gown. Pat Holland was inexhaustible, running, scurrying, carrying the ball almost movingly, darting, weaving, giving and taking in a kind of reciprocal agreement with his team mates. The socks were almost on first name terms with his ankles, the shirt flapping listlessly in the gentle Wembley wind like a rowing boat's sail. Holland was the man who kept shovelling coal into a grand old steam engine, hovering and floating serenely in the middle of the pitch.

Then there was the late Graham Paddon, another of those players of subtlety and cunning that although not a West Ham graduate, still performed with immaculate distinction. Paddon, also bearded like a pirate, was smooth, streamlined, graceful, always comfortable with the ball and never fazed by the immensity of the occasion. Paddon it was whose shot from Pat Holland's pass was sadly fumbled by Fulham keeper Peter Mellor from which point Taylor nipped in smartly to score West Ham's conclusive second and winning goal.

And then the now Sir Trevor Brooking, a West Ham player through and through to the bitter end. Brooking was still generating all of the right headlines at the time, poised to become one of England's greatest midfield players. He was young, fresh, sprightly and full of neat dabs on the artist's canvas. His display against Fulham was modest but even then notably influential. There was that nuanced shielding of the ball from the throw in, the drop of the shoulder and then the varnished accuracy of his passing range, threaded through passes that were softly rolled across Wembley with barely a whisper.

So it is that we come right up to the present day. Yesterday in the gathering gloom of Craven Cottage and the steady rain, Felipe Anderson, a classic West Ham buy from Lazio, gave another perfect dress rehearsal for the role of star playmaker at West Ham. A couple of seasons ago West Ham thought they'd snaffled the top prize in the raffle when Frenchman Dimitri Payet snatched the conductor's baton and reminded the West Ham faithful that there was still a place for the dapper stylist.

 Then Anderson, Brazilian by birth and Brazilian in playing temperament, is beginning to show everybody at West Ham that dreams do come true. He plays the game in the way in the way that Brazilians have always played it: grammatically correct, tap dancing his way in and out of a rapidly retreating Fulham defence and then striking the most devastating of passes in both the short and long form. After a wobbly start to the season, Anderson's stunning display of the samba has become almost second nature.

Beside Anderson, Robert Snodgrass, a busily passionate Scotsman, raced across the centre circle full of energy, verve and joie de vivre, carving out spaces like the proverbial sculptor. Then there was Mark Noble, West Ham skipper and still clocking up the mileage for the club unquestioningly. Noble once again gave the impression that he wanted to be in a hundred places at the same time. In the murk and mist of West London, Noble's shirt positively glistened with sweat.

With Michal Antonio bulldozing his way down the wing, Pablo Zabelata, tidy and always ready for the most crunching challenges, West Ham were mean and moody. Javier Hernandez, who could be vitally indispensable to West Ham in the second half of the season, worked hither and thither, a jack  in the box, always threatening, always sure of himself, a man with a ravenous appetite for goals.

When Snodgrass slammed home West Ham's first goal and Antonio had shrewdly picked up a ball that was headed onto him and completed West Ham's second goal, everything in the West Ham garden had now become rosy. It was a time for the West Ham fans at Craven Cottage to sing about their ever buoyant bubbles, Andy Carroll to make one of those now walk on roles for the club and West Ham to enter a higher stratosphere.

For some of us though it was nice to think back to the last time West Ham met Fulham on more important occasions.  Yesterday though was West Ham's fourth successive victory in a row and for those of us who thought they'd seen it all, the element of surprise can almost be felt. Surely, this is too good to be true and sooner or later the winning run will reluctantly end. For the time being though miracles are possible and West Ham will do their utmost to climb onto higher platforms.

But as long as the Christmas decorations come down with a harmless plop then the second half of the Premier League season may have a spring in its step for West Ham. As long as the London Stadium becomes a home from home for West Ham then all should be fine and dandy. Bubbles will assuredly keep blowing.   

Mark Noble- a West Ham member of the Hall of Fame.

Mark Noble - a West Ham member of the Hall of Fame.

At West Ham they tend to treat all of their players with all the reverence of saints. Once again the claret and blue Hall of Fame has rewarded one of its favourite sons with the ultimate accolade. At a time when most of the Premier League has never been so populated with lavish talents from all corners of the globe, Mark Noble is singularly boy next door, a man with no airs and graces, totally besotted with football.

 Mark Noble has West Ham blood running through his arteries and veins, kidney, liver and heart. He is one of that rare breed, a one club man, with brief stopovers at Ipswich and Hull but, essentially a West Ham player from head to foot, a man dedicated to his childhood club. He breathes, eats, sleeps, walks and talks West Ham, a player of exceptional loyalty, devotion to the cause and unswerving commitment. But then most West Ham fans always knew that and besides those players who have formed a lifelong association with their hometown club will always be there to save the day.

Canning Town born Noble signed an extension to his contract for another year and the chances are he may well decide to continue at the club in a coaching capacity when the sinews and muscles show signs of stiffening and no more can be delivered on the London Stadium pitch. Throughout the seasons Noble has given the traditional blood, sweat and tears without a single moment of complaint. Few have shunned the limelight or high profile publicity and few have recognised the importance of keeping a level head when others may have lost theirs.

By his own admission Noble was never a swaggering artist on the pitch but he knew he how to dictate the tempo of a match, always lunging into tackles with ferocious intent but never trespassing into illegal territories. Noble has run himself into the ground with the kind of full blooded conscientiousness and fervent enthusiasm that West Ham supporters have come to expect of him. Through thick and thin, several relegations and promotions back to the Premier League Noble has shouldered arms, braved the elements and then come back for a second bite of the cherry.

Of course, Noble follows in the blue blooded footsteps of the Upton Park aristocracy, the club who gave us Sir Trevor Brooking, another one club man of faith and fidelity whose majestic passing skills and innate ability to spot a team mate with a pass became his trademark. Brooking was rather like one of those Victorian landowners who survey their domain with a proprietorial air.

 Brooking would sway and glide over the Upton Park green acres with the sweetest elegance, a player of taste and discrimination rather than muscular aggression, a midfield player who always favoured sensitivity over savagery. Brooking painted pictures rather than spoilt them with gaudy smudges. Noble too has drawn more than his fair share of striking illustrations without resorting to anything that could be considered taboo and forbidden.

Mark Noble made his debut at the tender age of 17 and has since fetched, collected and hunted for possession for the ball rather like one of those eager to learn draughtsmen or engineers who love to get their hands dirty. From the moment he first appeared in the very noble claret and blue, Noble chased, scurried and scampered for the ball when it looked as if the pursuit was a pointless one. He was hard working, always receptive and perceptive in possession and never afraid to try something entirely different.

In a way Noble reminded you of some of West Ham's equally as renowned toilers and industrious grafters, nipping into challenges with fearless virility and wholesome vitality. It would have been easy for Noble to declare that  no more could he give to the club who he quite clearly adores. For those of us who still affectionately remember the likes of Pat Holland and Geoff Pike, Noble's 1970s predecessors, comparisons are easily made.

Holland, a tireless hustler and battler par excellence would plough across the Upton Park pitch with socks rolled down and shirt flapping gloriously over mud caked shorts. Holland was West Ham's trade union shop steward, always fighting on behalf of his colleagues but never going on strike. Noble of course was similarly inclined and will continue to be for another year or so, a man cut from the same cloth.

Nowadays though there can be few players who can rightly claim to have spent most of their footballing career just dreaming of brighter horizons without quite planting their flag on the game's summit. Mark Noble though has given everything to the club he knew he'd always played for and surely that has to be highly commendable. Noble of thought, Noble of deed. 

D- Day for Theresa May- the Prime Minister faces the truth.

D-Day for Theresa May- the Prime Minister faces the truth.

So it's all come down to this. This is the day when a British Prime Minister stares into the darkest hole and finds out who her real friends are. Those who are baying for her blood and quite happy to stab her quite happily in the back may be the ones who were never on her side anyway. Suddenly, the whole Brexit charade is beginning to resemble, quite alarmingly, at least one of Shakespeare's most melodramatic plays.

 You can almost see those flashing knives, the inevitable vultures hovering over May's spinning head and a deadly menace. Naturally you can almost smell the betrayal, the ranks of the disappointed, the frustrated and the plainly objectionable. In fact some of the rank and file Tory dissenters are threatening to leave the country if things don't go their way. This is gang warfare on the grandest scale and for the squeamish among us it could get worse before it gets better.

For the rest of this day a potentially lethal air of medieval barbarity may well  hang over for us quite some time. The cynics will tell you that the Prime Minister had this coming, that at roughly 6pm this evening the metaphorical guillotine will be prepared, the blade sharpened and the outcome will be too grisly to contemplate. Heads will roll, all of Theresa May's erstwhile allies and colleagues will be sniggering under their breath sadistically, rubbing their hands with glee and looking ever so smug.

It is all rather messy, chaotically shambolic and, quite frankly, the most appalling fiasco British politics has ever known. For the first time in what seems like many decades there are some of us who can barely hold back our disgust, our fury, wrath and outraged contempt for every single member of the House of Commons regardless of their political affiliations. Surely, we are all now on the verge of  an inflammatory revolt, a fiery street demonstration that could break the country apart with deeply serious consequences.

The truth is of course, that a no confidence vote has been implemented and Theresa May has the best part of the day to win back the support she thought she could count on. Now though she faces perhaps the most uncomfortable day she's ever had to endure as Prime Minister. You're reminded of the school playground bullies who finally confront their enemy before violently pinning them against the wall. They then throw wild rabbit punches at the poor victim's stomach, maul them to the ground and then kick away furiously at the head and the feet.

Poor Theresa May. It's at times such as this that your warm and sympathetic heart goes out to May. Where does she go from here? Who does she turn to in a major crisis. Sure, husband George will be there as loyal, loving and trustworthy as you would expect him to be. But when the door shut last night at 10 Downing Street it must have sounded like a shuddering thud and clump rather anything that could be remotely described as optimistic. Even the Downing Street Christmas tree looked deeply concerned.

Then, the utterly brave Prime Minister emerged bleary eyed to face the cameras this morning slightly miffed at the fact that she hadn't been allowed to finish her tea and Corn Flakes. Her hair had well combed streaks of grey, the jacket looked navy chic and of course she was gallant in the face of uncertainty She delivered that heroic speech that all leaders make when the guns are relentlessly firing around them. She continued to place her faith in her unwavering principles and insisted that even she wasn't the lady for turning.

Now your thoughts went back to that fateful day when a certain Margaret Thatcher had to fall on her sword whether she felt inclined to or not. The men in grey suits ganged up on her in a dark alleyway and plunged the offensive weapon deep into her heart. As the car pulled away from Downing Street later that evening, the tears and grief were clearly etched on her face. It was as though she'd lost everything when the reality was that she'd probably outstayed her welcome. For the final time Thatcher departed the scene of the crime knowing fully well that sadly she'd been the architect of her own downfall.

And yet almost 40 years later the present Tory leader finds herself in a similar predicament but with one or two subtle differences. Then, a majority of Britain had grown heartily fed up with the 'Iron Lady', a woman with an indomitable will and stubbornness that often defied belief. The nation was sick and tired of those long, allegedly droning speeches, the insistence that unemployment had been cut dramatically and that Britain was terribly proud of its Falklands Islands heroes. The fact was that she did stop milk for primary children and she hated Arthur Scargill's bullish miners.

For Theresa May the approach is somewhat more understated, less controversial, far more diplomatic, quieter and more reticent. Within the next couple of hours the whole of Tory party will sit down in sober lobbies and conference rooms, chewing the cud, thinking through all of the possibilities and probabilities, reflecting pensively and then weighing up the pros and cons. This is perhaps one of the most critical decisions any Tory 1922 committee will ever make.

What is safe to say is that consciences will be severely examined, judgments reserved and minds will be made with heavy hearts. The last couple of years since the announcement of that first referendum sent most of us into emotional overdrive, have been agonising and at times amusingly satirical. There have been dreadfully lengthy discussions at the highest level, differing interpretations on the meaning of Brexit, frequent delays, knuckle dragging, name calling, bitter infighting, petty accusations and counter accusations and genuine Whitehall farce.

There have been red bloodedly rude, spiteful and rancorous radio phone ins, Tory and Labour squaring up to each other, viciously eye balling each other, lobbing verbal grenades with no shame at all and determined to undermine each other at every opportunity. Short of quite literally attacking each other and physically mauling each to the ground, this has been hideously disgraceful behaviour that most would normally associate with seven year olds.

So who have been the perpetrators and co- conspirators behind this wicked plot. Are they wearing masks and do they have bottles of laudanum or poison in their back pockets? Are they skulking around wood panelled  Westminster corridors with evil sneers on their faces ready and waiting to pounce on the Prime Minister? Or are they just gossiping salaciously in small huddles, fully equipped with withering sarcasm?

The chances are that the Prime Minister will get to keep her position but not without a fight from her sternest opponents. But the rambling potty talk will doubtless provide the acoustic background music in everybody's ears. Still we'll be re- introduced once again to backstops and other oddly peculiar buzzwords and phrases that have suddenly added to the endless tedium of it all.

If all goes according to plan we will still be debating ad nauseum the merits and demerits of leaving or staying in the EU, changing our mind again and then deciding that they were right or wrong  all the time. They will be burying their heads in their laps, shouting most abusively over each other, stopping just short of obscenities and just giving up because they may be wasting their breath anyway.

What seems certain is that the personal grudges and heated recriminations will continue long into the night. They will because that's how modern politics works. Regardless of the result this evening you feel sure that Tory grandees such as Michael Heseltine will bring very salty grievances to the table, Boris Johnson will undoubtedly grumble and mumble his disapproval with that very well mannered Old Etonian tone and Michael Gove may reluctantly accept the result since Tories always stick together.

Be sure though that when 9pm strikes tonight somebody is in for either sharp jolt in the ribs or just allowed to take over the country and finish off what she started over two years ago. It could be all very unsightly and ghastly rather like that horror movie that could so easily turn into a soppy, happy ever after all romantic comedy where everybody kisses and makes up. There there, that wasn't painful at all was it?

Still here we are in the final countdown before the Conservative party eventually decides what they want out of life. By the end of the evening of course Theresa May will still be in office as Prime Minister unscathed, without a scratch but a slightly bloodied nose. The hope is that all will join hands with each other, slap each other on the back in excessive self congratulation all the while sure that they'd had nothing to worry about in the first place.

 Brexit will still be there like a bad penny but faith will be restored and pride preserved. We will still be playing Musical Chairs and Pass the Parcel because this is the most childish party game imaginable. Besides, you can hardly go wrong with a good, old fashioned argument and politicians have always seemingly loved the sound of their own voices. A penny for the thoughts of David Cameron, Theresa May's predecessor as Prime Minister. Cameron is probably lying on a sun kissed beach relieved that no longer does he have to account for his actions. Sensible man.  `   

A new red dawn at Liverpool.

A new red dawn at Liverpool.


Can this really be happening or are we just imagining it?  Revolutions tend to be bloody and not entirely pleasant but yesterday the marauding armies of Liverpool and Manchester City found themselves on the verge of a battle royale. This may not make for easy watching because it could get rather personal and nasty, particularly since both City and Liverpool may have some lethal ammunition ready and waiting to fire as and when necessary.

For the first time though in what seems like ages Manchester City were beaten for the first time this Premier League season by Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. It barely seems believable but City have now lost their first game of the season, they do bleed, they do cry, they are fallible, they do have a soft underbelly and they can be caught wanting when the moon is in the wrong position. What on earth has happened to the irresistible Leroy Sane, the playfully toying and teasing Raheem Sterling, the lively and superbly inventive David Silva and the ever hungry Sergio Aguero? Were they absent without leave, deserting their duties, disobedient, subordinate perhaps or just thinking about the Christmas revelries?

Meanwhile, City's North West neighbours Liverpool are doing what they threatened to do last season before discovering that City had already arrived on another footballing planet. But now the roles have, albeit temporarily, been reversed and for now at least Liverpool are remembering the richness of their heritage when Bill Shankly just wanted the Anfield Kop to be happy. Then there was Bob Paisley, a quiet gentleman who also won the old First Division championship and, like Shankly, became a serial winner.

Your mind harked back to the busy body Kevin Keegan, the tall John Toshack, the university educated  Steve Heighway, the accurately impeccable Ian Callaghan, the studious Brian Hall, the gutsy, red blooded but sturdily elegant Graham Souness, the ever willing Ray Kennedy, the tirelessly indefatigable Terry Mcdermott and the magical Kenny Dalglish. This was the Liverpool of old but now the present day incarnation has offered us an entirely new template, a different design and something just as innovative and ahead of its time, but with that singular thread of quality running through it.

Roll forward 40 years and yesterday the voices of old were calling from afar, the angels were playing their harps, the poets were stringing together stanza and verse while the lyricists were  composing their love songs and jazz arrangements. At times Liverpool had combined so many of those disparate elements that you could hardly see the join. This time though, Liverpool hit all the right, plangent notes, a team  in perfect synchronicity and uptempo syncopation, full of quick, short and staccato passing, silky movements, pushing, prodding, probing and always in complete control of possession.

Once again one man took centre stage and one man stole all of the most important headlines. Amid all of  Liverpool's sweet and almost fragrant one touch play, an Egyptian striker called Mo Salah scored again and again.  We all know that Egypt is more renowned for its pyramids but when Salah receives the ball there is a sense that nobody will ever catch him.

On numerous occasions Salah seemed to take on the whole of the Bournemouth defence single handedly, tearing open the home side's back four like somebody who thinks nothing of ripping up old telephone directories as a hobby. The bearded Salah is scoring goals for Liverpool with remarkable speed and there were times when you were reminded of Kenny Dalglish running  his defenders ragged, twisting and turning, then shielding the ball with utterly protective assurance. Then the prolific Scotsman would smash the ball into an opposition's net with all the satisfaction of a raiding plunderer or the goal scoring opportunist who always happened to be in the right place.

Rather like Dalglish, Salah has all of the essential attributes for a striker. For one of Liverpool's goals yesterday Salah almost tormented the whole of the Bournemouth defence. Easily rounding the goalkeeper after streaking through on his own, Salah cut inside once again, moved the ball around two defenders in double quick time and then audaciously shifted the ball onto another foot before slotting the ball into the net for yet another Liverpool goal. It was a goal that reminded you of a classical sonata or Beethoven's Fifth Symphony, a goal carved and minted, rather than laboured and contrived. 

And so it was that the man from Egypt confirmed his hat-trick, matter of factly accepted the applause from the Liverpool faithful down by the South Coast, heading back to the team coach and just grinning from ear to ear. The Premier League title race, which might have been presumptuously regarded as a one horse race has now been accompanied by a couple of stallions and maybe a palomino or two.

We may be approaching the half way point of the Premier League season but the chances are that this season could go to the wire. You're reminded of those celebrated car chases between Leeds and Liverpool from yesteryear and then Nottingham Forest being pursued by Bobby Robson's Ipswich Town in later years.

This has the makings of a nail biting thriller but the feeling remains that Pep Guardiola will have nothing do with nervous tension or gnawing away at fingernails. If Manchester City can regard as yesterday's setback at Stamford Bridge as a blip then the Premier League may have to be forewarned. There is of course a long way and, as has been frequently documented in the past this could be an arduous marathon and besides trophies are never won just before the Christmas holidays.

Besides, former City boss Malcolm Allison would have never dreamt of lighting up a cigar unless City had won convincingly and Joe Mercer would have privately allowed himself a chuckle of delight knowing fully well that there was a long way to go in the title race. Oh for those hazy, crazy days of wine and roses at Maine Road when the miners went on strike and the lights went out seemingly interminably.

It is still hard to believe that just over 20 years ago City were languishing in the old Third Division with only the likes of Gillingham and local rivals Oldham Athletic to look forward to in an equally as hectic fixture list. Now the international stars are shining, the team have never looked more dangerous and progressive,while the likes of Colin Bell, Rodney Marsh, Francis Lee, Mike Doyle and Tony Book merely figures from some distant black and white movie. Still, they have now won the modern day Premier League title on more than one occasion and City are no longer the end of pier act who nobody remembers. Perhaps they will prove everybody wrong again. It should be a compulsive watch. 

Down by the riverside at Chanukah and Christmas.

Down by the riverside at Chanukah and Christmas.

You could hardly have imagined a more idyllic sight. London was wearing one of its glamorous dresses, a wondrous combination of Victorian brocade, sparkling sequins, a debonair swagger in its step, a beautiful rose in its suit lapel and a handsome glance across the River Thames.

Last night the Jewish Police Association held its annual Chanukah, a warmly observed tribute to the Jewish festival of lights. Nestling comfortably next to Old Father Thames, policemen and women from the whole of the Jewish community gathered together for an evening of civil pleasantries, food, drink and Israeli dancing of the highest calibre.

Not a million miles away from Westminster, that bearpit of indecision and political warfare, most of us had found a welcoming sanctuary where we could all gather our thoughts, look at life from a completely detached viewpoint and retain absolute impartiality. But it was now our eyes were held spellbound by the magnificence and timelessness of it all, London at her most aristocratic and distinguished, a London that by night has rarely looked so stunning, so light, so at peace with itself.

It suddenly occurred to you that had you taken a stroll along the Embankment roughly 40 or 50 years ago London would not have looked nearly as good as it does now. The view across the River Thames last night was one that would have been regarded as unrecognisable to the human eye compared to the one we saw last night. London was a blaze of colour, a surge of electricity, a powerful force for good, good looking, so refined and wouldn't you like to know what was going on in its mind?

We made our way onto the viewing platform on the New Scotland Yard balcony and gazed across that famous old stretch of water, serene, historic, contented, smooth, flowing, fluent, completely unhurried and totally unaffected by the crazy amateur theatrics going on in the nearby House of Commons. In fact this whole scenario could hardly have been in such stark contrast to the mad turbulences and tantrums ripping up the seats of democracy and driving some of us deep into the land of irritation, annoyance and just utter indifference.

For once it was good to see the River Thames in its most flattering light, a rose tinted vision of old fashioned romanticism, glowing health and some of the most astonishing colours your eye would ever behold. Decades ago London was a city of dull dowdiness and gloomy, glowering greyness when everything looked miserable, depressing, dispirited, drained and debilitated.

On frequent excursions to the West End it almost seemed as if London's once vibrant life force had been sucked out of it, a London was that desperately sad and forlorn somehow hoping that one day it would feel much better about itself than might otherwise have been the case. The City of London, certainly on a Sunday during the 1970s, was  a mass of soulless, dreary looking financial buildings that bordered on the grotesque. To some extent that may still be the case but the monochrome quality has now been replaced by something altogether more exciting and much more pleasing to the eye. London's charm offensive had done it again.

Move further into the heart of the West End and we found ourselves slap bang in the middle of a spectacular light show. At the heart of it all there was the London Eye, that glorious structure that dominates the whole of the River Thames, an architectural wonder that can never be mistaken for anything else. Lit up in the most dazzling red, the London Eye looked for all the world like a giant car wheel.

For several moments or two you were reminded, quite obviously of that childhood fairground of youth when all the kids would scream at the tops of their voices. But last night the London Eye looked as though it had closed down or stopped, a motionless wheel. Perhaps it was just emotionally exhausted or just fancied a break from the toils of the day. Maybe it was on strike, a militant and non conformist wheel who refused to be told what to do and preferred the quiet life.

And yet for the best part of the evening the London Eye just stood there, waiting for something or just gearing up for the imminent festivities. Beside it, there seemed what can only be described as a necklace of lights strung together fetchingly on the river wall. Then there was the Shard, even in dark anonymity, a moody swirl of pink, black and red shadows teasing the eye with its subtle changes.

To my far left you could see what resembled the biggest red thermometer you're ever likely to see on London's South Bank. So it was that we began to find why a thermometer was stuck by the rivers edge. It was one of two fairground attractions, a ride that took you spinning and soaring into the air in seats that were suspended way above the ground. Here was London re-discovering its childhood.

Somebody had told me about the Christmas market that was presumably doing a roaring trade. Next to the market was the most divine looking children's fairground that looked as if it had been borrowed from an obliging fairy tale or nursery rhyme. In the distance there were quaint mini merry go rounds, tiny carousels and chocolate box rides for the children.

Next to the London Eye there was a building that appeared as if somebody had punched a thousand holes into it with a hole puncher. Tiny portholes peeped out of the darkness, a building with the strongest foundations and one that may well have been in the same place for hundreds of years.

It was difficult to see but my wife pointed out the Walkie Talkie and then much to my delight The Festival Hall, still the home of classical music which  had undergone the most remarkable transformation. From what I can remember the Festival Hall had always looked under the weather. poorly and terribly jaundiced. Now though it had come to life, a yellow and green fluorescent glow of light that shone vividly and prominently in the dark winter murk.

But then your eyes were transported to the other end of the Embankment. Deep in the heart of Westminster where parliament passes legislation and plenty of hot air, there was Big Ben. Sadly and deeply regrettably Big Ben is out of business at the moment and looks as though it may be out of action for quite a while. You see the problem is that Big Ben is in urgent need of rest, loving attention and extensive rehabilitation. He's looking a bit peaky and under the weather, all those huge coins that keep him stable and level headed are beginning to look a bit rusty and, quite frankly, Big Ben needs some very private time to himself.

So it is that Big Ben is swathed in big white bandages from bottom of the top. The doctor has seen the patient and the diagnosis is that he's got to take it very easy. He's been there for a number of decades and a clock can only take so much. We did suggest that it take a long holiday just to get away from it all but he would insist that there was nothing dramatically wrong so it's best to leave this grand looking time piece alone for a couple of years at least. We all understand.

We also noticed that they were carrying out much needed structural work on the House of Commons. There are moments when some of its inhabitants may also be in need of urgent counselling. Wrapped around with yet more bandages, the House of Commons doesn't quite know what to do with itself at the moment. The mainstream political parties are like stags locking horns with each other, angry and antagonistic to the bitter end, bombarding personal insults and invective at each other and generally accusing each other of total incompetence.

Now though the House of Commons looks as though it might be in need of a full makeover since it has been there for as long as anybody can remember. The white canvas sheets smothering this political monument looked almost ghostly in the dark but both externally and internally it is a building in severe pain and suffering horribly in every sense of the word.

So it was that we made for home suitably impressed with the evening's entertainment. We'd heard another rousing speech from Metropolitan Police boss Cressida Dick, heartwarming seasons greetings from leading rabbis and Israeli dancing that warmed the cockles of the heart. The dignitaries came and went and the sweet memories of another Chanukah could once again remembered with a quiet relish.

 As one religious festival makes way for another the sense of the year's concluding chapter drawing closer had now come very obvious. It was comforting to know that the River Thames can still show itself off to the rest of the world in a most favourable light.  Shortly, Big Ben will be summoned briefly for the New Year's Day ringing session and the nation will usher in 2019. Jingle Bells, Jingle Bells. Jingle all the Way. It is indeed the season to be jolly.       

Oh chanukah, Christmas, it's happening all over again.

Oh Chanukah, Christmas, it's happening all over again.

So here we are again on the last line, the last sentence, the final paragraph of the year and it only seems like the beginning of the year or perhaps the middle of it. Somehow the seasons move with such lightning fast rapidity that it's hard to keep up with those sweetly flowing calendar months. Most of us are just longing for the end of those Brexit hostilities when it may be safe once again to put our heads over the parapet again without any feelings of remorse and guilt. Let's face it April 1st next year, although considered as a joke, may be the day we're all genuinely looking forward to.

Meanwhile it's still very early December and that could only mean one thing. It's time to brace ourselves for the yearly festivities yet again just when you thought they'd never come around again. I know what you're thinking. Here we go again on that perennial stampede on the shops and supermarkets desperately searching for the things we save up all year for armed with the kind of things we would never think of buying in bulk at any other time of the year.

Soon the cash registers or self help tills will be ringing mellifluously for those determined to empty the shelves of every conceivable type of food, clothing or electrical merchandise they can possibly cram into a giant trolley. Soon thousands and millions of people across the country will be descending on every Sainsbury's, Tesco, Morrison or Asda balancing huge boxes of chocolates, mince pies and turkeys on top of each other, trying hard not to look self conscious at the same time.

The cynics may call it ghastly greed or just unashamed consumerism on a genuinely different level. The fact is Christmas is knocking on our laurel wreathed front door and the goose is piling on the pounds. Dear old Santa is digging out that famous red coat yet again, the children can barely control their excitement and parents across the land may be wishing why we have to do the same thing every year. It's pointless, expensive, perhaps totally unnecessary and surely the kids have got enough toys.

But as a Jew the whole concept of Christmas fails to capture the imagination in the way it does with Christianity. Who are we to care about the necessity for trees, presents and mistletoe? Why do we need glitter, tinsel and mulled wine when the truth is that all you really need is a good, old fashioned menorah, a couple of flickering candles and a plate of mouth wateringly enticing doughnuts?

Tonight is the second night of Chanukah and across the globe Jews of the world will be singing, dancing, celebrating and stocking up on blissful cholesterol. Once again we'll gleefully wolf down  exquisitely prodigious quantities of latkes(potato cakes) and indulge in sugar frenzies that none of us should ever be ashamed of because it is Chanukah and it only happens once a year so it's time to tuck in again. Hooray!

Personally, my memory takes me back to our kids when they were young. Primary school chanukah parties were wildly joyous and hugely enjoyable events. One entire afternoon just before the kids broke up for the Christmas holidays, parents from all over Stamford Hill and Stoke Newington would let loose their offspring on a delicious day of story telling, dancing, joking, singing and unbridled hedonism.

In a way Chanukah was rather like a dress rehearsal for Christmas, a precursor to all of those famous songs around the piano on Christmas, the snapping of crackers, the consumption of several breweries of beer and lager and that mass slump onto a thousand sofas before the TV fest. But for Chanukah there are no mammoth presents, no gigantic trees, no guzzling of alcohol and no running down to the living room in the hope that Santa has brought you a couple of islands in the Caribbean or a million Apps on your latest Tablet.

For Jews it is all rather more restrained, less rushed, not nearly as urgent and a fun festival for both children and adults alike. Chanukah does have symbolically similar parallels in as much that it is light, cheerful and positive. But apart from the chanukah gelt( chocolate money) the resemblance doesn't really bear any real comparison as such. Of course Jews know how to enjoy themselves and Jewish weddings or bar and bat mitzvahs are maybe the perfect example. But you'd be hard pressed to find any Jew heading towards Mass on Christmas Eve nor in attendance at the local church service on Christmas Day.

But that much documented story about Mary and Joseph at the birth of their child doesn't really hold quite the same magnetic appeal as a knees up around a plate of doughnuts and latkes. Still 'tis the season to be jolly, to imbibe the amber nectar and then maintain diplomatic relations with uncles, aunties and cousins you haven't seen for at least a week or two.

Still here we are again at the same time and the same place. The TV advertising supermarket wars are well and truly underway, that brazier selling roast chestnuts outside the British Museum in London's West End is once again simmering away and those street decorations are just making everything look heartwarmingly pretty. You can feel it in the air, you can scent the festive fragrance, the department stores in the West End glistening and sparkling and Oxford Street is simply drunk with happiness.

Thousands of tourists and window shoppers will pound the pavements, striding firmly albeit pragmatically towards bargains and cheap deals, marching forwards and backwards day after day and then finally deciding that the legs are tired, the spirit isn't quite as willing as it should be but perhaps we might have tea and cake at Harrods because you might as well. It is indeed Christmas after all.

Still here in North London it is Chanukah and who needs all that excess and extravagance when you can just watch that wonderful blob of jam oozing out of your doughnut. Still who cares, this is the season to just celebrate the good things in life rather than dwelling on what might have been had we remembered to buy Uncle Pete that Christmas jumper he's always longed for. Not for us, men or women in red coats tumbling down chimneys or huge turkey leftovers reserved for Boxing Day. Oh Chanukah and Christmas. What a season of joy. We should do Decembers every day of the year. Seasons greetings everybody. 22 days and counting.   

Let the FA Cup begin

Let the FA Cup begin.

How good it is to see the FA Cup. You do look healthier, better, fitter and stronger than ever before. Some of us have missed you desperately and wondered exactly what you've been getting up to since last we made acquaintance with you. We know you're still referred to as the Emirates FA Cup but since when did that matter?

 So what if you're now sponsored by a Middle East airline and that Wembley Stadium, once the home of those towers has now been replaced by over arching arches. That's fine. We can live with that knowledge as long as it's a monumentally lucrative money spinner that keeps the business that is football ticking over and in the rudest health. It was just lovely to see that iconic football trophy still gleaming, still shining iridescently through the darkness and gloom of a West Midlands evening.

Last night at the deliciously named Damson Park in the heart of Birmingham you could say that the FA Cup had picked a plum tie for the TV cameras but that would be incredibly corny. Suffice it to say that Solihull Moors met Blackpool on the most level of playing fields and the FA Cup could take a sharp intake of breath once again. This is rather like bumping into an old friend in the pub and buying a pint for old times sake. The FA Cup has a habit of bringing people together and just reminiscing fondly on the good and bad times.

There were times last night when it almost felt we were back in grassroots territory. The stands and terraces were small and compact. the floodlights looked remarkably like well lit torches and the managers were so close to each other that they may just as well have been brothers. The second round of the FA Cup is the FA Cup in its infant, nursery stages, still coming to terms with its surroundings, still showing its baby teeth and yet to encounter maturity and adolescence.

Amid all the dark dinginess of the last evening of November there was the barely visible car park, the most charming of refreshment kiosks that was no larger than the size of a match box and some very smartly dressed Solihull Moors chairmen who smiled proudly whenever the cameras homed in on them. This was a night for equality, egalitarianism of the highest order and football without class barriers, condescension and snooty superiority.

Blackpool have famous FA Cup history but history that now seems positively prehistoric. In 1953 the legendary Stan Matthews, Bill Perry and Stan Mortensen combined brilliantly in the Queen's Coronation year to bring the FA Cup back to Blackpool's Golden Mile. The black and white images still linger nostalgically but the Blackpool of modern times have certainly experienced all those fairground of emotions that have become part and parcel of a team who have been there and back.

Several seasons ago the chirpy and permanently ebullient Ian Holloway took his modest Blackpool back to the top flight of English football with a Premier League place as their reward for honest labours. But then altitude problems set in for the Bloomfield Road club and Blackpool dropped through the divisions rather like a set of kids birthday party balloons falling helplessly into parkland bushes, burst seemingly beyond redemption.

Now Blackpool are back into League One which is roughly where they were over 40 years ago when Mickey Walsh scored that magnificent volleyed goal that whistled past the keeper on one of BBC's Match of the Day Goals of the Season. Since then there have been disasters, near extinction at times and the kind of hard luck stories that you simply couldn't make up. Still, Blackpool are rather like a bobbing boat in the middle of the ocean, still sea worthy and primed for full restoration in perhaps a couple of seasons or so.

The behind the scenes problems haven't helped of course. Owen Oyston and his band of merry men have made life both difficult and challenging. The Blackpool man has been, apparently, not so much an interfering busybody but a plain nuisance. He's been verbally attacked by the Blackpool faithful, driven to the brink and if the fans had their way he'd be out of the door in double quick time. Still at least things haven't gone appallingly wrong and there will be happier days.

Last night the Tangerines still looked as if they belonged to the big time and the nationwide exposure of the BBC cameras. The defensive unit of Ben Heneghan, Curtis Tilt, Donervon Daniels, goalkeeper Mark Howard and Michael Nottingham all carried out their duties efficiently, conscientiously and diligently. Whenever Solihull Moors attacked with some cohesion and clarity all four men shut up the shutters, bolted up the steel doors and prevented any Blackpool player from sneaking  through for the vital breakthrough.

In fact there were moments when Solihull looked so sure of themselves and daring to dream that Blackpool did look shaken and stirred. 34 year old Darren Carter in particular, who resembled a gypsy with his tie backed hair, roved and roamed around a forest of orange Blackpool shirts like a battle hardened warrior from yesteryear. Sadly, Carter couldn't quite find his sense of direction and it all seemed to fizzle out like a spent firework.

Back in the middle of the Solihull Moors midfield engine room it was every man for himself, a National League team in happy go lucky, carefree mode throwing caution to the wind. When the likes of Luke Maxwell, Jamie Reckford and the particularly lively Jamey Osbourne linked up with the gypsy spirit of Carter, the home side sensed the lingering smell of an FA Cup upset. Admittedly, Solihull were never likely to repeat the exploits of non League Sutton in their FA Cup third round win against old First Division  Coventry City 31 years ago but they did force the issue on more than one occasion.

And then the game drifted and meandered rather like remote country lane, seemingly content to go its leisurely way into the depths of a West Midlands night. The goal-less draw smacked of a gentleman's agreement. Solihull looked delighted with their night's work knowing that a replay at Bloomfield Road suited both parties. Blackpool, for their part, must have thought briefly back to the Matthews Final for perhaps a minute or two. Perhaps they were privately hoping that the FA Cup still had something special up its sleeve. Maybe the magicians will now be working overtime. Somehow the FA Cup may always do something when least expected. Solihull Moors can, albeit temporarily, keep dreaming.

Racism and black footballers.

Racism and black footballers.

In Channel Four's fascinating programme about the emergence of black footballers in British football we were reminded harshly of the dreadfully appalling advent of violent racism in English football and how it came to deface and disfigure the game for most of the 1970s and, quite certainly, the 1980s. For some of us it began to look like a nasty epidemic that refused to go away and couldn't be stamped out however much society and the FA did their utmost to 'Kick Out Racism', now very much a symbolic attempt to remove this vile stench.

Back in the early 1970s my team West Ham United unveiled one of the first black players in the modern era to tread the old First Division boards. Clyde Best, although apparently barrel chested and stocky, became one of the most popular and much loved of players ever to join the East London club.

Of course he looked big but there was always something of the muscular boxing heavyweight about Best that instantly endeared himself to the Upton Park crowd. Best was tireless, always chasing lost causes and could always be relied on to score a considerable number of goals. Best was always in the right place and the right time to pick up the loose ends and could hit the target with some frequency.

Sadly though, Best would also become the unwitting victim of ugly racism and prejudice, a player now victimised, laughed at and ridiculed because of the colour of his skin. There were the familiar banana skins, the disgraceful monkey noises and the constant shadow of hatred and intolerance. Best was though bigger than that and rose above the moronic chants, allowing both his head and feet to do all the talking for him.

Over the last two nights Channel Four have endeavoured to show in some graphic detail some of those ghastly images, sights and sounds which provided an almost humiliating backdrop to Britain's back street and inner city culture during the 1970s. Introduced by prolific and former Arsenal striker Ian Wright, some of the many black players who so illuminated the old First Division and then, more recently the Premier League, were wonderfully highlighted, players with genuine talent, an eloquent turn of phrase and a lightning burst of pace.

In the first programme Paul Canoville, the old Chelsea striker came under the spotlight. Canoville could never be compared to some of his illustrious predecessors such as Jimmy Greaves, ironically a Chelsea favourite at the start of his career. Nor was Canoville a Tommy Lawton, Dixie Dean nor a Gary Lineker. But he did know where the goal was and scored quite regularly for Chelsea, eventually winning over the racists, cynics and those who were never entirely sure about Canoville.

Perhaps the most disturbing commentary behind Canoville's debut was the one that the Chelsea fans had reserved for him on his Chelsea debut. Booed viciously and vilified senselessly by the Stamford Bridge Canoville must have felt like a pariah or some alien with green horns sticking out of his head.

Later on in the programme there was Vince Hilaire, unquestionably one of the cleverest, most original and elusive wingers in the English old First Division. In the red and blue stripes of Crystal Palace was an overnight sensation, a player of blistering pace, incomparable ball control and a player with the capacity to bring the Palace crowd to life. Hilaire was fast, direct, always demanding the ball rather like the kid in the playground and always running, darting, weaving and turning in equal measure.

When the then manager Malcolm Allison first saw Hilaire he knew that the boy would wear an England shirt. The only obstacle though that Hilaire would have to overcome was the ever present racism still poisoning the English game. And yet coming as he did from the West Ham catchment area Hilaire knew that even the West Ham supporters could instantly recognise an outstanding player when they saw one and Hilaire ticked all the right boxes.

At Nottingham Forest Brian Clough was assembling one of the most meticulously crafted teams in the top flight and then there was Viv Anderson. Anderson was leggy, athletic, adventurous, confident and black. Soon Anderson would reach the very pinnacle of the game with promotion to the England side. Anderson was assured, always galloping into space, gobbling up the ground in long, purposeful strides and never afraid to try his luck with a goal or shot or two.

Almost immediately, the Forest fans the City ground fell in love with Anderson's hugely progressive style. Anderson told the amusing story of  the time when, after some of the less desirable of the away fans had pelted him with oranges, bananas, apples and pears, Clough had ordered Anderson to get him some fruit for him. When Anderson made his England debut, a whole nation greeted him with all the warmth and adulation that was long overdue.

Throughout both episodes of Out of the Skin, one player featured most prominently and tragically. Cyrille Regis, a West Bronwich Albion player through and through affectionately became known as one of the Three Degrees, a reference to the all girl, black soul group from the 1970s. Regis who died most prematurely, was a broad shouldered, powerful, thick thighed, bustling, barging and vastly intelligent striker who had everything in his CV. Regis was another cruiserweight who could well have given Mike Tyson a run for his money had he felt so inclined.

In one incredible First Division match toward the end of the 1970s Regis was just one of the three stormtroopers who would eventually destroy and embarrass Manchester United at a mud bath of a pitch at Old Trafford. Alongside the equally as talented, fleet of feet and twinkle toed Laurie Cunningham, a superlative winger of frightening speed, Brenda Batson mopping up unfussily at the back for West Brom and Regis bearing down on the United goal like a wrecking ball, West Brom came through with a stunningly comfortable 5-3 victory. It was Regis at his most fluent and lethal. None would ever forget it.

Last night it was Paul Ince's to explain what it meant to be the first black England captain, a notable accolade and honour that Ince was at pains to emphasise. Ince who began at West Ham and then moved onto a big money signing at Manchester United, pointed out how good it must have felt to not only pull on the England shirt but bring up his children in a society that had now fully accepted him. Ince was seen playing football with his son in the family and it must have represented, you felt sure, the ultimate recognition and a deeply satisfying moment in his career.

Then of course during the 1980's there was John Barnes, a magnificent and supremely well balanced winger who, for a number of years through that decade, became untouchable, unplayable and unfathomable if only because helpless defenders had not a clue where Barnes was going. Barnes drifted over the muck and brass that was an old English pitch like a floating cloud in the sky, carrying the ball for what seemed a lifetime and then swotting aside players as if they were still in the dressing room.

John Barnes was a footballing academic, full of footballing degrees, Bachelor of Arts degrees, Bachelor of Science degrees and the most learned of graduates. Barnes was born to be a footballer, a player of slinky movement, lovely body swerve, cultured feet and glorious originality. Barnes glided, danced and then finished off  those damaging runs with goals to remember. There was an air of footballing deception about Barnes, a secretive, stealthy manner that none could quite figure out.

In 1984, Barnes was single handedly responsible for breaking into a Brazilian defence in the old Maracana Stadium and completing surely one of the best goals ever scored by an Englishman in Brazil. This was a friendly match but for Barnes this was a goal par excellence, a magnum opus of a goal, a goal picked from the most expensive jewellery box of English international football.

Picking the ball up from way out on the touchline, Barnes moved onto the ball before executing some of the most elegant waltzes ever encountered in an England shirt. In fact Strauss would have been enormously flattered had he seen it. Barnes, slowly gathering pace and momentum, stepped in and out of trailing legs, dribbling with unreasonable ease, then jinking in between the yellow Brazilian shirts, rounding the goalkeeper and slotting the ball into the net as if he'd practised the same move every day in training.

Two years later Barnes was this time very much the life and soul of the party, the catalyst, the engine room, the sparking plug who would entertain, excite and then electrify the English fans. In the 1986 World Cup held in Mexico Barnes, accompanied bravely by Peter Reid, Trevor Stephen, Gary Lineker and Peter Beardsley, came on as a substitute against Argentina when it may have been too late. Barnes cross to the far post was converted but Argentina, who had led through a criminally illegal goal from Diego Maradona and a brilliant second, won the game narrowly.

So it was that in more recent times that Ashley Cole would become one of the most consistently safe and dependable of England full backs. Capped 100 times Cole, who began his career with Arsenal, was rightly or wrongly accused of becoming greedy, obsessed with the tag of being one of the wealthiest players in the Premier League, a player only concerned with feathering his own nest and disregarding the rest.

After winning three Premier League titles with Chelsea and a Champions League medal or two as well as the FA Cup, Cole would be forgiven for feeling very smug and vindicated. Cole now lives in America and the citizens in Los Angeles who supported him as an LA Galaxy can only be grateful that a heavily capped England player was in their ranks.

For those who were brought up in the era when black footballers gave so much enthusiasm and energy to the game, Channel Four's Out of Their Skin underlined again the sterling contributions they have made to English football. Talking of which the end of the programme was devoted to one Raheem Sterling, a delightful touch player if perhaps given to clumsy blunders and clod hopping aberrations.

 When Sterling was also hounded out by the boo boys the gun tattoo on his ankle was rightly misinterpreted. But the Liverpool player was just one of the many impressive players to have shone so brightly in this year's World Cup in Russia. They say black is beautiful and how true that statement is.

Tina Turner- the singer of soul and feeling.

Tina Turner- the singer of soul and feeling.

The words and sentences may be more measured now but Tina Turner has always been the soul singer with heart, passion and soul, a woman of red blooded intensity, vocal ferocity and irrepressible power. Now though might be the right time to slow down, smell the roses perhaps, sit back and luxuriate on a mammoth and phenomenal career which started as a trainee nurse and ended up in one of the most turbulent relationships - marriage with a man called Ike.

Last night on BBC1's excellent documentary and life story of the one and only Tina Turner we were taken on a whistlestop tour of Turner's painfully harrowing if ultimately triumphant life. Turner was thoughtful, but assured, happy yet regretful, searingly honest and sometimes bittersweet into the bargain. She didn't blame anybody as such but did give a very moving account of how life's initially smooth progress was tragically stalled before dropping through the trapdoor of a disastrous downward spiral. But then she clambered her way back into daylight and it all came right.

The programme featured, quite obviously, Turner's almost constantly abusive and explosive relationship with husband Ike which must have driven her to the edge of the precipice. But then the feisty and superbly resilient Turner came back once again and proved that life without Ike could indeed be both beneficial and ultimately successful. In fact when Turner eventually split with Ike it may have been one of the greatest days in her life.

Starting out on life training to be a nurse, Turner one day decided that a life in a clinical hospital ward wasn't for her. Turner wanted to become one of the most famous soul singing divas the world had ever seen. We would soon be introduced to one of the most rasping, husky and unforgettable voices in the history of pop and soul music. Turner was like a stick of dynamite, her voice blasting out across the vast concert stadiums and echoing across borders and continents with a dynamism and force that spanned the 1960s and then the following decades.

Now living in Switzerland with her new partner, Turner talked revealingly about the ups and downs, the trials and tribulations, the emotional minefield which threatened to blow up with quite the most serious consequences and then more about the destructive Ike. There was the violent Ike, the aggressive Ike, the flare ups, the friction, the fights and battles that came to characterise their marriage from hell. It soon became clear that Turner had to get out of this toxic husband and wife alliance. She was throwing her career away because a troubled man couldn't control his anger.

After her debut single 'It's Gonna Work Out Fine' with Ike had broken into the American charts, Tuner found that maybe the song did have an appropriate resonance. Clearly, both Ike and Tina looked as though they were ideally suited to each other, that it could work out in the long term. Then there were the ugly quarrels, the drink problems, the traumatic days and months when nothing seemed to go right. They fell out wildly, fought like cat and dog and then discovered that things couldn't continue in the way they had been.

Turner quite candidly admits that Ike made her feel like a prisoner, stifling her, cramping her style, confining her to a bit part in the partnership. Maybe there was a part of Tina that might have privately suspected that had she carried on with Ike then a blossoming career would just sink without trace. But then Turner must have found the keys to unlock her from this living hell. And then both Ike and Tina met up with a man called Phil Spector.

Spector was an ingenious, speculative, inventive and pioneering record producer with a treasure chest of new sounds and markedly different approaches to pop music. Spector gave us the 'Wall of Sound', a truly remarkable approach to music and its content. River Deep Mountain High would become one of the most defining, iconic, groundbreaking songs the 1960s would ever know.

River Deep  Mountain High would be the dramatic launching pad for Tina and Ike Turner. Suddenly the backing track for a hit single would sound like something from a big budget Hollywood film. A big orchestral instrumental production would change Ike and Tina's life for ever more. It was rather like admiring a three dimensional piece of art work where all the surfaces and textures of the record would take the breath away.

By the end Tina Turner was on her own after kicking Ike into touch and leaving him to dwell on what might have been. There followed the Tina renaissance, a reinvention of the singer she used to be but now in a new environment and a much more positive place in her life. She would single handedly write out one of the most classical rags to riches stories America would ever witness. She may have been on her own but the life of a solo singer had to be preferable to an utterly dysfunctional one with Ike.

So it was that we had I Don't Wanna Fight, Private Dancer, Steamy Windows, Let's Stay Together and What's Love Got to Do With It and who could ever forget The Best, Simply the Best. Turner had burst out of her prison cell, thrown off the shackles, busting the chains of torment and heartache that might have trapped her forever. Turner was the liberated soul, free to go where ever she wanted and do whatever she liked, released from what must have been the terrifying ordeal that was being with Ike.

With those still thick red pouting lips, frizzy hair that seemed to bounce buoyantly on her head and a voice that still crackles with energy, Turner is now relaxed, totally confessional, even more frank and determined to let the whole world know that she could still belt out a song from the heart. The overwhelming pressures, stresses and anxieties that may have pulled her down were no longer in evidence. She'd battled back from the brink, forgotten the wretched Ike and now just wanted to concentrate on the more important priorities that life would have in store for her.

Turner married for the second time her German record company executive and, for all the world, appeared as though the weight of the world had been yanked from her tired shoulders. The aches and pains were still there but when all was said and done, Tina Turner had come through the bad times, fought against the dire predicaments, survived the vices and just got on with it when the critics just wanted their pound of flesh.

Nowadays Turner lives in Switzerland, perhaps one of Europe's safest and most neutral havens where nobody can disturb her domestic idyll. In the final minutes of last night's warts and all  Tina Turner life story, she reflected perhaps sadly on the America she'd grown to love while she was growing up but an America that  had now lost its way. Of course America would always be there for her and the sense of nostalgic yearning for her birthplace had to be recognised. But this was a new chapter, a clean page.

 But Switzerland is where the soul singing legend wanted to be and besides who wouldn't want to be subjected to the sound of those famous cuckoo clocks on a chilly November evening? Simply the Best may sound like the most gross exaggeration but then again she can still deliver a song and of that there can never be any doubt.

42nd Street- a West End musical tour de force.

42nd Street- a West End musical tour de force.

You walked among the richly imposing paintings and marbled splendour of the Drury Lane theatre. Here in London's seething, teeming, hip hopping, break dancing West End you marvelled at London's glittering history and tradition. It was simply breathtaking but then you've always known that to be the case anyway so nothing has changed.

 You then cast your eyes at the stunning statues in the foyer, taken aback by their ever present and uncompromising beauty. Your eyes felt quite honoured because this is the way it's always been and always will be hopefully. It was the very heartbeat of the West End and that old pulmonary system with all of its surrounding nerve endings and arteries, is in the rudest health. Once again the world of show business was alive and well, its musical heritage maintained quite brilliantly.

For what seemed the best part of just over two hours, 42nd Street, undoubtedly one of the glitziest, chintziest and glamorous of all musicals did the trick once again. Of course those long running musicals which have so captured the public's imagination for much longer than 42nd Street are now festively festooned around the West End like the glinting jewels in a thousand crowns.

Outside in the glorious Covent Garden piazza a million lights twinkled around the whole of the old fruit and vegetable market stalls, Christmas trees firmly planted in comfortable corners of the huge square. It was the perfect night for watching one of those delightfully old fashioned West End musicals that never seem to lose their lustre. Somehow the West End always makes you feel good, re-affirming all the good things in life and never disappointing.

So it was that my wife and I settled down to watch 42nd Street, quite the most astounding, outstanding, showbiz oriented extravaganza, a magnificently theatrical joy ride, a spectacular musical journey into the world of old time vaudeville, charming cabaret and drama queen histrionics. But above all this was all about tap dancing, tap dancing galore and tap dancing that seemed to get progressively faster with every second.

This was mesmerising tap dancing at its most extraordinary, a whole cast of naturally gifted tap dancers who couldn't help but enjoy themselves and knew they were creating something pretty special. This was a clattering, chattering, stomping, stirring, pulsating, unbelievably perfect tapfest. For much of the performance you were reminded of a hundred typewriters, as straight backed legal secretaries finished those final letters of the day.

The story is a simple one. A whole troupe of ambitious dancers and vast egos compete for a place in the Pretty Lady Broadway show to end all shows. They pout, pose, leap into the air, the men flirting playfully and outrageously and the women teasingly returning the favour. They fall out, argue endlessly, make up constantly, engage in interminable slanging matches and then find themselves consumed with jealousy when one thinks the other is getting far more publicity than the other.

Undoubtedly the most familiar face in 42nd Street is Bonnie Langford, a child star and now model showbiz role model, all vividly oozing red lipstick and a woman of a thousand dresses. Langford is deliciously pretentious, full of prima donna strops, moody tantrums and eternally beaming smiles that seem to illuminate the whole of the Drury Lane stage with the most dazzling panache.

Langford, who first came to our notice on a late 1960s children's TV programme in Britain called Junior Showtime, has now blossomed into a performer of star quality. She went on to appear in Just William and threatened to scweam and scweam if she didn't get her way. Now though Langford is the finished article, a figure of perpetual motion, swaying and pirouetting on the most nimble feet elegantly and terribly light heartedly without a care in the world.

After many a rehearsal we were then treated to all of the 42nd Street classics such as 'I Only Have Eyes for You' covered most lovingly by Art Garfunkel during the 1970s, the mercenary, money grabbing 'We're in the Money' and the all conquering, sweepingly joyful 'Lullaby of Broadway'. Smartly suited men with dapper scarves and women in the most flowing of dresses floated and swirled through well disciplined routines of tapping and variations on more tapping.

This was quite the most remarkable cavalcade of tap dancing, row upon row of high kicking, barely believable sequences. On the stage three staircases of feet pounded away furiously and frenetically, a whirlwind of flying feet in perfect harmony. Then all you could hear were what sounded like a factory of shoes and feet, pittering and pattering away energetically like that industrious typing pool.

By the end the Regency Club, which had now become the ideal setting for these tap dancing geniuses, finally celebrated the Pretty Lady box office Broadway blockbuster they must have known it would be. On the show went sounding like that relentless Morse Code of messages across the stage, tapping and rapping, tripping the light fantastic, never stopping and never pausing for breath.

42nd Street is one of those legendary musicals that remain a timeless treasure trove of the early 20th century American songbook. It's full of showbiz tongue in cheek, funny, impossibly facetious at times and then full of thrilling exhibitions of effortless tap dancing. How could you resist 42nd Street particularly on a nippy, chilly but still pleasant Saturday evening towards the end of November? Go on indulge yourself in the ultimate of showbiz musicals. The West End will embrace you with welcoming arms. It'll make your heart sing.