Theresa May in China.
Who on earth would want to be the British Prime Minister? At the moment Theresa May is whipping up business in China, a land of pagodas, sampans, special chow mein, and bobbing junk boats set against a romantic backdrop of bonsai trees, politeness, respect and centuries of tradition. But Prime Minister May is currently on a diplomatic trade mission designed to boost not only her global image but win the hearts of our Far East partners whose only purpose in life is to keep smiling, shake hands with utter deference and then bow even more respectfully to friends in far off places.
This morning there is a strong possibility that the Prime Minister will be lavished with ginseng tea, Chinese hospitality of the highest order and plenty of goodwill. But these are difficult times for the Prime Minister because once again there are nasty rumours and scandalous speculation. You see the problem is that some of her enemies want her to go, walk the plank, leave, quit, beat a hasty retreat, never come back and just resign.
For as long as any of us can remember Prime Ministers have always been vilified, despised, criticised, mocked, parodied and lampooned by anybody with a grudge against political leaders occupying the highest office. It does seem that Theresa May is almost stubbornly dragging her feet over Brexit and the sooner she leaves 10 Downing Street the better for all concerned. The image isn't a favourable one and the critics tell us that the Tories have got to do something before the rot sets in.
Still there she was, wearing the warmest coats, thick fur hat on her head, gently inspecting platoons of Chinese officials and trying desperately to look the part even if deep inside there are personal conflicts raging powerfully in her mind. All of these walkabouts and glad handing of politicians and government officials is all very well but the suspicion is that things may well get worse before they get any better.
At the House of Commons the rumblings of discontent grow louder from back benchers of long standing, colleagues, furious colleagues and a Labour party who remain convinced that they should be the party in charge of the country. There are growing grumbles, fierce opposition, accusations and recriminations, finger pointing, anger, needle, hassle and aggravation. If things are allowed to continue like this then we may be faced with a no win situation where everybody simply ends up squabbling bitterly in a dark room and going absolutely nowhere.
But for the Prime Minister the immediate objective has to be one of strengthening and maintaining links with Britain and China. We all know that China has always been at the forefront of the high tech industry, renowned for its sleek cars, sophisticated electronic equipment and steel, the current topic of discussion between those in the higher echelons of government. And yet not everything in the garden is rosy since now the rest of the world doesn't quite know which direction Britain may be travelling in.
There are no knives out or swords to fall on yet but there is an impression that the influential movers and shakers on both sides of the Tory party are ganging up on May with sinister growls. They see a Prime Minister under siege from all sides and a woman under pressure from everybody to get it right. But for all her dignity and sense of decency she finds herself trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea. Does she stick or twist? Does she continue to hold important discussions in private rooms knowing fully well that none of us will ever be able to understand the nightmarish complexities behind the small print, the never ending pros and cons of Brexit without forgetting the long term consequences?
It is times like this that you remember the men who made this all possible and whose responsibility it was to make sense of it all. When Conservative Prime Minister Edward Heath took us into the Common Market all those decades ago, none of us could have predicted where it would take us all. We knew that Europe was that trustworthy neighbour who provided us with some excellent wine, cheese, the very best in trading relations and a good old fashioned European music concert at the end of the day. At the end of it all Harold Wilson, he of the soothing pipe, sealed the deal with a huge gasp of relief.
Sadly though Brussels became more of a hindrance than help as the years passed. The laws, red tape and stifling regulations began to weigh heavily on Britain. There were frequent bust ups, financial arguments, discrepancies over accounts, never ending currency differences and, more recently, migration and close borders. We've been told that our Polish builders and Romanian engineers may have to re-consider their decision to settle their families in Britain. We then welcome our European allies before changing our minds again. Or maybe we have made up our minds and none of us are any the wiser. It all seems so impossibly complicated and there has to be somebody out there who can give us some genuine clarification rather than blowing hot air.
Anyway here we are on the final day of January after yet another interminable Brexit game of ping pong which is probably where Theresa May came in on her visit to China. There are another two years of this ludicrous political bickering to go, those indecisive moments in political history where nothing seems to happen and the only constructive course of action is inaction. So we'll all gather again tomorrow and the next day and the following week and the following month, communicating with clear ideas and then scrapping that suggestion because there are too many pages in that document.
There is hesitation and deviation in the air, uncertainty on a huge scale and some of us who wish they'd reach some kind of amicable agreement because some of us haven't a clue where all of this leading to. Some of us extend our heartfelt sympathies to Prime Minister May and others who may want to talk about something completely different. Oh for a life after Brexit. Anybody for a cup of ginseng tea? I'll take one sugar please.
Wednesday 31 January 2018
Monday 29 January 2018
Man flu - or is it just men being too melodramatic?
Man flu- or is it men being melodramatic?
Oh no, it had to happen! Sooner or later it just arrived without any adequate warning. It might have told me it was coming. But, unexpectedly, it got here and is now working its way through my fragile defences. Men, hey. It can confidently be said that I have Man Flu, a condition best treated with long periods of isolation, privacy, complete detachment from everybody and everything and seclusion in a room as far away from family and friends as it's possible to be. Then you can pile on the self pity, the woe is me syndrome, the discomfort , the social awkwardness and a tendency to refrain from any kind of talking to anybody because you can hardly stand up let alone speak.
So here's the story so far. During the last week there has been a gradual deterioration in my health, a sharp decline into a world of violent coughing, a general sense of panic and disorientation, a sudden realisation that the whole dreaded scenario has just recurred without my permission. But oh no I won't give in! Never in a million years. I refuse to be subjected to daytime TV and I have neither the desire or inclination to watch endless programmes about property auctions. I'd much rather analyse the floral patterns of our wallpaper or just sleep the day away, reading, listening to 1970s music and then gazing at the scaffolding opposite us where what looks like the word IN has been prominently inscribed on the front of the block of flats.
What I think the last couple of days has taught me is that we're much stronger and more resourceful than we think we are. The last couple of days have, admittedly, been exhausting, draining and totally debilitating. The ordinary cough I normally get late at night seemed to get progressively worse as the days have passed and no matter how hard you cough and how frustrating this illness has now become you always feel as though it'll never come to an end and it's your fault. I try to avoid self reproach but there comes a point when even the act of lying down on your bed becomes a military operation. You bury your head in your hands, look around you and wonder if the wintry dose of coughs and colds will ever go away.
Let me tell you straight away that I've now ruled out completely the precise nature of my illness. It's neither pleurisy, yellow fever, jaundice nor is it the return of the Bubonic Plague. Neither has it been diagnosed as malaria or diphtheria or impetigo because I'm not sure how much more my ageing body could take for something so drastically unbearable and besides most of the above can only be caught in the exotic Far East and they can be treated. But time to move on as they say. There can be no point in being accused of hypochondria for that can only lead to moping moroseness and depression which are just counter productive emotions.
Still there was I last night with my lovely wife at Accident and Emergency coughing and spluttering, desperately clinging on for sheer life. It should be pointed out that of course I had a plentiful supply of handkerchiefs to protect the other walking wounded from catching something far worse. Then most surprisingly I was seen almost immediately which did come as a pleasant surprise. All of the doctors and receptionists were pleasantly friendly, welcoming and splendidly helpful. Wherever you looked there were warm smiles, lots of support, care and co-operation and a real sense of pastoral care.
We were taken into a private room where the regulation tests were carried out and I was diagnosed with a viral infection which had nothing to do with a chest infection but wasn't considered worthy of a spell in a hospital. All of the vital organs, my right and left ventricles were in good order, the heart was pumping away in the most exhilarating fashion, the lymphatic glands were in good nick, the blood vessels were in the most impeccable condition, the liver and kidneys were doing what they've always done since birth and the right shoulder bone was still connected to the left shoulder bone. The rectum and sternum are in fine fettle and I'm in the rudest health. Oh and I mustn't forget those tendons and joints, those vital veins and arteries which keep everything ticking over efficiently because if they go wrong then you're in trouble. But our health is our wealth and if things do go wrong none of us should underestimate our glorious National Health Service.
January is now drawing to a close and it is no coincidence that the violent coughing bouts I had at roughly the same time last year, have come back to darken my corridor again. The difference this time is that I seem to have caught this virus towards the end of January as opposed to the beginning of it. Do you think my body is playing tricks or indulging in some psychological game whereby I have to guess when the virus will strike?
But, according to whatever medical dictionary you may have, it's safe to say that I've got Man Flu. Yes it's time to make my announcement to the entire female population. Men are just impossible, totally convinced that there's something distressingly wrong with them because men haven't a clue how to handle the severity of any pain. Men are just biologically programmed to believe that they've got something that may last for the rest of the year without thinking that it's just a bad cold and nothing that a good old fashioned mug of honey or lemon or Paracetamol won't cure overnight.
At the moment all of the muscles in my body are privately aching and crying, weeping and wailing, desperate for some kind of reprieve. The energy I still had in abundant reserve a couple of weeks ago has now taken itself off to Tenerife and won't be back until they're fully rested and ready to run another marathon.
I did get dressed briefly a couple of days ago but then it hit me like a wall. From deep within my now besieged diaphragm, a huge cough began to gather in momentum. Before I knew it, the lungs were in fully rebellious mood and the rib cage was on the point of a massive explosion. No matter how hard I tried to shake off this state of inexplicable agitation the throat was completely blocked and the chest was stubbornly resisting my every attempt to clear itself. It felt like sheer torture but by early morning I felt as if I'd just finished one of those American high school dance marathons which last all night.
Now of course it's simply a case of Mother Nature taking its course but that almost begins to sound a well worn cliche. For men the pain threshold is something that can never be compared to women. Of course men are acutely aware of the trials and tribulations of pregnancy and will never know anything about the excruciating pains and agonies of birth. But what do you do when the simple act of lying on the pillow becomes a hellish exercise persistently preventing you from getting your head down for the night?
So there you are. That's my latest medical bulletin. My physical movements are still restricted and all I want to do is get a good night's sleep because that's what I crave so deeply. This virus, whatever its origin, is like a dark cloud hovering over a rooftop. I'm surrounded by a packet of cough sweets, boxes of handkerchiefs, glasses of water, pills, potions and all the medical paraphernalia you would normally associate with viral infections, flus or whatever it is I've got. It's time to wipe the sweat from my fevered brow, apologise for suffering from Man Flu, just keep calm and continue to watch Sky football.
Oh no, it had to happen! Sooner or later it just arrived without any adequate warning. It might have told me it was coming. But, unexpectedly, it got here and is now working its way through my fragile defences. Men, hey. It can confidently be said that I have Man Flu, a condition best treated with long periods of isolation, privacy, complete detachment from everybody and everything and seclusion in a room as far away from family and friends as it's possible to be. Then you can pile on the self pity, the woe is me syndrome, the discomfort , the social awkwardness and a tendency to refrain from any kind of talking to anybody because you can hardly stand up let alone speak.
So here's the story so far. During the last week there has been a gradual deterioration in my health, a sharp decline into a world of violent coughing, a general sense of panic and disorientation, a sudden realisation that the whole dreaded scenario has just recurred without my permission. But oh no I won't give in! Never in a million years. I refuse to be subjected to daytime TV and I have neither the desire or inclination to watch endless programmes about property auctions. I'd much rather analyse the floral patterns of our wallpaper or just sleep the day away, reading, listening to 1970s music and then gazing at the scaffolding opposite us where what looks like the word IN has been prominently inscribed on the front of the block of flats.
What I think the last couple of days has taught me is that we're much stronger and more resourceful than we think we are. The last couple of days have, admittedly, been exhausting, draining and totally debilitating. The ordinary cough I normally get late at night seemed to get progressively worse as the days have passed and no matter how hard you cough and how frustrating this illness has now become you always feel as though it'll never come to an end and it's your fault. I try to avoid self reproach but there comes a point when even the act of lying down on your bed becomes a military operation. You bury your head in your hands, look around you and wonder if the wintry dose of coughs and colds will ever go away.
Let me tell you straight away that I've now ruled out completely the precise nature of my illness. It's neither pleurisy, yellow fever, jaundice nor is it the return of the Bubonic Plague. Neither has it been diagnosed as malaria or diphtheria or impetigo because I'm not sure how much more my ageing body could take for something so drastically unbearable and besides most of the above can only be caught in the exotic Far East and they can be treated. But time to move on as they say. There can be no point in being accused of hypochondria for that can only lead to moping moroseness and depression which are just counter productive emotions.
Still there was I last night with my lovely wife at Accident and Emergency coughing and spluttering, desperately clinging on for sheer life. It should be pointed out that of course I had a plentiful supply of handkerchiefs to protect the other walking wounded from catching something far worse. Then most surprisingly I was seen almost immediately which did come as a pleasant surprise. All of the doctors and receptionists were pleasantly friendly, welcoming and splendidly helpful. Wherever you looked there were warm smiles, lots of support, care and co-operation and a real sense of pastoral care.
We were taken into a private room where the regulation tests were carried out and I was diagnosed with a viral infection which had nothing to do with a chest infection but wasn't considered worthy of a spell in a hospital. All of the vital organs, my right and left ventricles were in good order, the heart was pumping away in the most exhilarating fashion, the lymphatic glands were in good nick, the blood vessels were in the most impeccable condition, the liver and kidneys were doing what they've always done since birth and the right shoulder bone was still connected to the left shoulder bone. The rectum and sternum are in fine fettle and I'm in the rudest health. Oh and I mustn't forget those tendons and joints, those vital veins and arteries which keep everything ticking over efficiently because if they go wrong then you're in trouble. But our health is our wealth and if things do go wrong none of us should underestimate our glorious National Health Service.
January is now drawing to a close and it is no coincidence that the violent coughing bouts I had at roughly the same time last year, have come back to darken my corridor again. The difference this time is that I seem to have caught this virus towards the end of January as opposed to the beginning of it. Do you think my body is playing tricks or indulging in some psychological game whereby I have to guess when the virus will strike?
But, according to whatever medical dictionary you may have, it's safe to say that I've got Man Flu. Yes it's time to make my announcement to the entire female population. Men are just impossible, totally convinced that there's something distressingly wrong with them because men haven't a clue how to handle the severity of any pain. Men are just biologically programmed to believe that they've got something that may last for the rest of the year without thinking that it's just a bad cold and nothing that a good old fashioned mug of honey or lemon or Paracetamol won't cure overnight.
At the moment all of the muscles in my body are privately aching and crying, weeping and wailing, desperate for some kind of reprieve. The energy I still had in abundant reserve a couple of weeks ago has now taken itself off to Tenerife and won't be back until they're fully rested and ready to run another marathon.
I did get dressed briefly a couple of days ago but then it hit me like a wall. From deep within my now besieged diaphragm, a huge cough began to gather in momentum. Before I knew it, the lungs were in fully rebellious mood and the rib cage was on the point of a massive explosion. No matter how hard I tried to shake off this state of inexplicable agitation the throat was completely blocked and the chest was stubbornly resisting my every attempt to clear itself. It felt like sheer torture but by early morning I felt as if I'd just finished one of those American high school dance marathons which last all night.
Now of course it's simply a case of Mother Nature taking its course but that almost begins to sound a well worn cliche. For men the pain threshold is something that can never be compared to women. Of course men are acutely aware of the trials and tribulations of pregnancy and will never know anything about the excruciating pains and agonies of birth. But what do you do when the simple act of lying on the pillow becomes a hellish exercise persistently preventing you from getting your head down for the night?
So there you are. That's my latest medical bulletin. My physical movements are still restricted and all I want to do is get a good night's sleep because that's what I crave so deeply. This virus, whatever its origin, is like a dark cloud hovering over a rooftop. I'm surrounded by a packet of cough sweets, boxes of handkerchiefs, glasses of water, pills, potions and all the medical paraphernalia you would normally associate with viral infections, flus or whatever it is I've got. It's time to wipe the sweat from my fevered brow, apologise for suffering from Man Flu, just keep calm and continue to watch Sky football.
Saturday 27 January 2018
Yeovil - once FA Cup giant killers are toppled by Manchester United.
Yeovil- once FA Cup giant killers are toppled by Manchester United.
Almost 70 years ago a quiet, sleepy corner of Somerset witnessed one of the greatest FA Cup giant killing acts since David and Goliath were mere teenagers. It was 1949, the country was still recovering from the dark horrors of the Second World War, everything was still rationed and Sir Alex Ferguson was probably a wee lad in shorts. And yet it happened because every so often the FA Cup does that to us. It creeps up on us, shocks us to the core and then giggles behind our back.
Yes, in the year of 1949 then non League Yeovil humiliated high flying top of the old First Division world beaters Sunderland and almost certainly caught most of the know alls napping. What did they know about football with its whims and caprices? Who were they to tell us that the glamour boys of football's rarefied top flight were somehow untouchable and invincible? But the truth is that Yeovil, little old Yeovil. once beat the post war giants of Sunderland, knocking them out of the FA Cup but leaving them deflated, dispirited and no doubt incensed by the sheer audacity of it all.
This was the Yeovil, once led by the distinguished Alec Stock who not only scored that legendary day for Yeovil but later went on to achieve even greater things as a manager. Admittedly Stock was the losing manager of Fulham when two goal Alan Taylor and West Ham knocked the stuffing out of both Stock and Fulham in the 1975 FA Cup Final. But for those who were there that fragrant day in 1949, it was Stock's Yeovil who gallantly overcame that infamous old slope at Yeovil's Huish ground and you can never take that away from them.
But almost 70 years later Yeovil were once again thrust into the FA Cup limelight when maybe they thought that they'd never again experience such giddy heights of attention and scrutiny. True, the old Huish slope may be now just a historical quirk but last night the present Yeovil gallery of heroes puffed out their chests, tried repeatedly to hold back the red Manchester United tidal waves and certainly in the opening stages of last night's game, almost turned the footballing world upside down.
It is assumed that all of the local farmers and landowners of Somerset's laid back folk were still supping on their richly satisfying pints of cider and scrumpy because this is what the county is renowned for. Then the citizens of Yeovil wrapped themselves warmly in the thick scarves of green and white, huddled together on the atmospheric terraces of the Huish and then bellowed their heroic country songs. This was close knit togetherness, solidarity and communality at its best.
Around the Huish there were the traditionally local advertisements, shining beacons of commerce and trade and one product that is somehow synonymous with Somerset. Wherever you looked there was Thatchers Cider, brewed to a vintage perfection and last night displayed proudly before a live TV audience and, amusingly, presented to the visiting manager Jose Mourinho who didn't quite know what to make of it. Mourinho chuckled briefly and then got down to the business in hand.
So it was that the gentlemen of League 2, or the old Fourth Division in the old currency, pulled on their Jones Building Group shirts, rolling up their agricultural sleeves and then bombarding Manchester United with a whole artillery of up and under, hell for leather attacks that in the first few minutes threatened to bring the whole of Somerset to a standstill. In fact there may well have been a couple of local residents who may well have hoped that Yeovil wouldn't score in case the windows shook, tables trembled, pictures fell helplessly from the wall and bottles of cider rattled in nearby country pubs.
Last night sadly there were no FA Cup shocks or giant killings of any magnitude. Once Manchester United eventually put their feet under the table in this Somerset idyll there was no way back for the Glovers of Yeovil. Oh yes, lest we forget Yeovil are also celebrated for their glove making but on one Friday night at the end of January this was not an occasion for scrumpy- scented drinking binges or wild street carnivals next to the post offices and bakers of tiny West Country villages.
True, Yeovil did have in their ranks a supermarket shelf stacker but the FA Cup rarely does romance when Manchester United are in town. Once the likes of Michael Carrick, still as tall and poised a midfield player in the now veteran stage of his career, calmly brought the ball out of United's defence with that distinctive swagger, Yeovil began to stare hard at the harsh realities of football life. Carrick is as smooth and cultured a player as has ever been the case. At firstly West Ham and then briefly Spurs Carrick glided across a football pitch in much the way a swan or cygnet negotiates a lake. His passes are full of care and consideration, measured assessments rather than hasty decisions. Once again Carrick was the perfect pass master.
After some magnificent Yeovil attacking raids which almost reaped some kind of reward, United slowly but surely worked their way into the game. Carrick, the exotically skilled Ander Herrera, Scott McTominay and the wonderfully lively Juan Mata all found each other with the kind of telepathic understanding that seems to come naturally to all of the top Premier League sides.
At the back United, with Luke Shaw at his most dependable, Marcos Rojo roaming across the pitch and tightening up loose ends in United's otherwise impenetrable defence, were about to embark on a stately cruise across the Huish. But it did take the most dreadful of defensive mistakes to open up a hitherto steady Yeovil. Your heart began to weep copiously for these classic FA Cup charmers. If only Yeovil could have re-captured the spirit of 1949, if only Trevor Howard had stayed with Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter.
But then United scored their first, the superbly effervescent Marcus Rashford nipping into the penalty area and making the most of Yeovil defensive dithering, Rashford toe poking the ball into the back of the net. Ten minutes into the second half, United, now increasingly more confident and buoyant, moved seamlessly through the gears. Mata, still comfortable on the ball, turned brilliantly on the half way line, scurried forward all hurry and hustle before finding the newly signed Alexis Sanchez who kept the ball with a marvellously protective air. Sanchez quickly looked up, spotted Ander Herrera running past him and Herrera fired the ball home gloriously from the most perfect of angles. A goal of stunning simplicity.
Now Yeovil were out for the count, their FA Cup adventure over for another year. With minutes to go the very special talent of Jessie Lingard presented United with their third goal. Racing through a now non existent Yeovil defence, the England man picked up the ball on the edge of the penalty area and hammered the ball low into the Yeovil net. 3-0 and game most certainly over or so we thought. Oh no it wasn't. United, by now pouring excessive amounts of salt into a festering wound, surged forward for yet more goals. The towering Romelu Lukaku came on as a sub for United, and after another lightning fast United break Lukaku swept home United's fourth after the swiftest of cut backs in Yeovil's by now confused penalty area.
That then was that. The good people of Yeovil drifted away into the sharp winter air of South Somerset glad that they were to see that latest modern adaptation of David and Goliath. In this year's Emirates FA Cup the non League clubs have been conspicuous by their absence. Whatever happened to the likes of Blyth Spartans, Leatherhead, Sutton United and Gateshead? Have they been lost in the mists of time, have they vanished off the radar in some nostalgic time warp never to return again?
As the United players boarded their coach with their I Pads, Smart Phones and social media outlets, some of us fondly thought of Hereford 1972 when miracles did happen. One day it'll happen and it'll happen when least expected. But the FA Cup is still the most lovable of all uncles, a treasured gem that never loses its lustre. Just ask those Yeovil supporters who just kept singing and singing.
Almost 70 years ago a quiet, sleepy corner of Somerset witnessed one of the greatest FA Cup giant killing acts since David and Goliath were mere teenagers. It was 1949, the country was still recovering from the dark horrors of the Second World War, everything was still rationed and Sir Alex Ferguson was probably a wee lad in shorts. And yet it happened because every so often the FA Cup does that to us. It creeps up on us, shocks us to the core and then giggles behind our back.
Yes, in the year of 1949 then non League Yeovil humiliated high flying top of the old First Division world beaters Sunderland and almost certainly caught most of the know alls napping. What did they know about football with its whims and caprices? Who were they to tell us that the glamour boys of football's rarefied top flight were somehow untouchable and invincible? But the truth is that Yeovil, little old Yeovil. once beat the post war giants of Sunderland, knocking them out of the FA Cup but leaving them deflated, dispirited and no doubt incensed by the sheer audacity of it all.
This was the Yeovil, once led by the distinguished Alec Stock who not only scored that legendary day for Yeovil but later went on to achieve even greater things as a manager. Admittedly Stock was the losing manager of Fulham when two goal Alan Taylor and West Ham knocked the stuffing out of both Stock and Fulham in the 1975 FA Cup Final. But for those who were there that fragrant day in 1949, it was Stock's Yeovil who gallantly overcame that infamous old slope at Yeovil's Huish ground and you can never take that away from them.
But almost 70 years later Yeovil were once again thrust into the FA Cup limelight when maybe they thought that they'd never again experience such giddy heights of attention and scrutiny. True, the old Huish slope may be now just a historical quirk but last night the present Yeovil gallery of heroes puffed out their chests, tried repeatedly to hold back the red Manchester United tidal waves and certainly in the opening stages of last night's game, almost turned the footballing world upside down.
It is assumed that all of the local farmers and landowners of Somerset's laid back folk were still supping on their richly satisfying pints of cider and scrumpy because this is what the county is renowned for. Then the citizens of Yeovil wrapped themselves warmly in the thick scarves of green and white, huddled together on the atmospheric terraces of the Huish and then bellowed their heroic country songs. This was close knit togetherness, solidarity and communality at its best.
Around the Huish there were the traditionally local advertisements, shining beacons of commerce and trade and one product that is somehow synonymous with Somerset. Wherever you looked there was Thatchers Cider, brewed to a vintage perfection and last night displayed proudly before a live TV audience and, amusingly, presented to the visiting manager Jose Mourinho who didn't quite know what to make of it. Mourinho chuckled briefly and then got down to the business in hand.
So it was that the gentlemen of League 2, or the old Fourth Division in the old currency, pulled on their Jones Building Group shirts, rolling up their agricultural sleeves and then bombarding Manchester United with a whole artillery of up and under, hell for leather attacks that in the first few minutes threatened to bring the whole of Somerset to a standstill. In fact there may well have been a couple of local residents who may well have hoped that Yeovil wouldn't score in case the windows shook, tables trembled, pictures fell helplessly from the wall and bottles of cider rattled in nearby country pubs.
Last night sadly there were no FA Cup shocks or giant killings of any magnitude. Once Manchester United eventually put their feet under the table in this Somerset idyll there was no way back for the Glovers of Yeovil. Oh yes, lest we forget Yeovil are also celebrated for their glove making but on one Friday night at the end of January this was not an occasion for scrumpy- scented drinking binges or wild street carnivals next to the post offices and bakers of tiny West Country villages.
True, Yeovil did have in their ranks a supermarket shelf stacker but the FA Cup rarely does romance when Manchester United are in town. Once the likes of Michael Carrick, still as tall and poised a midfield player in the now veteran stage of his career, calmly brought the ball out of United's defence with that distinctive swagger, Yeovil began to stare hard at the harsh realities of football life. Carrick is as smooth and cultured a player as has ever been the case. At firstly West Ham and then briefly Spurs Carrick glided across a football pitch in much the way a swan or cygnet negotiates a lake. His passes are full of care and consideration, measured assessments rather than hasty decisions. Once again Carrick was the perfect pass master.
After some magnificent Yeovil attacking raids which almost reaped some kind of reward, United slowly but surely worked their way into the game. Carrick, the exotically skilled Ander Herrera, Scott McTominay and the wonderfully lively Juan Mata all found each other with the kind of telepathic understanding that seems to come naturally to all of the top Premier League sides.
At the back United, with Luke Shaw at his most dependable, Marcos Rojo roaming across the pitch and tightening up loose ends in United's otherwise impenetrable defence, were about to embark on a stately cruise across the Huish. But it did take the most dreadful of defensive mistakes to open up a hitherto steady Yeovil. Your heart began to weep copiously for these classic FA Cup charmers. If only Yeovil could have re-captured the spirit of 1949, if only Trevor Howard had stayed with Celia Johnson in Brief Encounter.
But then United scored their first, the superbly effervescent Marcus Rashford nipping into the penalty area and making the most of Yeovil defensive dithering, Rashford toe poking the ball into the back of the net. Ten minutes into the second half, United, now increasingly more confident and buoyant, moved seamlessly through the gears. Mata, still comfortable on the ball, turned brilliantly on the half way line, scurried forward all hurry and hustle before finding the newly signed Alexis Sanchez who kept the ball with a marvellously protective air. Sanchez quickly looked up, spotted Ander Herrera running past him and Herrera fired the ball home gloriously from the most perfect of angles. A goal of stunning simplicity.
Now Yeovil were out for the count, their FA Cup adventure over for another year. With minutes to go the very special talent of Jessie Lingard presented United with their third goal. Racing through a now non existent Yeovil defence, the England man picked up the ball on the edge of the penalty area and hammered the ball low into the Yeovil net. 3-0 and game most certainly over or so we thought. Oh no it wasn't. United, by now pouring excessive amounts of salt into a festering wound, surged forward for yet more goals. The towering Romelu Lukaku came on as a sub for United, and after another lightning fast United break Lukaku swept home United's fourth after the swiftest of cut backs in Yeovil's by now confused penalty area.
That then was that. The good people of Yeovil drifted away into the sharp winter air of South Somerset glad that they were to see that latest modern adaptation of David and Goliath. In this year's Emirates FA Cup the non League clubs have been conspicuous by their absence. Whatever happened to the likes of Blyth Spartans, Leatherhead, Sutton United and Gateshead? Have they been lost in the mists of time, have they vanished off the radar in some nostalgic time warp never to return again?
As the United players boarded their coach with their I Pads, Smart Phones and social media outlets, some of us fondly thought of Hereford 1972 when miracles did happen. One day it'll happen and it'll happen when least expected. But the FA Cup is still the most lovable of all uncles, a treasured gem that never loses its lustre. Just ask those Yeovil supporters who just kept singing and singing.
Thursday 25 January 2018
Arsenal meet Manchester City in the Carabao Cup Final.
Arsenal meet Manchester City in the Carabao Cup Final.
Finally it was alright on the night. For Arsenal, 2-1 winners over their London foes Chelsea, this result represented much more than the sum of its parts. Had Arsenal been beaten last night you feel sure that Arsenal's more critical fans would have been demanding a public execution. Arsene Wenger, their increasingly gaunt and haunted looking manager, may well have been looking over the edge of the metaphorical cliff.
We all love to see our team winning those vitally important matches and perhaps we even feel a genuine sense of responsibility when things go haywire. We blame the milkman, the weather, the length of the grass on the pitch, the size of the goal posts- anybody or anything as long as they can hear us and take note. But allowances have to be made and the truth is that when the final whistle went last night at the Emirates, Arsenal must have felt the weight of expectation simply dissolving into the North London night.
Arsenal will now meet Manchester City who may feel that all they have to do in the League Cup Final at the end of February is simply turn up, arrogantly cruise through the game and simply bamboozle Arsenal with science. City are just outpassing their opponents at the moment and although they've now been beaten for the first time in the Premier League after that amazing 4-3 defeat at the hands of Liverpool somehow we all know that this is not a disastrous slump designed to lull their opponents into thinking that even City have their bad days and blemishes.
For much of the first half though Arsenal reminded you of a punch drunk heavyweight boxer pinned to the ropes and barely able to fend off the upper cuts and hooks. Arsenal were, quite literally, camped in their own half for the whole of the first half, as Chelsea took out their own Ordnance Survey Map and found that all of their stylish passing movements were hitting the right geographical spot. Then the second half came along and all of those circles, triangles and rectangles got ever so slightly lost in the translation.
During the first half Eden Hazard, who looks increasingly like the kind of player who may just take the World Cup by storm, did all the kind of things that world class players normally do, turning his defenders inside out, beating them in frequent foot races and generally running Arsenal ragged whenever he had the ball. Perhaps the Belgian should come with a clear warning that indeed he is playing and everybody should simply get out of his way. Even Hazard though seemed to lose his way in the second half and once Arsenal had figured out a way to keep Hazard quiet, Chelsea collectively withdrew into their blue shell.
It was though Chelsea who made the immediate breakthrough minutes into the game. After a series of soft shoe shuffle passes outside the Arsenal penalty area, Pedro craftily slipped the ball through for Eden Hazard and the Belgian scuttled almost covertly into the area before tucking the ball past Arsenal keeper Ospina. It might have looked like an undercover operation but Arsenal had been well and truly left wide open.
For the rest of the first half Chelsea established their mastery over Arsenal and there were times when the home side looked as if all their neat stitches were also unravelling. There was a period during the first half when the loss of Alexis Sanchez to Manchester United was more damaging than Arsenal might have thought. But Arsenal, rather like most of the Premier League protagonists at the top of the Premier League are not solely reliant on Chilean magicians and slowly but surely there was a noticeable sea change and the temperature of the game seemed to work in Arsenal's favour.
Suddenly Arsenal looked revitalised, a side with a voracious appetite for the game and ready to take this finely balanced second leg to the wire. Once again Jack Wilshere, one of the finest midfield players of this generation, looked the most inventive of all players, running forcefully at the heart of a retreating Chelsea defence and always burrowing his way forward with positive intent. Then there were the smoothly delivered passes into dangerous areas, a player of balance, awareness and a lovely touch on the ball. When Wilshere drives forward into enemy territory, his shoulders seem to speak their own language and his dribbling ability has now become his very own template.
Now Granit Xhaka began to assume much more of the influence that Arsenal fans know he can exert. Xhaka still has a short fuse and the most brittle of temperaments but last night he was a very visible presence, chasing, probing and scheming with a nuggety persistence. In recent years Xhaka has seen red on more than one occasion but if he can temper what to all intents is a bad tempered irascibility then maybe Arsene Wenger can find a fitting role for the Swiss midfield player.
Then there was Mesut Ozil, a remarkably skilful player with all the arts and crafts of the game at his disposal. Some of the Arsenal fans were naturally concerned about his attitude in certain games and an annoying tendency to go walkies with the ball. Like Sanchez, it was widely felt that the German playmaker had things on his mind which he couldn't properly articulate. But Ozil is quite certainly the real deal, a forward thinking, finger on the pulse player, an avant garde talent with a rich diversity of passes, impeccable ball control, a broad range of surprises and an ability to change the course of a game.
Both Wilshere, Ozil and Xhaka seemed to having a ball in each other's company, stretching the whole of the defence one way and then the other. And then it all seemed to happen as if it was predestined. After a corner on Arsenal's right the ball seemed to bobble about interminably before Nacho Monreal, one of the most vibrant players on the night, headed a ball which took two deflections of the Chelsea players before nestling in the Chelsea net. 1-1 and everything to play for.
Arsenal, as if shaken out of their sluggish lethargy, now took possession of the ball and began to taunt Chelsea with their very own studious passing game. As if by magic the roles had now been reversed with Arsenal taking out tenancy rights on the ball. So it was that Arsenal found the mosaic passing patterns which their supporters have almost been privileged to watch over the years.
With the game heading towards a gripping finale, both sides attacked furiously and feverishly, the ball bouncing from one end to the other with barely a second to waste. Arsenal, after another merciless burst of pressure and rat- a- tat passes found space in the Chelsea half they must have thought was at a premium.
After an explosive burst, the ball was firmly whipped into Chelsea's slightly exposed near post and Xhaka prodded the ball home for Arsenal's decisive winner and a place at the League Cup Final or whatever they call it nowadays. At this point of course those two huge red, cannon emblazoned flags began to sway victoriously as if to underline the Arsenal victory. The mission had been accomplished and Chelsea slunk away from the Emirates perhaps wondering whether they'll ever get the better of Arsenal in any Cup competition. Last year's FA Cup Final defeat for Chelsea at the hands of Arsenal still leaves weeping wounds at Stamford Bridge.
So it was that the Emirates emptied once again, having witnessed the latest instalment between red and blue. You suspect that Arsenal and Chelsea are heartily sick of each other and would rather challenge each other to a game of whist or bridge rather than football. At long last a clear result had been achieved and we all began to wonder whether Arsene Wenger would find a coat that actually zips up properly. For Antonio Conte, Chelsea's amusing manager, this was one Italian soap opera too far. La Dolce Vita, Antonio. Please smile Mr Conte. It may never happen although the truth is that it probably has.
Finally it was alright on the night. For Arsenal, 2-1 winners over their London foes Chelsea, this result represented much more than the sum of its parts. Had Arsenal been beaten last night you feel sure that Arsenal's more critical fans would have been demanding a public execution. Arsene Wenger, their increasingly gaunt and haunted looking manager, may well have been looking over the edge of the metaphorical cliff.
We all love to see our team winning those vitally important matches and perhaps we even feel a genuine sense of responsibility when things go haywire. We blame the milkman, the weather, the length of the grass on the pitch, the size of the goal posts- anybody or anything as long as they can hear us and take note. But allowances have to be made and the truth is that when the final whistle went last night at the Emirates, Arsenal must have felt the weight of expectation simply dissolving into the North London night.
Arsenal will now meet Manchester City who may feel that all they have to do in the League Cup Final at the end of February is simply turn up, arrogantly cruise through the game and simply bamboozle Arsenal with science. City are just outpassing their opponents at the moment and although they've now been beaten for the first time in the Premier League after that amazing 4-3 defeat at the hands of Liverpool somehow we all know that this is not a disastrous slump designed to lull their opponents into thinking that even City have their bad days and blemishes.
For much of the first half though Arsenal reminded you of a punch drunk heavyweight boxer pinned to the ropes and barely able to fend off the upper cuts and hooks. Arsenal were, quite literally, camped in their own half for the whole of the first half, as Chelsea took out their own Ordnance Survey Map and found that all of their stylish passing movements were hitting the right geographical spot. Then the second half came along and all of those circles, triangles and rectangles got ever so slightly lost in the translation.
During the first half Eden Hazard, who looks increasingly like the kind of player who may just take the World Cup by storm, did all the kind of things that world class players normally do, turning his defenders inside out, beating them in frequent foot races and generally running Arsenal ragged whenever he had the ball. Perhaps the Belgian should come with a clear warning that indeed he is playing and everybody should simply get out of his way. Even Hazard though seemed to lose his way in the second half and once Arsenal had figured out a way to keep Hazard quiet, Chelsea collectively withdrew into their blue shell.
It was though Chelsea who made the immediate breakthrough minutes into the game. After a series of soft shoe shuffle passes outside the Arsenal penalty area, Pedro craftily slipped the ball through for Eden Hazard and the Belgian scuttled almost covertly into the area before tucking the ball past Arsenal keeper Ospina. It might have looked like an undercover operation but Arsenal had been well and truly left wide open.
For the rest of the first half Chelsea established their mastery over Arsenal and there were times when the home side looked as if all their neat stitches were also unravelling. There was a period during the first half when the loss of Alexis Sanchez to Manchester United was more damaging than Arsenal might have thought. But Arsenal, rather like most of the Premier League protagonists at the top of the Premier League are not solely reliant on Chilean magicians and slowly but surely there was a noticeable sea change and the temperature of the game seemed to work in Arsenal's favour.
Suddenly Arsenal looked revitalised, a side with a voracious appetite for the game and ready to take this finely balanced second leg to the wire. Once again Jack Wilshere, one of the finest midfield players of this generation, looked the most inventive of all players, running forcefully at the heart of a retreating Chelsea defence and always burrowing his way forward with positive intent. Then there were the smoothly delivered passes into dangerous areas, a player of balance, awareness and a lovely touch on the ball. When Wilshere drives forward into enemy territory, his shoulders seem to speak their own language and his dribbling ability has now become his very own template.
Now Granit Xhaka began to assume much more of the influence that Arsenal fans know he can exert. Xhaka still has a short fuse and the most brittle of temperaments but last night he was a very visible presence, chasing, probing and scheming with a nuggety persistence. In recent years Xhaka has seen red on more than one occasion but if he can temper what to all intents is a bad tempered irascibility then maybe Arsene Wenger can find a fitting role for the Swiss midfield player.
Then there was Mesut Ozil, a remarkably skilful player with all the arts and crafts of the game at his disposal. Some of the Arsenal fans were naturally concerned about his attitude in certain games and an annoying tendency to go walkies with the ball. Like Sanchez, it was widely felt that the German playmaker had things on his mind which he couldn't properly articulate. But Ozil is quite certainly the real deal, a forward thinking, finger on the pulse player, an avant garde talent with a rich diversity of passes, impeccable ball control, a broad range of surprises and an ability to change the course of a game.
Both Wilshere, Ozil and Xhaka seemed to having a ball in each other's company, stretching the whole of the defence one way and then the other. And then it all seemed to happen as if it was predestined. After a corner on Arsenal's right the ball seemed to bobble about interminably before Nacho Monreal, one of the most vibrant players on the night, headed a ball which took two deflections of the Chelsea players before nestling in the Chelsea net. 1-1 and everything to play for.
Arsenal, as if shaken out of their sluggish lethargy, now took possession of the ball and began to taunt Chelsea with their very own studious passing game. As if by magic the roles had now been reversed with Arsenal taking out tenancy rights on the ball. So it was that Arsenal found the mosaic passing patterns which their supporters have almost been privileged to watch over the years.
With the game heading towards a gripping finale, both sides attacked furiously and feverishly, the ball bouncing from one end to the other with barely a second to waste. Arsenal, after another merciless burst of pressure and rat- a- tat passes found space in the Chelsea half they must have thought was at a premium.
After an explosive burst, the ball was firmly whipped into Chelsea's slightly exposed near post and Xhaka prodded the ball home for Arsenal's decisive winner and a place at the League Cup Final or whatever they call it nowadays. At this point of course those two huge red, cannon emblazoned flags began to sway victoriously as if to underline the Arsenal victory. The mission had been accomplished and Chelsea slunk away from the Emirates perhaps wondering whether they'll ever get the better of Arsenal in any Cup competition. Last year's FA Cup Final defeat for Chelsea at the hands of Arsenal still leaves weeping wounds at Stamford Bridge.
So it was that the Emirates emptied once again, having witnessed the latest instalment between red and blue. You suspect that Arsenal and Chelsea are heartily sick of each other and would rather challenge each other to a game of whist or bridge rather than football. At long last a clear result had been achieved and we all began to wonder whether Arsene Wenger would find a coat that actually zips up properly. For Antonio Conte, Chelsea's amusing manager, this was one Italian soap opera too far. La Dolce Vita, Antonio. Please smile Mr Conte. It may never happen although the truth is that it probably has.
Monday 22 January 2018
Sanchez finally gets his way with move to Manchester United.
Sanchez finally gets his way with move to Manchester United- another transfer window.
So it is that the transfer window market goes about its business in the way it has for a number of seasons. Football loves its transfer market window because this is the one month of the year when footballers from across the country can exercise their right to do anything they like without feeling as guilty as sin. Most football supporters will continue to regard them as grasping mercenaries with only the Champions League on their mind and a place among the super rich elite of English football. Was it always the way with Alexis Sanchez, now properly installed in the red of a Manchester United shirt for the thick end of £14 million?
Not a bad day's work for the Chilean but then this is what he's been waiting for ages so no surprise there then. Finally Arsenal's incredible sulk has got his way. He's been stamping his feet for some time in an outrageous display of childish pique and impatience and football has seen another in the latest episode of player power where the said player jumps up and down like a six year old, cries for attention, throws his teddy bears out of the window and then pleads for another piece of birthday cake.
Since the beginning of the Premier League season the Sanchez body language has quite obviously fooled nobody. Here we have a modern day footballer so rich, pampered and self absorbed that the outside world around him no longer seems to matter. When Arsene Wenger somehow persuaded Sanchez to stay at Arsenal last August it seemed that an important truce had been sealed. There seemed to be a temporary compromise in the air as both Wenger and Sanchez shook hands and pretended that all was sweetness and light.
Now Alexis Sanchez is a Manchester United player and in a quickfire swap deal with Arsenal, the Gunners have brought themselves Henrikh Mkhitaryan, a spectacular goal scorer, as was witnessed by Mkhitaryan's scorpion goal for United. It's hard to know just who has reaped the full benefits of this mid season transfer between old rivals. Sanchez has got his way though and if he wants to strike up an enduring friendship with Jose Mourinho he may have to work it at for some time. Mourinho has no time for prima donnas and if Sanchez lets out so much as a whimper then he may have to think again.
Undoubtedly Sanchez is the most naturally gifted of attack minded strikers. From the shifty roll of the body to the subtle changes of pace, Sanchez carries around him a full bag of trickery, a player of handsome ingenuity, exceptional ball control in tight areas and the ability to cut in from the touchline, bursting forward into space, before swatting aside the physical challenges of defenders who can only gasp with amazement. He can also score goals from all manner of directions and continues to infuriate his critics when his mind goes on some long and mysterious journey.
But maybe Sanchez's move is for the best since, quite clearly, an otherwise preoccupied Sanchez is half the player he can be when convinced that there are quiet whispers behind his back. Frequently, we've all seen those anguished and wide eyed stares at the referees when the Chilean thinks that he's the only one who may be suffering some peculiar affliction. This is not the way it works though and maybe this whole charade could be a blessing in disguise. Sanchez is now a Manchester United player and that's all there is to it.
Long gone are the days it seems when Arsenal could completely rely on their foreign players to behave in the most responsible and rational fashion. When Dennis Bergkamp signed for Bruce Rioch over 20 years ago Arsenal proudly revealed a player who was not only immensely talented but one whose unwavering loyalty would never diminish. Ultimately, Bergkamp would become one of the greatest strikers Arsenal fans would ever see. He was tall, elegant, a footballing academic with a vast array of delectable skills to his game. Bergkamp could glide into space, trap the ball with immense grace, turn his defenders inside out and then instinctively crack home a huge conveyor belt of goals.
Bergkamp of course will always be remembered for that remarkable goal scored in the 1998 World Cup against Argentina for Holland. Dragging the ball from the air with his foot, from a superbly flighted diagonal ball, he caught the ball perfectly and then, with the ball ever so gently dropping from the air, he moved the ball smartly away from his defender before steering the ball home with the outside of the other foot.
Then there was Patrick Vieira, one of Arsene Wenger more spikiest of signings, another beautifully proportioned midfield player who was always destined to take his place in the Arsenal Hall of Fame. Viera was a controlling influence, spreading calm and composure wherever he went in the Arsenal midfield. His passing was gorgeously accurate and he simplified a game that threatened to become very complex at times.
But then there was the darker and uglier side to Vieira's game. Now captain of a seemingly unstoppable Arsenal he began to think that the football world was beginning to turn against him. There was the perhaps uncalled for aggression, the spiteful tackling and that famous pre match tunnel bust up with Manchester United captain Roy Keane. Of course Vieira could be rash and abrasive, horribly argumentative and plain irritable at times. But when the wind was in the right direction and the stars were in the right position then Viera was an unrivalled genius, a midfield general and commander in chief with so much to offer.
Who of course, could forget the inimitable Thierry Henry? With his career faltering at Juventus as a roving winger going nowhere, Arsene Wenger saw Henry as the best goal scorer since the likes of Charlie George and Frank Stapleton were presiding at the high office of the Arsenal forward line. Henry, in no time at all, would score some of the most sensational goals the old Highbury would ever witness. Ironically a wondrous curling shot from distance against Manchester United sailed past the United keeper and into the roof of the net.
And so we return to the present day and the latest antics of one Alexis Sanchez and the player who could be his potential replacement at the Emirates- one Pierre Emerick Aubameyang, allegedly the bad boy of football at the moment but we all know how they can be tamed in time. A deal with Aubameyang looks almost certain but some of the traditionalists may want to hark back to the innocent days of Charlie George and Ted Drake for goal scoring prowess.
With Arsenal out of the FA Cup but still quietly confident of a place in the League Cup-cum Carabao Cup Final, then all may not be quite lost at the Emirates. It is hard to imagine how any football team can find anything to get excited at a competition sponsored by a Thai energy drink. Still it has to be better than the Zenith Data Systems Cup.
In the not too distant future Manchester City may shortly be crowned as Premier League champions so Arsenal can only consider themselves as a full time member of the worthy runners up club. Those dissidents on the Emirates terraces who were waving their 'Wenger Out' placards so openly towards the end of last season look to have resigned themselves to another season of catch up and if only.
The overriding objective at Arsenal has to be the now customary charge towards Champions League qualification. This season the Europa League, the farcically poor relation to its bigger footballing cousin, has to be their prime concern but for those conditioned to the likes of Barcelona and Bayern Munich, a pervasive sense of anti climax may have set in.
Still it has to be admitted that Arsenal are still one of the most entertaining and imaginative teams in the Premier League. Their football still has that unmistakable element of polish and beauty about it that when their movement is fully functioning, can carve open opposition defences with an imperious flourish. All of that glorious short, quick passing is rather like looking at the most scenic of landscapes in that glowing early morning light.
Now the man who could have been Arsenal's brightest star of all time is now plying his trade at another footballing art gallery. Alexis Sanchez, whatever the future may bring him at Old Trafford, may have his head turned by all of the criticism that has been sharply aimed at him. When Charlie George left Highbury for Derby County it was widely felt at the time that George simply wanted a change of scenery. But for Sanchez, Manchester United could be just another glamorous football team and a notable addition to his footballing CV.
With Chile out of this summer's World Cup in Russia it may be that Sanchez is simply one of those players with a wanderlust that can never be properly handled. But with the closure of the transfer window now imminent, Sanchez can now settle all his worldly belongings at Manchester United in the hope that nobody can bother him again. If only we could be a fly on the wall in the United dressing room. It is hard to imagine what exactly must be going through the mind of a Belgian named Romelu Lukaku. Still peace has broken out both Old Trafford and the Emirates. We must hope that Alexis Sanchez is blissfully satisfied.
So it is that the transfer window market goes about its business in the way it has for a number of seasons. Football loves its transfer market window because this is the one month of the year when footballers from across the country can exercise their right to do anything they like without feeling as guilty as sin. Most football supporters will continue to regard them as grasping mercenaries with only the Champions League on their mind and a place among the super rich elite of English football. Was it always the way with Alexis Sanchez, now properly installed in the red of a Manchester United shirt for the thick end of £14 million?
Not a bad day's work for the Chilean but then this is what he's been waiting for ages so no surprise there then. Finally Arsenal's incredible sulk has got his way. He's been stamping his feet for some time in an outrageous display of childish pique and impatience and football has seen another in the latest episode of player power where the said player jumps up and down like a six year old, cries for attention, throws his teddy bears out of the window and then pleads for another piece of birthday cake.
Since the beginning of the Premier League season the Sanchez body language has quite obviously fooled nobody. Here we have a modern day footballer so rich, pampered and self absorbed that the outside world around him no longer seems to matter. When Arsene Wenger somehow persuaded Sanchez to stay at Arsenal last August it seemed that an important truce had been sealed. There seemed to be a temporary compromise in the air as both Wenger and Sanchez shook hands and pretended that all was sweetness and light.
Now Alexis Sanchez is a Manchester United player and in a quickfire swap deal with Arsenal, the Gunners have brought themselves Henrikh Mkhitaryan, a spectacular goal scorer, as was witnessed by Mkhitaryan's scorpion goal for United. It's hard to know just who has reaped the full benefits of this mid season transfer between old rivals. Sanchez has got his way though and if he wants to strike up an enduring friendship with Jose Mourinho he may have to work it at for some time. Mourinho has no time for prima donnas and if Sanchez lets out so much as a whimper then he may have to think again.
Undoubtedly Sanchez is the most naturally gifted of attack minded strikers. From the shifty roll of the body to the subtle changes of pace, Sanchez carries around him a full bag of trickery, a player of handsome ingenuity, exceptional ball control in tight areas and the ability to cut in from the touchline, bursting forward into space, before swatting aside the physical challenges of defenders who can only gasp with amazement. He can also score goals from all manner of directions and continues to infuriate his critics when his mind goes on some long and mysterious journey.
But maybe Sanchez's move is for the best since, quite clearly, an otherwise preoccupied Sanchez is half the player he can be when convinced that there are quiet whispers behind his back. Frequently, we've all seen those anguished and wide eyed stares at the referees when the Chilean thinks that he's the only one who may be suffering some peculiar affliction. This is not the way it works though and maybe this whole charade could be a blessing in disguise. Sanchez is now a Manchester United player and that's all there is to it.
Long gone are the days it seems when Arsenal could completely rely on their foreign players to behave in the most responsible and rational fashion. When Dennis Bergkamp signed for Bruce Rioch over 20 years ago Arsenal proudly revealed a player who was not only immensely talented but one whose unwavering loyalty would never diminish. Ultimately, Bergkamp would become one of the greatest strikers Arsenal fans would ever see. He was tall, elegant, a footballing academic with a vast array of delectable skills to his game. Bergkamp could glide into space, trap the ball with immense grace, turn his defenders inside out and then instinctively crack home a huge conveyor belt of goals.
Bergkamp of course will always be remembered for that remarkable goal scored in the 1998 World Cup against Argentina for Holland. Dragging the ball from the air with his foot, from a superbly flighted diagonal ball, he caught the ball perfectly and then, with the ball ever so gently dropping from the air, he moved the ball smartly away from his defender before steering the ball home with the outside of the other foot.
Then there was Patrick Vieira, one of Arsene Wenger more spikiest of signings, another beautifully proportioned midfield player who was always destined to take his place in the Arsenal Hall of Fame. Viera was a controlling influence, spreading calm and composure wherever he went in the Arsenal midfield. His passing was gorgeously accurate and he simplified a game that threatened to become very complex at times.
But then there was the darker and uglier side to Vieira's game. Now captain of a seemingly unstoppable Arsenal he began to think that the football world was beginning to turn against him. There was the perhaps uncalled for aggression, the spiteful tackling and that famous pre match tunnel bust up with Manchester United captain Roy Keane. Of course Vieira could be rash and abrasive, horribly argumentative and plain irritable at times. But when the wind was in the right direction and the stars were in the right position then Viera was an unrivalled genius, a midfield general and commander in chief with so much to offer.
Who of course, could forget the inimitable Thierry Henry? With his career faltering at Juventus as a roving winger going nowhere, Arsene Wenger saw Henry as the best goal scorer since the likes of Charlie George and Frank Stapleton were presiding at the high office of the Arsenal forward line. Henry, in no time at all, would score some of the most sensational goals the old Highbury would ever witness. Ironically a wondrous curling shot from distance against Manchester United sailed past the United keeper and into the roof of the net.
And so we return to the present day and the latest antics of one Alexis Sanchez and the player who could be his potential replacement at the Emirates- one Pierre Emerick Aubameyang, allegedly the bad boy of football at the moment but we all know how they can be tamed in time. A deal with Aubameyang looks almost certain but some of the traditionalists may want to hark back to the innocent days of Charlie George and Ted Drake for goal scoring prowess.
With Arsenal out of the FA Cup but still quietly confident of a place in the League Cup-cum Carabao Cup Final, then all may not be quite lost at the Emirates. It is hard to imagine how any football team can find anything to get excited at a competition sponsored by a Thai energy drink. Still it has to be better than the Zenith Data Systems Cup.
In the not too distant future Manchester City may shortly be crowned as Premier League champions so Arsenal can only consider themselves as a full time member of the worthy runners up club. Those dissidents on the Emirates terraces who were waving their 'Wenger Out' placards so openly towards the end of last season look to have resigned themselves to another season of catch up and if only.
The overriding objective at Arsenal has to be the now customary charge towards Champions League qualification. This season the Europa League, the farcically poor relation to its bigger footballing cousin, has to be their prime concern but for those conditioned to the likes of Barcelona and Bayern Munich, a pervasive sense of anti climax may have set in.
Still it has to be admitted that Arsenal are still one of the most entertaining and imaginative teams in the Premier League. Their football still has that unmistakable element of polish and beauty about it that when their movement is fully functioning, can carve open opposition defences with an imperious flourish. All of that glorious short, quick passing is rather like looking at the most scenic of landscapes in that glowing early morning light.
Now the man who could have been Arsenal's brightest star of all time is now plying his trade at another footballing art gallery. Alexis Sanchez, whatever the future may bring him at Old Trafford, may have his head turned by all of the criticism that has been sharply aimed at him. When Charlie George left Highbury for Derby County it was widely felt at the time that George simply wanted a change of scenery. But for Sanchez, Manchester United could be just another glamorous football team and a notable addition to his footballing CV.
With Chile out of this summer's World Cup in Russia it may be that Sanchez is simply one of those players with a wanderlust that can never be properly handled. But with the closure of the transfer window now imminent, Sanchez can now settle all his worldly belongings at Manchester United in the hope that nobody can bother him again. If only we could be a fly on the wall in the United dressing room. It is hard to imagine what exactly must be going through the mind of a Belgian named Romelu Lukaku. Still peace has broken out both Old Trafford and the Emirates. We must hope that Alexis Sanchez is blissfully satisfied.
Saturday 20 January 2018
We're gradually approaching the end of the first month.
We're gradually approaching the end of the first month.
So how we are all doing then? How are we shaping up at this rather dark and uneventful time of the year? Nothing of any real note seems to have happened so far and here in this sleepy corner of Manor House all is very wet, wintry and nondescript. Even the squirrels and foxes are still in deep hibernation while the trees look cold, bare, skeletal and desperately in need of some green spring clothing.
There is an air of static immobility in North London, a sense that the desolation of winter is here to stay for quite a while. Even the red post box standing on our street looks lonely and woebegone. It feels as if the world really has stopped, somebody has turned the volume down and we may never see any real semblance of life until at least March.
But wait a moment things are going on and undoubtedly it may continue like this for quite a while. The whole of Woodberry Down and Green Lanes is undergoing major rebuilding and renaissance, a London suburb that seems to have brought itself a brand new identity and character. Seemingly, within the space of a couple of years Manor House is beginning to look like a mini city on the outskirts of the West End of London.
In fact as far as the eye can see there are soaring cranes with red lights, more and more apartment blocks that seem to be multiplying by the hour and a part of London that was beginning to look a bit run down and tired has now been given vital resuscitation. Manor House is now breathing properly and a London suburb is now alive and well, the whole area now given a proper injection of life, a good kick up the backside and a thorough restoration when it all looked as if the whole area had given up all hope.
We are now surrounded by, what can only be described as London's biggest and most ambitious building site. My wife was right. Here, on the outskirts of the West End and the red lit financial giants of the City, there are all the vast supplies of building materials that keep this massive project going. For some of the residents it is a huge inconvenience, a dreadful disruption to their everyday lives and nothing but a confounded nuisance.
All day, long, gigantic lorries roll and trundle their way into the goods yard, then stop for a while before going again, rumbling and lumbering forward laboriously and noisily, before squeaking and then squealing metallically with all the heavy industry of the Industrial Revolution. Admittedly there are none of those smoky chimneys and cotton mills that once came to define England and there are no grimy chimney sweeps with poverty stricken faces.
This is the 21st century and now at the beginning of 2018 vast towerscapes have shot up with all the speed and efficiency of those hugely impressive edifices known as the Shard, the Cheese Grater, the Walkie Talkie and the beautifully named Gherkin. It is rather like living next to an architectural wonderland, a fusion of cool modernism, up to date glass and steel, symmetrically perfect patterns and shapes, lovely water features, the remarkably attractive Woodberry Wetlands and heavenly open spaces for young children and new generations of families.
Woodberry Wetlands is perhaps one of the finest and most outstanding additions to the North London landscape. Roughly five minutes away from us, the historic Alexandra Palace stands in majestic isolation in the distance but now Woodberry Wetlands is the latest new development and it's so conveniently on our doorstep.
You can only gasp in astonishment at the Wetlands, its wondrous array of nature at her most desirable. On Sunday summer mornings bird watching parties gather together in small clusters, butterfly colonies are liberally sprinkled around vivid, sparkling waters with some of the prettiest wildlife in London. If you didn't know you were living in London you could have sworn you were in the middle of some rural idyll of Worcestershire or a peaceful village in the Yorkshire Dales.
What you may not be ready for are those grinding pieces of machinery that sound as though they're in terrible pain, the clattering cranes, hundreds of Portakabins with shining lights that seem to light up Green Lanes, the spinning cement mixers, small groups of builders, brick layers and surveyors with hard hats. Unfortunately it does feel as though we've been hemmed in and trapped by masses of advertising boards where all visible light has been or more less shut out, obliterating daylight completely.
Still we'll do our utmost to keep calm and remain unaffected by all of the mechanical activity around here. It is to be hoped that at some point in the far off future the new Woodberry Downs will finally be declared open and ready to welcome a new dawn. Meanwhile the Green Lanes pavements are wet and sodden, the all day Saturday rain now taking itself off to pastures anew. It may be winter outside but in my heart it's spring. Now we've all heard that heartfelt sentiment before.
So how we are all doing then? How are we shaping up at this rather dark and uneventful time of the year? Nothing of any real note seems to have happened so far and here in this sleepy corner of Manor House all is very wet, wintry and nondescript. Even the squirrels and foxes are still in deep hibernation while the trees look cold, bare, skeletal and desperately in need of some green spring clothing.
There is an air of static immobility in North London, a sense that the desolation of winter is here to stay for quite a while. Even the red post box standing on our street looks lonely and woebegone. It feels as if the world really has stopped, somebody has turned the volume down and we may never see any real semblance of life until at least March.
But wait a moment things are going on and undoubtedly it may continue like this for quite a while. The whole of Woodberry Down and Green Lanes is undergoing major rebuilding and renaissance, a London suburb that seems to have brought itself a brand new identity and character. Seemingly, within the space of a couple of years Manor House is beginning to look like a mini city on the outskirts of the West End of London.
In fact as far as the eye can see there are soaring cranes with red lights, more and more apartment blocks that seem to be multiplying by the hour and a part of London that was beginning to look a bit run down and tired has now been given vital resuscitation. Manor House is now breathing properly and a London suburb is now alive and well, the whole area now given a proper injection of life, a good kick up the backside and a thorough restoration when it all looked as if the whole area had given up all hope.
We are now surrounded by, what can only be described as London's biggest and most ambitious building site. My wife was right. Here, on the outskirts of the West End and the red lit financial giants of the City, there are all the vast supplies of building materials that keep this massive project going. For some of the residents it is a huge inconvenience, a dreadful disruption to their everyday lives and nothing but a confounded nuisance.
All day, long, gigantic lorries roll and trundle their way into the goods yard, then stop for a while before going again, rumbling and lumbering forward laboriously and noisily, before squeaking and then squealing metallically with all the heavy industry of the Industrial Revolution. Admittedly there are none of those smoky chimneys and cotton mills that once came to define England and there are no grimy chimney sweeps with poverty stricken faces.
This is the 21st century and now at the beginning of 2018 vast towerscapes have shot up with all the speed and efficiency of those hugely impressive edifices known as the Shard, the Cheese Grater, the Walkie Talkie and the beautifully named Gherkin. It is rather like living next to an architectural wonderland, a fusion of cool modernism, up to date glass and steel, symmetrically perfect patterns and shapes, lovely water features, the remarkably attractive Woodberry Wetlands and heavenly open spaces for young children and new generations of families.
Woodberry Wetlands is perhaps one of the finest and most outstanding additions to the North London landscape. Roughly five minutes away from us, the historic Alexandra Palace stands in majestic isolation in the distance but now Woodberry Wetlands is the latest new development and it's so conveniently on our doorstep.
You can only gasp in astonishment at the Wetlands, its wondrous array of nature at her most desirable. On Sunday summer mornings bird watching parties gather together in small clusters, butterfly colonies are liberally sprinkled around vivid, sparkling waters with some of the prettiest wildlife in London. If you didn't know you were living in London you could have sworn you were in the middle of some rural idyll of Worcestershire or a peaceful village in the Yorkshire Dales.
What you may not be ready for are those grinding pieces of machinery that sound as though they're in terrible pain, the clattering cranes, hundreds of Portakabins with shining lights that seem to light up Green Lanes, the spinning cement mixers, small groups of builders, brick layers and surveyors with hard hats. Unfortunately it does feel as though we've been hemmed in and trapped by masses of advertising boards where all visible light has been or more less shut out, obliterating daylight completely.
Still we'll do our utmost to keep calm and remain unaffected by all of the mechanical activity around here. It is to be hoped that at some point in the far off future the new Woodberry Downs will finally be declared open and ready to welcome a new dawn. Meanwhile the Green Lanes pavements are wet and sodden, the all day Saturday rain now taking itself off to pastures anew. It may be winter outside but in my heart it's spring. Now we've all heard that heartfelt sentiment before.
Thursday 18 January 2018
You'll also find my blog at the following.
You'll also find my blog at the following.
Afternoon folks. I just thought I'd tell you that, apart from Facebook you can also find my blog at the following online pages at Facebook.
My Space
Wikipedia
Yahoo
Stack Exchange
Just Retweet
Blokube
Flikcr
Quora
Instagram
Visually
Flip Board
Medium
Watch this space for further social media names.
Thanks everybody
Have a fantastic day
Joe Morris
Afternoon folks. I just thought I'd tell you that, apart from Facebook you can also find my blog at the following online pages at Facebook.
My Space
Wikipedia
Yahoo
Stack Exchange
Just Retweet
Blokube
Flikcr
Quora
Visually
Flip Board
Medium
Watch this space for further social media names.
Thanks everybody
Have a fantastic day
Joe Morris
Wednesday 17 January 2018
Donald Trump - you're at your fittest. Keep going.
Donald Trump- you're at your fittest. Keep going.
So it's official. The 45th President of the United States Donald Trump has passed his medical and is, quite definitely, the fittest man on Planet Earth. It was announced yesterday that Trump, far from being an ailing 70 year old with liver or kidney problems is, as we say in Britain, as fit as a butcher's dog, ready to take part in this year's London and New York marathons, primed to swim the Atlantic at least three times this year and then he may challenge Rafa Nadal to a punishing five set thriller when, of course, Nadal can fit Trump into his busy schedule.
Yes folks, the great Don or Mr Trump, as he would be preferred to be called, has nothing wrong with him and he's ready to face 2018 with all the confidence of a man 20 years younger than him. You can see him now, hurtling down a skiing slope in Switzerland, dragging a lorry or bus in one of those hilarious Strongest Men in the World contests and then finally ripping up a couple of those old fashioned telephone directory books with a minimum of effort.
The truth is of course, that Trump does need to lose weight and could do with shifting just a couple of stones around the stomach. The doctors may have told him that he's in the rudest health and that he may need to cut out those high cholesterol burgers, those industrial size buckets of pop corn and the giant sized packets of crisps that we would all admit to eating from time to time but not with Trump's air of gluttony. This though, this may be an exaggeration and Trump still thinks he's the greatest President the Americans have ever had. And he may be right.
To all outward appearances Trump is a smart, healthy, wealthy gentleman who may believe that he can do anything, make anything and just fit the description of being the most perfect, flawless and superior of any individual. We've been told that he's got to go steady on the cookies and chips but should fulfil the increasingly complicated demands on his time. Running as President of United States was never going to be easy but providing he stays away from those sticky currant buns then he'll be fine.
Then, surprisingly, we were also told that Donald Trump refused a cognitive test which meant that his towering intellect was about to be questioned. Seriously though, how could we ever doubt the enormous intelligence and sheer literary brilliance of a man who just wants to do things his way and doesn't care who he hurts into the bargain? Trump is, to quote another cliche, the best thing since sliced bread, a man whose natural eloquence and political rhetoric would put predecessors like Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman to shame.
Here is a man who remains fervently convinced that he is, indeed, a 'stable genius'. Now without wishing to sound nit picking and fussily pedantic this is the kind of the phrase that an advertising agency would run with quite happily and then plaster on every street corner. But 'stable genius'. You'll have to forgive me a private giggle or several. It verges on absurdity but then you realise where the statement came from and you begin to recognise the only man capable of making such a surreal remark.
Donald Trump has now been in office at the White House for almost as long as anybody can remember. The feeling persists that if you wish upon a star your dreams will come emphatically true. For Trump fantasy has more or less become blurred by reality and the once billionaire businessman is still the owner of the one of the biggest and most ostentatious hotels in Western civilisation. But once Trump makes up his mind those who dare come anywhere near him will be summarily wrestled to the ground, clipped about the ears and rabbit punched for his sins against the legend that is Donald Trump.
But it was the Trump medical that still prompts mild sniggers and nothing but outright derision. Did the said doctor ask him to quote a whole Shakespeare play, or to produce the most striking sculpture ever seen. Perhaps he might be tempted to consider a career in astrophysics or mechanical engineering or become a leading expert in the field of rocket science. The world is Trump's oyster and here in Britain we have the Open University and who knows what else? The world of medicine is in desperate need of eminent surgeons and literature is in crying need of a bright new talent.
At the moment though it is perhaps wise to look no further than Trump's welfare. The old heart is ticking away with reassuring regularity and he still oozes the kind of charisma and bravado that may one day lead to another term as President. How, the American public must think, has it come to this? What on earth has the United States of America done to deserve this outrageously conceited man, an opinionated rabble rouser who finds it impossible to pause for just a moment and reflect on his recklessly ill judged, knee jerk responses? The repercussions are left like a nasty mess on the ground.
Still Trump can undoubtedly be more presidential and he can still be a stable genius because that's what the world needs to hear. Of course the media are full of conspiracy theories, of course they've got it in for him rather than Kenneth Williams infamy. In fact there is a school of thought which believes that Trump is a villainous hate figure who should take himself off to a desert island and never be seen again. Trump, if you were to listen to some of his most entrenched critics, is the worst thing that has ever happened to America since the beginning of time, an evil, detestable character with few morals and even fewer friends.
It would be perfectly understandable if Trump quite clearly told everybody to get lost and any persecution complex he may be feeling should be dismissed from his mind. So far Trump has divided the whole of America with his Oscar winning speeches about issues that may come back to haunt him, his singling out of certain countries whose leaders and policies he so obviously disapproves of and then there are the long, impassioned rants about his colleagues and ex colleagues. Over and over again Trump sits at his desk and then rubs his eyes in wonderment. So many sweet jars and so many things to do. What happens when I press this button but not that button?
And on he goes. Trump carefully steps down from planes wearing that long, dark and sombre coat, flicking back wisps of that blond hair almost nonchalantly and then grinning agreeably for the cameras. It is hard to imagine what exactly is going through the Trump mind but you can only assume that he is loading up some more verbal ammunition for the media he's convinced are plotting against him, the people he thinks are slimy pond life with poisonous tongues.
Trump not only believes in the gospel of fake news he'll prove it in a court of law if his lawyers will allow it. Those nasty gossip mongers and sham philistines hate him but frankly why should Trump care anyway? He's got billions in the bank so it's just water off a ducks back and besides sticks and stones will never break his bones. Nobody could possibly touch Trump for tact, his remarkable finesse, that stunning turn of phrase. If only somebody could turn around one day and acknowledge that 'stable genius'. It would make everybody's life so much easier.
Trump's recent firing and hiring of the friends he felt sure he could trust and confide almost lends his Presidency an air of Hollywood glamour. Trump, regardless of everything that may or may not have happened in the last year. is still a capable pair of hands at the ship's tiller. He'll keep tapping out those reactionary 140 plus character on Twitter and if that British satire classic Spitting Image were still around, he'd still look like a bumbling, blundering figure who revels only in his own publicity.
Hold on though! We've all got it wrong. Donald Trump is essentially one of the most heroic and admirable public figures in American political history. He will restore full employment to America, he will build walls that get in the way of Mexico and you can bet your bottom dollar that he will ensure that health care, the economy, education, housing for all and gang warfare will be rightly addressed. Trump will get everything right eventually because that Obama guy was a complete waste of time and a threat to civil liberties.
So here we are again in the middle of January and Donald Trump is still there in the presidential hot seat. Some of us are just relieved that Trump is so fighting fit that this may be the right time to stop dwelling on so called shortcomings and leave it to the blond bombshell. At the moment he's well intentioned, respectable and not entirely untrustworthy. He will use the examples of the highly esteemed Richard Nixon who was doing so well until Watergate destroyed him. And what about that Bill Clinton? Poor Clinton. Initially Clinton was the ultimate charmer until a photo gallery of women decided to do the dirty on him. American presidents can never really get it right so maybe we should give Trump another chance.
It is not often that American presidents are required to pass cognitive tests with the option not to if he felt it wasn't necessary. But Trump insisted on what must have been an IQ test designed most certainly to prove that he can read War and Peace and he does know what day it is. The emotional reflexes are still working and those Twitter comments are perfectly literate and legible. The next test is the mood of the nation and whether Trump is still in touch with the entire American population. Here in Britain we are still faced with a problem called Brexit and how to solve it. Dynamic Donald though has more pressing concerns on his mind and he must exercise more regularly. America, we salute you.
So it's official. The 45th President of the United States Donald Trump has passed his medical and is, quite definitely, the fittest man on Planet Earth. It was announced yesterday that Trump, far from being an ailing 70 year old with liver or kidney problems is, as we say in Britain, as fit as a butcher's dog, ready to take part in this year's London and New York marathons, primed to swim the Atlantic at least three times this year and then he may challenge Rafa Nadal to a punishing five set thriller when, of course, Nadal can fit Trump into his busy schedule.
Yes folks, the great Don or Mr Trump, as he would be preferred to be called, has nothing wrong with him and he's ready to face 2018 with all the confidence of a man 20 years younger than him. You can see him now, hurtling down a skiing slope in Switzerland, dragging a lorry or bus in one of those hilarious Strongest Men in the World contests and then finally ripping up a couple of those old fashioned telephone directory books with a minimum of effort.
The truth is of course, that Trump does need to lose weight and could do with shifting just a couple of stones around the stomach. The doctors may have told him that he's in the rudest health and that he may need to cut out those high cholesterol burgers, those industrial size buckets of pop corn and the giant sized packets of crisps that we would all admit to eating from time to time but not with Trump's air of gluttony. This though, this may be an exaggeration and Trump still thinks he's the greatest President the Americans have ever had. And he may be right.
To all outward appearances Trump is a smart, healthy, wealthy gentleman who may believe that he can do anything, make anything and just fit the description of being the most perfect, flawless and superior of any individual. We've been told that he's got to go steady on the cookies and chips but should fulfil the increasingly complicated demands on his time. Running as President of United States was never going to be easy but providing he stays away from those sticky currant buns then he'll be fine.
Then, surprisingly, we were also told that Donald Trump refused a cognitive test which meant that his towering intellect was about to be questioned. Seriously though, how could we ever doubt the enormous intelligence and sheer literary brilliance of a man who just wants to do things his way and doesn't care who he hurts into the bargain? Trump is, to quote another cliche, the best thing since sliced bread, a man whose natural eloquence and political rhetoric would put predecessors like Franklin Roosevelt and Harry Truman to shame.
Here is a man who remains fervently convinced that he is, indeed, a 'stable genius'. Now without wishing to sound nit picking and fussily pedantic this is the kind of the phrase that an advertising agency would run with quite happily and then plaster on every street corner. But 'stable genius'. You'll have to forgive me a private giggle or several. It verges on absurdity but then you realise where the statement came from and you begin to recognise the only man capable of making such a surreal remark.
Donald Trump has now been in office at the White House for almost as long as anybody can remember. The feeling persists that if you wish upon a star your dreams will come emphatically true. For Trump fantasy has more or less become blurred by reality and the once billionaire businessman is still the owner of the one of the biggest and most ostentatious hotels in Western civilisation. But once Trump makes up his mind those who dare come anywhere near him will be summarily wrestled to the ground, clipped about the ears and rabbit punched for his sins against the legend that is Donald Trump.
But it was the Trump medical that still prompts mild sniggers and nothing but outright derision. Did the said doctor ask him to quote a whole Shakespeare play, or to produce the most striking sculpture ever seen. Perhaps he might be tempted to consider a career in astrophysics or mechanical engineering or become a leading expert in the field of rocket science. The world is Trump's oyster and here in Britain we have the Open University and who knows what else? The world of medicine is in desperate need of eminent surgeons and literature is in crying need of a bright new talent.
At the moment though it is perhaps wise to look no further than Trump's welfare. The old heart is ticking away with reassuring regularity and he still oozes the kind of charisma and bravado that may one day lead to another term as President. How, the American public must think, has it come to this? What on earth has the United States of America done to deserve this outrageously conceited man, an opinionated rabble rouser who finds it impossible to pause for just a moment and reflect on his recklessly ill judged, knee jerk responses? The repercussions are left like a nasty mess on the ground.
Still Trump can undoubtedly be more presidential and he can still be a stable genius because that's what the world needs to hear. Of course the media are full of conspiracy theories, of course they've got it in for him rather than Kenneth Williams infamy. In fact there is a school of thought which believes that Trump is a villainous hate figure who should take himself off to a desert island and never be seen again. Trump, if you were to listen to some of his most entrenched critics, is the worst thing that has ever happened to America since the beginning of time, an evil, detestable character with few morals and even fewer friends.
It would be perfectly understandable if Trump quite clearly told everybody to get lost and any persecution complex he may be feeling should be dismissed from his mind. So far Trump has divided the whole of America with his Oscar winning speeches about issues that may come back to haunt him, his singling out of certain countries whose leaders and policies he so obviously disapproves of and then there are the long, impassioned rants about his colleagues and ex colleagues. Over and over again Trump sits at his desk and then rubs his eyes in wonderment. So many sweet jars and so many things to do. What happens when I press this button but not that button?
And on he goes. Trump carefully steps down from planes wearing that long, dark and sombre coat, flicking back wisps of that blond hair almost nonchalantly and then grinning agreeably for the cameras. It is hard to imagine what exactly is going through the Trump mind but you can only assume that he is loading up some more verbal ammunition for the media he's convinced are plotting against him, the people he thinks are slimy pond life with poisonous tongues.
Trump not only believes in the gospel of fake news he'll prove it in a court of law if his lawyers will allow it. Those nasty gossip mongers and sham philistines hate him but frankly why should Trump care anyway? He's got billions in the bank so it's just water off a ducks back and besides sticks and stones will never break his bones. Nobody could possibly touch Trump for tact, his remarkable finesse, that stunning turn of phrase. If only somebody could turn around one day and acknowledge that 'stable genius'. It would make everybody's life so much easier.
Trump's recent firing and hiring of the friends he felt sure he could trust and confide almost lends his Presidency an air of Hollywood glamour. Trump, regardless of everything that may or may not have happened in the last year. is still a capable pair of hands at the ship's tiller. He'll keep tapping out those reactionary 140 plus character on Twitter and if that British satire classic Spitting Image were still around, he'd still look like a bumbling, blundering figure who revels only in his own publicity.
Hold on though! We've all got it wrong. Donald Trump is essentially one of the most heroic and admirable public figures in American political history. He will restore full employment to America, he will build walls that get in the way of Mexico and you can bet your bottom dollar that he will ensure that health care, the economy, education, housing for all and gang warfare will be rightly addressed. Trump will get everything right eventually because that Obama guy was a complete waste of time and a threat to civil liberties.
So here we are again in the middle of January and Donald Trump is still there in the presidential hot seat. Some of us are just relieved that Trump is so fighting fit that this may be the right time to stop dwelling on so called shortcomings and leave it to the blond bombshell. At the moment he's well intentioned, respectable and not entirely untrustworthy. He will use the examples of the highly esteemed Richard Nixon who was doing so well until Watergate destroyed him. And what about that Bill Clinton? Poor Clinton. Initially Clinton was the ultimate charmer until a photo gallery of women decided to do the dirty on him. American presidents can never really get it right so maybe we should give Trump another chance.
It is not often that American presidents are required to pass cognitive tests with the option not to if he felt it wasn't necessary. But Trump insisted on what must have been an IQ test designed most certainly to prove that he can read War and Peace and he does know what day it is. The emotional reflexes are still working and those Twitter comments are perfectly literate and legible. The next test is the mood of the nation and whether Trump is still in touch with the entire American population. Here in Britain we are still faced with a problem called Brexit and how to solve it. Dynamic Donald though has more pressing concerns on his mind and he must exercise more regularly. America, we salute you.
Monday 15 January 2018
Cyrille Regis dies at 59- one of the great goal scoring forwards.
Cyrille Regis dies at 59 - a shining star and one of the great British centre forwards.
Back at the end of the 1970's West Bromwich Albion paid a close season visit to China in a groundbreaking tour of the Far East. West Brom's humorous midfield player John Trewick joked that once you'd seen one wall you'd seen them all. He was in fact referring to the Great Wall of China but you knew where he was coming from. But one man transcended everything that football had to offer.
Today, Cyrille Regis died at 59 of a sudden heart attack and football had lost one of its most shining stars, one of the finest centre forwards of the 1970s and a player who broke all those seemingly formidable barriers of deplorable racism, vile intolerance and dreadful prejudice that had threatened to become a widespread epidemic in Britain. Regis exemplified the centre forward's stock in trade role and today the country paid its richly deserved tribute to a colossal talent.
On his club tour of China Regis was one among a whole team of trailblazers whose duty was to spread the word about the English game in a far off land or so it seemed at the time. Regis was one of the first black players to grace the shirt of an old First Division club and did so with a strength of character and pride that never deserted him. Sadly, centre forwards of the Regis type are more or less an endangered species but Regis still emerged with flying colours while fending off all the snarling critics.
Regis was a big- in the kindest sense of the word- broad shouldered, manly, muscular, beefy and a combative striker with the warmest of hearts. He was the archetypal centre forward of the time, a man who loved nothing better than a meaty confrontation with his defender, always fancying himself in a bruising challenge in the air.
By the end of the 1970s West Bromwich Albion had established themselves as one of the most progressive and appealing of teams. Their football was easy on the eye, aesthetically pleasing to watch and they seemed to be going in the right direction. Their manager Ron Atkinson had arrived at the club in a whirlwind of promises and guarantees, a man with a long term plan and a clear idea of what he wanted to achieve with the club. But then the wheels came off although for Regis this was just the beginning.
Atkinson was of course was the epitome of flamboyance and outrageous showmanship, never missing any opportunity to boast, brag and show off the latest line of clothing. Atkinson, although he would never admit to it, was allegedly brash, talkative, extremely sociable, maybe delusional but single minded in every sense of the word.
When Atkinson introduced Regis to West Brom's appreciative Hawthorns crowd there was, briefly, a period when if all the pieces fitted, West Brom would become one of the most exciting footballing teams in the old First Division. Atkinson though was faced with the most awkward of problems. He now had at his disposal a hard core of black players and at the end of the 1970s this was the most controversial of all social issues of the day.
In the early 1970s Ron Greenwood, West Ham's excellent manager, had bought Clyde Best, perhaps one of the first black players of modern times. Best was idolised by the Upton Park supporters reaching almost messianic status. But then some of us noticed a small, moronic element who were intent on making Best's life hell. There were the ghastly monkey chants, the endless banana skins and a general aversion to black footballers that almost completely spiralled out of control. We knew that it couldn't last and it didn't.
Ron Atkinson, in his infinite wisdom, decided to throw together a clutch of immensely talented black players whose skill and natural flair would illuminate many a gloomy afternoon at the Hawthorns. They were smooth, supple, sinewy and, importantly, athletic players with class written all over them and an easy adaptability that warmed the hearts of the Albion supporters.
There was Regis, pacy, powerful, fearless, aggressive and determined while around him there was his equally as prominent strike force. Regis must have thought all his birthdays had come all at once. Regis was now joined by Brendan Batson and the brightest talent of them all Laurie Cunningham, a quicksilver, fleet footed, twinkle toed winger who would dance and fox trot his way past helpless defenders.
Sadly Cunningham would tragically die in a car crash while returning from a training session at Real Madrid. But Cunningham would never be forgotten by a West Brom team who were winning so many admirers. Cunningham seemed to be turning wing play into its most classical art form, constantly beating his defender with explosive bursts on the flanks, running damagingly at his full backs and then tricking with the most devious of step overs and a quick wiggle of the hips.
At the heart of West Brom's successful side of that time, there was John Wile, a tall and authoritative centre half who locked up the centre of Albion defence with utter assurance. There was the aforesaid Brendan Batson, cool and composed, superbly unruffled by any crisis and the blond haired Derek Statham, an ambitious overlapping full back who loved to gallop forward whenever he could. West Brom were a well drilled and well organised team whose manager Ron Atkinson could also have claimed that once you'd seen one defensive wall, you'd seen them all.
In midfield Len Cantello had been a busy and businesslike West Brom player, always searching for the right ball to play in vital areas, always available at all times. Then, Regis and co. were joined by the incomparable Johnny Giles and Bryan Robson, two classy and cultured midfield players with educated feet and a wonderful passing range. Regis would benefit handsomely from the service provided by both Cantello and Hartford.
Above all, Regis was a consistently productive, a genuine goal scorer who would score goals by the wheelbarrow load, barging and jostling fairly for the ball, powering towards goal before releasing thunderous shots past helpless goalkeepers.
The mind goes back to one delightful afternoon at a muddy and wintry Old Trafford. That day West Brom simply crushed Manchester United in a blizzard of goals. West Brom's 5-3 victory that day will live long in the memory since that day both Regis and Laurie Cunningham tore United to shreds with the most devastating display of goal scoring Old Trafford had ever witnessed. For Regis goal scoring would become as natural as washing yourself in the morning or brushing your teeth.
Regis would also win a number of exceptionally well deserved England caps although he may well have been playing at the wrong time. England were at the time adequately served by goal -scoring icons such as Trevor Francis at the time. Francis was, rather like Regis was all hustle, bustle and muscle, scoring an abundance of goals for England. Still Regis was never a source of disappointment and was the most model of exemplary professionals.
Occasionally Regis would venture into the world of fashion and his photo shoot with the 1970s girl band The Three Degrees did wonders for Regis's street creed. Regis was unashamedly black, fashionable and always smiling. He scored goals for a living in a society that had to come to ridicule black footballers. We all knew that such appalling levels of racism and xenophobia could not be allowed to ruin the game. Regis, to his eternal credit, rose above it all and never stopped believing in his outstanding talent.
Today the world of football has lost an invaluable servant to the game, a man who successfully broke down the seemingly insurmountable obstacles, laughing at the boo boys, shrugging off the negative cynics and then presenting himself in the most favourable light. When Viv Anderson became the first black player to appear for England it seemed that football had achieved all of its objectives.
Cyrille Regis will be remembered most fondly by those West Brom supporters who came to worship him. Regis was a throwback to the old fashioned centre forward who thoroughly enjoyed a battle and never flinched from the merest hint of a tackle. His heading ability and lethal shooting prowess are now part of West Bromwich Albion folklore. Ron Atkinson may have had a poor opinion of walls but he certainly knew a footballing giant when he saw one.
Back at the end of the 1970's West Bromwich Albion paid a close season visit to China in a groundbreaking tour of the Far East. West Brom's humorous midfield player John Trewick joked that once you'd seen one wall you'd seen them all. He was in fact referring to the Great Wall of China but you knew where he was coming from. But one man transcended everything that football had to offer.
Today, Cyrille Regis died at 59 of a sudden heart attack and football had lost one of its most shining stars, one of the finest centre forwards of the 1970s and a player who broke all those seemingly formidable barriers of deplorable racism, vile intolerance and dreadful prejudice that had threatened to become a widespread epidemic in Britain. Regis exemplified the centre forward's stock in trade role and today the country paid its richly deserved tribute to a colossal talent.
On his club tour of China Regis was one among a whole team of trailblazers whose duty was to spread the word about the English game in a far off land or so it seemed at the time. Regis was one of the first black players to grace the shirt of an old First Division club and did so with a strength of character and pride that never deserted him. Sadly, centre forwards of the Regis type are more or less an endangered species but Regis still emerged with flying colours while fending off all the snarling critics.
Regis was a big- in the kindest sense of the word- broad shouldered, manly, muscular, beefy and a combative striker with the warmest of hearts. He was the archetypal centre forward of the time, a man who loved nothing better than a meaty confrontation with his defender, always fancying himself in a bruising challenge in the air.
By the end of the 1970s West Bromwich Albion had established themselves as one of the most progressive and appealing of teams. Their football was easy on the eye, aesthetically pleasing to watch and they seemed to be going in the right direction. Their manager Ron Atkinson had arrived at the club in a whirlwind of promises and guarantees, a man with a long term plan and a clear idea of what he wanted to achieve with the club. But then the wheels came off although for Regis this was just the beginning.
Atkinson was of course was the epitome of flamboyance and outrageous showmanship, never missing any opportunity to boast, brag and show off the latest line of clothing. Atkinson, although he would never admit to it, was allegedly brash, talkative, extremely sociable, maybe delusional but single minded in every sense of the word.
When Atkinson introduced Regis to West Brom's appreciative Hawthorns crowd there was, briefly, a period when if all the pieces fitted, West Brom would become one of the most exciting footballing teams in the old First Division. Atkinson though was faced with the most awkward of problems. He now had at his disposal a hard core of black players and at the end of the 1970s this was the most controversial of all social issues of the day.
In the early 1970s Ron Greenwood, West Ham's excellent manager, had bought Clyde Best, perhaps one of the first black players of modern times. Best was idolised by the Upton Park supporters reaching almost messianic status. But then some of us noticed a small, moronic element who were intent on making Best's life hell. There were the ghastly monkey chants, the endless banana skins and a general aversion to black footballers that almost completely spiralled out of control. We knew that it couldn't last and it didn't.
Ron Atkinson, in his infinite wisdom, decided to throw together a clutch of immensely talented black players whose skill and natural flair would illuminate many a gloomy afternoon at the Hawthorns. They were smooth, supple, sinewy and, importantly, athletic players with class written all over them and an easy adaptability that warmed the hearts of the Albion supporters.
There was Regis, pacy, powerful, fearless, aggressive and determined while around him there was his equally as prominent strike force. Regis must have thought all his birthdays had come all at once. Regis was now joined by Brendan Batson and the brightest talent of them all Laurie Cunningham, a quicksilver, fleet footed, twinkle toed winger who would dance and fox trot his way past helpless defenders.
Sadly Cunningham would tragically die in a car crash while returning from a training session at Real Madrid. But Cunningham would never be forgotten by a West Brom team who were winning so many admirers. Cunningham seemed to be turning wing play into its most classical art form, constantly beating his defender with explosive bursts on the flanks, running damagingly at his full backs and then tricking with the most devious of step overs and a quick wiggle of the hips.
At the heart of West Brom's successful side of that time, there was John Wile, a tall and authoritative centre half who locked up the centre of Albion defence with utter assurance. There was the aforesaid Brendan Batson, cool and composed, superbly unruffled by any crisis and the blond haired Derek Statham, an ambitious overlapping full back who loved to gallop forward whenever he could. West Brom were a well drilled and well organised team whose manager Ron Atkinson could also have claimed that once you'd seen one defensive wall, you'd seen them all.
In midfield Len Cantello had been a busy and businesslike West Brom player, always searching for the right ball to play in vital areas, always available at all times. Then, Regis and co. were joined by the incomparable Johnny Giles and Bryan Robson, two classy and cultured midfield players with educated feet and a wonderful passing range. Regis would benefit handsomely from the service provided by both Cantello and Hartford.
Above all, Regis was a consistently productive, a genuine goal scorer who would score goals by the wheelbarrow load, barging and jostling fairly for the ball, powering towards goal before releasing thunderous shots past helpless goalkeepers.
The mind goes back to one delightful afternoon at a muddy and wintry Old Trafford. That day West Brom simply crushed Manchester United in a blizzard of goals. West Brom's 5-3 victory that day will live long in the memory since that day both Regis and Laurie Cunningham tore United to shreds with the most devastating display of goal scoring Old Trafford had ever witnessed. For Regis goal scoring would become as natural as washing yourself in the morning or brushing your teeth.
Regis would also win a number of exceptionally well deserved England caps although he may well have been playing at the wrong time. England were at the time adequately served by goal -scoring icons such as Trevor Francis at the time. Francis was, rather like Regis was all hustle, bustle and muscle, scoring an abundance of goals for England. Still Regis was never a source of disappointment and was the most model of exemplary professionals.
Occasionally Regis would venture into the world of fashion and his photo shoot with the 1970s girl band The Three Degrees did wonders for Regis's street creed. Regis was unashamedly black, fashionable and always smiling. He scored goals for a living in a society that had to come to ridicule black footballers. We all knew that such appalling levels of racism and xenophobia could not be allowed to ruin the game. Regis, to his eternal credit, rose above it all and never stopped believing in his outstanding talent.
Today the world of football has lost an invaluable servant to the game, a man who successfully broke down the seemingly insurmountable obstacles, laughing at the boo boys, shrugging off the negative cynics and then presenting himself in the most favourable light. When Viv Anderson became the first black player to appear for England it seemed that football had achieved all of its objectives.
Cyrille Regis will be remembered most fondly by those West Brom supporters who came to worship him. Regis was a throwback to the old fashioned centre forward who thoroughly enjoyed a battle and never flinched from the merest hint of a tackle. His heading ability and lethal shooting prowess are now part of West Bromwich Albion folklore. Ron Atkinson may have had a poor opinion of walls but he certainly knew a footballing giant when he saw one.
Saturday 13 January 2018
Churchill - The Darkest Hour.
Churchill- The Darkest Hour.
The Second World War has now been so heavily and extensively documented both in book, film and TV archive footage that another movie about the Second World War seems as pertinent and important as ever before. None could possibly question the necessity of the first big wartime movie of the year because once again today's world needs to be reminded of those painfully tragic and darkly harrowing events that so changed the course of history. Now more so than ever we all need to be reminded of what happens when the human race becomes horribly drawn into fatal conflict.
In The Darkest Hour, now showing in cinemas all around the world, the themes are sorely familiar. Winston Churchill, one of the greatest military leaders of all time and a British Prime Minister throughout those horrifically horrendous six years of war, is the central figure of this moving, intense and powerful film which once again illustrated quite clearly man's inhumanity to man.
Here was a very in depth portrait of a man who refused to give into the forces of evil and then stuck the proverbial two fingers at those who doubted both his military and parliamentary influence. This was a man who dragged Britain from its lowest depths and told Adolf Hitler that Churchill would never ever be defeated. Somehow Britain discovered its Churchillian spirit, the bulldog spirit, a dogged resistance, an impregnable fortress that could never ever be broken.
The opening scenes of the film showed a grimly austere House of Commons at its most furiously argumentative and deeply confrontational as both sides of the House took up the fight in a rare spirit of agreement and entente cordiale, deciding that once and for all something had to be done immediately before Britain was bombarded with bombs, rockets and then wholesale destruction. Death of course would naturally follow and suddenly Britain was at war with Germany.
On one side of the House of Commons was the blustering and barnstorming Clement Attlee who'd already asserted himself as Labour leader with some fierily forthright speeches. Atlee fiercely attacked the Tories for their utter incompetence and spinelessness in the face of grim adversity. Suddenly, in a wild flurry of waving papers Labour and Conservative screamed at each with loud mouth and stentorian force.
Then as if destiny had heard him calling, Churchill, played by the superb Gary Oldman, strode forward into the most prestigious job in the country. As Prime Minister, Churchill lit up the now trademark cigar, puffed gently and pensively before preparing his diaphragm for one of those unforgettable speeches that drifted across the world like the sweetest music. For those who must have thought that the world had turned very ugly and violent, Churchill had now become one of the most widely respected figures in the world.
Throughout The Darkest Hour Churchill would angrily stomp around beautifully furnished houses, grumpy and cantankerous, a man frustrated at the rapid deterioration around him and a Britain that was now in the grip of a major World War. There were Churchill's full English breakfasts with a large glass of either brandy or whiskey, Churchill sitting up in his bed with that rather grand and commanding manner about him and dear Clemmie, Churchill's wife, here played by the marvellous Kirstan Scott Thomas, with such ladylike grace, a woman who doted and adored her husband. The feeling was heartwarmingly mutual and when both shared the most tender of moments of love for each other, your heart leapt with joy.
Clemmie naturally expressed her concern that the family were struggling to pay the bills while Churchill was much more interested in Adolf Hitler and his dreadful atrocities to mankind. Meanwhile back at the underground war cabinet offices, Churchill would continue his grumbling, groaning and moody harrumphing, constantly questioning the competence of his downtrodden secretary, a female typist who must have thought Churchill was the most terrifying boss she'd ever known. Churchill would splutter and mumble his disapproval at her totally ineffectual typing speed and the subsequent inaccuracies that followed.
The Darkest Hour was a stirring and uplifting piece of story telling, a masterful piece of cinematography, full of dark and shade, light and insight, a production with a raw authenticity and realism about it that sent a tingle down your spine. When the Second World War reached a defining and critical points Churchill was superbly cast as the man whose legendary aura would never be forgotten.
In one of the movie's many amusing moments Churchill was gently reprimanded by a member of staff in the war cabinet who'd obviously assumed that Sir Winston Churchill's two fingered salute meant something entirely different. Churchill, chuckling deeply along the corridor, must have regarded such moments as blessed light relief while the world was collapsing about him.
And so it was that Churchill ploughed through the trials and tribulations with a splendid heroism and courage that much of Britain could only look on with wide eyed admiration. By the end of the film Churchill had done it all and seen it all. He'd had private audiences and breakfasts with the King, blasted the ear drums of his parliamentary colleagues and generally humiliated everybody who came within his ear shot. It was spectacularly spell binding and truly brilliant. With Ronald Pickup as a supremely convincing Chamberlain, the Darkest Hour was quite definitely a film of rich clarity. You've got to see it.
The Second World War has now been so heavily and extensively documented both in book, film and TV archive footage that another movie about the Second World War seems as pertinent and important as ever before. None could possibly question the necessity of the first big wartime movie of the year because once again today's world needs to be reminded of those painfully tragic and darkly harrowing events that so changed the course of history. Now more so than ever we all need to be reminded of what happens when the human race becomes horribly drawn into fatal conflict.
In The Darkest Hour, now showing in cinemas all around the world, the themes are sorely familiar. Winston Churchill, one of the greatest military leaders of all time and a British Prime Minister throughout those horrifically horrendous six years of war, is the central figure of this moving, intense and powerful film which once again illustrated quite clearly man's inhumanity to man.
Here was a very in depth portrait of a man who refused to give into the forces of evil and then stuck the proverbial two fingers at those who doubted both his military and parliamentary influence. This was a man who dragged Britain from its lowest depths and told Adolf Hitler that Churchill would never ever be defeated. Somehow Britain discovered its Churchillian spirit, the bulldog spirit, a dogged resistance, an impregnable fortress that could never ever be broken.
The opening scenes of the film showed a grimly austere House of Commons at its most furiously argumentative and deeply confrontational as both sides of the House took up the fight in a rare spirit of agreement and entente cordiale, deciding that once and for all something had to be done immediately before Britain was bombarded with bombs, rockets and then wholesale destruction. Death of course would naturally follow and suddenly Britain was at war with Germany.
On one side of the House of Commons was the blustering and barnstorming Clement Attlee who'd already asserted himself as Labour leader with some fierily forthright speeches. Atlee fiercely attacked the Tories for their utter incompetence and spinelessness in the face of grim adversity. Suddenly, in a wild flurry of waving papers Labour and Conservative screamed at each with loud mouth and stentorian force.
Then as if destiny had heard him calling, Churchill, played by the superb Gary Oldman, strode forward into the most prestigious job in the country. As Prime Minister, Churchill lit up the now trademark cigar, puffed gently and pensively before preparing his diaphragm for one of those unforgettable speeches that drifted across the world like the sweetest music. For those who must have thought that the world had turned very ugly and violent, Churchill had now become one of the most widely respected figures in the world.
Throughout The Darkest Hour Churchill would angrily stomp around beautifully furnished houses, grumpy and cantankerous, a man frustrated at the rapid deterioration around him and a Britain that was now in the grip of a major World War. There were Churchill's full English breakfasts with a large glass of either brandy or whiskey, Churchill sitting up in his bed with that rather grand and commanding manner about him and dear Clemmie, Churchill's wife, here played by the marvellous Kirstan Scott Thomas, with such ladylike grace, a woman who doted and adored her husband. The feeling was heartwarmingly mutual and when both shared the most tender of moments of love for each other, your heart leapt with joy.
Clemmie naturally expressed her concern that the family were struggling to pay the bills while Churchill was much more interested in Adolf Hitler and his dreadful atrocities to mankind. Meanwhile back at the underground war cabinet offices, Churchill would continue his grumbling, groaning and moody harrumphing, constantly questioning the competence of his downtrodden secretary, a female typist who must have thought Churchill was the most terrifying boss she'd ever known. Churchill would splutter and mumble his disapproval at her totally ineffectual typing speed and the subsequent inaccuracies that followed.
The Darkest Hour was a stirring and uplifting piece of story telling, a masterful piece of cinematography, full of dark and shade, light and insight, a production with a raw authenticity and realism about it that sent a tingle down your spine. When the Second World War reached a defining and critical points Churchill was superbly cast as the man whose legendary aura would never be forgotten.
In one of the movie's many amusing moments Churchill was gently reprimanded by a member of staff in the war cabinet who'd obviously assumed that Sir Winston Churchill's two fingered salute meant something entirely different. Churchill, chuckling deeply along the corridor, must have regarded such moments as blessed light relief while the world was collapsing about him.
And so it was that Churchill ploughed through the trials and tribulations with a splendid heroism and courage that much of Britain could only look on with wide eyed admiration. By the end of the film Churchill had done it all and seen it all. He'd had private audiences and breakfasts with the King, blasted the ear drums of his parliamentary colleagues and generally humiliated everybody who came within his ear shot. It was spectacularly spell binding and truly brilliant. With Ronald Pickup as a supremely convincing Chamberlain, the Darkest Hour was quite definitely a film of rich clarity. You've got to see it.
Thursday 11 January 2018
Arsenal share a goal-less draw with Chelsea in Carabao Cup semi Final first leg.
Arsenal share a goal-less draw with Chelsea in Carabao Cup semi Final first leg.
Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot? It was forever thus for both Arsenal and Chelsea. Hadn't they met before somewhere some time? Their paths have definitely crossed before. You must remember surely. Oh yes! It was last week in a brand New Year crackerjack of a Premier League game at the Emirates Stadium where local differences were settled with an honours even 2-2 draw.
Once again these North and West London rivals were thrown together by a fortunate twist of fate because it seems that both Arsenal and Chelsea get quite a private thrill when they meet each other under any circumstances. But when it comes to Cup competitions of any description both can hardly contain their glee. This was rather like yet another family re-union where two old brothers suddenly meet up at a party and look genuinely happy to see each other. Sometimes there are rifts and rumpuses but last night it was all good natured bonhomie and hearty pats on the back. No problem at all.
At Stamford Bridge two footballing aristocracies shared a very pleasant evening in a West London gathering of the great and good. Here in the very luxurious Chelsea Village and Harbour, both Chelsea and Arsenal swapped familiar stories, shook hands amiably and decided to do it all over again in the second leg at the Emirates without a scratch on each other. There are times when you have to accept the status quo, resign yourself to whatever fate holds and then find the ultimate solution.
In last night's 0-0 draw in the Carabao Cup semi final, Chelsea and Arsenal were engaged in one of the most thought provoking of matches. It was rather like watching two very gifted chess grandmasters staring at the board, trying desperately to anticipate each other's next move and then taking full advantage of that bishop and the queen. It could have been all over had you shifted that castle where it can do maximum damage but then you suddenly discover that your opponent has already thought of that. So you move those pawns out in a kind of pincer attacking formation and before you can bat an eye lid it had to be check mate.
Frustratingly both Arsenal and Chelsea had almost subconsciously resolved before this game that footballing poker had to be the only option. Both teams very rarely showed their hand and this was a match of cat and mouse tactics, secrecy and stealth with nobody giving anything away. It was one of those cagey Cup ties where both sides commit themselves wholeheartedly to blanket defence and no quarter is given.
This was a match of stifling containment where both Arsenal and Chelsea seemed quite content to cancel each other out in the hope that somebody takes the decisive initiative eventually. In fact this match reminded you of those slow, slow, quick quick Olympic cycling races where the riders gently pedal away around the steep banks of a velodrome before sprinting impressively towards the finishing line. But Sir Chris Hoy may have turned his head away from this sluggish spectacle.
In the end both the Blues and Gunners were just grateful to have finished the game in one piece. Arsenal, for their part, were still recovering from that dramatic FA Cup third round exit at the City Ground where Nottingham Forest were, allegedly, given one penalty too many and penalty takers were slipping and sliding before illegally scoring. Arsenal have had a wretched time of it and just when they thought they'd seen the back of their mini crisis Chelsea came along and made things worse.
Admittedly Arsenal did survive last night's footballing assault course and will look forward to the second leg in a couple of weeks time with a fresh focus and a much clearer mind. But at times during the second half Arsenal were clinging on to the hand rails and only just keeping afloat. Whenever Arsenal do hit that rather unsettling bump in the road there always seems to be a safety net. Chelsea though, were in no mood for sympathy and understanding since they too were on the receiving end of a demoralising FA Cup Final defeat by Arsenal last year. A case of what goes around comes around.
Still this was a good natured Carabao Cup first leg and for the regular Stamford Bridge faithful this was as good as it'll probably get. In fact it could have been a whole lot better had Chelsea taken some of the goal scoring chances they'd so meticulously created. In the second half Chelsea moved the ball around with much more speed and accuracy than Arsenal while always keeping an eagle eye out for a quick smash and grab act. Arsenal though, successfully crowded out Chelsea with a red barbed wire and the blue Chelsea cavalry held fire before launching more careful and calculated attacks.
But this was never likely to be a free flowing, high scoring Cup tie and what we had instead was a tug of war contest where both heave and pull at the rope before flopping to the ground in sheer exhaustion. Occasionally during the first half Arsenal gave one or two fleeting reminders of their almost natural short passing game. For the first half hour or so it was like living in some passing paradise, red shirts quickly interacting with each other in the closest proximity. The ball almost seemed to have some electromagnetic force. Arsenal were spinning, rotating and then weighing up their passes knowing full well that the ball would invariably end up at the feet of a red shirt.
At the heart of some of their best movements was Jack Wilshere, now appointed as Arsenal captain for the night and there could have been few more deserving recipients of that honour. Here against Chelsea he floated and hovered around the centre of the pitch, drifting effortlessly through the game as if quite possibly going through the motions at times but nonetheless always available for the vital pass. With what looks like a deceptively low centre of gravity Wilshere always looks in command and is rarely prone to clumsy fallibility.
Last night Wilshere occupied that very deep lying attacking midfield role that he seems to embrace with open arms. Wilshere was studious, always thinking, always aware and sensitive to events around him. His was a beautifully measured approach, a player of wit, touch and vision, a man with, quite possibly, England and a World Cup on his mind but wholly concentrated on the immediate task in hand. You find yourself wondering what exactly might be going through the mind of England manager Gareth Southgate's mind.
For the last couple of years, Wilshere's career has been stalled by long term injuries, a trip to the seaside at Bournemouth and all manner of speculations and private distractions. The moral majority may be still mumbling and muttering their concerns but the fact is that Wilshere may have to be on his best behaviour. You know what those Russians are like. Very strict and disciplined. So Wilshere's nocturnal activities may have to be cut out altogether. Recently though he does seem to have achieved a renewed maturity which does bode well for the trip to Russia during the summer.
Here are though on the domestic front, Wilshere and Granit Xhaka formed a robust midfield alongside Hector Bellerin on the overlap. Arsenal looked well balanced as a team but still seemed slightly groggy and punch drunk after their Forest expedition. Maybe they couldn't find a clearing in between the trees. Still for most of the first half Arsenal, electrified by the young and thrusting Ainsley Maitland Niles on the other flank to Bellerin, began to up the ante with positive runs into the Chelsea half.
Then after the match had progressed deep into the second half it became abundantly clear that Arsenal were under the weather and far from the spritely team who had put five past Everton earlier on in the season, before engaging in fun and games with both Liverpool and Manchester United. The defensive hinges often looked in need of oiling as Arsenal were caught dithering and dawdling in their own penalty area. At times Cech, the Arsenal keeper looked as if he was still playing in his school playground as the ball flew across his penalty area with casual abandon.
By the second half Chelsea became totally dominant and much more assertive than they had been during the first. It was as if Chelsea manager Antonio Conte had given his players a stern lecture such was his team's greater sense of adventure. Conte is a very emotional and passionate man but it is hard to imagine him breaking any crockery in the dressing room. But by the hour Chelsea had changed out of all recognition and the thunder on Conte's face during the first half had now assumed a much sunnier appearance.
Eden Hazard, who is by and far away one of the most attractive looking players in the Premier League, now burst out of his somewhat introverted shell and made the second half his. Picking up the ball in all areas of the pitch Hazard, with that lovely swivel of his hips, cut in from the flanks and then delicately completed a full circle before launching an irresistible surge towards the Arsenal penalty area. On a number of occasions it was almost as if Arsenal were racing to catch an early morning rush hour train. Then the guard on the platform held up the flag and the 7.38 at Euston had disappeared into the distance.
Alongside Hazard was the consistently influential N'Golo Kante, a marvellously effective and intelligent midfield player full of ideas and imagination. Kante was the bricklayer and hod carrier at the same time, breaking up all of Arsenal's pretty decorations in the middle of the pitch and then carrying the ball forward with purpose and conviction. Kante was the creative engine room, pistons pumping, legs charging furiously across Stamford Bridge as if his life depended on it.
With Victor Moses finally emerging in the second half after a flat first. Moses began to run daringly at Mustafi, Holding and Koscielny in Arsenal's now tiring defence. Then Cesc Fabregas, a former Arsenal player, started to spray a pleasant succession of long and sweetly weighted passes behind the Arsenal back four. For Fabregas though the years are now passing and now in his 30s, the football brain may be active and alert but how much longer has the Spanish playmaker got before the body tells him a different story?
Marco Alonso and the Dane Andreas Christensen were always mobile, swift and ever ready to support an attack that were now biting their teeth into this League Cup semi final. OK then it's the Carabao Cup but you wondered what the founder of the competition Alan Hardaker would have thought of his creation in its present incarnation. Both Alonso and Christensen were full time members of the full back union, bustling and hustling for possession, lunging at well timed tackles and repeatedly disrupting a battery of Arsenal counter attacks.
In the end though both teams had more or less worked each other out before the floodlights had come on. Before the game there was a most unusual reception for the players as they stepped out onto the pitch. The said floodlights began to flash and flicker in some very dramatic entrance of the gladiators. By the end of the match Arsenal and Chelsea looked stage struck and then the lights seemed to go off permanently.
With the second leg of this Carabao Cup still to follow, it was time to review our assessments of the League Cup as a viable force for good. To some if not others it still remains way down the pecking order, an insignificant side show with little to recommend it. When Norwich City beat Rochdale in one of the earliest editions of the League Cup Final the common belief at the time was that only the lower League teams seemed ideally suited to this allegedly inferior Cup competition.
In recent years the little tiddlers of Bradford City actually reached Wembley in the League Cup Final before being overwhelmed by Swansea. Still as Chelsea and Arsenal left the pitch last night you began to wonder whether the likes of Norwich, Rochdale, Bradford and Swansea would ever grace the Wembley green acres ever again. Occasionally football has the most unexpected surprise up its sleeve. Maybe one day. We can but hope.
Should Auld Acquaintance be Forgot? It was forever thus for both Arsenal and Chelsea. Hadn't they met before somewhere some time? Their paths have definitely crossed before. You must remember surely. Oh yes! It was last week in a brand New Year crackerjack of a Premier League game at the Emirates Stadium where local differences were settled with an honours even 2-2 draw.
Once again these North and West London rivals were thrown together by a fortunate twist of fate because it seems that both Arsenal and Chelsea get quite a private thrill when they meet each other under any circumstances. But when it comes to Cup competitions of any description both can hardly contain their glee. This was rather like yet another family re-union where two old brothers suddenly meet up at a party and look genuinely happy to see each other. Sometimes there are rifts and rumpuses but last night it was all good natured bonhomie and hearty pats on the back. No problem at all.
At Stamford Bridge two footballing aristocracies shared a very pleasant evening in a West London gathering of the great and good. Here in the very luxurious Chelsea Village and Harbour, both Chelsea and Arsenal swapped familiar stories, shook hands amiably and decided to do it all over again in the second leg at the Emirates without a scratch on each other. There are times when you have to accept the status quo, resign yourself to whatever fate holds and then find the ultimate solution.
In last night's 0-0 draw in the Carabao Cup semi final, Chelsea and Arsenal were engaged in one of the most thought provoking of matches. It was rather like watching two very gifted chess grandmasters staring at the board, trying desperately to anticipate each other's next move and then taking full advantage of that bishop and the queen. It could have been all over had you shifted that castle where it can do maximum damage but then you suddenly discover that your opponent has already thought of that. So you move those pawns out in a kind of pincer attacking formation and before you can bat an eye lid it had to be check mate.
Frustratingly both Arsenal and Chelsea had almost subconsciously resolved before this game that footballing poker had to be the only option. Both teams very rarely showed their hand and this was a match of cat and mouse tactics, secrecy and stealth with nobody giving anything away. It was one of those cagey Cup ties where both sides commit themselves wholeheartedly to blanket defence and no quarter is given.
This was a match of stifling containment where both Arsenal and Chelsea seemed quite content to cancel each other out in the hope that somebody takes the decisive initiative eventually. In fact this match reminded you of those slow, slow, quick quick Olympic cycling races where the riders gently pedal away around the steep banks of a velodrome before sprinting impressively towards the finishing line. But Sir Chris Hoy may have turned his head away from this sluggish spectacle.
In the end both the Blues and Gunners were just grateful to have finished the game in one piece. Arsenal, for their part, were still recovering from that dramatic FA Cup third round exit at the City Ground where Nottingham Forest were, allegedly, given one penalty too many and penalty takers were slipping and sliding before illegally scoring. Arsenal have had a wretched time of it and just when they thought they'd seen the back of their mini crisis Chelsea came along and made things worse.
Admittedly Arsenal did survive last night's footballing assault course and will look forward to the second leg in a couple of weeks time with a fresh focus and a much clearer mind. But at times during the second half Arsenal were clinging on to the hand rails and only just keeping afloat. Whenever Arsenal do hit that rather unsettling bump in the road there always seems to be a safety net. Chelsea though, were in no mood for sympathy and understanding since they too were on the receiving end of a demoralising FA Cup Final defeat by Arsenal last year. A case of what goes around comes around.
Still this was a good natured Carabao Cup first leg and for the regular Stamford Bridge faithful this was as good as it'll probably get. In fact it could have been a whole lot better had Chelsea taken some of the goal scoring chances they'd so meticulously created. In the second half Chelsea moved the ball around with much more speed and accuracy than Arsenal while always keeping an eagle eye out for a quick smash and grab act. Arsenal though, successfully crowded out Chelsea with a red barbed wire and the blue Chelsea cavalry held fire before launching more careful and calculated attacks.
But this was never likely to be a free flowing, high scoring Cup tie and what we had instead was a tug of war contest where both heave and pull at the rope before flopping to the ground in sheer exhaustion. Occasionally during the first half Arsenal gave one or two fleeting reminders of their almost natural short passing game. For the first half hour or so it was like living in some passing paradise, red shirts quickly interacting with each other in the closest proximity. The ball almost seemed to have some electromagnetic force. Arsenal were spinning, rotating and then weighing up their passes knowing full well that the ball would invariably end up at the feet of a red shirt.
At the heart of some of their best movements was Jack Wilshere, now appointed as Arsenal captain for the night and there could have been few more deserving recipients of that honour. Here against Chelsea he floated and hovered around the centre of the pitch, drifting effortlessly through the game as if quite possibly going through the motions at times but nonetheless always available for the vital pass. With what looks like a deceptively low centre of gravity Wilshere always looks in command and is rarely prone to clumsy fallibility.
Last night Wilshere occupied that very deep lying attacking midfield role that he seems to embrace with open arms. Wilshere was studious, always thinking, always aware and sensitive to events around him. His was a beautifully measured approach, a player of wit, touch and vision, a man with, quite possibly, England and a World Cup on his mind but wholly concentrated on the immediate task in hand. You find yourself wondering what exactly might be going through the mind of England manager Gareth Southgate's mind.
For the last couple of years, Wilshere's career has been stalled by long term injuries, a trip to the seaside at Bournemouth and all manner of speculations and private distractions. The moral majority may be still mumbling and muttering their concerns but the fact is that Wilshere may have to be on his best behaviour. You know what those Russians are like. Very strict and disciplined. So Wilshere's nocturnal activities may have to be cut out altogether. Recently though he does seem to have achieved a renewed maturity which does bode well for the trip to Russia during the summer.
Here are though on the domestic front, Wilshere and Granit Xhaka formed a robust midfield alongside Hector Bellerin on the overlap. Arsenal looked well balanced as a team but still seemed slightly groggy and punch drunk after their Forest expedition. Maybe they couldn't find a clearing in between the trees. Still for most of the first half Arsenal, electrified by the young and thrusting Ainsley Maitland Niles on the other flank to Bellerin, began to up the ante with positive runs into the Chelsea half.
Then after the match had progressed deep into the second half it became abundantly clear that Arsenal were under the weather and far from the spritely team who had put five past Everton earlier on in the season, before engaging in fun and games with both Liverpool and Manchester United. The defensive hinges often looked in need of oiling as Arsenal were caught dithering and dawdling in their own penalty area. At times Cech, the Arsenal keeper looked as if he was still playing in his school playground as the ball flew across his penalty area with casual abandon.
By the second half Chelsea became totally dominant and much more assertive than they had been during the first. It was as if Chelsea manager Antonio Conte had given his players a stern lecture such was his team's greater sense of adventure. Conte is a very emotional and passionate man but it is hard to imagine him breaking any crockery in the dressing room. But by the hour Chelsea had changed out of all recognition and the thunder on Conte's face during the first half had now assumed a much sunnier appearance.
Eden Hazard, who is by and far away one of the most attractive looking players in the Premier League, now burst out of his somewhat introverted shell and made the second half his. Picking up the ball in all areas of the pitch Hazard, with that lovely swivel of his hips, cut in from the flanks and then delicately completed a full circle before launching an irresistible surge towards the Arsenal penalty area. On a number of occasions it was almost as if Arsenal were racing to catch an early morning rush hour train. Then the guard on the platform held up the flag and the 7.38 at Euston had disappeared into the distance.
Alongside Hazard was the consistently influential N'Golo Kante, a marvellously effective and intelligent midfield player full of ideas and imagination. Kante was the bricklayer and hod carrier at the same time, breaking up all of Arsenal's pretty decorations in the middle of the pitch and then carrying the ball forward with purpose and conviction. Kante was the creative engine room, pistons pumping, legs charging furiously across Stamford Bridge as if his life depended on it.
With Victor Moses finally emerging in the second half after a flat first. Moses began to run daringly at Mustafi, Holding and Koscielny in Arsenal's now tiring defence. Then Cesc Fabregas, a former Arsenal player, started to spray a pleasant succession of long and sweetly weighted passes behind the Arsenal back four. For Fabregas though the years are now passing and now in his 30s, the football brain may be active and alert but how much longer has the Spanish playmaker got before the body tells him a different story?
Marco Alonso and the Dane Andreas Christensen were always mobile, swift and ever ready to support an attack that were now biting their teeth into this League Cup semi final. OK then it's the Carabao Cup but you wondered what the founder of the competition Alan Hardaker would have thought of his creation in its present incarnation. Both Alonso and Christensen were full time members of the full back union, bustling and hustling for possession, lunging at well timed tackles and repeatedly disrupting a battery of Arsenal counter attacks.
In the end though both teams had more or less worked each other out before the floodlights had come on. Before the game there was a most unusual reception for the players as they stepped out onto the pitch. The said floodlights began to flash and flicker in some very dramatic entrance of the gladiators. By the end of the match Arsenal and Chelsea looked stage struck and then the lights seemed to go off permanently.
With the second leg of this Carabao Cup still to follow, it was time to review our assessments of the League Cup as a viable force for good. To some if not others it still remains way down the pecking order, an insignificant side show with little to recommend it. When Norwich City beat Rochdale in one of the earliest editions of the League Cup Final the common belief at the time was that only the lower League teams seemed ideally suited to this allegedly inferior Cup competition.
In recent years the little tiddlers of Bradford City actually reached Wembley in the League Cup Final before being overwhelmed by Swansea. Still as Chelsea and Arsenal left the pitch last night you began to wonder whether the likes of Norwich, Rochdale, Bradford and Swansea would ever grace the Wembley green acres ever again. Occasionally football has the most unexpected surprise up its sleeve. Maybe one day. We can but hope.
Monday 8 January 2018
The Ashes return Down Under- England wilt in the baking Australian sun.
The Ashes return Down Under- England's cricketers wilt in the baking Australian sun.
So that's it then. English cricket once again crumbled in the hot dust of an Australian heatwave. We've all been here before and none of us are even remotely surprised even though we'd prefer to be surprised for the right reasons. It seems many a moon ago since England were last triumphant on Australian soil so it may be time to return to the drawing board although it may not be the end of the world. Of course England were trampled underfoot, crushed into obscurity and not a little humiliated. Australia simply had England for breakfast, lunch and tea. This did not make for easy viewing and for those with healthy English appetites it was neither palatable nor digestible - maybe almost unacceptable.
This is not to suggest that the hierarchy at Lord's, the home of England cricket, should burn their metaphorical bails nor should English cricket ask itself searching questions about its immediate future. Besides if we wait for long enough England may find that sweet revenge in English shores may provide England with what seems at the moment scant consolation. But the damage has been done and England suffered and sweated heavily, wondering at the sheer futility of their fruitless voyage Down Under.
We've all heard about the traditional excuses but this is not the time for doling out blame or hurling slanderous accusations at the English batting and bowling attack. The class of 2018 though have not lived up to overblown, wildly inflated expectations and for those on the outside it just seems like a meek capitulation and surrender.
In recent years though England- Australia contests on the lush green fields of Lord's, Edgbaston, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford and the Oval, victory for England has almost become second nature. Here, England have won the Ashes almost presumptuously and impeccably, a team of bold and enterprising souls guided by the magnificent exploits of captain Michael Vaughan and charismatic, lightning fast bowler Andrew 'Freddie Flintoff whose high spirited celebrations in 2005 will live on in the memory. But it all seems a long time ago and 13 years later English cricket has been forced back on its haunches and left to lick its bloodied wounds in a cowering corner.
English cricket fell on its rather painful sword, limping and hobbling towards conclusive defeat in the final Test. Australia, for their part. could only bask in the glare of their stupendous first innings total of 649-7 declared, bathing gloriously in their metaphorical deckchairs, slipping on the sunglasses, smearing on the 50 sun factor lotion before delightedly swallowing several cans of Foster's lager and then showing England exactly what they thought of them.
Suddenly my memory took me right back to that golden year of 1970 when as a child you remembered your first English cricketing victory in the sweltering heat of an Australian day. When Ray Illingworth, England's captain, brought back the Ashes back to England, it seemed that nothing could possibly stand in our way, nothing that could ever stop England from achieving the impossible.
The mind lingered fondly on the bright as a button, sharp and decisively destructive bowling of John Snow, swinging the ball all over the place, deceiving the Aussies and creating havoc with the Australian mindset. Snow would gingerly trot in from the longest of all run ups before lengthening his stride, holding onto the ball protectively before hurling his rocket at a flailing, flummoxed green baggy cap.
Then there was Geoff Boycott, the model of patience, care, discretion and discipline. A day in the company of Boycott was rather like watching a potter at their wheel moulding and manipulating a vase or plate. Boycott could always be relied to produce a masterclass and way back in that unforgettable 1970 Ashes victory for England, Boycott was an emperor, a cricketing dignitary and wholly instrumental in the defeat of our fiercely Antipodean rivals.
Now though of course in the infant month of 2018, the highly regarded Mark Stoneman and James Vince have failed their testing examinations. Both Stoneman and Vince are hard, powerful batsmen who are still wet behind the ears. Only time will tell if either or both batsman can step up to the plate and if all goes according to any plans for the future then this may be just the most temporary of setbacks for both men. We all know about the exuberance of youth and this could be the moment to reserve judgment.
But for England captain Joe Root this may not have been in the script because after a vivaciously victorious last summer against South Africa, Root has been severely knocked back on his feet, twiddling his thumbs and unfairly asking himself unnecessary questions to which there can be no answer. Root is an honest to goodness, dedicated to the cause, shrewd professional who will not be scared, nor will he be daunted by any task.
Alistair Cook, once England captain will also indulge in some lengthy soul searching knowing fully well that he can still bat like a dream, still pull, hook and cut with the best of them, still clobber the ball into the pavilion for a mighty four or six, spraying the ball all over a cricketing field with a carefree manner and then snarling back at his critics with a sadistic pleasure. Cook will have his day again and maybe then we'll acclaim this buccaneering Essex hero.
We'll also recognise the emerging class of Johnny Bairstow, the burning, blistering pace of England's devil may care quickies Jimmy Anderson and Stuart Broad, the spinning beauty of Moeen Ali, full of wild variation, cunning flight and bamboozling trickery rather like Ray Illingworth in 1970. We mustn't forget the blossoming talent of Dawid Malan whose century in Perth almost tilted the balance back in England's favour this winter. Malan can certainly hit the ball, scoring both freely and uninhibitedly with a full range of versatile strokes.
So there's no need to panic everybody. Here in deep winter the English bruises may be sore, pride perhaps briefly wounded and morale slightly battered. But fear not it's time to look at the wider picture. The harsh reality is that England have rarely prospered in Australia and besides we'll always have our World Cup Final victory over the Aussies in rugby union's biggest prize of all. We'll always have our Jonny Wilkinson with that lovely winning drop goal and the final kick of the game. So the Aussies should be warned that England are far from beaten and fallen. There will always be an England and all such rousing anthems.
At the moment of course this may not be the most satisfactory of moments for English cricket but if Ray Illingworth can do it and then Mike Gatting during the 1980s, then who knows what may be within the capabilities of the England cricket team now? In England we must keep the faith. We can almost smell the defiance.
So that's it then. English cricket once again crumbled in the hot dust of an Australian heatwave. We've all been here before and none of us are even remotely surprised even though we'd prefer to be surprised for the right reasons. It seems many a moon ago since England were last triumphant on Australian soil so it may be time to return to the drawing board although it may not be the end of the world. Of course England were trampled underfoot, crushed into obscurity and not a little humiliated. Australia simply had England for breakfast, lunch and tea. This did not make for easy viewing and for those with healthy English appetites it was neither palatable nor digestible - maybe almost unacceptable.
This is not to suggest that the hierarchy at Lord's, the home of England cricket, should burn their metaphorical bails nor should English cricket ask itself searching questions about its immediate future. Besides if we wait for long enough England may find that sweet revenge in English shores may provide England with what seems at the moment scant consolation. But the damage has been done and England suffered and sweated heavily, wondering at the sheer futility of their fruitless voyage Down Under.
We've all heard about the traditional excuses but this is not the time for doling out blame or hurling slanderous accusations at the English batting and bowling attack. The class of 2018 though have not lived up to overblown, wildly inflated expectations and for those on the outside it just seems like a meek capitulation and surrender.
In recent years though England- Australia contests on the lush green fields of Lord's, Edgbaston, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford and the Oval, victory for England has almost become second nature. Here, England have won the Ashes almost presumptuously and impeccably, a team of bold and enterprising souls guided by the magnificent exploits of captain Michael Vaughan and charismatic, lightning fast bowler Andrew 'Freddie Flintoff whose high spirited celebrations in 2005 will live on in the memory. But it all seems a long time ago and 13 years later English cricket has been forced back on its haunches and left to lick its bloodied wounds in a cowering corner.
English cricket fell on its rather painful sword, limping and hobbling towards conclusive defeat in the final Test. Australia, for their part. could only bask in the glare of their stupendous first innings total of 649-7 declared, bathing gloriously in their metaphorical deckchairs, slipping on the sunglasses, smearing on the 50 sun factor lotion before delightedly swallowing several cans of Foster's lager and then showing England exactly what they thought of them.
Suddenly my memory took me right back to that golden year of 1970 when as a child you remembered your first English cricketing victory in the sweltering heat of an Australian day. When Ray Illingworth, England's captain, brought back the Ashes back to England, it seemed that nothing could possibly stand in our way, nothing that could ever stop England from achieving the impossible.
The mind lingered fondly on the bright as a button, sharp and decisively destructive bowling of John Snow, swinging the ball all over the place, deceiving the Aussies and creating havoc with the Australian mindset. Snow would gingerly trot in from the longest of all run ups before lengthening his stride, holding onto the ball protectively before hurling his rocket at a flailing, flummoxed green baggy cap.
Then there was Geoff Boycott, the model of patience, care, discretion and discipline. A day in the company of Boycott was rather like watching a potter at their wheel moulding and manipulating a vase or plate. Boycott could always be relied to produce a masterclass and way back in that unforgettable 1970 Ashes victory for England, Boycott was an emperor, a cricketing dignitary and wholly instrumental in the defeat of our fiercely Antipodean rivals.
Now though of course in the infant month of 2018, the highly regarded Mark Stoneman and James Vince have failed their testing examinations. Both Stoneman and Vince are hard, powerful batsmen who are still wet behind the ears. Only time will tell if either or both batsman can step up to the plate and if all goes according to any plans for the future then this may be just the most temporary of setbacks for both men. We all know about the exuberance of youth and this could be the moment to reserve judgment.
But for England captain Joe Root this may not have been in the script because after a vivaciously victorious last summer against South Africa, Root has been severely knocked back on his feet, twiddling his thumbs and unfairly asking himself unnecessary questions to which there can be no answer. Root is an honest to goodness, dedicated to the cause, shrewd professional who will not be scared, nor will he be daunted by any task.
Alistair Cook, once England captain will also indulge in some lengthy soul searching knowing fully well that he can still bat like a dream, still pull, hook and cut with the best of them, still clobber the ball into the pavilion for a mighty four or six, spraying the ball all over a cricketing field with a carefree manner and then snarling back at his critics with a sadistic pleasure. Cook will have his day again and maybe then we'll acclaim this buccaneering Essex hero.
We'll also recognise the emerging class of Johnny Bairstow, the burning, blistering pace of England's devil may care quickies Jimmy Anderson and Stuart Broad, the spinning beauty of Moeen Ali, full of wild variation, cunning flight and bamboozling trickery rather like Ray Illingworth in 1970. We mustn't forget the blossoming talent of Dawid Malan whose century in Perth almost tilted the balance back in England's favour this winter. Malan can certainly hit the ball, scoring both freely and uninhibitedly with a full range of versatile strokes.
So there's no need to panic everybody. Here in deep winter the English bruises may be sore, pride perhaps briefly wounded and morale slightly battered. But fear not it's time to look at the wider picture. The harsh reality is that England have rarely prospered in Australia and besides we'll always have our World Cup Final victory over the Aussies in rugby union's biggest prize of all. We'll always have our Jonny Wilkinson with that lovely winning drop goal and the final kick of the game. So the Aussies should be warned that England are far from beaten and fallen. There will always be an England and all such rousing anthems.
At the moment of course this may not be the most satisfactory of moments for English cricket but if Ray Illingworth can do it and then Mike Gatting during the 1980s, then who knows what may be within the capabilities of the England cricket team now? In England we must keep the faith. We can almost smell the defiance.
Saturday 6 January 2018
The Fab Four- The Beatles.
The Fab Four- The Beatles.
For the Beatles it must have seemed like yesterday which is how it probably felt. Sadly the Fab Four are now just the dynamic duo because the remaining two Beatles are still alive and the story can still be told by the two men who made it possible all those decades go. When Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Ringo Starr were at their height of their fame the world was quite naturally a different place but for those whose memories are of the childhood type, the very legend that was the Beatles can never really be treasured because as a child four young lads from Liverpool forming quite the most astonishing pop band seemed quite simply beyond my understanding.
In last night's excellent documentary - or maybe I should call it a rockumentary- Ron Howard, formerly of the 1970s American TV comedy 'Happy Days', produced a warts and all, powerful account of the Fab Four in all their varying 1960s guises. The Beatles story is now almost as well chronicled as any of the 'Fab Four's contemporaries but none would know quite how wide and far adoration and idolatry would take them.
There were the books, the films, the big concert venues, the small halls, the large halls and then those vast outdoor stadiums where it all went so terribly wrong in the end because the four lads from Liverpool could no longer hack it, no longer able to endure the intolerable pressures that came with their celebrity, the sense that this was no longer the fun it used to be.
There was the incessant travelling, the endless world touring, living with each other, getting on each other's nerves, the gruelling miles on the road, the rows and the arguments, the joky banter and, at first, the essential compatibility. In the end, the programme showed what amounted to that sad farewell, the final outdoor concert on a blustery rooftop in the West End of London where all four Beatles, now considerably wiser and mellower, sent out a stereophonic blast of their old hits across the capital city.
Last night Channel 4 did admirable justice to the life and times of the Beatles on their global journey to the far distant corners. It was a journey preceded by the formative years when John, Paul, Ringo and George would strike up instant friendships, frequently gathering in the intimacy of prodigiously lyrical bedrooms. Then a seed was sown which would bloom into the most brilliant of colours. This then was no rags to riches story, simply a rich tableaux of four boys, their simple pop music ambitions and how their down to earth, unassuming natures would win the hearts of millions of girls across the world.
What we saw last night was the emergence of one of the most famous pop bands of the 1960s, the natural evolution of Beatlemania, the 1950s influences of rock and roll, Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley and the unseen archive footage of a monumentally successful band spreading their rock commentaries, the supremely humorous songs and lyrics, the quirky and the whimsical tunes that none of us could ever get out of our head.
We were now shown some old footage of hastily assembled Press conferences, frantic rushes through heaving airports, the boys waving and grinning at their fans obligingly from the plane steps. We were treated to those first nights at a Blackpool theatre in the early 1960s, to those mammoth tours of firstly Sweden and then the exotic odysseys that took them to Hong Kong and then Australia. It almost seemed like the Beatles early, embryonic years as a group were somehow destined to take them to those far flung corners of the universe.
In often strict chronological order we were given delicious helpings of 'Twist and Shout', 'Please Please Me' and 'I Want to Hold Your Hand, which by the end of the 1960s had almost become as familiar and hummable as the National Anthem' and Land of Hope and Glory. There were frequent interviews with the boys from American journalist Larry Crane followed by the early groundbreaking years at Hamburg and everything that seemed to turn our cultural lives inside out with.
We know by now about the million selling gold and platinum records, the albums and the singles, the unforgettably poetic lyrics, the tunes we could never get enough of. Here we had four well scrubbed, boys next door lads, dressed in the tight, if impeccably grey suited attire of the age, guitars slung playfully around their necks and haircuts that were seemingly revolutionary. Besides, very few social commentators would ever forget those mop top hair styles, the pudding basin haircuts and the kind of sound that reduced millions and millions of girls around the world to hysterical jelly.
Then we saw the Beatles flying off to the United States of America, a country that they somehow knew they would conquer with stylish ease. Their appearance on the iconic Ed Sullivan show introduced the Americans to the kind of music they'd never heard of before. Indeed when Hollywood star Whoopi Goldberg went into raptures about the Fab Four after first setting eyes on them, every TV and radio station across the States would pour huge amounts of money into the promotion and publicity of the group.
Before long, the Beatles had become the hottest of properties. The programme showed John, Paul, Ringo and George singing 'All My Lovin' and 'I Saw Her Standing There' in front of wildly boisterous TV audiences during the 1960s. Now the very essence of this apparently clean cut and respectable pop band from Liverpool had been vividly captured. Hundreds and thousands of young girls would faint and go weak at the knees at the very mention of their name. It was madness, hysteria and fan worship at its most obsessive.
Back in England the Beatles were still packing them into the provincial theatres where the group had first cut its teeth. An appearance at a Blackpool theatre during the mid 1960s sent hundreds of girls into crazy paroxysms of delight. There were screaming fans, girls gasping with wonder, holding their hands in front of their eyes in a kind of hyper ventilating, feverish excitement. It had all become too much by the time the boys paid their last ever visit to the States. The Shea stadium in New York became the right moment to call it a day, that critical, make or break performance that simply deafened them and rendered outdoor concerts singularly pointless.
Then there were the film years when, dipping their toes into the glamorous world of film making, the Beatles began to experiment with new styles of music, new instruments and hugely innovative sounds. It was now though that the world of the movies lured the Fab Four into an entirely different area of their careers. 'A Hard Day's Night' was an insightful and engrossing film which featured both John, Paul, Ringo and George in strange settings and comical moods.
Around them the Beatles were always acutely aware of world events and their music was an accurate reflection of those dramatically changing times. In America Vietnam had sharply reminded an alarmed American public that their country had been caught up in a war that seemed to get progressively more tragic and fatal as the weeks, months and years passed. But now was the time for both America and the rest of the world to unite and America became a symbol of that sense of solidarity.
The Beatles were now caught up in the dreadfully divisive Civil Rights Movement when thousands took to the streets raging at racism, prejudice and segregation, furious at the upheaval that had shaken America to the core. Then small groups of angry religious movements began to make a noise and, stunningly, turned violently against the English pop group they thought they could both trust and idolise. Almost overnight all Beatles records were burnt and protesters with placards voiced their raw hatred against the band.
After similar uprisings in Japan and the controversial fall out from street riots in America, the Beatles now seemed to stand alone while all around them seemed to be falling apart. The completion of 'Help' their next film in 1965, looked as if it had salvaged their image. 'Help', was quite obviously a cry from the heart, a bittersweet proclamation that suggested that the group had had enough. All of those thousands of hours spent in the privacy of Abbey Road, re-winding reel to reel tape recorders, George Martin carefully and caringly guiding the Beatles to the very peak of their powers and the masterpieces that 'were Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band', 'A Hard Day's Night' and many more. It would become overwhelming and eventually break them.
There were various contributions from those in Hollywood who had probably had never known anything quite like this. The Beatles were compared to Mozart in terms of sheer prolific output. By now the 1960s had begun to draw to a close, Paul McCartney had grown the thickest of beards, John Lennon had begun to lose interest in everything and everybody around him, George looked as if he really couldn't be bothered and Ringo was quite content to clown around in Press conferences with a blissful disregard of Britain, America, Hong Kong and every country on the map. Now it was time to wind things down, time for the Beatles to go their separate ways and the world to spin on its axis.
When the lights had gone out at the Shea stadium and the ear-splitting noise from Beatles fans slowly faded into a heady, heated New York night, Paul, John, George and Ringo sensibly retired from centre stage. A food wagon showed the Fab Four being gratefully ferried into the peaceful haven of their dressing rooms. This was the defining end of an era.Time to go back to home to their roots at Liverpool, to those happy, carefree days when John and Paul would endlessly lark around with speakers and guitars, tuning the guitars, relieved to know that history had been made.
Ron Howard's many layered and thought provoking Channel 4 production, had opened up hitherto hidden corners of the Beatles as you may never have seen them before. These were the touring years, the years of twisting and shouting, shaking cropped hair vigorously and meaningfully, screwing up their faces with meaningful intent and just enjoying life because if you didn't enjoy your lives during the 1960's you may have been in the minority. During the 1960s you jumped up and down enthusiastically with your guitars and flirted with a million cameras.
Even now just a verse from 'Yesterday' , Help, 'Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band', 'Hey Jude and most underratedly, the epic 'A Day in the Life' still send abundant shivers down the spine. They were the most beautifully and perfectly written song lyrics and to this day it is easy to believe that in any town and city, market town and village of New York, Sydney, Hong Kong and of course Britain, a vinyl paradise is selling a huge stock of Beatles memorabalia. They are celebrating a generation, a decade of inspirational lyrics, a treasure chest of images, characters and musical grace notes that should never ever be consigned to the dustbin of history. If you missed 'The Beatles' Eight Days A Week' the Unseen Concerts' I would heartily recommend it. Check it out.
For the Beatles it must have seemed like yesterday which is how it probably felt. Sadly the Fab Four are now just the dynamic duo because the remaining two Beatles are still alive and the story can still be told by the two men who made it possible all those decades go. When Sir Paul McCartney and Sir Ringo Starr were at their height of their fame the world was quite naturally a different place but for those whose memories are of the childhood type, the very legend that was the Beatles can never really be treasured because as a child four young lads from Liverpool forming quite the most astonishing pop band seemed quite simply beyond my understanding.
In last night's excellent documentary - or maybe I should call it a rockumentary- Ron Howard, formerly of the 1970s American TV comedy 'Happy Days', produced a warts and all, powerful account of the Fab Four in all their varying 1960s guises. The Beatles story is now almost as well chronicled as any of the 'Fab Four's contemporaries but none would know quite how wide and far adoration and idolatry would take them.
There were the books, the films, the big concert venues, the small halls, the large halls and then those vast outdoor stadiums where it all went so terribly wrong in the end because the four lads from Liverpool could no longer hack it, no longer able to endure the intolerable pressures that came with their celebrity, the sense that this was no longer the fun it used to be.
There was the incessant travelling, the endless world touring, living with each other, getting on each other's nerves, the gruelling miles on the road, the rows and the arguments, the joky banter and, at first, the essential compatibility. In the end, the programme showed what amounted to that sad farewell, the final outdoor concert on a blustery rooftop in the West End of London where all four Beatles, now considerably wiser and mellower, sent out a stereophonic blast of their old hits across the capital city.
Last night Channel 4 did admirable justice to the life and times of the Beatles on their global journey to the far distant corners. It was a journey preceded by the formative years when John, Paul, Ringo and George would strike up instant friendships, frequently gathering in the intimacy of prodigiously lyrical bedrooms. Then a seed was sown which would bloom into the most brilliant of colours. This then was no rags to riches story, simply a rich tableaux of four boys, their simple pop music ambitions and how their down to earth, unassuming natures would win the hearts of millions of girls across the world.
What we saw last night was the emergence of one of the most famous pop bands of the 1960s, the natural evolution of Beatlemania, the 1950s influences of rock and roll, Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley and the unseen archive footage of a monumentally successful band spreading their rock commentaries, the supremely humorous songs and lyrics, the quirky and the whimsical tunes that none of us could ever get out of our head.
We were now shown some old footage of hastily assembled Press conferences, frantic rushes through heaving airports, the boys waving and grinning at their fans obligingly from the plane steps. We were treated to those first nights at a Blackpool theatre in the early 1960s, to those mammoth tours of firstly Sweden and then the exotic odysseys that took them to Hong Kong and then Australia. It almost seemed like the Beatles early, embryonic years as a group were somehow destined to take them to those far flung corners of the universe.
In often strict chronological order we were given delicious helpings of 'Twist and Shout', 'Please Please Me' and 'I Want to Hold Your Hand, which by the end of the 1960s had almost become as familiar and hummable as the National Anthem' and Land of Hope and Glory. There were frequent interviews with the boys from American journalist Larry Crane followed by the early groundbreaking years at Hamburg and everything that seemed to turn our cultural lives inside out with.
We know by now about the million selling gold and platinum records, the albums and the singles, the unforgettably poetic lyrics, the tunes we could never get enough of. Here we had four well scrubbed, boys next door lads, dressed in the tight, if impeccably grey suited attire of the age, guitars slung playfully around their necks and haircuts that were seemingly revolutionary. Besides, very few social commentators would ever forget those mop top hair styles, the pudding basin haircuts and the kind of sound that reduced millions and millions of girls around the world to hysterical jelly.
Then we saw the Beatles flying off to the United States of America, a country that they somehow knew they would conquer with stylish ease. Their appearance on the iconic Ed Sullivan show introduced the Americans to the kind of music they'd never heard of before. Indeed when Hollywood star Whoopi Goldberg went into raptures about the Fab Four after first setting eyes on them, every TV and radio station across the States would pour huge amounts of money into the promotion and publicity of the group.
Before long, the Beatles had become the hottest of properties. The programme showed John, Paul, Ringo and George singing 'All My Lovin' and 'I Saw Her Standing There' in front of wildly boisterous TV audiences during the 1960s. Now the very essence of this apparently clean cut and respectable pop band from Liverpool had been vividly captured. Hundreds and thousands of young girls would faint and go weak at the knees at the very mention of their name. It was madness, hysteria and fan worship at its most obsessive.
Back in England the Beatles were still packing them into the provincial theatres where the group had first cut its teeth. An appearance at a Blackpool theatre during the mid 1960s sent hundreds of girls into crazy paroxysms of delight. There were screaming fans, girls gasping with wonder, holding their hands in front of their eyes in a kind of hyper ventilating, feverish excitement. It had all become too much by the time the boys paid their last ever visit to the States. The Shea stadium in New York became the right moment to call it a day, that critical, make or break performance that simply deafened them and rendered outdoor concerts singularly pointless.
Then there were the film years when, dipping their toes into the glamorous world of film making, the Beatles began to experiment with new styles of music, new instruments and hugely innovative sounds. It was now though that the world of the movies lured the Fab Four into an entirely different area of their careers. 'A Hard Day's Night' was an insightful and engrossing film which featured both John, Paul, Ringo and George in strange settings and comical moods.
Around them the Beatles were always acutely aware of world events and their music was an accurate reflection of those dramatically changing times. In America Vietnam had sharply reminded an alarmed American public that their country had been caught up in a war that seemed to get progressively more tragic and fatal as the weeks, months and years passed. But now was the time for both America and the rest of the world to unite and America became a symbol of that sense of solidarity.
The Beatles were now caught up in the dreadfully divisive Civil Rights Movement when thousands took to the streets raging at racism, prejudice and segregation, furious at the upheaval that had shaken America to the core. Then small groups of angry religious movements began to make a noise and, stunningly, turned violently against the English pop group they thought they could both trust and idolise. Almost overnight all Beatles records were burnt and protesters with placards voiced their raw hatred against the band.
After similar uprisings in Japan and the controversial fall out from street riots in America, the Beatles now seemed to stand alone while all around them seemed to be falling apart. The completion of 'Help' their next film in 1965, looked as if it had salvaged their image. 'Help', was quite obviously a cry from the heart, a bittersweet proclamation that suggested that the group had had enough. All of those thousands of hours spent in the privacy of Abbey Road, re-winding reel to reel tape recorders, George Martin carefully and caringly guiding the Beatles to the very peak of their powers and the masterpieces that 'were Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band', 'A Hard Day's Night' and many more. It would become overwhelming and eventually break them.
There were various contributions from those in Hollywood who had probably had never known anything quite like this. The Beatles were compared to Mozart in terms of sheer prolific output. By now the 1960s had begun to draw to a close, Paul McCartney had grown the thickest of beards, John Lennon had begun to lose interest in everything and everybody around him, George looked as if he really couldn't be bothered and Ringo was quite content to clown around in Press conferences with a blissful disregard of Britain, America, Hong Kong and every country on the map. Now it was time to wind things down, time for the Beatles to go their separate ways and the world to spin on its axis.
When the lights had gone out at the Shea stadium and the ear-splitting noise from Beatles fans slowly faded into a heady, heated New York night, Paul, John, George and Ringo sensibly retired from centre stage. A food wagon showed the Fab Four being gratefully ferried into the peaceful haven of their dressing rooms. This was the defining end of an era.Time to go back to home to their roots at Liverpool, to those happy, carefree days when John and Paul would endlessly lark around with speakers and guitars, tuning the guitars, relieved to know that history had been made.
Ron Howard's many layered and thought provoking Channel 4 production, had opened up hitherto hidden corners of the Beatles as you may never have seen them before. These were the touring years, the years of twisting and shouting, shaking cropped hair vigorously and meaningfully, screwing up their faces with meaningful intent and just enjoying life because if you didn't enjoy your lives during the 1960's you may have been in the minority. During the 1960s you jumped up and down enthusiastically with your guitars and flirted with a million cameras.
Even now just a verse from 'Yesterday' , Help, 'Sergeant Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band', 'Hey Jude and most underratedly, the epic 'A Day in the Life' still send abundant shivers down the spine. They were the most beautifully and perfectly written song lyrics and to this day it is easy to believe that in any town and city, market town and village of New York, Sydney, Hong Kong and of course Britain, a vinyl paradise is selling a huge stock of Beatles memorabalia. They are celebrating a generation, a decade of inspirational lyrics, a treasure chest of images, characters and musical grace notes that should never ever be consigned to the dustbin of history. If you missed 'The Beatles' Eight Days A Week' the Unseen Concerts' I would heartily recommend it. Check it out.
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