Yours truly on Twitter- @joemorris2018 - and No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics my three books

Yours truly on Twitter- @joemorris2018 - and No Joe Bloggs, Joe's Jolly Japes and Victorian Madness Lyrics, my three books.

By now the whole world has embraced the very essence of the social media phenomenon with enormous enthusiasm and the technology is expanding by the day, minute, nanosecond, week, month and year. In fact the pace of change is leaving some of us breathless and gasping for breath. At some point we may have to implore those in cyberspace to slow down because this communication business, although very heartening to watch, can leave you cross eyed, lost for words and unable to find our way through the maze of buzzwords, the complex language and the local vernacular.

Most of us are aware of a certain American president by the name of Donald Trump. We also know that he has rather a soft spot for that social media outlet whose name has almost become this generation's national anthem. Trump hits Twitter sounds like the most sensational tabloid newspaper headline but just over a year into his presidency the Don himself has almost taken over Twitter lock, stock and barrel. The man, you feel sure, has sizeable shares in the company and eventually world domination one day will be his.

But now move aside Mr Trump because I've just re-opened a new Twitter account and I'm looking for my very own set of followers and tweeters. Twitter is so fashionable and de rigeur that I may have to invest in a Tablet, I-Pad, my individual website and then a place as chairman of the board at Microsoft, Yahoo or Google. It certainly doesn't hurt to have ambition although the aforementioned companies may be beyond any realistic reach of mine.

Still I'm proud to tell you that I'm back on Twitter with my account, my blog and book promotions and a willingness to do everything possible to tell you about both my books and blog. So here we go. I'm at @joemorris2018 and if you fancy a fun, tongue in cheek and I think humorous read about everything and everything then that's my Twitter feed and I hope you'll have a laugh or two.

I should point out that I've been writing on my blog since last October and have had a ball. It's been a blast, genuinely enjoyable and the best fun you could possibly have in writing. This is me writing conversationally, uninhibitedly and freely. This is not to say that I've felt under any pressure at all when it comes to writing but I've now discovered the sweet joys of writing straight from the heart.

There are no deadlines, constraints and I feel that my voice inside has now been allowed the full rein of expression. So if you'd like to read about my very personal and social observations, my reactions to the latest news and my favourite pastime known as sport then this is the blog for you. For years I didn't think it would ever be possible to find this platform for something I could only have dreamt about 30 or 35 years ago. But the waiting is now officially over.

Social technology and the tools that have become immediately available thanks to the guys and girls at both Facebook and Twitter have brought my dream to fruition. No longer have I been consigned to the obscure margins, reduced to pen and pencil, A4 paper or an exercise book. This was time consuming, boring and laborious and I don't think I ever want to see these now ancient pieces of equipment ever again.

So there you have it folks. I'm a full time member of that remarkably popular social media community, where everybody tweets you, retweets you and then a thousand birds surround you on the first day of spring. If only those magpies, robins and chaffinches knew what the human race was up to it may be safe to assume that they may kick up one heck of a fuss. How dare those humans trivialise our every sound with such shameless mockery.

For me Facebook has now become a way of life and an easy vehicle for my self promotion. I've now been associated with Facebook for well over 10 years now and although as not quite as emotionally engaged as I used to be, I do confess that Facebook has given me the chance to catch up with old friends, family and a whole new collection of authors from every part of the globe.

Now though a new friend has made its presence felt and although still ever so slightly muddled by the minefield of new followers and people following you on Twitter, I now have to declare a passionate interest in how it all works. I'd still like to know how I should find these elusive Twitter followers although so far eight people have kindly responded to my friendly requests.

Still for those of you who are still unfamiliar with my literary offerings then this is the time to give you another reminder of my three favourite books - apart from the esteemed likes of Thomas Hardy and Charles Dickens. These were the consuming labours of love that opened up a whole new world  to me. They were the result of two and half years of meticulous memory digging, reminiscences on my childhood, teenage years and painful adolescence.

No Joe Bloggs is my memoir, an affectionate account of my family, parents, grandparents, vividly descriptive accounts of London, the West End that my late and wonderful dad loved to be a part of and growing up in Ilford, Essex where it all began. No Joe Bloggs is, I think, my funny, moving, nostalgic and lyrical life story, a story about a very ordinary boy who struggled to overcome the obstacles of shyness and immaturity and then triumphed magnificently.

It is a book essentially about my favourite things, my favourite movies, showbiz celebrities from the late 1960s and 70s, music from those glamorous eras, TV comedians, singers, pop stars, programmes, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s and football. There are I believe some extremely original pen portraits about football teams from the 1970s such as Arsenal, Spurs, Ipswich Town, Wolves, Manchester United and City, Everton and Aston Villa and Chelsea.

I describe those culturally defining and earth stopping moments that defined my childhood, the shocking news events, the tumultuous turning points and the people who made it all happen. There is I think a very poignant description of  my grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, a fictitious but amusing story about my dad's journey to Las Vegas with his lifetime showbiz heroes Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra and Sammy Davis Junior and his imaginary games of pool with these giants of showbiz.

But No Joe Bloggs is all about nostalgia, fond recollections of childhood and riding on our bikes on the back roads of my Ilford childhood. It is about my lifelong love of grammar, words and recounting very precious memories of being a child and what it meant to be a child.

No Joe Bloggs is still available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online and I think is a snap, crackle and pop of a book, a good, old fashioned page turner, a singing, dancing, happy go lucky, rib tickling, rip roaring read. I feel sure that it will bring a smile to your face and provoke a giggle or chuckle.

My latest book Joe's Jolly Japes is also at Amazon, Waterstones online market place and Books-A-Million online. Joe's Jolly Japes is my personal take on the England football team and its World Cup trials and tribulations, the victories and defeats, the triumphs and the disasters, the players and managers.

I move onto that timelessly controversial subject known as the English middle classes, England, those national treasures such as the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta and Polo on the playing fields of England. I talk about my favourite department stores and shops in the West End of London, those charming British seaside resorts and more about Ilford where the junior years of my life took shape. Joe's Jolly Japes is a jolly, jumping, jiving, feel good book that will admittedly tell you about the things you already know but this time from my perspective and I'd like to think that it's an amusing perspective.

Finally, you may want to read my first book. Now I know I've completed this blog in reverse because my first book was by far the craziest and zaniest literary journey I'd embarked on. It was a book about the use of language, the entertainment you can have with words and grammar while always trying hard to keep a straight face.

My first book Victorian Madness Lyrics was my first foray into the world of book publication. It is an affectionate homage to the North London ska band Madness whose career has gloriously spanned the decades. It is what I believe to be the most incredible literary voyage, a spectacular festival of words, mad and ridiculous, a book of posh similes and metaphors, a bonkers book with my originally unique take on most of Madness's back catalogue with funny expressions and over the top phraseology. This was my first attempt at writing and was therefore an experiment but I think you'll like Victorian Madness Lyrics. If it's coffee table reading you're looking for then Victorian Madness Lyrics is definitely the book for you.

Victorian Madness Lyrics is available at FeedaRead.com

So there you are everybody. Another brief journey around my very personal book world, a world of curiosity, keen social observation and a voyage of discovery about not only me but the rest of the world through my eyes. Oh and before I forget. I'm back on Twitter and my feed is @joemorris2018. Oh for the diverse wonders of social media. It's time to look to the future while enjoying the present.   

Manchester City win the Carabao Cup, the League Cup.

Manchester City win the Carabao Cup, the League Cup.

At times it was almost as if  Arsenal had just dropped onto the set of Hancock's Half Hour. Oh glumness and despondency, possibly the end of the world! Poor Arsene Wenger looked as if he'd just given too many pints of blood and had just bumped into Sid James while walking along the Wembley corridors. Everything seemed so miserable and apocalyptic that not even June Whitfield or Patrick Cargill would have been able to offer a sympathetic shoulder to cry on.

By the end of this remarkably one sided Carabao Cup Final (or League Cup Final for the traditionalists) Arsenal looked so badly beaten that you almost felt that the whole game had begun to drift into a sideshow of total irrelevance. Manchester City had not only punched them into submission but had also left sore and festering wounds to an already troubled season. When the teams re-assemble for the Premier League match at the Emirates on Thursday Arsenal will find themselves looking at a broken mirror.

And yet at heart Arsenal are still capable of playing the kind of football that the classical purists would still claim to be the finest and most pleasurable to watch. After over 20 years at the club Arsene Wenger has set down some of the most honourable  of attacking principles ever seen in English football. Arsenal, until quite recently, have delivered some of the most forward thinking and handsomely constructed football in the Premier League, a combination of subtlety, cleverness, intelligence and footballing intellect that has left most of their fans begging for more.

On their day Arsenal have been models of refinement, clear minded and innovative thinking and refreshingly precise in their passing. Not for nothing have they won the FA Cup on several occasions in recent years with something to spare but they've also imposed their natural passing game so powerfully that some of their defeated opponents have been rubbing their eyes with utter disbelief.

But yesterday at Wembley Arsenal once again found the old League Cup something of an ongoing problem, an Achilles heel that seems to get worse with every appearance in a Wembley Final. Just over 10 years Birmingham City disrupted the Gunners golden halo of success in the League Cup Final. In 1987 George Graham's Arsenal eventually overcame Liverpool while a year later Luton Town had flummoxed everybody including Arsenal with a 3-2 victory at the old Wembley.

A couple of years ago their old nemesis Chelsea beat Arsenal in this same competition so there was a widespread belief that yesterday would finally bring their League Cup woes to a grateful end. Sadly though Manchester City were their opponents on the last Sunday afternoon of February and we all know what that means. So far City have been unplayable, unstoppable, imperious and imperial. In fact most adjectives have been rendered utterly redundant. City are a force of nature and, at the moment at least, appear to be running away with the Premier League with some of the most beautifully becoming football seen in the Premier League.

City, under the wonderfully inspirational Pep Guardiola, are so far ahead of the rest of the teams behind them that search parties may be required at some point. They have left a visible cloud of dust in their wake and eventually and mercifully those chasing them will just bow to their superior knowledge. It is hard to imagine how anybody can even mathematically catch them at the moment although realistically the fight is over, the towels have been thrown into the ring and Manchester City are, more or less, Premier League champions elect.

Yesterday Manchester City bore a vague resemblance to Guardiola's Barcelona with their rich range of quick witted and impulsive passing at close quarters, the ball quickly whizzing between light blue shirted feet with a startling ease and fluency. It seemed at times that the City players had some hidden magnet in their boots that connected instantly, an electrifying sight at times and somehow miraculous at others.

But City, after one or two wobbles recently with FA Cup defeat at Wigan and Premier League defeat at Liverpool perhaps subconsciously preying at the back of their minds, were slow starters. The ball admittedly flowed across the ground when City had possession but, occasionally, there has been an alarming raggedness and complacency to City that may have alerted their neighbours United at Old Trafford, not a million miles behind them in the Premier League title chase.

In the first half at Wembley City stepped out onto the famous Wembley turf rather like those snobbish landowners who rightly believe that nobody should ever encroach on their precious territory. Defeat should be unthinkable and City adopted an air of self righteousness that Arsenal were determined to take advantage of. This was no occasion though for the delusional to assume airs and graces. How dare Arsenal even think of stealing City's thunder. It would be most unseemly and unheard of.

So it was that after a jittery and uncertain start from City and an Arsenal side almost hell bent on grafting their passing game onto the game, City rolled up their sleeves, worked the ball with an enviable simplicity and just tinkered with the ball like a laboratory of scientists experimenting with different chemicals. By the end of the first half Arsenal knew neither to stick or twist.

City though, after a brief passage of moderately impressive one touch football struck the first blow. This time though their opening goal was uncharacteristically direct and most unlike City. A long goal kick straight down the pitch bounced deceptively in front of bemused Arsenal defender Shkodran Mustafi and the German seemed to lose his sense of direction, allowing City's lethal striker Sergio Aguero a straight path. Aguero gleefully lobbed the ball over grasping Arsenal keeper David Ospina.

For the rest of the half Arsenal struggled haplessly, pressed back into their own half and to all intents and purposes  a side with neither shape, method or pattern. City reminded you of those rural dogs who spend most of their lives endlessly chasing a herd of sheep back into their pens. City had trapped their prey, surrounding Arsenal at every turn, hassling and hurrying the Londoners with a marvellous persistence and tenacity.

Yesterday City had the impeccably evergreen Vincent Kompany patrolling at the heart of a City defence like a nightwatchman or security guard, ever watchful, vigilant and completely self assured at all times. Kompany has been one of the most reliably consistent of City captains in recent seasons and one defensive challenge in particular robbing Arsenal of a potential goal, had to be seen to be believed.

Then Nicolas Otamendi began to surge into Arsenal's half, pestering, badgering, forcing the issue for City and marvellously adventurous. Kyle Walker, who Spurs may have cause to regret missing, had one of those typically heroic and imaginative games overlapping on the flanks that the watching England manager Gareth Southgate may have to cause to take private notes on.

It was now that City began to look their usual faultless and assertive selves. City's football is both calming and soothing to the soul at times and in the second half, they almost blinded Arsenal with their very own brand of science. Ilkay Gundogan looked more and more of a free spirit and this spirit of liberation made his assignment on the day look much less taxing than it could have been.

Now Leroy Sane emerged as one of the most authoritative looking of players on the day. Sane is a very learned and knowledgeable footballer who floats across the pitch like some like a holiday cruise ship. The German never looks flustered and is forever weaving in and out of defenders like a playful spider spinning its web. He dribbles with the ball with both assurance and a sense of insurance that the ball will never be given away lightly.

With David Silva playing with that ever present air of a lightning conductor, buzzing and scheming around red shirts as if he'd always done it like this, City fluttered around and flirted with Arsenal as if genuinely enjoying themselves. Fernandinho provided that customary Brazilian blend that is slowly making a noticeable difference to the national team once again and Sergio Aguero once again gave the entire Arsenal defence the most tiring of run arounds.

The second half was growing older and more frustrating for Arsenal. Then from a low corner on City's right, the ball was driven firmly across the Arsenal penalty area where, after a blur of bodies had left everybody slightly perplexed, the ball fell to Vincent Kompany who stuck out a foot and diverted the ball into the Arsenal net for a vital second goal for City.

It was at this point that large sections of red began to desert their team. The Arsenal fans, almost stunned at their team's increasing discomfort on the ball, now left Wembley in their thousands. Arsenal looked as though they had been strangled by a bizarre inferiority complex. This was not a day for Arsenal will look back on with any kind of pleasure and their season is gradually lapsing into a state of total indifference to everything around them.

Jack Wilshere, combining with Aaron Ramsey and Granit Xhaka are still players of influence and stature, players of genuine awareness, excellent positional play and positive attacking instincts. Wilshere is one of the country's most instinctive touch players, driving forward at every opportunity and making things happen that lesser midfield players may not have thought of. Xhaka though is no Patrick Vieira and his temper may leave some Arsenal supporters fuming with fury. Critics of Viera though will insist that the Frenchman was no angel even at the best of times.

For Arsenal though City's third and almost insulting goal was by now no more than a formality. Once again David Silva had discovered wide open spaces in front of him and the Spanish playmaker powered forward at the now peeling skin of Arsenal's now back pedalling defence. Silva moved swiftly behind the Arsenal back line and steered the ball perfectly across the line of Arsenal keeper David Ospina with a shot that flew past the Spanish keeper.

And so it was that Arsenal looked as if they could hardly wait for the referee to blow the final whistle. Their only light at the end of a very long dark tunnel looks to be a victory in the Europa League Final provided they do get to the Final. Arsenal, of course are still one of the most original and eye catching of all Premier League teams but at the moment it all looks as if their world has collapsed around them. Still revenge can still be found in their Premier League match on Thursday and Arsenal fans, for a minute or so of reflection, that may never be sweeter. 

The Old Grey Whistle Test- a late night BBC classic.

The Old Grey Whistle Test - a late night BBC classic.

For those of us with a passion for soul music and the legend of Motown this shouldn't have been my cup of tea, coffee, latte or cappuccino. But last night BBC Four excelled itself, pushing the boat right out of the harbour and into the most vintage of amber sunsets. During all of the 1970s and the early part of the 1980s it was cutting edge TV that literally heaved back all of the rock music boundaries and left late night, sleepy BBC 2 viewers hooked and transfixed for ever more.

 It was a night devoted to music, nostalgia, official hippiedom, right on classic vinyl album rockers and those aficionados in the music industry who remember the 1970s as that simply golden, long bearded age of classical rock, outrageous hairstyles, wonderful fashion statements and a whole litany of barking mad eccentricities. But how we loved them and we wouldn't have had it any other way.

Last night BBC Four paid a special tribute to the Old Grey Whistle Test, one of the most enthralling and exhilarating music programmes ever to appear on that gold fish bowl in the corner of your living room. Once again it has to be emphasised that for those of us of an easy listening disposition more Stevie Wonder than Stevie Winwood this was something of a culturally offensive shock to the system. But it still remains one of the most iconic of all TV programmes, whose value can never be questioned.

I have to confess here and now that although aware of the Old Grey Whistle Test the programme didn't really preoccupy my burgeoning teenage mind. Not for me those loud, deafening, riotously raucous rock bands who seemed to turn the volume up to such an intense pitch that it was a wonder that my hearing wasn't permanently and severely affected in later life.

But the advancing years have now mellowed me immensely and having watched last night's wonderful confection of legendary singers, bands, accomplished songwriters, lyricists and music makers the Old Grey Whistle Test briefly, for one night only reminded you that it wasn't so bad at all, that those screeching guitarists with enormous speakers had an underlying message.

Introduced by that wonderfully soothing voiced, smooth as silk music lover 'Whistling Bob Harris', now at that velvety veteran stage of his career, the Old Grey Whistle Test took us on a gentle river boat ride through the 1970s, with frequent emphasis on those who made their first appearance on the programme only to find that it had become a glorious launching pad for a glitteringly illustrious career, a time of big concert venues and stadiums that would become their second home.

First on last night was the very feminine and angelically ethereal Kiki Dee, whose famous collaboration with Elton John in the 1970s hit single 'Don't Go Breaking My Heart' somehow endeared her to us more than ever before. For those of us who remember 'I've Got The Music in Me' Kiki Dee's voice had an instantly recognisable uplifting lilt that somehow that epitomised the earthy, gutsy sound of the early 1970s. Dee told us all about her Northern Soul roots and then played her latest number. She then took us back to 1973 with the exquisite 'Amoureuse', a beautifully poetic piece of story telling, richly descriptive and affectionately delivered.

Then Bob Harris reeled off a whole artistic gallery of the great and good, the sublime and the ridiculous, the creators of stunning prose, verse, stanza and vocal cadences that must have been deeply moving to those of a sensitive ear. They came and went from the one off 1970s sofa studio like honoured visitors to a very special party. They spoke fondly of those moments from way back when, the endless days spent in smoky 1960s West End clubs, the pubs where the foundations of their career were first laid, those first precious record labels and studios where the first sounds were conceived and executed, tuned and tweaked.

There was Peter Frampton, whose 1970s middle of the road rock classic 'I Want You To Show Me the Way' elevated the genre to new and unexplored heights. Frampton, last night, treated us to a pretty ditty called 'I Saved a Bird' which must have come as welcome news to all ornithologists. 'Baby I Love Your Way' was a sentimental throwback to his first love and courtship days.

Then Harris, our master of ceremonies, dug into the historic vaults of the 'Old Grey Whistle Test'. There were the glowingly warm reminiscences of the greats, the stars with genuine quality and those who may have been just passing by an old BBC TV studio lift shaft and found that here was a perfect canvas for their artwork.

There was the unforgettably brilliant and enduringly cool David Bowie, Elton John in his prodigiously creative songwriting pomp, all splendid shoulder pads and hilarious glasses. There was Meat Loaf, an all conquering, energetic American rock band who were somehow ideally suited for the Old Grey Whistle Test and led by a highly amusing lead singer who never seemed to take life seriously at any point of his life. Then there seemed the highly improbable appearance of Billy Joel whose brief snatch of 'She's Only a Woman' back in the 1980s broke new ground for the Whistle Test.

Then Bob Harris set us an online competition to the viewers. The winner was the superbly inimitable Bob Marley and the Wailers with their first appearance on the show and 'Stir it Up', a forerunner for the more celebrated and mainstream hits such 'No Woman No Cry' and the constantly infectious reggae rhythms of 'We're Jammin'. Tragically Marley's life would be cut short and we would never  again be the privileged listeners to his unique voice.

There was another whistle stop through the multi layered careers of the songbirds, the rousing rebels, the microphone grabbers and the blatant exhibitionists. There was Alice Cooper, that war painted, wild haired demonstration of rock rebellion, an incredibly gifted performance artist and a right show off. Some of us knew where Cooper was coming from but didn't quite know where he'd end up. He was one of those stomping, strutting stage rockers who simply didn't care about the consequences of his actions.

On a more sedate level. Bob Harris introduced us to the one and only Joan Armatrading, a British chanteuse still going strong and still making an impact to this day. Back in the 1970s a little known black singer from Birmingham stirred the nation with a series of hits that had studied sophistication written straight through them.

Armatrading's deep but smouldering soul voice had a style and resonance that would keep the British pop charts in a buoyant state of health. Her voice still has that smooth eloquence that would light up any late night jazz club. 'Love and Affection', a massive hit everywhere, remains a timeless masterpiece. Armatrading still has a laid back class about her that has taken her right up to the present day.

When Radio 1 legend Annie Nightingale told us very powerfully about the unspeakably untimely death of the great John Lennon and her rib ticklingly, funny appearances on the Old Grey Whistle Test we somehow knew that here was a programme that was almost too understated and modest for its own good.

Broadcaster Danny Baker went into rich chapter and verse about his first encounters with this trailblazing TV music programme and a format that was never less than simple and very distinctive. Baker pointed out quite accurately that the Old Grey Whistle Test was one of those programmes that was so tucked away in the late night TV schedules that very few people were aware of its existence. Baker said that it was one of those obscure nuggets of gold that suddenly ingratiated itself into the public's mind and never went away. It was rather like a charming clock on your mantelpiece that always told the right time.

One of the programme's few regrets was that the Beatles or the Rolling Stones could ever be enticed onto the show for reasons that might have become apparent given the worldwide fame and celebrity that both bands had experienced years before the Old Grey Whistle Test. There was an interview with Ian Anderson who fronted Jethro Tull, a band who seemed to be  radical pioneers to their fingertips at the time, Gary Numan, another electro pop extrovert and Toyah Wilcox whose extravagant, spiky hair and clothes had a 1980s electricity that couldn't be resisted.

So there you are ladies and gentlemen. A BBC Four one off tribute to the unforgettable Old Grey Whistle Test. To rock connoisseurs it was rather like a late night cup of coffee or a glass of brandy before lights out. Around Britain and the world there are still avid album collectors for whom the act of flicking through racks of carefully arranged LPs remains the guilty pleasure it's always been. Whistling Bob Harris was somehow appropriately made for the Old Grey Whistle Test. Arise Sir Bob. It sounds so right.

Winter Olympics Gold joy and heartbreak fall

 Winter Olympics Gold joy and heartbreak fall.

These Winter Olympics in South Korea are beginning to work their magic on me. For those of us who were never quite sure what to make of snowboarding and curling I think I've been fully converted. There is a lot to be said for somersaulting in the air, back flipping, soaring into the air like the proverbial eagle and then reaching the most seemingly impossible heights before tumbling down back onto the snow with complete sure footedness without a hair out of place.

But for two of our golden Olympic heroines there were vastly contrasting emotions. You know what it's like. You wake up one day and you know how things are going to work out for you. You look out of your snow caked chalet, looking at those vast acres of snow, huge white glaciers, mountain ranges that look remarkably like a birthday cake and trees dripping with yet more combinations of ice and snow.

For Lizzy Yarnold and Elise Christie sport had once again been both cruel and totally heartless. But then in almost the same sentence it had also been extremely generous and genuinely benevolent. Sometimes it can wreak havoc with your hopes and dreams but then you begin to wonder whether conspiratorial forces are at work because you could have sworn you'd done everything in your power to be successful.

When Lizzy Yarnold punched her fists with delight after retaining her Winter Olympic skeleton gold medal, it seemed that everything in the world was right and nothing could top this moment. It all turns out for the best, you've nailed it on the day, you've re-established your skeleton supremacy and nobody can spoil that crowning moment when they drape that gold medal around your neck. You knew you could do it and you knew were good enough and Yarnold must have almost presumed that all she had to do was turn up with her skeleton and breeze through effortlessly to another gold.

The smile on Yarnold's face was as wide as a snow swept valley and she must have thought this was the archetypal fairy tale story, the result of all that hard, relentless training on cold, dark mornings. We know everything there is to know about Olympian sacrifice and dedication. It is one of the major requirements for those Olympic athletes who aspire to be the very best. For Lizzy Yarnold Olympic history had gloriously repeated itself and for the moment at least South Korea is the greatest country in the world. Who knows she may fall in love with South Korea on a more permanent basis?

Sadly though for Elise Christie it all went brutally wrong. It may not have been the end of the world but for our Elise this was nothing short of a disaster. In her first attempt at the 1500m semi final in the speed skating event Christie came tearing out of the blocks like a woman in a frantic hurry. She slid across the ice, thrust herself aggressively towards the front, pushing, jostling and determined to make her mark. Then at the first corner Christie lost her footing. slipping awkwardly and horribly before crashing nastily into the wall. Her face said it all.

There are times during the career of any sportsman and woman when words become almost worthless and superfluous. Poor Elise Christie pulled up sharply in an agonised grimace, her face torn with raw pain and grief. She slumped forward, grasping at something, anything that would offer instant consolation. But then there was the realisation that the entire universe can be a very lonely place, the darkest of holes, an empty chasm where the hollow echoes of defeat reverberate in the mind like a haunting bell.

And then just to make matters even worse Christie was given another chance and after barging her way desperately past her fellow racers, there seemed to be a hint of illegality. Christie was almost immediately disqualified again and once again injured into the bargain. The sight of Christie being carried off the ice will remain one of the saddest seen in any sporting arena. She knew she'd thrown it away, her Olympic day in the sun no more than a melted snowball. She was disgusted with herself, utterly distraught and hoping that the ground would swallow her up.

So there we are. Two British Olympic women had once again summed up the woes and jollities that sport can so often throw up when least expected. With every passing day this Winter Olympics has given us sport at its most gripping, intriguing and mysterious. Some of us are still grappling with the intricacies of curling, a sport whose only focal point seems to be a sweeping brush and a heavy stone. But wonder of wonders it does look great fun and you somehow find yourself drawn into the spectacle.

When the closing ceremony for these Winter Olympics dawns shortly we shall miss the brave, the heroic, the fearless and daring. The Olympic flame will once again flicker and vanish into the mists of history and the citizens of PyeongChang will zip up their thick coats, smile warmly at the memories of February 2018 and then remember two British women by the name of Lizzy Yarnold and Elise Christie. We'll never forget them.

Roger Federer- tennis's oldest world No.1

Roger Federer- tennis's oldest world No.1

Can that really be true? It has to be if they say it is. This weekend Roger Federer became the oldest No.1 player in the history of tennis. What a stunning achievement by anybody's reckoning. According to the world rankings, normally an accurate bellwether of these things, Federer has been playing tennis for so long that there are those seasoned veterans within the game who can hardly remember where they were when Federer first picked up a racket.

Suffice it to say that the most decorated, most praised, most feted, most loved of all sportsmen, has now settled himself neatly into the Tennis Hall of Fame without so much as breaking sweat and probably wondering what all the fuss is about. Federer doesn't really do adulation or self congratulation because his manner is essentially modest, humble, unassuming and self deprecating. There is a remarkable level headedness and groundedness about the man that has always been there and will never, you suspect, leave him.

So it is that Federer breaks yet another record and to those within the game this is not entirely unexpected. The Swiss maestro has won so many Grand Slams now that maybe a shield or special trophy should be designed in his honour. For the man who has everything the game of tennis hasn't only been about longevity more a pursuit of convincing victories, more memorable five set triumphs and more feats of astonishing stamina that continue to leave us gasping for superlatives.

When Roger Federer first stepped onto the Centre Court of Wimbledon most of us regarded him as some young upstart who would undoubtedly reach the most stratospheric heights. But what we didn't know is that he would also win the men's singles title at Wimbledon so many times that calculators would be required and some of us would run out of fingers.

Comparisons are obvious of course. We remember the beautiful talents of that Swedish tennis artist Bjorn Borg. Borg rattled off five consecutive men's singles Final victories without wiping so much as a trickle of sweat from that immovable sweat band that he always wore for the big occasions. Borg barely broke sweat at all, strolling and trotting around the baseline like a man considering his next university essay. He would prowl around the back of a tennis court like a man whose private thoughts could never be fathomed. And this is where Federer came in.

For what must seem like the last 20 years or so - even more- Federer has been a model of composure, calmness personified, never bothered by an imminent crisis such as a murmur from the crowd or a disobedient wind in the wrong direction. Federer just gets on with the business at hand and rather like Borg always looks as if he's just stepped out of the most fashionable menswear shop. There is something of the silent assassin about him, a quiet storm about to erupt with a devastating vengeance.

On any tennis court the Federer demeanour is a classy one. The hair, thick black and lustrous, has always been swept back and combed to perfection, the body primed and prepared for all eventualities. There is a statesmanship and craftsmanship about Federer that is almost set in stone before every Federer match. Federer carries himself with an almost regal and monarchical air that demands a crown on his head when the win is secured.

In recent years Federer's continuing rivalries with Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic have been the stuff of legend. When Britain's Andy Murray joined in with the cut and thrust of tennis's finest of all contests, Federer simply out thought and outmanoeuvred his opponents as if they were not there. Some might have called it arrogance and almost insolence but when the Swiss blasts his serves down the centre of the court with those unreturnable and ruthless aces, a palpable majesty follows him. Take that D'Artagnan.

Now though Federer, seemingly at the veteran stage of his career, is simply doing what the rest of his sporting predecessors must have thought would come naturally. And this is where your mind drifts to those other wise sporting campaigners who have trodden the courts, pitches and race tracks of the world without so much as a care in the world.

Back in the late 1960s there was that delightful Australian Ken Rosewall, another tennis practitioner of the gentlest kind. Rosewall, it seemed, just kept on playing and playing until it became physically impossible to play. Like Federer, Rosewall had the most feathery touch and a delicious delicacy about his forehands and backhands that almost invited flattery and kind words.

In football. a gentleman by the name of Stanley Matthews played for both Blackpool- where he would subsequently and finally win an FA Cup winners medal in 1953 against Bolton. Much later Sir Stanley Matthews would once again trouble the record books when he moved to Stoke City at the latter end of his career. In 1965 Matthews would wear a Stoke City shirt at the age of 50. Wingers in football are almost an endangered species now but a 50 year old winger hugging the flanks during the 1960s must have been a truly unusual sight.

More recently Dino Zoff, the vastly reliable Italian goalkeeper, once lifted the World Cup for his country at the age of 40 and Ryan Giggs, Manchester United's fast and explosively pacy winger, was until recently still tying his boots at the age of 38 going on 39.

Sportsmen and women of course are much fitter and stronger than ever before and all those physical conditioning programmes, perfectly observed diets and routine fitness regimes have made today's athlete almost superhuman.

The truth is that one Roger Federer, complete in that immaculately tailored waistcoat -cum jacket, a hint of a pony tail and that worldly air of savoir faire and suave sophistication, has indeed done it again. He is the oldest player to maintain a No 1 ranking and that has to be immensely commendable. I'm 55 and my forehand is a complete embarrassment. Congratulations Roger. Your record is perfectly safe.

Dom Parsons- our Winter Olympics bronze medal hero.

Dom Parsons- our Winter Olympics bronze medal hero.

Remember where you heard about it first. You were sitting in your living room late at night nursing a late night cup of piping hot coffee, pondering the mysteries of snowboarding and curling and then realising that you should have been fast asleep. Then you were awoken with a start when you discovered that a Briton had won a bronze medal in the Winter Olympics. After all when was the last time that had happened and besides it was only a bronze. Still a medal is a medal and this was an Olympic medal.

But hold on folks. Last night amid a snow blizzard of celebration and euphoria, a certain gentleman by the name of Dom Parsons won a bronze medal for Britain in the Winter Olympics. No you weren't dreaming and yes it definitely came to pass. Dom Parsons, against all the laws of probabilities, astonished everybody in Britain with the most surprising of all bronze medals in any Winter Olympics Games events.

Just when you thought it was safe to turn over and nod off for the night Dom Parsons came from nowhere to clinch a bronze medal when it looked for one fleeting moment, that it was not to be his day. In a controversial finish to the men's skeleton, Parsons took the deepest breath, agonised for a minute or so, convinced that a medal of any description had eluded him. Then, as if fate had changed its mind for one amazing moment, Parsons had been told that he was the man who'd snatched the glory.

The facts are that Parsons had won a bronze medal for the men's skeleton which, to the uninitiated, looks like the kind of sport which should, almost of necessity, require not only a life insurance policy but guts and bloody minded fortitude. To the outsider and the impartial, it looks the craziest, zaniest and most ludicrous sporting spectacle you've ever seen. In reality it is sport at its most astounding.

And yet however long it took Parsons took to negotiate this head spinning, roller coaster exhibition of sheer and raw courage, we must have been gripped. How often do our British heroes win a major sporting victory on what the harshest critics and jokers laughingly describe as a tea tray? But what do they know about sport because the men's skeleton in the Winter Olympics not only embodies all of the Olympic ideals it goes much further, transcending anything and everything in its path.

On another day of derring do at the Winter Olympics in PyeongChang, a British Winter Olympian laid the whole of his body vertically and aerodynamically on to his skeleton and then launched himself  bravely and intrepidly on the most courageous journey of his life. Before it all none of us had ever heard of Dom Parsons but then we realised that Dominic or Dom had gone well beyond duty in the service of his country and nobody would forget his name. Dom had become an overnight sensation, a genuine superstar. Before you know it, he'll be elevated as Sir Dom, a knight of the realm. There will be no more deserving recipient of the honour.

Like a human missile Parsons thrust himself heroically onto an icy chute and propelled himself forward, arms firmly drawn into his side, head streamlined and straight and body prepared for the most gruelling of all Winter Olympic distances. Faster and faster he went, hurtling around one sharp bend after another, a man seemingly obsessed and totally dedicated to the Olympic spirit and cause.

This is sport at its most indescribable, its most improbable and above all completely breathtaking. It is sport that defeats all logic and reasoning. But this is sport that is totally compelling and compulsively watchable. For those who remain slightly sceptical of its inherent dangers, you couldn't help but be drawn into its raw and elemental power, a sense of fascination heightened by the completely unexpected.

A couple of days ago an American gentleman by the name of Shaun White won the snowboard gold medal and totally blew away not only the stunned observers but also captured the hearts of those who, perhaps mistakenly, believed that White was completely mad. After all, what man in his right mind would even think of performing and beautifully executing some of the most spellbinding manoeuvres without thinking for a moment that it was nothing more than a day at the office.

White did everything he could to persuade us that the human body is capable of doing anything in the unlikeliest of circumstances. He challenged himself to act out the seemingly impossible and then accomplished his unenviable task in much the way we photo copy a vital document. White, pushing himself, then flung his board into the air, threw his body high into the cold South Korean wintry air, spinning, whirling and then acting out some of the most acrobatic stunts that any sporting audience had ever seen.

 He flipped, turned his body upside down with the most original of contortions, adjusting his body in mid air almost miraculously,  then going higher and higher, gripping the board with a rare tenacity, twisting and turning before finishing the whole display with what appeared the most incredible of aerial somersaults, double and triple loops that reminded you of a Red Arrows air show.

Our commentators treated us to some of the most technical of jargon, the stock phrases of snowboarding that have become everyday language in the sport. But this was Shaun White, an athlete of extraordinary flexibility and versatility, a man undaunted by life's more extreme demands and determined to do the kind of things you or I would probably have to take a rain check on because the man or woman in the street would think we were crazy.

So far so good then for the Winter Olympics in the mystical Far Eastern corner of South Korea. The pundits and commentators have worn their thickest boiler suits, thickly wrapped in the warmest scarves and trying hard not to look as though they'd rather be on some hot beach in the Maldives. So far the citizens of PyeongChang have done themselves proud and, most admirably, have shaken hands with their North Korean neighbours in a kiss and make up, peaceful entente cordiale fashion.

Everybody is enjoying themselves in the highest snowy peaks and the sound of clinking Schnapps can be heard in every chalet and hotel. The Olympian spirit is still flourishing and maybe the world has turned a corner at long last. There are those who probably think that the Koreans are bound to fall out with each other again, that it's too good to be true. Once our backs are turned they'll only start fighting and bickering with each other again. Still this is the Winter Olympics of 2018 and we have to hope and keep the faith. After all it's Tokyo in two years time and another summer Olympics will beckon. Happy Days!

The Valentines Day choc and flower fest.

The Valentines Day choc and flower fest.

Gentlemen. We all know what today is. Our girlfriends and wives have repeatedly reminded us, poking us in the ribs, nudging us in the back over and over again. The men of the world have woken up today and found that yes, it is indeed Valentines Day, that yearly tribute to romance, passion, intimacy, candles and restaurants. It is a time for men and women around the world to express their innermost feelings, a mutual appreciation of each other over several glasses of wine and smile lingeringly over a Chateau Marks and Spencer.

Since time immemorial, Valentines Day has been with us, a day when boy meets girl, man meets woman and true love blossoms with a thousand rose petals. Here in London we find ourselves paying effusive thanks to Eros in Piccadilly Circus who, for as long as anyone can remember, has represented the true meaning of love and affection. Somehow a year without Valentines Day isn't quite the same and besides we all need to feel wanted. But every year it's the same; the same chocolates and the same flowers. They probably sound like tiresome cliches but hey why not?

Every year thousands and millions of tourists descend on this deeply imposing statue and gaze admiringly at Eros while a hundred flickering images and  colours provide London with its most spectacular backdrop. Yes folks, Eros is the one statue we have to be excessively grateful for on this day of days. How many couples have sat next to Eros and declared an undying devotion to each other in the most public way? They stare into each other's eyes, she looks into your eyes and thinks of Pride and Prejudice and all he can think of is the welfare of Manchester United or the luge in the Winter Olympics.

Seriously though Valentines Day does it to us every year without fail. Every 14th February we fall for the same hype. You rush out of work or perhaps you do it before work. Yes, we'll all converge on the nearest card shop or florists, rummage through hundreds of Valentines Day cards with slushy, marshmallow words and fall hook, line and sinker for those evocative messages that mean that two hearts should be entwined and love is, quite definitely, in the air.

Then the happy couple will sit down in that softly lit restaurant, pick up the menus, giggle light hearteningly, ask a few brief questions about their day and then discuss the meaning of those several hundred romantic novels penned by that quintessential romantic Barbara Cartland before quoting from the book of Keats. This is the perfect setting for holding hands, endless flirtation, teasingly coquettish behaviour and sealing that endless connection, that wonderful chemistry, that common ground, the unbreakable bond, the rich rapport that can never ever be torn asunder.

For Valentines Day is the day we walk along dark, tree-lined avenues, the distant lights of the West End winking and blinking, as a violinist sidles up to you and plays the theme from Love Story or Dr Zhivago. Then,  you tenderly hold hands, look up at the night sky with its necklace of stars and begin to think about those symbolic chocolates, those pretty flowers and last but not least the champagne. Then the couple will stop again, sigh once again and then, depending on how the evening has turned out, will look across the river and once again chuckle affectionately at each other's lovey dovey jokes because this is what today is all about.

Ever since the beginning of time man has sought the approval of women and vice versa. Their eyes have invariably met across a crowded bar, the physical attraction has been obvious and a small flame of love will be sparked in a matter of minutes. But there is something about Valentines Day which has now become slightly inexplicable. Of course true love should always be fundamentally celebrated because we should all know that somebody cares about us. We should always think very fondly of our nearest and dearest but there are unanswered questions. It may be time to get to the heart of the matter.

My lovely wife has always maintained that you shouldn't need one day of the year to acknowledge each other's existence. Maybe we've taken this one too far. In a sense, my wife is absolutely right. Every man should buy flowers and chocolates at any other time of the year. Men should never need any prompting. It should be an instinctive gesture without any nagging or a simple reminder. And yet it's unavoidable.

Every year the West End becomes a veritable floral demonstration, a riot of colour with yellow and red roses, attractively wrapped tulips or chrysanthemums and overwhelming ornateness. But this shouldn't be necessary as my wife has repeatedly pointed out to me. Why is that men have to buy flowers for their loved one on the 14th February when they know they can buy them on any day of the year?

Why do men feel obliged to buy those mouth wateringly expensive boxes of chocolates from Thorntons when quite clearly there is no necessity for such fulsome outpourings of love. She'll tell you that the box of Celebrations from Christmas has yet to be completed and he'll just wince with frustration because he can never get it right. So it is that the happy couple settle down in a candle lit eaterie and whisper sweet nothings.

Then the besotted boy and girl congratulate each other on their impeccable fashion sense, listen to John Paul Young's 'Love is in the Air' for the thousandth time and then engage lips for that passionate kiss. A thousand bells will ring and a tinkling piano from a five star West End hotel will drift delightfully across Piccadilly Circus. Valentines Day will be given another endorsement from both the men and the world and the women of the world. And they'll be serenaded by a Nat King Cole classic, treated to a couple of seductive bars from Minnie Ripperton's 'Loving You' and the evening will end with the warmest of sentiments.

And all the while, the arrow of Eros, will point at the said young couple as hearts beating and emotions at their tenderest, they clasp hands again and tell them that this is that unique moment when nothing can stop them from falling head over heels over the love. But then they'll realise that the late night bus has already gone and they may have to make alternative arrangements for the rest of the night. But then they'll simply laugh at each other in the way they've always done and just be glad that another Valentines Day has given them carte blanche to say that they do love each other for ever more. Oh cue the music. What a day.

In case you've forgotten there are the national newspaper Valentines Day messages, those silly and soppy one liners that have been with us eternally. You may have already scanned the innumerable columns of the Times, the Daily Telegraph or the Mirror for your perennial endearments and those wittily lyrical poems and verses decorated with endless red hearts. It is the way Valentines Day goes about its business and always will. In every message Honey Bunny will love Cuddly Buddy and will Twinkle Toes declare Choccie Rocky as their life time partner. It all sounds ridiculously nonsensical and yet we do this because we always regard love as the permanent union of two like minded souls.

Of course though the Valentines Day card industry will make gleeful capital today and over the years the imaginative plays on words somehow do the trick every year. There are cards which come in a whole variety of sizes and  you mustn't forget those bunny rabbits with red bows, the hundreds of souvenirs, mugs with red hearts emblazoned right across them, T-shirts with more red hearts and everything you could possibly think of that may well relate to Valentines Day.

So there you are folks. Another Valentines Day has almost passed into history and it's time to leave that love lorn couple to flirt brazenly with each other, clink glasses once again over the remnants of a well made plate of pasta and then clasp each other's fingers because that's what it says on the tin today.

Of course love makes the world go around, of course there should be more of it and everybody should try to extend the hand of goodwill whatever the occasion. It may sound like a gross over simplification but love is perhaps the simplest of feelings and some may think of as the ultimate cure, the antidote to all universal problems, a way of reconciling us, of smoothing out the difficulties and disagreements and showing the caring side of humanity. It's probably the right time for a weepy movie so settle down with a giant tub of popcorn and handkerchief by the ready. How we love Valentines Day.

Britain's most popular supermarket.

Britain's most popular supermarket.

Roll the drums, play that fanfare of trumpets and sing it from the highest steeple. Ladies and Gentlemen. I'm delighted to announce that, after much deliberation, Aldi, the German based supermarket, has become officially the most popular British supermarket. They've assessed the sales figures, run their eyes over the substantial profit margins and finally decided that no other supermarket does it quite as well as the rest. Let's hear it for Aldi, the relative newcomers in the supermarket community, a vast complex of food, drink and in recent times, household appliances, children's clothes and a bewildering selection of paper back books, musical DVD's and sheer abundance.

Aldi, for the record, have notched up 74% of the market which means they must be doing something right. In many ways this is a complete departure from the norm because the monopoly once held by Marks and Spencer has now been loosened by those German impostors who have only been around for a while. Now Aldi have suddenly muscled their way into the high street quite emphatically, cornering the supermarket. Sorry couldn't resist that one. It is Monday after all and I do have a repertoire of puns.

So why this dramatic sea change in our shopping habits? What on earth happened to Tesco and Sainsbury's, who once dominated the shopping landscape? Tesco and Sainsbury's were rather like extended members of our family because the others had yet to appear on our radar. For years and years wives and girlfriends always did their shopping in Tesco and Sainsbury's because they were handy, a major boon, a marvellous convenience simply located at the bottom of our road or street.

But now we've now reached 2018 and the hitherto cosy corner shop where everybody conducted their social life, has now been banished to the sidelines, overtaken and swamped by those giant food shopping edifices with plenty of room to park your car on several floors and a chance to savour that wonderful background music, now an almost essential part of that retail therapy experience.

Now, most of us are almost spoilt for choice and the halcyon days of tiny Sainsbury's, with meat counters that weighed your meat on the spot and enormous cash registers with keys, have now been consigned to the medieval age. How often did we see our friends and members of our family swapping good natured pleasantries and chit chat and wondered how the kids were and how they were doing at school?

Sainsbury's now though is that magnificent cathedral of everything that can either be eaten, drunk or worn. The aisles seem to go on for ever, the presentation of everything simply breathtaking and the shelves groaning with hypnotically different brands, cheap offers and bargains that hardly seem possible. And then there are more and more alternatives, variations on a theme that were designed to draw us into the shop anyway.

Sadly though Sainsbury's is languishing deeply near the bottom of the table for supermarket popularity. Now they can only score 62%, a huge setback to those who were conditioned to buying their bread and Corn Flakes there. The trolleys and baskets are still there but now Sainsbury's has possibly outstayed its welcome. The traditional shoppers will always find a comfortable position in their local shop but when the other hungry conglomerates came along, Sainsbury found itself chasing a lost cause.

Then there was Tesco, which seems to have become an almost permanent fixture on the high street and who, like Sainsbury's, have now fallen on difficult times. Capitalism has now assumed a new meaning and for those with money to spend, Tesco, once once of the most prosperous and fashionable of all supermarkets, is beginning to lose its customers because competition is now at its most intense and the prices are just unacceptably extortionate. Have you seen the price of butter and yogurt in Tesco? What about those terribly expensive carrots and lettuces which should be cheaper because the TV ads repeatedly tell us that this has always been the case?

The truth is that Waitrose, that bastion of the middle classes where butlers and chauffeurs would quite happily do their shopping for you, is now flourishing and remarkably accessible. Admittedly there are no freebie samples of champagne or tantalising caviar on every corner of the store. But the fact remains that Waitrose is rather like one of those rich country homes where the upper class grandees and earls of their estate can frequently be seen casting their careful eye on the price of milk or coffee. Waitrose are on 68% and raking in their millions with unashamed zeal and totally unapologetic into the bargain. Anybody for a bottle of Prosecco preceded by pate foie gras for starters?

Then there was Morrisons, which most of us regard as a second cousin to Sainsbury's or Tesco's. Morrisons seems to occupy the middle of the ground, neither pretentious or pompous. It doesn't assume airs or graces, nor does it ever lose sight of its core customers. Morrison's is our friendly neighbour, never looks down on anybody and, you suspect, is never prim, proper or condescending.

This is not to say that Morrison's counterparts turn up their collective noses at its fellow supermarkets because that would never do and besides there are reputations to think of and staff to look after. Morrisons just gets on with it, minds its business and every so often the tannoy will suddenly inform you that Jaffa cakes are now on sale at 20p rather than 60p. Can they be any fairer? It is the most enticing of all buy one get one free offers and arguably too good to be true.

It is now that we begin to think that both Morrisons and Asda are rather like good, old fashioned rivals who try desperately to undercut each other and then find that neither really achieves its desired sales target because the others are equally as fiercely competitive. Asda is relatively the new kid on the block, thrusting, ambitious but still finding its feet. At 63% Asda are learning the ropes of the materialistic merry go round and may find that the teething problems they may have encountered have now gone for ever.

For those of a nostalgic and misty eyed turn, it is time to turn the clock back to what might be perceived as the golden age of shopping. My fond recollections take me back to my Ilford youth when a store called Key Markets proudly stood in the Cranbrook Road with a fine and upstanding air of authority about it. Key Markets seemed almost as indestructible as any food and drink outlet, a huge palace of a supermarket with miles and miles of aisles, stacks of tinned food, fresh tender meat, gallons of milk, fruit juice and alcohol and the most genial air of welcoming bonhomie.

But Key Markets eventually fell by the wayside and the residents of Ilford woke up one day and found that it wasn't there anymore. So Key Market vanished, seemingly over night although the locals could still rely on Marks and Spencer and British Home Stores, two huge stores that reminded you of leisure centres with plenty of room to roam and wander at your leisure.

Along with another cheeky upstart by the name of Lidl who have now grabbed a phenomenal 69% of the supermarket, the staff at Aldi may well have woken this Monday morning to find that they are simply the best, the most desirable and an advertiser's dream. The balance of power has swung perhaps unfortunately and if we've learnt anything as a result of this announcement then it is that Tesco and Sainsbury's may have to up its game. Still this may be the time to extend a congratulatory handshake to the national managers of Aldi. But some of us can still smile at the mere mention of Key Markets. Memories are so good.

The North London derby crackles and simmers.

The North London derby crackles and simmers. Arsenal and Spurs at Wembley.

This is now the business end of the Premier League season which means most of the top six will have to wear their immaculate pin stripes and maybe a bowler hat or two for good measure. Sadly, neither Spurs or Arsenal seem likely to be knocking on the boardroom door because most of the important decisions have apparently been made. Manchester City are beginning to disappear into the light blue sunset.

At Wembley Stadium, temporary home of Spurs, both Arsenal and Spurs once again showed their most lethal attacking bayonets and only Spurs broke through an Arsenal defence which at times look so brittle that you began to wonder what the likes of former Gunners boss George Graham would have made of a creaky Arsenal defence. At times the smoke of the battleground seemed to be engulfing Arsenal with insistent wisps and flames.

 The red shirts were frequently outnumbered and left flat footed by a powerful second half performance from their noisy North London neighbours. The joints and hinges were quite definitely in desperate need of a drop of oil and a team who had overwhelmed Everton 5-1 at the Emirates, looked distinctly off the pace as a brashly confident Spurs began to look unstoppably rampant.

Now Arsenal find themselves trailing desperately behind Liverpool, Chelsea and Tottenham which could lead to a major bout of head shaking and rigorous self examination at the Emirates. Arsenal's attacking aptitude has never been in any question whatsoever but the Gunners were powder puff and the cannon fire which blew away Everton last week fizzled out against Spurs in an anti-climactic pop at Wembley.

This is not the time though for probing inquests and behind close doors meetings. Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger has been here before and although the Arsenal boss has now signed a two year contract, there were times when those poisonous rumours were still seeping through the club. Wenger, though, looks as though he's just seen the greyest of ghosts. All is not well at the Emirates and the week's break from club football couldn't have come at a better time.

During the first half both Arsenal and Spurs threw tentative jabs at each other before throwing some fairly damaging upper cuts which only marginally failed to hit the target. Of course an Arsenal and Spurs North London derby is the epitome of a heavyweight battle and has been since the birth of the 20th century. The class of 2018 can still make those grand gestures of intent and there was still a ferocious intensity about this latest instalment.

But torrents of water have passed under the bridge over the years, decades and centuries. For those of a faint hearted disposition this was another breathlessly palpitating North London derby. For roughly the first half hour this was such an evenly contested game that there was little to keep these two apart. Spurs swarmed forward in rip roaring and thoroughly enjoyable fashion without ever managing to lay a glove on their opponents in decisive fashion. Their football hummed and purred, crackling and simmering before surrounding the ring of red with quick breaking, smoothly flowing and cohesive football.

It could be said that another game of tactical chess had broken out between these two North London rivals but as half time approached Spurs had, quite clearly, left a couple of bishops and queens in the wrong place. Arsenal of course always play like swashbuckling knights but when the castle is exposed and the pawns aren't working quite as efficiently as they should Arsenal frequently look like the deposed kings.

Meanwhile back in the technical area Arsene Wenger, the Arsenal boss, stood steadfastly in his technical area in that familiar grey boiler suit -cum track suit. Wenger, in pouring rain, looked as if somebody had stolen his last fiver, a grim and dejected man who just couldn't bring himself to smile at any stage of the game. As the minutes ticked away, any colour from Wenger's face seemed to have drained away completely. He leant forward painfully from time to time with assistant coach Steve Bould next to him and the impression was that the burglars had once again raided the family home.

As for Spurs boss Mauricio Pochettino, the second half of this game was rather like a birthday invitation that had to be accepted. Arsenal came out for the second half slightly punch drunk and appearing overcome by a mystery bug. Their passing, undoubtedly some of the most entrancing in the whole of the Premier League, had now been left back in a dark Wembley cloakroom and once Spurs had given prior notice of their ambitions, Arsenal were now driven back like a white juggernaut parking in the right bay.

It was now that Kieran Trippier, Davinson Sanchez, Ben Davies and Jan Vertonghen began to snap their defensive lock and flooded forward slowly but surely into attack. All four defenders seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of defensive play, timing their runs perfectly into Arsenal's increasingly embattled defence. Now it was that the dam burst and Arsenal were left like stranded stowaways on a desert island.

Most of Tottenham's most fluent and artistic football has come from midfield playmaker Christian Eriksen, the sweetest Danish pastry of all, a player of debonair airs, a graceful painter with the broadest  brush strokes, vision, peripheral vision, class and a footballer with almost prophetic powers. Eriksen glides, sways, conducts and caresses a football with enormous care and sensitivity. Eriksen's passing does bring to mind an Alan Gilzean at his most economical and once again the Danish pass maestro did what had to be done to bring down Arsenal.

With Son Heing Min jinking and shimmying away from the Arsenal defence like the proverbial jack in the box, Eric Dier providing just the required amount of height for Spurs at set pieces, Ben Davies spreading even more of a calming influence and Jan Vertonghen bobbing and darting around in the middle of the pitch deviously, Spurs had achieved a real grip on the game that Arsenal could never snatch away from them.

And then it happened. Roughly an hour into the game, Spurs were playing the most punishingly penetrative of football, the ball quickly moving from one white shirt to the other with almost wondrous accuracy. At times it almost seemed as if the ball had a mind of its own, looping around Arsenal's helpless resistance, like an unravelling piece of cotton.

After another neatly strung sequence of Spurs passes from one flank to the other, Ben Davies picked up the ball from way outside the Arsenal penalty area. Davies flighted his deep cross towards the far post and that man again Harry Kane rose the highest and most imperious of them all to plant his header into the Arsenal net. Your mind keeps travelling back to Martin Chivers and, quite certainly, Alan Gilzean but there is a bullish aggression about Kane which remains gloriously legitimate and every so often reminds you of both Chivers and Gilzean at their best.

By now Shkodran Mustafi, Koscielny, Nacho Monreal and the ever so influential Jack Wilshere, had no answer to Spurs superior use of the ball and all of those technical gadgets at their disposal. Wilshere, for his part, still looks one of the most intelligent and perceptive midfield players in the Premier League. The almost shaven headed Arsenal player is still capable of unlocking defences with a sinuous wiggle of the hips and an incisive burst but this was not to be Arsenal's day. The Spurs goal had knocked the stuffing out of Arsenal and the Gunners never really looked to be on the same page as each other.

Still there is some way to go and with over two months to go to the end of the season, both Arsenal and Spurs have much more petrol in their respective tanks. The chances are that Arsenal will still produce their decorative flourishes to any game and have to be regarded as strong contenders for a Champions League place. This is not the way Arsene Wenger would have liked things to pan out for his team but how often were George Graham's teams somewhat unfairly criticised for winning games by a single goal and then emerge as fully deserving winners of the old First Division Championship in 1989?

Spurs of course are off to Italy for their vital Champions League game against Juventus next week.  Frustratingly though Spurs may not clinch that elusive Premier League victory that might have been but is surely the property of Manchester City in a few short months. They now remain the work in progress that some at Tottenham may be growing weary of. It is all very well leaving those road cones with sand bags over them but unless somebody applies the pneumatic drill Tottenham may have to wait for their day in the sun. Somewhere out there the new White Hart Lane beckons and a return to the glory. glory years. 

The Winter Olympics in South Korea.

The Winter Olympics in South Korea.

So are we ready? Shortly the Winter Olympics of 2018 will usher in some of the most improbable, bizarre, sublime and ridiculous sights that sport has ever seen. We all know about the hallowed ideals of the Olympic movement. And yet the Winter Olympics has always been regarded as perhaps the less heralded of sporting tournaments. But this is the Winter Olympics and it's time to acknowledge the good, bad, not forgetting the most superlative in sporting excellence.

 For the next couple of weeks we'll be taken into the snow capped mountains of South Korea where huge crowds will gather on the steep slopes ready to cheer themselves silly as the skiers, the bobsleigh, figure skaters, ski jumpers, the slalom skiers, and all manner of daredevil athletes pit the wits against each other in one of the most thrilling and extraordinary spectacles sport can offer.

And yet once again sport's most discerning of observers will ring their cowbells, voices rising, as  fearless and intrepid men and women alike challenge themselves recklessly to overcome seemingly frighteningly daunting obstacles. Leaping into the air from the highest of heights, they fly off into the far distance, miracles of courage and agility, skiers par excellence.

 You do though begin to question their sanity and then realise that theirs is a whole hearted dedication to the cause of the highest order, the culmination of years and years of training, early mornings on the slopes, and a readiness to overcome some of the most demanding of all challenges.

For those of us with a limited knowledge of the Winter Olympics we can only marvel at the speed, control and indomitable spirit of our Olympic athletes. These are the daring sportsmen and women who risk life and limb, whose drive and ambition can never be doubted, whose devil - may - care bravado have to be acclaimed because there can be few who could even contemplate matching their remarkable accomplishments.

The truth is though that very few of us could imagine just how much sheer pluck, bravery and death defying heroism may be required to be one of the best skiers, the most enthralling of slalom skiers, sking sticks securely tucked under their arm pits, bodies poised and eager, crouching forward before exploding out onto the snow with the most blissful disregard of danger and fear. They fly down the slopes with quite the most aerodynamic of actions, eyes and goggles intensely focussed, models of grace, co-ordination and natural ability.

Then of course there are the disciplines to which the untrained eye defy description. Over the years we have applauded these incredible winter sportsmen and women, we have witnessed the valiant heroes, those who will never ever take sport seriously because essentially sport was all about the taking part. They love their sports and remain some of the most admirable and uncomplaining of all athletes.

There's the luge, the toboggan racers who take their life in their hands, sliding furiously around icy chutes at unreasonable speeds and with the kind of virile velocity of men and women without a single pang of anxiety on their minds. Then they hit those sharp hairpin bends, clinging on desperately for dear life and wondering why on earth anybody would want to carry out the nine to five routine of workaday routines. Then two bodies hold onto each other in some harmonious agreement where you close your eyes and hope that none will suffer lifelong injuries.

For some of us though the only abiding memory of the Winter Olympics had to be the 1984 games where one perfect couple stole our hearts and carved their names into Olympic folklore. By mid night in downtown Saravejo girl met boy and everything seemed to reveal itself in some fairy tale story that few of us could possibly have predicted. They were young, supple, flexible, easy on the eye and they came from Nottingham.

Christopher Dean had been one of the most exemplary policemen ever to appear on an Olympic skating rink. He was professionally polished, conscientious to his finger nails, supremely modest and the most picturesque of performers on an ice rink. Dean was tall, striking and as close to perfection as you would ever see. His wonderful interpretation of 'Bolero' with his partner Jayne Torvill for a few minutes of a Sarajevo night captured the hearts and minds of those who simply couldn't believe what they were watching.

Of course there was Jayne Torvill. Torvill was a happy, permanently smiling ice skater with huge quantities of charm and personality. Both Torvill and Dean not only became as well known as bread and butter but theirs was the kind of expressive ballet on ice that would have had the patrons of Sadlers Wells in rich bursts of rapturous applause. They swirled, whirled, spun and pirouetted round and round, fell dramatically to the floor at the most strategic of moments and then gestured with hands that told of a narrative that would always be remembered.

By the end of that Winter Olympics of 34 years ago, Britain blinked its sleepy, tired eyes and then it suddenly occurred to them that something had happened that would probably never be repeated again. Of course there was John Curry and Robin Cousins and their golden tales of derring do but here was Christopher Dean and Jayne Torvill, two minds ideally attuned to the Olympic dream, linking together almost telepathically, a perfect marriage of timing and precision, the most romantic pairing in Olympic history.

Another personal recollection takes me back to the mid 1970s when an Austrian downhill ski-ier named Franz Klammer broke so many Olympic records that he almost seemed to leave the rest of the field on another planet. Klammer was heroically dashing, one of the finest of down hill exponents the world had ever seen and never surpassed by any of his rivals or fierce competitors. When Klammer took off into the cold mountain air comparisons with birds could hardly be ignored. He jumped and then seemingly floated for so long and so effortlessly that when he eventually landed, it must have been assumed that air traffic control had just been cleared for this most formidable of ski-iers.

And so there you have it. The Winter Olympic Games of 2018 is about to be launched and in the crisp, invigorating air of a South Korean day, the ice hockey players, the skaters, the down hill and slalom skiers and those very well mannered curling folk will sweep their way into a thousand hearts.Some of course will win gold, silver and bronze but there will be some who came to participate in the Olympic Games because they just wanted to be there when it counts.

Several Winter Olympics ago a gentleman by the name of Eddie Edwards crept ever so quietly into the public consciousness. We knew nothing about Edwards because here in Britain skiers are not only unheard of they are almost completely unknown. If somebody had told us then what we know now about Britain's renowned sking prowess then some may well have been reduced to uncontrollable laughter.

But Eddie 'The Eagle' Edwards did something that went beyond the call of duty, he broke the barriers, stunned a disbelieving nation, made light of the sneering cynics, proved a point and established himself as one of the greatest of under-rated sportsmen Britain had ever produced. He ski jumped in a way that none of us could possibly have imagined. Admittedly,  Edwards succeeded only jumping as far as the nearest pine tree but Edwards represented the essential Olympic spirit.

 He knew fully well that a gold, silver or bronze would never be his for the taking but he was engagingly funny, self mocking, humble and deeply determined to do his best and nothing more. Perhaps the Olympic movement needs more people like Edwards because Edwards at no point entertained doping scandals, never cheated the system and simply set out to be true to himself.

We all know that a summer Olympics is the one event on the sporting calendar that should always be celebrated. When the Olympic torch lights a flame it means that something unique has happened in sport. It means that once again that sport is good for the soul, lifts you triumphantly out of your seat and then gets you right there.

But here we at another Winter Olympics and it seems most of the world has travelled to South Korea by a cable car, booked a lofty chalet and then sensed that something significant is in the air. British Olympic skiiers are a rare commodity and if they should bring back a medal from their travels to the Far East then we may have cause to think back to a very late hour in Sarajevo when a couple called Torvill and Dean won a gold medal and we all went back to sleep euphorically delighted to know that it probably couldn't have gone any better than it did. Oh for those Olympic ideals.   

 

The 60th anniversary of the Munich air disaster.

The 60th anniversary of the Munich air disaster.

Today marks the 60th anniversary of the Munich air disaster. 60 years ago some of the most preciously gifted footballers Britain has ever produced, died on a Munich runway. In retrospect it still sends the most ghastly chill down the spine and 60 years later the mental, physical and emotional scars can still be felt by a generation that can hardly comprehend what happened that dreadful and horrific day.

The facts though have been well documented in archive films and documentaries illustrating perfectly the moral dilemmas that had to be solved at the time but could barely be imagined in the cold light of day. What we do know is that the throbbing heartbeat of a wonderfully talented group of Manchester United players would, quite appallingly, perish in one of the most heartbreaking air crashes of any time.

So it was that on a cold, icy and snowbound airport runway in Munich the players of Manchester United were firmly ordered to return home after their European Cup game against Red Star Belgrade immediately. As the snow fell heavily from a dark and bleak sky most of the United players, still reliving their heroic exploits against Red Star Belgrade, sat back in their seats ready to take off for home. But, in what still seems like an unforgivable act of gross misjudgment and utter stupidity, the Busby Babes had to fulfil the following Saturday's League match against Wolves.

The world now knows though that Roger Byrne, Eddie Coleman, Tommy Taylor, Denis Violett, Liam Whelan, Harry Gregg, the now incomparable Bobby Charlton, David Pegg, Bill Foulkes, and of course the magical Duncan Edwards were all members of a party where the grievous losses of life could never be measured against those whose survival is equally as difficult to take in. And yet as we remember this terrible day in history it is still impossible to grasp the imponderables of what might have happened and why it was allowed to happen.

Hindsight and perspective are not here to serve as any kind of consolation but there is a school of thought which insists that this was quite the most avoidable of any flights, a journey that should never have been allowed to happen and where logic and commonsense should, quite clearly, have intervened.

How, for instance, was a plane that was quite obviously trapped by thick snow and generally adverse weather conditions, somehow given the go-ahead to take off when circumstances dictated otherwise? Three times the Munich plane tried desperately to taxi the runaway and three times was obscenely too many? Why on earth were the United players almost forced to board a plane that should have been going nowhere?

The harsh truth is of course that in all their stubborn intransigence and ignorance, the FA were crazily and idiotically deluded into believing that the runway was safe to negotiate and nobody had anything to worry about. Little did they know that their third attempt to take off would be calamitously fatal  and families, boyfriends, girlfriends, mothers and fathers would be irreparably torn apart for ever.

Now 60 years later the clock at Old Trafford, Manchester United's Theatre of Dreams, has stopped briefly and mournfully. Tears will be shed in some profusion, memories still raw and vivid and images etched onto what can only be traumatised minds. This is not the time for bitterness or resentment  although it may seem to be the right time for it. Neither is it a time for finger pointing, pained accusations or self questioning but history now tells us that the events of that distant February day can never be erased and that may be the saddest of all realities.

Immediately after the Munich disaster things had to return to some semblance of normality because they had to. The elegant Bobby Charlton would win the World Cup for England in 1966, Sir Matt Busby became the most saintly and revered manager in club football and dear Duncan Edwards would remind us of the golden chariot that should have reached the most memorable of any destination but who died in the most horrendous air crash of all time.

It is easy to point the finger of blame, of course it is. Of course no purpose could be served by suggesting that that annoyingly officious and interfering busybody Alan Hardaker was just taking orders from the FA. But surely Hardaker must have known that no good would come of dragging back a United team faced by a plane journey that should never have been. But Hardaker, you feel, must have been ever so slightly snobbish, totally misguided and ever so myopic. It is easy to call this as blinkered vision or just crass madness but the man who would later give English football the League Cup, could only have suffered sleepless nights and remorse after a nightmare that may never go away.

Still here we are 60 years later and Manchester United is still grief stricken and gripped by lamentation. We know what happened to Sir Bobby Charlton but, quite inexplicably, we will never what might have happened to Duncan Edwards and therein lies the heartache. Edwards we were told at the time, could have become captain of England one day and would, inevitably, lead his national team to glory upon glory.

But even as Sir Matt Busby was convalescing in a Munich hospital none of us would know that ten years later he would lovingly coax and cajole a whole new generation of Manchester United players to victory on a  now special and unforgettable night at Wembley when George Best would almost single handedly win the European Cup Final for United against Benfica.

In the aftermath of the Munich disaster United would go on to reach the FA Cup Final of that year before bravely losing to Bolton Wanderers. But the legacy goes on at Old Trafford and after a massive redevelopment to the ground, 75,000 fans fill the ground regularly and the triumphant years of Sir Alex Ferguson still echo down the ages. There is a very real sense of stability and continuity at United that even in the lowest moments after Munich could never have been dreamt of.

Happily though United are still one of the most widely respected and honoured of any football team in the world. There is a global internationalism and all conquering brilliance about United still more than capable of turning on the charm whenever they feel like it. The names of Charlton, Law and Best can be identified in any tapas bar or pizza parlour around the world.  They trip off the tongue like syrup, milk and honey, surnames with a touch of molasses for good measure.

Equally Beckham, Scholes, Butt and Giggs will reverberate down the years like that first ever Beatles record you first set eyes on. They are  United, the world marketing brand, the Far East magnet, the team who may have been your favourite second team without knowing it at the time, the team who never gave up when crisis or adversity seemed to hang over them.

Today though is a time to reflect somberly and properly on that dismal day in February 1958 when the whole world seemed to stand still and incredulity was the only response we could find. And yet amid the wreckage and carnage of Munich we can still find the essential joy and the blissful discovery of the human spirit.

As Jose Mourinho leads the current United cream of the crop to what now seems a top four place in the Premier League, some of us will be wiping a tear, bowing our heads and then feel that very real lump in the throat that nostalgia always does to you. For now in the current year of 2018, reminiscences of day's gone past can only be good for the soul. Manchester United will always go marching on and long may that be the case.       

Ilford's finest - the closure of Bodgers, a national treasure shuts up for the last time.

Ilford's finest - the closure of Bodgers, a national treasure shuts up for the last time.

The news came as a major shock to the system. In fact it came as a bolt out of the blue. It is with great regret that I have to tell you that one of our finest department stores is about to close, a national treasure shutting its doors for the last time. None of us saw it coming and when somebody told me last year that Bodgers of Ilford would be closing it felt as if a dear old friend was about to desert us and never again we would hear the sweet music of the cash registers ringing from this lovely, venerable emporium that only a couple of years ago celebrated its 125th anniversary.

Growing up in Ilford, Essex Bodgers had become the most fondly cherishable of all local department stores. There are probably hundreds of shops and big department outlets who seemed to have been around for as long as anybody can remember. These are the old fashioned, well established shopping goldmines who have always been there for the local community. Bodgers, for as long as I can recall, was that mighty commercial, high street Ilford powerhouse that always delivered on the civilities and niceties of customer relations and always guaranteed its shoppers the warmest welcome.

But now Bodgers is closing and some of us can barely hold back our sense of loss and sadness, our feelings of utter disbelief and regret, of all the pain and hurt that normally comes with the demise of somebody or something we came to love deeply. And yet the harsh realities of consumerism and the arrival of the swanky shopping mall always seemed likely to swallow up Bodgers sooner or later. With the additional advent of online shopping, poor Bodgers probably didn't stand a chance.

Many years ago Bodgers made a concerted attempt to move with the times but then recognised that they were fighting a losing battle. It couldn't be denied that the shop had become lost in a time warp, an ageing, haggard looking local shop, frayed at the edges, terribly outdated and antiquated but hopeful that a thorough make over and complete refurbishment would save the day. Briefly, it all looked hunky dory with all of those traditional fixtures and fittings getting the full modernisation treatment.

The cafe, for instance, which always looked very shabby and seedy at the best of times, was transformed overnight. A greasy spoon cafe now became a very attractively respectable cafe with a much cleaner and smarter look about it. Now the cafe sold Danish pastries, sandwiches that looked as though they'd been made with care and attention to detail, jacket potatoes that genuinely looked appetising and cakes that were mouth wateringly delicious. But sadly, this may have been beginning of the end. It almost seemed as though the final agony was being delayed and this noble old shop was simply living on borrowed time.

Bodgers, of course was always a pillar of respectability, a giant among the little stragglers and strugglers in the high street whose profit margins could never match Bodgers. From its late 19th century beginnings, through the bombs and horrific tragedies of the First and Second World War and up to the present day, Bodgers seemed to be both indestructible and impregnable. Put that in your pipe Mr Hitler and smoke it. You'll never ever break the unyielding spirit of Bodgers. Who do you think are kidding?

Then Bodgers enjoyed  years of post war pomp and peak prosperity. Suddenly the locals discovered that they had money in their pockets and Bodgers capitalised on brisk business. The old awnings that seemed to become the most easily identifiable feature of all shops after the War were now removed very swiftly.

As a young child I can still see the familiar and welcoming sweets and cigarette shop, a hive of activity with its constant ebb and flow of customers. Throughout the 1960s, 70s, 80s, 90s and then the 21st century Bodgers thrived magnificently in the face of all competition and rivalry with its local counterparts. Deep within Bodgers there was an enchanting loyalty to its commendably faithful clientele. They came from all corners of Britain just to sample the refreshingly positive aura the store had now created.

On the whole of the first floor, there was Ilford's homage to its female buyers and shoppers. Wherever you looked there were perfume counters selling the latest line of Coco Chanel, pleasant fragrances of musk and demure girls tapping their wrists with even lovelier smelling perfumes. It was the most splendid celebration of femininity, designed for women who just wanted to beautify and prettify themselves.

Then at the back of the store on the first floor there was everything you could possibly want in furniture and carpets. I can still see very vividly hundreds of rolls of carpet, dining room chairs and tables that looked as though they hadn't been touched since 1954, cupboards and wardrobes that were both beautiful and solidly built examples of British craftsmanship and design. The only trouble was though that  everybody who worked in the said departments, although warmly helpful and understanding, seemed to have the same tape measure wrapped around the neck since their first day in employment.

For me those never ending rolls of carpet and rug seemed to dominate that ground floor. There were thick rolls of Axminster carpet standing perfectly upright like guards and then leaning to one side as if they'd had just a drop too much of alcohol. But this was the infinitely charming age of high street retail shopping and Bodgers simply exemplified its enduring appeal.

Upstairs on the first floor, which could be travelled to by one of those wonderful lifts with gates, there was a massive selection of household utensils and domestic appliances. This was a vision in crystal, sparkling crockery and cutlery, knives, forks and spoons in glittering dinner service sets, casserole dishes that whetted your appetites, bowls and dishes in translucent white, pressure cookers of every variety and finally right at the end of the first floor, a childish playground of toys and games.

What particularly took my eye was the little TV that showed the latest and funkiest of pressure cookers, knife sharpeners from K-Tel and demonstrations of gadgets that went ping when your meal had been cooked. Oh yes, there were of course the new fangled micro - wave ovens that had just entered the market, those cute electrical devices that made life so much easier in the kitchen. You smiled and giggled, chortling to yourself because you felt you'd witnessed something that was wonderfully practical and durable, lasting and economical, a delight to the eye.

Alas and most regrettably though, this is the end of the road for Bodgers. Several years ago another high street bastion of business Fairheads also closed its doors for the last time. Fairheads had been part of the Ilford landscape since the latter years of Queen Victoria's reign, the vast shelves and cabinets of lace, fabric and cotton  timeless reminders of days gone by. There were huge, silky sheets, curtains of the most delightful texture, exquisite furnishings with neat twists. twirls and flourishes. For this was Fairheads and its very essence, the raison d'etre for its existence.

But the party is now over for Bodgers. This month sees the closure of the most legendary of all department stores, this local shopping paradise, the place where my mum bought my first school uniform, where, from time to time, we would flick happily through its small but perfectly formed record department. For it was here that I purchased my last ever vinyl single, the Jacksons most danceable of compositions 'Blame it on the Boogie'. It was also here that I bought Queen's 'We Are The Champions for what seemed the princely sum of 50p. Quite the shrewdest of bargains and investments.

Now though the shutters are closing on Bodgers and, quite literally this is the end of an era. For those of a sentimental disposition this is something that should never have been allowed to happen. It has to be the worst decision ever made, a dreadful mistake, a figment of our imagination. How we'll miss that slope in Station Road in Ilford, the shop whose facade seemed to slant downwards and then wrap itself around the corner teasingly as if hiding away from view in the carpet department. Still for all of my friends and family in Ilford, it is time to wave farewell to Bodgers and brush away a simple tear from our eyes. Thanks for the memories Bodgers. A shop never to be forgotten.