The Jewish Passover- Pesach

The Jewish Passover- Pesach

Last night Jewish families around the world celebrated the first night of our Jewish passover or Pesach. The springtime festivals are with us and by some wonderful religious coincidence, the first night of Pesach fell on Good Friday which had to be a good thing. There was a poetic symmetry about this whole period because Easter is now days away and spring made that first announcement free from the cold blasts of winter's dramatic orchestrations.

For a while it seemed that those deafening, howling winds would never subside but now we can look back to those snow laden mornings when everything seemed beyond all hope and salvation. Of course the kids enjoyed the snow because they always have and always will. But how glad we are to find that the pavements, although slightly wet from the briefest of passing rains, are now visible rather than cloaked by white carpets of snow, ice and slush.

So how was the Jewish passover for you?  Last night was a night for families, friends and close acquaintances, a time for gathering around tables groaning with food, drink, matzas and the Hebrew haggadahs rich in the texts of beautiful Jewish literature. We followed the story of Pesach with its traditional renderings of Egypt, fleeing persecution and biblical chapters from history that reminded us once again of the difficulties that the Jewish people have always faced since time immemorial.

But we've overcome innumerable obstacles with a resilience of character and gritty determination that has to be admired. Still we were not to be defeated because the Jewish people have always fought their corner and refuse to give up when all of the odds are heavily stacked against us. We lit our candles, remembered the meaning of Pesach and abandoned ourselves unashamedly to triumphant celebrations, a medieval banquet of food and wine from the finest cellars and vineyards.

Last night was indulgence on the grandest scale, overflowing food and drink from the busiest of supermarkets and a general engagement in the positive things that life can offer. There was a life affirming togetherness and glowing warmth about this yearly matzafest. Relations were at their most typically harmonious, jokes were exchanged with the liveliest sense of humour and the world around us was discussed with a passion and fervour that was utterly reassuring. Then there were huge bursts of laughter, merriment unconfined and gushing outpourings of warm wishes and story telling on a quite phenomenal scale.

Personally, Pesach triggered a treasure trove of glorious childhood memories. It took me back to my grandparents who lived in Gants Hill, Essex. Now my grand- dad was undoubtedly one of the most learned Hebrew scholars, a man steeped in the traditions of Judaism, a man who knew instinctively about the songs, the blessings and prayers which accompanied his childhood and guided him throughout his life before the Holocaust intervened and almost broke him.

Shortly after they moved into their big, rambling house in Gants Hill in the early 1970s the re-adjustment to a new way of life began to take shape. But the first night of Pesach was particularly special because for my grandparents the passover service held a powerful significance that meant so much to them and it was the one night of the year when they could just relax, enjoy the spirituality of the evening and convey a natural enthusiasm to a very receptive grandson.

I can still remember my grand-dad presiding over the seder service and then spending the best part of five minutes racing through the Haggadah text in a matter of minutes. Suddenly a deep baritone of a voice would open the service, then chanting, mumbling and muttering under his breath, totally incomprehensible but eager to embrace the evening. Not for the first time I could  barely grasp any of his Hebrew grammar, the translation of the words in the book and the frightening speed of his utterances, an occasion that had quite literally left me totally confused, speechless and ever so slightly taken aback.

Then there was the year when my grandparents, having settled down at my parents dining room, sat down on those typically 1970s chrome and black padded chairs. Halfway through the blessings all seemed to be going swimmingly well and everything seemed to be going just right. Then my late and wonderful dad stood up for his turn in the spotlight. Cue the circus comedy moment. Seconds into reading a prayer for the wine, the spirit of the circus clown crept up from nowhere and took my dad by complete surprise.

What happened next was the stuff of Whitehall farce, a magically funny moment that will never ever be forgotten by yours truly. In a matter of seconds my dad's trousers had fallen to his ankles, dropping down to shoes and socks that could barely believe what had just happened. Cue the gales of audience laughter. I looked at my dad and everybody around me seemed to be gripped by collective giggling. There was no need to apologise because these are the golden moments of family life that should have been captured on our Kodak Instamatic camera for ever more.

Essentially though Pesach or passover is all about the positivity most of us think we can find, the belief that it doesn't take a lot to find unity, love, understanding, a smile and laugh, a genuine bond and rapport that binds us all in cosy domesticity even when the weather outside is not quite the weather we might have been hoping for. Pesach is about singing at the tops of our voices, of being grateful for the people around us and cherishing who we are.

As the huge plates of lamb and chicken were delivered along with thousands of potatoes and vegetables it was nice to reflect that families are as vitally important as they've ever been. Even in times of world instability and mad mayhem I found myself surrounded by my family, the people who have always been there for me, loving and supportive, the firmest foundations in your life whatever life may bring. Yes I know I'm too soppy and sentimental but once again Pesach had sprinted for the finishing line and won with the most resounding of victories. What a feeling!

England and Italy share a draw in Wembley friendly.

England and Italy share a draw in Wembley friendly.

Firstly, a word of thanks to last night's sponsors Italian Mattresses. Yes folks Italian Mattresses, purveyors of some of the most comfortable mattresses and, for all we know, pillows, quilts, blankets and eiderdowns. Then let us extend our warmest acknowledgement to Vauxhall Motors without whose sponsorship last night's football friendly between England and Italy would never have been possible.

Oh for the rampant commercialism of sport and its financial long term benefits. Where would football be without it and besides there were occasional moments when the perimeter of the Wembley pitch provided the large sections of England and Italy supporters with far more enjoyment than they might have missed had they blinked.

At one point during this slow motion friendly between England and Italy you were tempted to believe that Italian Mattresses had completely outclassed Vauxhall Motors and were simply the dominant force in the first half. Then you opened your eyes again and found that Italian Mattresses were being given the runaround by Vauxhall Motors. Sometimes football can take you to places you thought you'd never be able to reach.

Still the truth was that last night's friendly at Wembley did remind you of a group of  Victorian promenaders at the seaside strolling lethargically along the pier as the men donned their top hats and the women proudly unfurled their umbrellas. There was a very real sense that this was a friendly in every sense of the word. In fact you felt sure that both teams at some point would simply stop playing, relax on some readily available set of deckchairs and perhaps challenge each other to a game of  Trivial Pursuit.

This was England's second friendly in a couple of days and such was the careless indifference shown by both sides that you began to question the validity and necessity for such a pointless fixture. On Friday England beat Holland with some of the most composed and pleasing football that most English supporters had seen for quite a while.

Last night they were faced by Italy. Italy, throughout the ages, have always been renowned for their po- faced defensive caution, catenaccio, prudence of the most tight fisted kind and the ability to just grind their opponents into the dust with superb counter attacking of the most devastating kind.

 Gianni Rivera, their 1970s midfield  genius somehow typified the football the Italians were always capable of producing. There was Sandro Mazzola, a shrewd, visionary player full of silks and rich footballing fabrics. In recent times there was Alessandro Del Piero, a typically quick witted player who could read a game like the most well thumbed book. Italy loved to throw the largest defensive blanket over their game whenever it suited them but last night the blanket was whipped away for a while and for the opening stages of last night's game it was replaced by a much lighter sheet.

But then Italy produced a manger called Enzo Bearzot, a wily and thoughtful man who very rarely showed any semblance of emotion but who did succeed in fashioning an Italian team who could win games and World Cup matches with generous helpings of wit, intelligence and delicacy. Suddenly the defensive chains were cut away for good and Italy revelled in the football niceties rather than those negative, reckless tackling tactics that showed a rather more unsavoury side to their game. Roberto Bettega and Dino Zoff, who won a World Cup as Italy goalkeeper at the age of 40, symbolised the underlying beauty of Italian football.

Sadly though and perhaps incredibly, Italy will not be gracing football with their presence in this summer's World Cup in Russia. It will be like a reputable art gallery without a Monet, Cezanne, Picasso or indeed a Constable. Italy, for all their eccentricities and whimsicalities at times, are still the team to admire, to appreciate, to gaze at lovingly, to command our attention, to provoke comment on and then bow respectfully before because you somehow know that you're in the most honourable company.

There were moments last night at Wembley when you began to wonder what exactly had happened to the Italy of old. You missed that devil, that playful twinkle in their eyes, that deep and emotional attachment to the finer and stylish element in their DNA. It was hard to put last night's game into any proper context because Italy have now reverted to the drawing board and, most unusually, are now in a no man's land. It was once said that Rome was never built in a day and judging by last night's evidence, Italy are very much in the early stages of a major re-construction.

For England of course the work in progress is beginning to take a much more clearer shape. There is a now a much sharper definition to England's football, a more coherent expression about their football and a much more natural flow to their game that to the outsider, had quite clearly been lacking for too long.

Finally England have rid themselves of the burden weighing down on them whenever Steven Gerrard and Frank Lampard tried to convince whole generations of recent England managers that there was something there but then discovered the sheer incompatibility of the double pairing. Both Gerrard and Lampard, as we were soon to find out, were almost identical to each other. They were two men performing the same midfield roles and eventually found themselves competing for the same ball and then crashing into each other like two men stuck in a revolving door.

Now though England have the likes of Eric Dier, Spurs versatile holding midfielder-cum centre half, sturdy, steady, capable and coolly imperturbable when under even the slightest pressure. Dier was all rock like stability, strolling forward confidently out of defence as and when required. Then there was the magnificently fast, athletic, bold and permanently overlapping Kyle Walker, a player who will almost certainly lifting the Premier League trophy with Manchester City shortly. Walker is strong, powerful and remarkably nerveless in possession, never ever flustered or agitated in the tightest spot.

Once again Walker's defensive partner at Manchester City John Stones had one of his more reliable games in an England shirt although there were a couple of panicky moments at the start of the game when Stones must have been looking for a corner to hide in. But Stones is one of the best discoveries that English football has produced for many years. He is no Bobby Moore, certainly at the moment, and besides this would be the most preposterous comparison anyway. He is no Emlyn Hughes, that most rugged of warhorses for Liverpool nor is he some knight in shining armour but Stones will undoubtedly be a regular fixture in England's defence for many years to come.

In the middle of the park for England there was the roaming, roving, wing wizardry of Manchester City's young thoroughbred Raheem Sterling, sometimes outstanding and sometimes very mundane. Sterling is certainly the real deal but you do worry about his tendency to drift and dither on the periphery of the action. At times the show pony in Sterling's personality may lead to a complete breakdown in communication with the rest of his England's colleagues. But Sterling's head down, directness and single mindedness have to be credit points in his favour. Sterling is worth his weight in gold and that ferocious determination to run at defenders can only bode well for England.

Then of course there was Ashley Young, now 31 and seemingly a historical footnote in Gareth Southgate's World Cup plans. Young has quietly and sensibly shuffled his way effectively down the wing for Manchester United without ever really setting the world alight. But Young has now accumulated a number of impressive displays for United. Last night Young dovetailed nicely with Sterling, calmly linking with the players around him with a sprinkling of neat touches on the ball.

The story of Alex Oxlade Chamberlain is now a familiar one. Does Gareth Southgate persevere with this potential midfield match winner and easy on the eye playmaker or does he take a step back and think again about Chamberlain? Now Chamberlain has found his bearings after promising so much at Arsenal. It is hard to categorise Chamberlain because it often seems that even he, by his own admission, would be hard pressed to tell you where he fits in. He is a player of bountiful gifts and an excellent footballing brain but perhaps England may find out much more about him after their last two dress rehearsals before the World Cup proper against Nigeria and Costa Rica in early June.

England's opened the scoring on the half hour mark. After an uncertain and tentative start England settled down to the task and the circumstances behind the goal were both bizarre and surprisingly unexpected. After Jesse Lingard, also heavily involved and influential in an England shirt once again, had skipped his way through the Italian defence, Sterling wriggled through to take up possession and was then fouled.

 A brief moment of confusion followed as the referee blew up for a quickly taken free kick.  Lingard slipped the ball through an Italian gap with polished ease and Jamie Vardy, who still has the capacity to score important goals for England, surged through to thump the ball into the Italian net with destructive goal scoring intent. It was a goal England had richly deserved.

In the second half the game seemed to be wind down to walking pace with both teams at times shadow boxing each other and reaching some amicable compromise on the outcome of the game. England lifted the tempo of their delectable passing movements, drilling holes in the Italian defence and then chipping out all the rough edges of a wobbly and vulnerable blue shirted Italian back four.

Then the tide turned quite favourably for the Italians. England had apparently burnt themselves out and unwittingly invited the visitors into their occupied territory. Right at the end of the game when all seemed lost Italy threw their last gamble onto the roulette table. Italy burst into the England penalty area in one last gasp and desperate push for glory. A blue shirt seemed to be bundled over unceremoniously in the England penalty area and after Federico Chiesa had been trampled on, there was the most lengthiest of pauses before the new VAR system eventually decided that the Italians had done enough to win a penalty. Insigne easily tucked home the penalty and the game finished in the most placid draw.

There are number of awkward political obstacles in England's way before they head for Russia in the World Cup but the formations and structures are in place and that very easy going man called Gareth Southgate has a lot to feel good about for England. The trouble is though that we all know what happens to England when they do reach their big World Cup destination. Are there still round holes in square pegs or have England finally hit upon the magical formula to render 1966 as merely ancient history. It is time to hope and wish.

Australian cricket holds its head in shame.

Australian cricket holds its head in shame.


Oh dear! What is to become of Australian cricket? This morning the whole of Australia woke up to infamy, embarrassment, shame, notoriety and disbelief.  To think it's come to this. How on earth did it happen to such a clean living and respectable country who never attract the wrong kind of headlines and basically live for the moment when England come calling for a thrashing in the Ashes? But that was over two months ago or so and that's history.

Now though the most disreputable of all acts has visited the shores of our Australian friends. Who would have thought it? It was an act of such dreadful deception and corruption that even now we can barely believe the sheer brass neck cheek and chutzpah of it all. Here in Britain some of the more cynical English cricket supporters were sniggering into their pints of beer, cackling at the sheer impertinence of it all. Then they sniggered, chuckled heartily into their peanuts and resorted to gallows humour. It couldn't have happened to a nicer nation. Still it could have been infinitely worse.

What then was this cunning manoeuvre, this evil plot to undermine fair play and sportsmanship, this brazen display of cheating and illegitimacy.  Yes, Australian cricket has now been caught red handed, committing the most unforgivable crime in any walk of life. They cheated and cheated big time. They thought they could get away with it but then realised that nothing could escape the eyes of conscientious umpires and the ever present law of the land.

It all happened in Australia's latest Test match against South Africa. It was all going very badly for the Australians until that moment in your life when it all goes haywire. So what do you do when you're struggling in a major cricket Test match and maybe things aren't going quite according to plan? Do you just muddle along diligently until something goes right or do you just break the rules and resort to the lowest common denominator? The fact is that commonsense should prevail and you should just try to stick it out hoping that the pendulum swings in your favour. Not so for Australian captain Steve Smith.

So what do we do to characters like Steve Smith, those mischievous scoundrels, those double dealing misfits, those loose cannons of society, those scheming miscreants who insist on playing dirty? Or maybe I've got that completely wrong and it's all been blown wildly out of proportion and we're just over reacting.

Maybe the ultimate punishment should be administered to Mr Smith and his maverick chums? Perhaps we should throw him into the Sydney harbour or bring back those penal colonies so popular in the age of Ned Kelly. Smith should be made to suffer in silence, held to account for ball tampering. Yes ball tampering ladies and gentlemen. Steve Smith, on the afternoon of a Test match tried, in private, to change the course of a cricket match by trying to change the shape of a cricket ball in order to gain a clear advantage in a cricket match. This, you feel sure, is not the way it should be.

Yes members of the jury. Steve Smith, in wrongful collaboration with Cameron Bancroft, his otherwise loyal colleague, took themselves off to a quiet dressing room during lunch and plotted the downfall of the South African cricket team through the most illicit of channels. Both Smith and Bancroft who, up until this moment, were honest and trustworthy, showed a much darker side to their character.

With nothing but the smallest piece of tape, a generous helping of dust from the pitch and a good deal of jiggery pokery, both men conspired to cheat, misbehave and overstep the limit. In fact that limit was overstepped quite considerably and this outrage can never ever be tolerated at any level of sport. They rubbed, scratched, probably spat on the ball and generally conducted themselves in a manner wholly unbecoming of fair minded sportspeople. Quite why they chose to stoop to such low levels of degradation and foolhardiness maybe beyond our understanding but they did and no leniency should be spared. There you are jury I rest my case.

We all know that gamesmanship and one upmanship have been around in sport for as long as any of us can remember. There was the famous case of Olympic 100m sprinter Ben Johnson from Canada. Johnson took steroids, dabbled in the most appalling of drug taking and was promptly punished. In the world of athletics the ugly spectre of cheating has cast its glowering shadow of suspicion over some of its finest of all competitors. But now cricket, not for the first time, has been hung out to dry because two of its so called dependable  practitioners had a rush of blood to the head and just didn't think it through.

What would Smith's predecessors have thought of it all? We can only imagine what exactly the likes of Sir Donald Bradman, Lindsey Hassett, Warwick Armstrong, Alan Border, dignified cricketers one and all, would have said under the circumstances. In their day of course cricket was a game played by gentlemen, played in the right spirit, played by cricketers with legal minds, upright propriety and impeccable decency. There was never any of this fiddling with the rules or downright cheating in the old days because it quite simply isn't cricket.

But now Steve Smith and his Australian cricketing rogues have done something terribly naughty, the kind of behaviour we'd more readily associate with rebellious school kids in their last year. You know the ones surely. The ones who stupidly let off stink bombs in the chemistry lab or tied the shoe laces of the Maths teacher when they weren't looking, the ones who deliberately wanted to stay behind for detention because they really couldn't face mountains of homework.

Now Steve Smith has done the honourable thing and resigned as captain of the Australian cricket team because quite clearly he hadn't thought through his reckless actions. He thought the thoughts of a man who may have believed that the teachers weren't watching when elastic bands were ready to be launched and humiliation was imminent.

On reflection sport may have seen all of this before and maybe we should have known that something like this might happen at some stage and some time. The old saying of cheats never prospering is more or less a cliche but you have to wonder whether at some point Steve Smith will shortly be rewarded with a TV chat show or reality TV celebrity in an Australian jungle. This may of course completely wrong but how many advertisers, agents and high ranking media executives will be lining Smith up for regular exposure in the world of cheap commercials, endorsements for soft drinks, pizzas and designer shoes. It is an intriguing thought and one that is hardly worthy of any thought.

Still it's happened and it can't be denied. An Australian cricketer with an intelligent mind thought he could get away with it but didn't. He cheated and  they cheated again. They apologised and held up their hands. They were deeply sorry and repentant. They'll never do it again miss or sir. Please give us another chance. Cricket is the game they play on village greens during the summer. It's a game designed for white flannelled men in helmets and concluded with cucumber sandwiches at tea. It is a game with strict rules and regulations. Then the church bells ring and we all retire to gentle country pubs.

Sadly, the likes of Steve Smith have learnt the hard way. They've now discovered that  when you do something behind somebody's back the consequences can be pretty severe.. Their actions were those of the deplorable burglar who thought they could just sneak through your living room window and steal most if not all your worldly possessions  Well, this time cricket has, briefly we must hope, been charged and arrested with a crime that could have been so easily avoided. Perhaps Australian cricket should be firmly told off and reprimanded because if we see you cheating again we'll tell your parents and you'll never be allowed to come out and play. Do we make ourselves abundantly clear? Now go home and don't do it again. 

England display Dutch courage.

England display Dutch courage.

For the first time since 1996 England beat Holland and, just for good measure, in their very own Dutch backyard. Wonder of wonders. The England football team have experienced so many trials and tribulations in recent years that some of us were beginning to think that things would never work out for the best. But finally England have discovered a new lease of life and the 1-0 victory against a painfully weak and lacklustre Holland came as the most pleasant and unexpected of surprises.

It still seems hard to believe that both Holland, England's first friendly opponents and Italy who they will face next Tuesday at Wembley in another amiable encounter, will be sorely missing from this summer's World Cup in Russia. On reflection England's participation in the World Cup may well come under the deepest scrutiny given the soured relations between both the Russians and the English. These are diplomatically difficult times for both countries. Or maybe completely lacking in any diplomacy.

But last night at the Johan Cruyff Arena, England came out of their winter hibernation rather like those gambolling spring lambs who will now take up residence on our rolling English meadows. It may be hard to believe but England genuinely resembled potential winners of the World Cup. And when was the last time that sentence was ever uttered in the wood panelled corridors of FA headquarters?

What on earth has happened to the English football team while snow lay thick and even on the ground? Did they finally see the light or was the light already on and nothing was said. Suffice it to say that England played like a team possessed, with possession being the operative word. England were full of originality, intelligence, imagination and whole hearted industry. It almost seemed to be too good to be true. Some of us had wondered whether we'd ever see an England team at complete ease with a ball and then executing some of the most exquisitely carved football England have ever produced.

At times it may well have been like watching the Brazil of 1970 World Cup vintage, or the Spain and Germany of more recent World Cup editions, the visitors  so brilliantly and effectively using the ball for lengthy periods against Holland. Holland, of course are now a team in crisis and stagnation, a team at its lowest ebb and no longer that cultured international team of yesteryear. It did seem something of an irony that England seemed to be taunting a Holland side who once prided themselves on educated, one touch passing.

Briefly, you began to wonder what the likes of Johan Cruyff, Rob Rensenbrink, Ruud Krol and Johan Neeskens would have thought of last night's pathetic no show. Many of us will never know how the Holland of 1974 and 78 succeeded in losing two consecutive World Cup Finals against both West Germany and Argentina respectively. In both games Holland failed to take advantage of their opponents when they were there for the taking. History though had other ideas.

Still, last night Holland were the palest shadow of their former greatness and it was rather like looking at one of those distorted mirrors you normally see at a fairground. Holland were a side of horribly misshapen images, a side completely lacking in any kind of plan, method, structure or pattern. In fact England seemed to be taking an inordinate pleasure in their opponents discomfort, frequently mocking the Dutch with the type of football Holland were once renowned for.

Sadly the vivid orange and strange looking blue socks of the home side were almost awe struck by an England team they must have thought were still living in football's Dark Ages. The England football team were dinosaurs, lost in a time warp, clueless and one- dimensional, a team of ignorant philistines totally incapable of stringing together a cluster of short passes. Holland were technically brilliant, well advanced in their thinking and light years ahead of England.

Back in the late 1970s the memory takes me back to an evening at the old Wembley when Cruyff and co, toyed, teased and tormented England with football made in heaven, football with a delicious sauce of improvisation, cinnamon scented football with a  hint of perfection to it. That night Holland not only beat England they positively humiliated them. Their football had a clarity and purity that should have been bottled for posterity.

Last night the clog was definitely on the other foot. The country that has given us bicycles, canals and windmills were clinging on for dear life. Holland is a peaceful and very liberal nation where the brown cafes and the historic Amsterdam house of Anne Frank  give the country its most distinctive identity and cultural template. And yet their performance against England last night will not be fondly remembered in anybody's mind.

From the very start the back four of Kieran Trippier, Kyle Walker, Joe Gomez, who would shortly be taken off with injury and the ever reliable Danny Rose demonstrated, quite astonishingly, a unity and togetherness that very few us saw coming, In fact so forward thinking and venturesome were all four men that you half expected at least one or two to figure prominently on the score sheet. Trippier and particularly Walker pushed forward enterprisingly over the half way line completely undaunted and hell bent on making some kind of contribution.

England were now passing patiently and thoughtfully as if all those years spent in the wilderness of  the ugly, long ball game had become well and truly a thing of the past. England, at last, had now been converted to the way the game should be played rather than the dated mechanisms that had so disfigured their football in past decades.

Now it was that Gareth Southgate's brave warriors were now instructed to play their football with an entirely different code and policy, an attacking philosophy that should have been in place many years ago. This is not to suggest that England teams down the years should have known better but there was a sense here that this is the age of enlightenment, the dawning of an exciting era. Suddenly the red faced embarrassment that was Iceland in Euro 2016 may well have been some horrid apparition that can safely be forgotten for good.

In England's midfield the first buds of promise and footballing fertility are beginning to show. Jordan Henderson has now become a well established and consistent player for both England and Liverpool. Occasionally Henderson does look ever so jittery and uncomfortable on  the ball and although careless at times still looks the kind of inspirational England captain Gareth Southgate may need more so than ever. Henderson cruises gently rather than rushing around like a man in a permanent panic.

Beside Henderson, Manchester City's Raheem Sterling had another very productive game for England and often looked the kind of player who may just be that vitally pivotal figure who can change games with a destructive turn of pace and the ability to frighten the life out of confused defenders. Sterling jinked and shimmied, twisted and turned like a spinning top and then confounded Holland with runs at the Dutch defence that almost left lasting damage on the orange shirts morale but just came up short.

Still every England winger from Stanley Matthews to Terry Paine and John Connelly during the 1960s while not forgetting those speed merchants Peter Barnes and Steve Coppell during the 1970s have had to contend with the knowledge that Sir Alf Ramsey had no time for dashing and deceptive flankers in his 1966 World Cup team and Sterling may find that he has a point to prove if he plays in Russia.

Finally there was Alex Oxlade Chamberlain, a neat and compact midfield player with a nice sense of balance and creativity about him. The problem with Chamberlain is that he may have an annoying tendency to drift anonymously through important contests and find that even though we knew he was on the pitch, he may have been conveniently overlooked by the end. Certainly he could give the England side a tempo and momentum that may be required if England are to reach the World Cup's latter stages.

Up front of course England do seem to be spoilt for chance. The absence through injury of Spurs Harry Kane left England with the slightest of deficiencies and you could only imagine what a fit Kane would have made of a very loose fitting and powder puff  Dutch team. Still Jessie Lingard, Manchester United's ever lively and responsive striker, did score the only goal on the night and next to his United colleague Marcus Rashford, England were never short of initiative or foresight.

After almost incessant waves of well engineered, clever and immensely constructive one touch, short passing between the players  England finally broke down the Dutch defence, a defence that seemed to be crumbling around them with all the rapidity of a seaside sandcastle. It was a goal entirely in keeping with the character of England's high quality, high intensity and high velocity display.

Chamberlain picked up the ball just outside a besieged Dutch penalty area. He then shrewdly slipped the ball to Danny Rose who in turn swiftly moved the ball across to Jessie Lingard now setting his sights on goal before drilling the ball confidently into the net for the opening goal of the night. On a night of many highs for England that was as good as it got for England and perhaps on another night it should have been more but a victory is a victory and small mercies should always be appreciated.

Gareth Southgate, England's wonderfully pleasant and well mannered manager always looks as if butter would never melt in his mouth which is probably never the case. He continues to give the impression of the class swot, the kid who always finishes his homework on time and never ever gets into any kind of trouble. Southgate is indeed the ace student, always deep in thought, respectable, presentable and never bothered by any of the stuffy red tape and bureaucracy that may threaten him from outside the game.

 Now for Italy on Tuesday, another international side going through the wars at the moment and rather like Holland, kicking their heels during the summer. It almost feels as though world football has lost two of its most supportive pillars. It may seem like wishful thinking at the moment but maybe just maybe this could be the year of all years for England. Sir Alf Ramsey was convinced that England would definitely win the 1966 World Cup years before the dream came true. Gareth Southgate may be keeping his cards close to his chest but you never know. You never know. 

The first day of Spring- oh what sweet joy!

The first day of Spring- oh what sweet joy!


Oh what sweet joy! The seasons keep passing and finally winter has slipped back into that dark cupboard in your home, consigned to that dusty corner of your attic where once the choking cobwebs cramped our style. Today is officially the first day of spring and across the nation trumpets, bells and whistles have heralded the new season with the kind of reception we would probably reserve for a major birthday or anniversary.

You must have done it by now. You've flung open your curtains or blinds, squinted at those bright, light sunbeams cascading through your windows like a powerful river and then breathed an enormous sigh of relief. Thank goodness for that I hear you cry. We thought it would never get here. We thought we'd have to wait at least another month or so before the first daffodils displayed their familiar, foot  loose and fancy free finery and their royal regalia. Nor did we think that those cuckoos would ever make themselves heard ever again and maybe we'd given up on the tulips because they must have been convinced that the winter snows would never clear and disappear.

But fear not we all woke up this morning in Britain today and the coast is clear. Before you know it the first sounds and acoustics of spring will be alive and well and full of encouraging omens. Admittedly, those tree branches still look very nervous and exposed, bare quite definitely and desperately craving that lovely coat of green which give them such a distinguished look during the summer.

Now though it's time to celebrate that invigorating blast of much warmer weather, that sharp injection of sunlight that penetrates deep into your bones and makes you feel so good. Suddenly we can almost  feel the refreshing warmth, a good old fashioned dose of new and pristine shades rather than that dull and grey blanket of winter that hung across the land like a curtain that hadn't been washed for ages.

Shortly, our old allies will be returning back for their yearly visit. Pesach(the Jewish passover) and Easter, that heavily symbolic tribute to chocolate eggs, are poised, ready and waiting to usher in a startling sequence of ritualistic spring festivals. Isn't it amazing that year after year we keep telling ourselves that the winters are getting colder and never seem to end only to find that patience is indeed a virtue? Springtime always seems to come around eventually so it's time to dig out those dusters and cloths for a thorough session of cleaning because that's what spring is all about.

Indeed it is the season of spring cleaning, that marathon spell of sweeping, de- cluttering, clearing out drawers, disposing of old papers, folders, sweet wrappers, surplus clothes we haven't worn for at least 20 years and generally removing rubbish and detritus. Then we discover a wonderful set of family photos that seem to have been mouldering away for ages and we can never think why. What about those old dining room candles and brass candle sticks or the Space Hopper which should have gone in the skip at least 40 years ago?

There is a real sense of excess and neglect in the air. How long now have we allowed everything to fall into rack and ruin? We've forgotten about the records which we once so proudly cherished  are now no longer necessary and have passed their sell by date. At the time we must have thought they were indispensable and vital but now they looked cracked, shabby and ready for the bin. When was the last time we could play those 78s because our parents thought they were cool. at the time? But 78s  were superb fun at the time and our parents must have loved playing them over and over again.

The truth is that spring seems the ideal opportunity to polish up that fading brass, to bring back to life those splendid board games that always left us in a state of euphoria over Christmas. Now we look forward to summer village fetes, dizzying maypole dancing and then rowing down the River Cam in Cambridge. Life is all about living for the moment and spring is seemingly all about the outdoors rather than indoors.

From Sunday onwards the days will get progressively longer, the pub gardens will become more densely populated and you can still take your dogs for a walk at 5.00 in the afternoon without worrying about the lack of light. At long last you can venture out on long walks in the country, up and down meandering hills, stopping only to drop into charming tea shops or wandering around ageless antique shops that may well have been there for as long as anybody can remember.

This Saturday Britain welcomes back another hardy perennial. It's the Boat Race between those two feuding universities, two of the highest and loftiest seats of learning, education and academia. Oxford and Cambridge will once again be going hammer and tongs for bragging rights on the River Thames. By now the Boat Race has almost become carved into the sporting calendar in perpetuity. In fact you shudder to think what would happen if the Boat Race had been unforgivably overlooked or just completely forgotten about. The cost and penalty would be severe. Oxford and Cambridge would probably take everybody to court and the consequences would be deeply felt.

Suddenly the seasonal shift feels much more pronounced, the grasses look significantly greener and those tiny buds of spring have made a welcome appearance in our gardens, parklands and sylvan pastures. The cherry blossom is back again with its stunning tableau of pink and sooner or later the street pavements will be like confetti on the ground, scurrying around faster and faster around in ever increasing circles.

Before you know it we'll all be thinking about our summer holidays, where the musical sound of exotic chickens blends seamlessly with the gentle tinkle of ice in Spanish tequila. May and June though, seem like distant continents at the moment and now maybe is the time to check Expedia.com for a bargain basement holiday next to somewhere totally idyllic where nobody can find us.

Still for the time being let's all anticipate the sweetly piping cuckoos forever serenading us with their very special brand of easy listening melodies. I suspect that sooner or later the runners and joggers will be up and about at the Woodberry Wetlands, a natural haven, where the birds and butterflies will almost inevitably make their summer home without any disturbance at all.

How good does it feel? At long last we can all run through those endless cornfields, gaze awe struck at those neat and well disciplined rows of daisies and think of the world as a decent and safe place to live in. Of course there are those who believe quite fervently that if certain politicians were to get their way we'd all be in a much worse place than could possibly be imagined.

For now though let's look forward to the spring equinox, the Easter rabbits hopping athletically from one spot of woodland to the next, the glorious snapping and crunching of Jewish matzos, moreish and absolutely addictive. At the moment I'm wearing my trusty pullover but I'd like to think that it won't be long before T-shirts and shorts become the order of the day. There is also an optimistic part of me that believes that England just might win the football World Cup in Russia this summer. There is, after all, no harm at all in dreaming.   

It's National Let's Laugh Day.

It's National Let's Laugh Day.


This is absolutely true. I kid you not. Today folks is National Let's Laugh Day. I know,  I couldn't believe it as well. Who'd have thought it possible? I'm being perfectly serious.  My reliable source tells me with a straight face that today is the day we should all abandon yourself to belly aching, side splitting laughter. Of course laughter is the best medicine but who knew that March 19 was National Let's Laugh Day?

 Perhaps it was inevitable that somebody would come up with this latest wheeze. You can't beat a laugh and in  a world that continues to teeter on the brink of some terrible, earth shattering event it's somehow comforting to know that somebody out there still believes that, regardless of circumstances, we should all take time out to see the brighter side of life with a good, old fashioned guffaw or, as they say nowadays, a laugh out loud time.

From the earliest days of Shakespearean humour right through to the knockabout, jolly hockey sticks comedy of PG Wodehouse, the human race has always found good reason to chuckle helplessly at the ever present absurdities and frivolities of every day life. We laugh at everything and everybody from comedians of today and those from the past, the music hall comics who used to get away, quite literally with murder and the stand up maestros who adore playing to the gallery.

My late dad would go into lyrical raptures about Max Miller, a comedian who revelled in naughtiness, innuendo, sauciness, double entendres and subtly delivered vulgarity that reduced most of his audiences to tearful laughter. There was the blue and the white book and Miller would spend most of his time on centre stage, innocently recounting racy stories about husbands, wives and anything related to salacious human gossip. Miller exposed all of the human vulnerabilities that at the time must have seemed like risque jokes that were perfectly harmless.

Throughout the ages comedians and laughter have become an almost essential antidote to the gloom and tragedy around us. But today is National Let's Laugh Day and maybe that should become a permanent fixture. Maybe the National Health Service should prescribe the appropriate medication for the tough times in our lives when days are not quite as straightforward and easy living as they should be.

Last week Britain lost one of its great comic treasures, a man who spent all of his career pouring out a veritable torrent of what might have been regarded as childish jokes and obvious social observations. Liverpool born Ken Dodd spent well over 50 years entertaining the whole of the United Kingdom with eccentric mannerisms, the tickling sticks, goofy toothed gags and that most eclectic community known as the Diddy Men.

It is, I think, common knowledge by now that Ken Dodd loved to be on stage and performing. But what Dodd may have forgotten was that at some point during his act the audience had to go to bed. Dodd, we were told, would skip out onto stage shortly after tea time and then find that most of his adoring audience were both sleeping and snoring their heads off at one o' clock in the morning.

But for all of his tomfoolery and court jester comedy, Dodd would have loved today because here was a  man with a genuine addiction to the world of cackling, giggling hilarity. Today after all has been a day devoted to those who simply want to laugh and wherever you are, maybe that should be made compulsory and part of the school curriculum.

My dad would also sing the praises of that great American wartime comedian Jack Benny. Benny, my dad would tell me, once walked out at the world famous London Palladium and by the end of the show, Benny's audience would be beside themselves with uncontrollable happiness. Every time Benny would quite casually walk out onto the stage without a care in the world. Then for the best part of ten or five minutes he would just stand in the same place, fold his arms in all innocence and then just stare at his audience without uttering a single word. He would look at his stunned admirers, gazing, analysing and wondering what on earth his audience were thinking of at the time.

By the time I came into the world at the beginning of the Swinging Sixties comedy had assumed new forms, new themes and new attitudes. Comedy had evolved into anti Establishment, cutting edge satire, ridiculing and lampooning TV celebrities and politicians, taking the mickey, grinning mercilessly at figures of authority and then stabbing knives into the backs of those for whom there seemed to be no legal comeback or recourse.

During the 1960s one programme That Was The Week That Was captured a TV market that may have been overlooked. David Frost, later to become a distinguished interviewer, broadcaster of distinction and political interrogator, introduced a programme that was not so much funny as downright outrageous. Both prime ministers, presidents, kings and queens were all fair game for Frost's waspish and acerbic tongue.

Then towards the end of the 1960s a vastly talented group of Cambridge intellectuals formed themselves into one of the funniest comic teams Britain had ever seen. Monty Python's Flying Circus was by far and away one of the quirkiest, gloriously silly and brilliantly inventive BBC comedy programmes ever seen or produced. It was years ahead of its time and marvellously, groundbreakingly innovative.

With Terry Jones, Michael Palin, Graham Chapman, John Cleese and Eric Idle all combining forces to provide comedy beautifully infused with huge helpings of spot on improvisation, magically perceptive social commentary and ridiculous routines straight out of the world of the unconventional, Monty Python's Flying Circus gave us the mad, the ludicrous and football playing philosophers such as Socrates taking part in the football World Cup. Sheer genius.

Then there were the legendary comics who made my dad's life complete. There was Tommy Cooper, the master magician, buffoon and bumbling funny man. Cooper was the man who once juggled a thousand handkerchiefs, dropped endless table tennis balls onto the ground and then completely forgot what he was doing only to find that his audience were still there but convulsed with more and more laughter. He would swap glasses around with all the professional coolness and aplomb of somebody who knew what he was doing but didn't really care if the joke fell flat on its face which was never invariably the case..

Back in the 1970s one Billy Connolly simply blew away the opposition with humour that had much that generated almost instant reaction. The Scottish Big Yin would give us anarchy, devil may care irreverence, swearing, profanity and explosively funny jokes that would live on in the memory. Connolly had energy, physicality, rebellion and the most fiercest sense of patriotism. Scotland, of course are the best thing since sliced bread and Connolly made no secret of the fact.

Lest we should ever forget there was Morecambe and Wise, my personal heroes. Eric and Ern entered my consciousness at a very early age and once there they continued to weave a spell that would always leave me totally entranced and hooked for life. The relationship of two men from the wartime music hall was a deeply powerful one that almost seemed telepathic. From the unforgettable breakfast sketch to the tune of the Stripper to the wonderful Andre Previn sketch where all the notes were played in the wrong order Morecambe and Wise crossed all classes, age groups and social backgrounds.

And so to the present day. The nostalgic among us will insist that there can never be another Ken Dodd, another Billy Connolly, Monty Python's Flying Circus or Morecambe and Wise. But of course every generation has its very own comic characteristics and idiosyncrasies. Now the comic landscape has brought us Ben Elton, Lee Mack, John Bishop, Lee Evans, Jo Brand, Jennifer Saunders and Dawn French.

The cynics will tell us that today's crop of comics are rude, challenging, boundary breaking, and recklessly scandalous in their choice of jokes. How can they possibly funny if they sprinkle their acts with rough and ready four word expletives? The defence for the charged would be that hundreds, thousands and millions pack out the halls and theatres of provincial Britain and the cities because they simply can't get enough, the biting humour, the gags that can only be good for the heart and soul.

So there you have it folks. It's National Let's Laugh Day and it has to be the proudest and most unexpected announcement I've made in recent times. To be perfectly honest I had no idea that this was the day we should all burst out with funny, tickle tummy day. Now come on everybody it's time for a lengthy bout of wisecracking, of rolling around in the aisles, of cracking a conveyor belt of jokes, laughing for the sake of laughing. It is after all National Let's Laugh Day and long may it continue.         

When Irish rugby union eyes are smiling. It's the Grand Slam.

When Irish rugby union eyes are smiling. It's the Grand Slam.


Not content with cleaning up at the Cheltenham Festival,  Ireland once again savoured one of its finest 80 sporting minutes. When Irish eyes are smiling everything seems like the perfect cue for a  round of Guinness for us. Tonight, a thousand dancing Michael Flatley look alikes will be tripping the light fantastic in a thousand pubs across Ireland and the West End of London.

Last week Ireland were crowned Six Nations rugby union winners and at a snow flecked Twickenham they rolled and rumbled over England with a heroic and  hard earned 24-15 victory despite a late, last gasp try for the home side. Late winter Saturday afternoons were somehow made for these rough and tumble, blood and thunder, growl and groan rugby union contests. We knew what we were going to get and we were not to be disappointed.

England had to win but failed somewhat grim faced into the bargain. Ireland played some of the most courageous. audacious and determined rugby ever seen at English rugby union headquarters. At the end of an edge of seat, cliff hanging and tantalisingly brilliant afternoon for rugby union, Ireland, often the muddy contenders rather than the outright winners, did all they had to do on the afternoon.

It was somehow fitting that on this greenest of all St. Patrick's Day that the nation that gave us those fleet footed leprechauns from Southern Ireland should build one of the most formidable of defensive fortresses and shut out an England side who were desperate for just a few crumbs of comfort. But today is St Patrick's Day and Irish rugby was somehow fated to lift the famous Six Nations Trophy.

When Johnny Wilkinson scored that gloriously tumultuous conversion which brought home the World Cup for England at the beginning of the 21st century, you almost felt that there were just a few Irish rugby union supporters who were seething with jealousy. And so it was that in the late days of this winter 2018 that Ireland, full of pumped up aggression and whole hearted purpose, gritted their teeth, confirmed their all round supremacy and rammed home, quite literally, some home truths directly into the home side's face.

Ireland, not for the first time, opened up the game with a series of well rehearsed set pieces, cool and carefully calculated bursts into the England half and quick witted passing across the back of the English defence that sent most of Eddie Jones' white shirts scampering forlornly after green shirts. The Irish forced, jostled, pushed, trundled and barged their way into a sea of white shirts, driving and shoving their way into the English half like a well drilled, marauding army.

For the best part of the first half at least Ireland were a force of nature without quite hitting the heights of their encounters against France, Wales, Scotland and Italy. The first half itself was a scrappy, fractured and fragmented contest. riddled with errors from both sides but  there was always a hint of the Irish brilliance that had so illuminated their earlier matches.

This had to be Ireland's day, a day designed for Irish sporting glory and for what seems an age ago, those gleaming green shirts turned to each other at the end before back slapping, hugging each other with manly pride and then realising that this was the moment to forget about the outside world and revel in this most definitive of sporting achievements.

And yet England did have their rather isolated of moments during the first half. Mario Itoje, at second row, seemed to be winning most of the line outs with the most domineering of leaps. Then fly half Owen Farrell began to find room to manoeuvre with lightly tapped passes forward into Irish territory, Dylan Hartley fashioned some important breaks forward and Elliot Daly was on hand to score what became face saving tries for England.

Sadly, for coach Eddie Jones the seeds of this English revolution may take a considerable amount of time to grow and bloom. Occasionally England were reduced to messy scrums that collapsed without trace with not so much as whimper or flag of surrender. There was a time of course when England were unbeatable, unplayable and flawless on their home turf. Now they were easily knocked off the ball. fumbling and destabilised, grasping and gasping and uncharacteristically flustered.

True, the Irish had none of the suave swagger of the French, the cavalier spirit of the Welsh nor the red blooded defiance of the Scottish but they did fling the ball around Twickenham with the flair, freedom, and an all conquering abandon that never remotely suggested that defeat would ever cross their minds.

Immediately Ireland hurtled into spaces that England thought they'd blocked, chasing, breathing fire, menacing and constantly troublesome. With only ten minutes gone the Irish made their first vital breakthrough. A long grubber kick seemed to spend an eternity in the air before slowly falling to the ground where Anthony Watson fumbled crucially. At this point Garry Ringrose swiftly pounced on English indecision and the Irish lock lunged at the ball before planting the ball over the English line for an electrifying try that turned down the Twickenham volume to a painful silence.

Then after a fairly moderate exchange between both sides and a rather drab, scrappy first half, the second half gave Twickenham's deeply appreciative rugby union crowd, a second half that came to life and then bubbled over with gripping hand to hand rugby that flowed and swayed from end to end. England thrust the Irish pack effectively back and the Irish returned the compliment favourably. But this was never to be going England's day nor did it ever seemed likely.

When CJ Stander extended the Irish lead once again in spectacularly fluent style. it seemed that the pints of Guinness and Magners cider were being stocked up and ready for consumption. Towards the end of  the game though Ireland had to stand firm and unyielding in the face of an English stampede for the line. It was rather like watching a green wall wobbling precariously and teetering on the edge.

So it was that England pressed forward in vain knowing that this had been the most victorious week in Irish sporting history. Ireland were brashly confident, carefree, dashing and daring, all boys together, collective team spirit, united, quite possibly reckless in possession at times but better, stronger and far better equipped for the big occasion. If you're in the mood for a party you would be well advised to pay a visit to the West End. The celebrations could well last well into the small hours of Sunday morning. The Grand Slam was in Irish hands.

Whatever have the Russians ever given us?

Whatever have the Russians ever given us?

It's a good question isn't it? Whatever have the Russians ever given us?  Recent events would suggest that the Russians have carried out all manner of dastardly deeds, not only behaving deplorably but upsetting and angering the whole of the British government. The Russians have committed the ultimate crime and they should be utterly ashamed of themselves because this is the conduct of a nation that this summer will be hosting football's blue riband event the World Cup this summer.

But in a quiet shopping centre in Salisbury a couple of days ago, there was a vile and despicable incident which reminded us once again that the fragility of world peace has once again been highlighted quite starkly. This time though the Russians had their finger prints all over this one and no matter their emphatic denial there can be no denying that when the subject turns to double agents and spies there can only be one country responsible for this shocking violation, man's inhumanity to man. How on earth did this come to pass?

The nerve agent used to poison a perfectly respectable father and daughter has all the hallmarks of something much more sinister and serious than any of us could have thought. It is the realisation of a John Le Carre novel, shifty and devious goings on at KGB headquarters, dark shadows in draughty corridors, plots and counter plots, glasses of whiskey liberally laced with traces of cyanide, potent concoctions designed to both maim, paralyse and kill. Will the human race ever learn to get on with each other?

And now for the repercussions ladies and gentlemen. Vladimir Putin, the grizzly bear from Russia, is grumbling and muttering with fury and barely suppressed hostility. How dare Britain accuse his beloved Russians of anything unsavoury and untoward? It's not as if this has ever happened before. The Russians have a number of black marks on their record. This is not without precedent. And yet once again they wash their hands of this ghastly attack, this unforgivable misdemeanour.

Putin is now indulging himself in lengthy sessions of shoulder shrugging, protestations of innocence and it certainly wasn't us governor. Putin glares and glowers at his inquisitors rather like those war trial criminals who refuse to accept the so called malicious accusations made against them. Why would the Russians stoop to the lowest and most disgraceful depths, to using a nerve agent poison that had the obvious potential to kill and murder innocent citizens just going about their every day business?

Meanwhile back in Britain and Westminster the voices of outrage and disgust can be heard throughout London and the British isles. Little did Prime Minister Theresa May know it at the time that the job itself would be enormously taxing, stressful and filled with complications. But she must have suspected that something would go wrong eventually.  First, there was the nightmare that is Brexit, an exhausting political assault course that may go on for ever and now Russian skullduggery of the most evil kind. Or maybe they haven't done anything and the British are just making this all up? This is all a huge conspiracy to make the Russians feel very small and inferior.

But surely the evidence is mounting up against Putin and his cronies and they may find that they haven't a legal leg to stand on. Who else to blame for trying to blatantly poison to death their fellow man and woman? Switzerland, Luxembourg, San Marino, the Isle of Man? It all seems utterly  preposterous and unnecessary because the rest of the world has enough on its plate without agonising over spies, double agents and the poisoning of the human race. The underlying suspicion is that Russia did it and that's final. It's all very sleazy and mysterious and none of us know how things will turn out. Now though, is the time for remaining calm.

Now the finger of blame and condemnation is pointing clearly at our European neighbours from the Kremlin. This morning Moscow will awake with sore heads and severely wounded pride, innocent as the day is long, but indirectly victimised for something that had nothing to do with them. Victimisation and persecution are terrible things and for the next week or so Russia will find themselves at the centre of completely unwarranted attention.

Maybe this is the time for the whole of Russia to take a step back, keep calm and keep drinking several bottles of vodka and giant samovars of lemon tea. What about a game of roulette? Now that's just asking for trouble. A contemplative game of chess perhaps? I've got it. Let's plonk a thick Cossack hat on our collective heads and dance happily into the sunset.

We could continue this childish act of tit for tat finger pointing, futile scaremongering tactics and general unpleasantness. Russia has crossed the line, gone too far and the punishment is deportation of its most important diplomats. They must never be allowed to do this again, this is their last warning and if  they do it again, drastic measures will be taken to kick you out of Britain permanently.

And so we return to the hallowed corridors of the House of Commons where you can almost hear the roars of thunderous disapproval, the moral masses who are simply baying for Russian blood, the infuriated ministers boiling over with red faced annoyance and wishing there was something, anything they could do to defuse this ticking time bomb.

So it is that we return to this summer's football World Cup which, by some stunning coincidence, is being held in Russia. If Boris Johnson had his way England would be withdrawn immediately and prevented now from taking part in a tournament that is one of football's crown jewels. This is not the time though for knee jerk reactions and only sanity to prevail. Sooner or later those Russians will either admit to their culpability in this whole sorry episode or justice will be seen to be done. Keep calm and keep drinking vodka.

The Cheltenham Festival- a horse racing showpiece.

The Cheltenham Festival - a horse racing experience.

After winning the Six Nations rugby union title over the weekend,  you'd have thought Ireland would be cock a hoop, ready to celebrate long into next week and wishing that every year could produce the same results. The Irish love a party, revel in the craic and go completely potty when their sporting heroes win so handsomely and conclusively which is pretty much what the Irish did to clinch the Six Nations title.

So when somebody tells them that they can keep drinking huge quantities of Guinness for as long as they like deep into this week, then very few objections will be aired. And there is one sporting extravaganza that completely unites Ireland for just a few triumphant days, when everything seems tickety boo, hunky dory and just right.

This week sees the return of the Cheltenham Festival, horse racing at its most atmospheric and expectant. But when a vast majority of the Irish racing community comes together this week we will know that all in the land is well and the whole of Gloucestershire will raise several glasses, toast their friends and family and hope that some kind hearted bookmaker will find it in their heart to reward them with substantial amounts of money.

Because that's what, essentially, Cheltenham is all about. It is one of the first of the high profile race meetings of the year and the punters and experts will gather at Cheltenham with a pint of beer in one hand, a betting slip in the other and all of those understandable anxieties betting folk always feel. It's the feeling they get when the money they've handed over to the bookies so willingly and unhesitatingly suddenly takes on a new meaning. The chances are it may never be returned.

But it's the Irish contingent at Cheltenham that seem to hold most of us in thrall. Most of the faces, jockeys and trainers converging on Gloucestershire will come from Dublin, County Cork, Limerick and most of  Southern Ireland. They will proudly parade their beautifully groomed horses around the paddock, tenderly holding onto their sleek thoroughbreds and then retire to the stands with hope and ambition while all around a huge congregation of racing fans will cheer themselves hoarse.

Horse racing, if you'll forgive me, has never really sent my pulse racing or left me lost for superlatives which is what sport should always do or maybe I've missed something. Of course the  thrill of watching your horse gallop around a course and then sprinting for the finishing line has to be the best feeling any punter can possibly feel.

But the Irish will be there in that glistening Gloucestershire idyll in their cheerful hordes, laughing joyously, swigging back several barrel loads of beer and exchanging light hearted banter on every subject known to mankind. From the ridiculously silly price of Guinness to the extortionate sums needed to keep living, the Irish will have a joke about everything and anything because that's what Cheltenham does to them.

Then having picked up their winnings the Irish will look forward to St Patrick's Day in a couple of days time and wonder if this should be the cue for great outpourings on the subject of literature. They will sit in their pubs, recite several lines from James Joyce, quote from that great literary lion who goes by the name of Oscar Wilde and then finish off the afternoon with some sweet as sugar poetry from William Yeats.

And yet the centrepiece of Cheltenham has always been the Champions Hurdle, the Champion Chase and the Gold Cup and for most racing enthusiasts this has to be their equivalent to the FA Cup Final or the final Test match at the cricketing Oval. They have trained their horses to the peak of physical condition, bristled with excitement at the prospect of victory and then quietly slipped into the background until that special day when the trainers and jockeys emerge from their races with the broadest of smiles.

On the first day of Cheltenham it's the Unibet Champion Hurdle Challenge Trophy which will take pride of place and horses with those peculiar sounding names will be trotting gingerly towards the starting line with an almost uncanny sense of occasion. Their ears will be alert, they will respond to gentle encouragement and then charge off into the distance.  Cheltenham is one of those richly sociable and upmarket horse racing meetings where public and celebrities alike mingle naturally with a twinkle in their eye.

So it is then that the combined talents of Buveur D'Air, Charli Parcs, Elgin, Faugheen, John Constable- yes folks Constable complete with saddle, jockey and trainer as opposed to paintbrushes- Melon and last but not least Mick Jazz. It's at times like this that as a social observer of these events that you begin to wonder if the above named horses have ever been consulted when it came to the choice of their names.

When all is said and done it probably doesn't matter to these beautiful creatures and you can be sure that they don't mind at all. Still, who am I to pass judgment on something I know very little about anyway? As long as the horses are well and content, none of us should be overly concerned and besides it's the taking part that counts.

Something tells me that the first day at the Cheltenham Festival will be filled with the joys of spring and by the end of the day, most of the punters will feel privileged that they were ones who won a fortune on the day and they were the ones whose judgment and knowledge on the day were spot on.  It is a day when horse racing's greatest characters simply want their day to go on forever. They can hardly be blamed. 

Gunners pass through the Watford Gap.

Gunners pass through the Watford Gap.

Just when they thought that things could hardly have got any worse, Arsenal re-discovered their attacking zest and brio. After those demoralising defeats to Brighton last week at the Amex Stadium, the Carabao Cup Final and Premier League defeats to the breathtaking Manchester City, Arsenal must have been wondering when things would ever get better. There are times when teams suddenly find themselves in the deepest of quicksand and struggling desperately to keep their heads above water.

But finally Arsene Wenger could at last break into a reluctant smile, afforded the luxury of a convincing 3-0 victory over a Watford side who gave an impressive impersonation of a team whose thoughts were quite obviously elsewhere and whose ambitions were restricted to a missed Troy Deeney penalty. Then Watford took themselves on a relaxed stroll around the Emirates, possibly admiring the state of the art architecture at the Emirates and totally disinterested as a viable attacking force.

Whatever it was that Wenger made abundantly clear in the Arsenal dressing room before the game clearly had the desired effect. Wenger has never been one to break valuable crockery and cutlery preferring perhaps the more studious approach. Maybe a copy of  Proust perhaps although that may not be the case. Still the wisdom of Wenger clearly had the desired effect and the 'Wenger Out' banners were momentarily dispensed with and for perhaps the first time in ages the real Arsenal came out to play.

Arsenal, knowing full well that nothing less than a victory would have been good enough to pacify the restless natives, came out of the starting blocks here at the Emirates quickly and positively as if all those unnerving setbacks had been nothing but a figment of their imagination. In the opening stages of this game, Arsenal were afflicted with a case of jitters and nervous apoplexy but then rapidly picked themselves up, built up a steady head of steam and opened up the Watford defence. It was rather like a huge red table cloth being laid out on a banqueting table, a feast for Arsenal's hungry appetites.

Now Arsenal began to reveal all of those very thoughtful and profound passing movements which used to serve them so favourably in seasons gone past and only briefly at the beginning of this season. There can be little doubt that they have stuttered and stumbled through recent matches in painstaking and laborious fashion. Some Sunday lunchtimes seemed to agree with Arsenal and their attacking bio-rhythms seemed to be functioning with an efficiency and speed of thought that left the visitors grabbing hold of the ropes.

Once again Arsenal splashed a whole rainbow of bright colours all over the Emirates, all of the patterns, angles and advanced thought processes that from time to time belonged to the Nou Camp or the Bernabeu. Arsenal clipped the ball gently between themselves rather like passionate gardeners carefully pruning  back lifeless branches and then mowing the lawn with the most loving touch. Suddenly it all seemed to be coming back. This was the kind of football Arsenal fans had grown up with under Wenger: tender, delicate and sensitive, with polish, pizzazz and panache.

Arsenal, at times seemed to float and flow, glide and gallivant around their pitch as if the game of football was so terribly logical that you began to wonder why Watford had bothered to turn up at all. There was the short, quick, quick, slow, slow samba and the measured bossa nova that completely hypnotised the Watford defence. There were the sweet triangles, the passes that were almost hand made and beautifully embroidered, the sharp, staccato movements that looked as if Arsenal had invented them on the spot and finally the three goals that decided the outcome.

For what must have come as a pleasant relief to Arsenal's system, Mezut Ozil reminded the home fans that he can still caress and look after a ball in much the way he'd always done. Ozil controlled and protected the middle of the park with a subtlety, cunning and assurance that had somehow deserted him for quite some time. The German midfield playmaker does resemble Liam Brady at times but there are moments when Ozil does look to the skies in search of any intervention.

When Mohamed Elneny made his first appearance in an Arsenal shirt for quite some time it seemed that Arsenal had returned to something like their former selves. Elneny, all dreadlocks and adventurous intent, roamed and roved forward into the Watford half  like a man hunting for gold. El Neny was full of hard wired industry and energetic endeavour, frequently breaking up the flow of any semblance of a Watford attack with wholesome determination.

Sead Kolasinac, fully bearded and legally aggressive, was full of bristling bite and forceful running, often linking up with El Neny and Ozil, a player of sturdy presence and a beneficial influence on the proceedings. Kolasinac was here, there and everywhere, covering swiftly, tackling effectively and then taking utter command of the Arsenal midfield.

In the seventh minute, Arsenal got the goal they must have thought was beyond him. A free kick was swung in to the Watford penalty area and a straight line of Arsenal defenders rose in unison. But Watford had criminally ignored Shkodran Mustafi. Mustafi, similarly bearded, leapt the highest and totally unmarked, steered his perfectly guided header wide of Watford keeper Karinesi and high into the net.

From that point Watford began to disappear into the North London air like a harmless firework, gentle sparks only occasionally threatening to take the law into their hands but then finding there were legal obstacles in their way. Watford produced powder puff attacks that simply fizzled out just over Arsenal's half way line. It was rather like watching a yellow balloon drifting over the suburban rooftops and then landing on some fetching patio. Only Troy Deeney, Watford's ever alert striker, seemed to show any desire or inclination.

Shortly Arsenal were writing the most impressive signature on the game. In the second half Arsenal wrapped up the three points with a second goal. Another rippling Arsenal movement on the edge of the Watford penalty area ended up with the ball deftly laid back to Henrik Mikhitaryan, whose firmly struck shot flew past the Watford keeper in match winning style.

The icing on Arsenal's now properly decorated cake came after a long goal kick from record breaking Arsenal keeper Petr Cech, celebrating a landmark number of clean sheets. The ball fell kindly to Pierre Emerick Aubameyang and the Arsenal striker effortlessly rounded the Watford keeper for Arsenal's third.

So here we are at the business end of the Premier League season and it all looks as though it may turn out for the best for Arsenal. The fans leaving in their droves from the Emirates streamed out of the ground thinking good thoughts rather than negative ones. Of course there were the empty seats of the fed up and disenchanted but it may not be the worst season they've ever encountered. Now for the completion of the Italian job in the second half of their Europa League tie against Inter Milan.

The New Musical Express - the end of an era.

The New Musical Express - the end of an era.

Here in Britain - and in many parts of the world- the final edition of the music magazine New Musical Express must have meant the end of their world. For the perpetual romantics the New Musical Express was and will always remain one of the most popular, accessible and mainstream music magazines ever produced. But now time may well have caught up with NME and the smooth vibes and cool modernity that the magazine never really lost has now been condemned to that old jukebox and record player in the sky. Many a flood of tears have been shed.

Founded in 1952, the NME perfectly captured the mood of the nation, the essential zeitgeist of the 1950s, Bill Hayley and The Comets, Elvis Presley, Eddie Cochran, Jerry Lee Lewis, The Platters and the Ink Spots. In fact the NME represented much more than the rock and roll phenomenon that came to characterise the 1950s from day one. If you carried a copy of the New Musical Express in your pocket or shopping bag you were regarded with an agreeable nod in the street and complete admiration.

At the time nobody could have predicted just how great the audience the magazine would attract, a magazine, after all designed, for youngsters with inquiring minds and a genuine understanding of the growing vinyl record market. There must have come a point though when the NME would one day burn itself out. The demographic it seemed to aim at was the aspirational teenager with money in their pockets, a teddy boy hairstyle, leather jacket and a comfortable seat in a Soho coffee bar. Then the boys met the girls and a new music magazine for them had arrived like a meteorite from up above.

But that may have been the beginning of it all. Little did the magazine know that in the following years and the revolutionary 1960s, music would change its image and style so radically that eventually the New Musical Express would have to move with the times and decade. That it succeeded in doing so was perhaps a glowing testament to its timelessness and durability.

When the 1960s dawned the rock and roll juggernaut seemed to come to a grinding halt and the teenagers saw in the New Musical Express a magazine that would do its utmost to reflect and accurately summarise the latest bands and singers who simply exploded onto the pop music stage, retaining their proud position as pre-eminent stars. Far from shirking its duty though to inform and enlighten its fans about the power that the singles and albums charts could still exert, the New Musical Express gave us more detailed articles about Manfred Mann, the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, the Who, Deep Purple, Led Zeppelin, Procol Harum and the Animals. What a magazine and what a read it must have been.

It was a magazine that was so up to date, topical and memorably informative that regular subscribers to the NME would pine for the next edition to come out in case they might have missed out on something so vitally important that it had to be bought at all costs. Then there were those who may well have hoarded hundreds and thousands of the magazines under their beds and refused to let go of them once in possession.

I have to make a perhaps shameful confession here. The New Musical Express was never my preferred choice of magazine. But I can only assume that there must have been extensive references to forthcoming dates for band tours, announcements of historic import about new bands, new singers, new albums and new singles. If you were around during the 1960s the magazine pushed back all of those repressive boundaries, opening up a revealing world about their pop icons and highlighting everything that was relevant to that week or month.

Now of course, following the disappearance of the Melody Maker, most music fans may well find themselves in a desolate no man's land. How on earth are they going to find a music magazine that caters for all classes, backgrounds and tastes?  Music of course is the food of love and the absence of a popular music magazine probably seems tantamount to a major setback in their lives, an empty vacuum that can never be filled, a craving that can never be satisfied.

From a personal viewpoint there is something about a weekly magazine that is just irresistible, not perhaps an incurable addiction or a simple, harmless obsession that can't be kicked because if you do your friends or peers may look down at you. They may sneer contemptuously at your old Dansette record player and then think, rightly or wrongly, that you've lost touch with this generation.

My magazine collection revolved around the football magazine Shoot, a magazine so easy to read and topically absorbing that every Thursday I would find myself drawn to it like a moth to a light. There were the articles written with that familiar dash of simplicity, integrity and skilful directness that must have sold in millions at the time. But then other football magazines got busy and shoved  away Shoot to the far off terraces and stands of the lower divisions.

After hoarding a sizeable collection of Shoots which admittedly became unmanageable, the finest football magazine in Britain was wiped off the publishing map. Sales were dwindling dramatically and the magazine, following the bravest fight of them all, vanished. How I'd miss those League ladders featuring every team in every footballing division, the Panini stickers with every player in every team, the variable shirts, the long hair, the Adidas logo on their football shirts, the concentration on the smaller clubs, the endless inclusion of facts, figures and glorious trivia.

So as New Musical Express readers weep copiously into their mugs of tea or several cans of Foster's nectar amber it is time to lament the passing of another magazine. It is of course not a catastrophe because sooner or later some enterprising music enthusiast may well produce a press release proudly telling us about a new and vibrant music magazine, a publication that will stop the universe in its tracks and leave us all gasping for breath.

For the moment though a hollow sadness will pass over the pop, cum- rock community. It seems unthinkable and inconceivable that one of the most influential of music mags is no longer available for sale in your local newsagents. But the NME will always be remembered with the kind of affection that very few of us can explain. It may seem that here was one magazine that will always be irreplaceable but the memories will never fade. Rock on as they say. 

The spring equinox- it feels like spring.

The spring equinox - it feels like spring.

So how was winter for you? Did you pull on several layers of clothing, switch on the central heating in November, close the curtains or blinds and just hibernate? It may seem that winter has been with us for far too long, a bitterly cold period of time where the volatile moods of the British climate have taken us across a wide spectrum of emotions. But we can see, quite definitely, a light at the end of what seems the darkest tunnel.

For the last week or so of course some of us must have been convinced that the whole of Britain was about to be swallowed up by snow, brought to a juddering halt by freezing temperatures and maybe, on several occasions, completely immobilised by forces that seemed to be beyond our control. But the end is now in sight and today it felt like spring again but without the songs about Amsterdam.

Of course it's been difficult and dreadfully disruptive but we hunkered down, battened down the hatches and kept snug and cosy in front of the flickering images of our dear old TV. Spring is on the threshold of breaking out into the big, wide world. It'll almost seem as if winter was some ancient piece of parchment, a season that only visits our shores during those seemingly eternal months of November, December, January and February.

Now though the Ides of March seem to be blowing through the land with a quiet, gentle and unobtrusive wind. Still, our faithful trees look terribly sorry for themselves, an air of pained neglect and rejection in every single branch, a sense that nobody much cares for them and a feeling of loneliness that can hardly be imagined.

Still the whole of nature is beginning to feel much better about itself. There is a much more positive and proactive look about Manor House. The thick snows which, quite literally, covered our driveway have now melted into oblivion, vast swathes of pavements now clear of slush, slippery ice and the threat of more to come now no more than an unfounded rumour. March is here, assertive, decisive, ready to make its presence felt, greyness, whiteness and gloominess an unsettling memory perhaps.

Now is the time to look around us, gaze across the British landscape and revel in the blossoming growth of a brand new season. Soon our gardens, parks and playing fields will be alive with yet another display of nature's most colourful flowerings. Indeed we are on the verge of the spring equinox, the season of re-birth, of surging optimism and picture postcard renaissance. How we've missed you spring. You've been cowering away for too long, all locked up and repressed, shivering uncomfortably in the draughty corners of a winter hideaway.

For the time being though there is a spine tingling chill in the air, sharp winds still piercing through the soul like a cutting knife. It is not quite time to celebrate the arrival of the bluebells, the crocuses, the wonderfully heartwarming daffodils and those cute snowdrops that decorate most of our sprawling parks. It almost feels as though spring is preparing itself with several dress rehearsals, a major run through with the script and then bracing itself for opening night when the curtain goes up and the lights go on for yet another royal command performance.

We all know about spring's spectacular outpouring, its festival of colour, its dancing, singing, prancing, cavorting and carousing showtime parade. Suddenly the desperate desolation and aching sadness of winter will be replaced by those brilliantly brazen reds, yellows, greens and blues, their subtle shades of orange, purple and green.

 Then overnight the carnival will be complete with those happy go lucky chrysanthemums, those deliriously overjoyed tulips, swaying and jiving to that rhythmic beat that only spring can give us. Until that is, summer takes over and then we get an entirely different set of lyrics. Spring does though feel very much like the beginning of some wonderful orchestral piece, a lovely and delicious sonata, a grand overture that becomes simply and beautifully intoxicating.

Soon we will be welcoming some of the sweetest scents that spring can possibly offer, dainty daisies that eventually become chains, bright shafts of sunlight flooding through our kitchen windows without fail every March. What follows are a series of beefy, meaty rain showers that may have lulled us into a false sense of security. But we know, with some degree of certainty, that this is just a temporary occurrence, something that is transient and will just pass through as if nothing had ever happened.

At some point the garden lawnmowers will make their yearly comeback, bursting out of our sheds as if released from captivity. Across the whole of Britain a buzzing, humming sound  blasts out a vociferous tune over a thousand fences and walls. Lawnmowers are now an established part of the British springtime ritual, rather like treading through forests of crunching leaves or conkers during autumn.

Finally the pruning shears will be donned yet again and a whole host of rosebeds will be lovingly tended to before the secateurs rip down thick bushes. Then we'll look at the primroses that are beginning to peek through the gathering gloom of winter's final hurrah. Without any prompting the birds of Spring make their melodious entrance.

In no time the cuckoos sit high and innocently on the most fragile of branches, announcing themselves mellifluously with that lovely, uplifting lilting note that begins to sound like the conventional nursery rhyme. The early morning call of the cuckoo is unmistakable and sounds like the most perfectly tuned flute. We tend to take it for granted that the cuckoos will always come out to play on the first day of Spring because they always have and they're almost integral to the way of life we've always lead at the this time of the year.

So there we are folks. Spring is about to spring eternal and a thousand poets have already composed their charming verses. Before you know it'll be Easter and Pesach and we'll all be skipping around maypoles, sitting outside country pub gardens in the fading pink glow of an early evening sky and then fondly imagining that rabbits and chocolate eggs are synonymous with spring and that sooner or later the days will become lighter and brighter. Surely we can feel it in our bones. 

Sir Roger Bannister, the four minute mile great, dies.

Sir Roger Bannister, the four minute mile dies.

Sir Roger Bannister, who died this weekend, lived his life with the kind of dignity and humility that very few sportsmen could ever have hoped to match. Bannister came from an age of impeccable manners and chivalry, an athlete and middle distance runner of courtesy, kindness and generosity, a man who. on one windy day back in May 1954, broke the ultimate record, achieving greatness and uniqueness in a matter of seconds.

On 6 May 1954 on the Iffley Road track in Oxford, Bannister, all youthful zest and unparalleled modesty, broke the four minute mile. On reflection it seems the most unremarkable unachievement given the fact the record was shortly broken by the Australian runner John Landy. But taken in isolation Bannister's almost gallant exploits on the day are there to be commended for ever more.

For those of us who have only seen documentary footage of the day with the benefit of TV, it is hard to imagine what exactly must have been going through Bannister's mind. Here was a man ardently pursuing a career in medicine and yet, for one day only, his only overriding objective was to beat the stopwatch, creating in an instant one of those defining moments in sport, a record breaking moment to savour and recall with enormous pride.

 Now it was that  time seemed to stop, hanging around for a moment, pausing for a while before finally deciding that those who witnessed Bannister's victory would never ever forget where they were when they saw it. And yet Bannister was never one for hogging the headlines, seeking cheap publicity and above all making outlandish claims to being one of the greatest sportsmen of all time.

 Bannister was never one for egotistical boasts or pretentious posturing. He was never a show off or fancy dan, nor a notorious hell raiser. He took the excessive and well deserved praise quite literally in his elegant stride. It may have been 64 years ago but even in later years Bannister was never given to wild outbursts or controversial comments. From that distant day in 1954 Bannister gave well mannered lectures to both schools, colleges and universities, all the time accepting the kind words from those around him with a gracious chuckle and maybe a self conscious shrug.

And so back to the day itself in 1954 when three middle distance running maestros lined up on an athletics track in Oxford and dreamed the impossible dream. Roger Bannister, Chris Chataway and Chris Brasher were all well established and reputable middle distance runners of some note. The task was simple. Break the four minute mile and worldwide fame would be acknowledged on the spot. Miss out on the record and we could all forget about breaking records for a while at least.

But one man Roger Bannister knew that this had to be his date with destiny. He knew that if he broke the four minute mile, life would never be the same. Maybe he could, once and all, throw away his medical books, forget about the stethoscope for ever and concentrate on the exalted heights of  Olympic gold medal recognition.

The truth of course was that Bannister simply had a point to prove and  life as a hugely respected neurologist would hold far greater appeal. It hardly seemed possible but you could indeed combine the very different worlds of sport and medicine without batting an eyelid. And so it was that he would participate in one of the most enthralling middle distance races seen for many a year.

Tall, dashing and ramrod straight, Bannister leant forward at the starting line, brushed back the floppy hair trailing over his eyes and then just burst forward like the sprightliest of gazelles, striding towards the front majestically and then lengthening his stride with those long legs that seemed to go on for ever. He ran like the wind, increasing the blistering pace, timing his movement with perfect judgment and then launching the winning, lung busting run to the finishing line with almost superhuman acceleration.

What must have been going through the mind of that spellbound Oxford crowd that day? Were those academic students in the cloistered colleges of Oxford simply blown away by what they'd seen that day? Did they write up a stunning thesis about the human condition? Or maybe they were just delighted to tell their family and and friends that they were the ones who saw it all happen.

With barely a lap to go Bannister, glancing over his shoulder, must have privately thanked both Brasher and Chattaway for their significant role in the day. Both Brasher and Chattaway may have been sterling pace- makers but they had been wonderfully complicit in the most magnificent middle distance race they'd ever seen.

Faster and faster Bannister went until eventually he disappeared over the horizon and couldn't be overtaken because it was his day and his moment. On the final bend, Bannister kicked for home with the most powerful displays of sprint finishing. Moments later he hurled himself across the finishing line, face drained of any emotion, eyes shut in blissful contemplation and those streaks of hair dripping with sweat. Maybe his future would lie in neurology but a day in Oxford had been all about epic record breaking. The world of athletics would always appreciate the extraordinary feats of Sir Roger Bannister. A gentle gentleman of the track.   

World Book Day

World Book Day.

It's a tricky subject, one we occasionally talk about and one that is still up for discussion. In fact it's one of those deeply contentious issues that tends to dominate middle class dinner parties and every educational establishment up and down the land. Is reading good for you? Should children be taught the rudiments of the English language therefore sparking a lifelong passion for reading?

When I was a kid my mum did her utmost to encourage me to read and take out whole piles of books from our library. At the time of course most kids tend to turn a blind eye to reading because it's either boring, not even vaguely interesting and besides there are all of those hundreds of pages to tackle. Who on earth, we agreed as kids, would want to engage in an activity that required so much mental and emotional attachment? And then there's the small matter of time, the right moment and the most suitable environment in which to read.

A couple of days ago Britain celebrated World Book Day, a genuine festival of literary appreciation designed to get kids interested in the simple joys of reading books. We were reliably informed as kids that if we read constantly, eagerly and consistently from a very early age we would all grow up to be professors, lawyers, doctors, mathematicians and learned members of society.

 But this, certainly for me, seemed like blackmail because if we didn't read, most of us would end up illiterate, stupid, ridiculously underqualified and if you didn't have a million degrees from university you'd also end up unemployed and on the scrapheap for ever more. It was the classic con trick. It was the eating of greens syndrome whereby if you didn't do as you were told, you'd never grow up to be strong and healthy.

After a perhaps shameful reluctance to read when I was very young I now know that in order to keep up with everybody else and remain informed about all things newsworthy and global, you had to sit down in a quiet corner, carefully absorb both the basic plot, narrative and dialogue of a book before becoming totally fascinated by the delicate prose, the rich construction of the story line and the very essence of the book- its thrilling ending.

If World Book Day heightened awareness of anything then it succeeded in persuading a vast majority of kids that books and their wonderfully informative content can change their lives, strongly influencing the direction their lives may take them. Initially, as a child at least, the very thought of walking into a library and picking up two or three books for general perusal seemed horribly daunting.

The usual procedure used to be - and may still be the case- is that you wandered into your local library, browsed at your leisure the multitude of racks, chose the ones that immediately take your notice and then silently handed over your books for stamping. Then you were given that very specific time of three weeks ago to finish off the book which never seemed to be enough. So you muttered impatiently and then knuckled down to the business of reading your books, one after another and then realising that you had to finish them by a certain date, you suddenly realised that if you didn't complete the books you'd suffer the ultimate punishment of a small fine.

Libraries are great are they not? At my local Gants Hill library, with its still magnificent three slender columns outside the building, there was that memorable ticketing system. In retrospect, it almost seems prehistoric now but in those days there were roughly three or four rows of very impressive looking boxes containing innumerable tickets. These were filed away into strictly alphabetical order and to this day I can still see those neatly stacked but compact boxes of tickets.

And yet to this day I'm not sure what eventually lured me into a library on a regular basis. How did I fall for the seductive loveliness of a library, the literary geniuses who were and remain some of the finest story tellers of all time. What did I think I'd ever achieve by reading most of the massive back catalogue of classics from the pen of Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy, Joseph Conrad, John Galsworthy. Leo Tolstoy, George Orwell and the overwhelming talent of Marcel Proust and his almost biblical Remembrance of Things Past.

In my case I suppose I was simply looking for something to do. My unemployment record would become a source of enormous shame and embarrassment and I had too much time on my hands. After a brief introduction to the classics I started on Somerset Maugham who, in my personal estimation, is still the greatest short story teller of all time.

It wasn't long before I found myself treading that long corridor in Ilford Town Hall, picking up and putting down book after book in the library with the kind of curiosity that should have been with me for many years before. It was now that I took out a couple of cricket books without ever knowing at all why I was doing this. Something did, quite without any explanation at all, spark something in me.

Now I would be drawn to a Secker and Warburg volume by the great early 20th German author Thomas Mann. Here was the biggest book I'd seen up to this point and yet it hooked me instantly. I started some of his most thought provoking novels and found it captivating. There was Mann's lifelong addiction to classical music, orchestras and most hilariously of all, his dog Basha. I'd never seen anything quite like it.

I'm not sure in what order they followed but I felt some strange obligation to read as many classics as I could find. It was, quite literally a voyage of discovery and every so often I would just devour words, form eternally mental impressions of  the characters on these pages, revel in the fluidity of the grammar, the vivid imagery that emanated from the book and ultimately the beneficial effect it was having on my curious and receptive mind.

Joseph Conrad, most notably, was the one author whose sentences and very literary descriptions leapt off the page with an almost athletic agility. Those turbulent tales of sea faring, sailors and beautifully worded paragraphs will, I suspect, always occupy a very special place in my heart. Conrad told me not to be frightened of the written word, not to be afraid of expression and hugely descriptive writing, to go with your gut feeling and just decorate your stories with a gorgeous palette of colours.

Then one day I just happened to be wandering around a WH Smith in Ilford when the lights were switched, a current of electricity surged through me, bells started ringing and one author took my breath away. His name was Thomas Hardy and the front cover was so attractive and well designed that it seemed a crime not to flick through its glorious pages.

Here I'd now discovered an all time literary hero. Here I'd chanced on a thick 1,000 page set of some of Hardy's well known novels. I was just hypnotised and entranced. I had to buy this formidable giant of both 19th and early 20th century literature. You'd be forgiven for thinking that a book with well over 1,000 pages would have anything of real significance inside it. It could be said there were too many long words, the text was far too complicated and it seemed for all the world as though I shouldn't have bothered. But I did and I have to tell you it was the best investment I could have made at the time.

I then proceeded to just read everything I could find by Thomas Hardy. At school my brilliant English teacher had introduced us to Hardy's love poetry. That was it. Tess of the D'Urbevilles, Far From the Madding Crowd and the Woodlanders were just starters on the menu. I devoured, studied and swallowed up some of the most poetically lyrical stories I'd ever seen.

After a lengthy spell in the company of variously Franz Kafka, Rudyard Kipling, George Eliot, James A. Michener, William Faulkner, Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain and Sir Walter Scott I turned my attention to the literary colossus that is Charles Dickens, an English literary great whose novels became so legendary and, in the 20th century, immortalised by the medium of TV and radio that most of us if asked could probably name a few off the top of their head.

When I look back now it almost seems like a dream, something that may have been a figment of my imagination but I can still remember giggling at Martin Chuzzlewitt. Throughout most of Dickens body of work there was a constant thread of social realism, comedy, farce on a number of occasions and above all the sheer absurdities that all of his characters seem to possess. But Dickens splendid use of words, his manipulation of the language to suit his own purpose was a joy to behold.

So it is then that we return to World Book Day, last week acknowledged by all of those book worms who still patronise the likes of Foyles and Waterstones with an avid interest. All books should be treasured and if there are people out there who claim they're not interested in reading and never really read a book then you may have nothing to reproach yourself for.

The fact is that reading can be both surprisingly enlightening and good for the mind. It can raise your eye-brows in the most humorous way and build up a whole series of mental pictures that will always remain clear and lucid in later life. Of course it seems pointless at times but then again maybe reading gives a much broader perspective on life and improves our sum of knowledge in a way we would never have thought possible.

The world of publishing is rather like a concrete jungle now with more budding authors ready to be discovered than ever and those like me who write because they like writing. Go to Facebook and you'll find a thriving community of complete unknowns writing on science fiction, horror, romance, memoir, thriller and tales from their heart.

If World Book Day highlighted anything then it had to be the eye-popping variety and breadth of potential readers out there. Sometimes though I begin to wonder as if I might have been wasting my time by reading so excessively. Does anybody really care how many books you may have read over a lifetime and therefore does it really matter whether you have read War and Peace or 1984 or not? You're never ever going to be tested or indeed feel any different about life as a whole because essentially reading is all about satisfying your curiosity on any subject of your choosing.

Still I have read the likes of Dickens and Hardy and for whatever reason that made me feel proud of myself and happy knowing that such literary brilliance has been read by me. In the greater scheme of things though reading has always been the personal pleasure that it's always been and always will be. Books have featured quite prominently in my life and even if I hadn't picked up a book all those years ago I doubt whether anybody would have minded.

From a personal point of view reading prompted me to use the information I'd acquired from books and helped in the creation of the three books I've written. And to the youngsters out there who may be just as sceptical as I was then you're entitled to your scepticism because that's good. But I'll never forget the Thomas Hardy years. No wonder they named an actor after him.