My books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes

My books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes.

I know. It's been quite a while since my last bout of shameless self promotion but I thought I'd indulge in yet another round of plugging and pushing of my books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes. I know I'm being biased but I think both are extremely enjoyable, entertaining and a force for good. They're heartwarming, uplifting and a leisurely journey down memory lane.

No Joe Bloggs is my finger clicking, toe tapping, rocking and rolling, moving and grooving, funny, moving, nostalgic and lyrical memoir now available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online. It's about growing up in Ilford, Essex, my parents, grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, my favourite movies, music, bands and singers from the 1970s, TV celebrities and programmes from that era, warm descriptions of the West End and East End of London, loads of pop culture from that era and amusing pen portraits of football teams such as Arsenal, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Aston Villa, Everton, Manchester City, Manchester United, Liverpool, Spurs, Leeds United and Chelsea.

If you're interested you might like to follow me on Twitter at @joemorris2018 where you might find details of my blog. I did include my personal tweet on my blog if you go to my Twitter feed but if not then I can only apologise but it should be there.

Anyway now for some more details about my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes now available at Amazon, Waterstones online market place, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online. It's my take on England, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, the England football team at the World Cup, their victories and defeats, the players and managers, British seaside resorts, West End department stores in London. Joe's Jolly Japes is jolly good fun, a happy go lucky read with plenty of more purposeful prose.

And so ladies and gentlemen I give you No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes, my books, my words, my feelings and my emotions. They are books packed with description, the rich tapestry of life and oozing with vibrant vitality, books with acute observation and books with the English language I've always embraced.

So folks that's my latest book promotion and if you fancy some quiet moments of reflection, rib tickling laughter and a gentle chuckle and giggle then No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes are definitely the books for you. Now if you're just fed up with politicians and those people who simply want your vote in the forthcoming local elections in England, then may I heartily suggest my books as an alternative.

It's hard to believe that the likes of a certain Donald Trump, Boris Johnson, Amber Rudd or indeed Theresa May would even consider spending  an evening in the company of my books but personally I think they could be in for a pleasant surprise. All are currently preoccupied with rather more urgent issues of more pressing significance but hey I think they would well advised to read about an ordinary member of public whose life story in No Joe Bloggs would certainly bring a smile to their collective faces.

Now then we're rapidly approaching the holiday season so if you're looking a good read on the beach or by the swimming pool then both No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes are certainly worth a read. You can also find No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes at Amazon Kindle. For those who love those moments of wistful nostalgia, you might like to walk down reminiscence lane with me.

Wembley Stadium- is this another step down the road to ruination?

Wembley Stadium- is this another step down the road to ruination?

One day we knew it would happen but were never quite sure when that day would be. In a world of multi media, social media communication and sometimes frantic double and triple speak, we feared the worst but probably felt that the traditional national home for football and rugby league from time to time, would fall under the spell of commercialism and brash materialism.

For the last couple of days or so Wembley Stadium has been the central character in the most serious of West End plays. Wembley Stadium, if the rumours are correct, is about to be sold off to the highest bidder. The jewel in the crown of English football will no longer be regarded as the ultimate destination for those who harbour dreams of winning the FA Cup. It could, allegedly, become a  heavily sponsored football stadium, not exactly an advertiser's dream come true but potentially the next high profile venue for American football.

A gentleman who goes by the name of Shahid Khan who owns an American football team called Jacksonville Jaguars and a share in Fulham football club, is believed to be at the centre of an audacious bid to grab the keys of Wembley Stadium. The figure is rumoured to be one billion pounds which in modern terms may sound like chicken feed. But for those of us who still consider Wembley to be almost the most precious asset in sporting mythology it does feel like the comparatively new Wembley has become irrevocably dragged into a cattle market where the auction price becomes the only concern.

But oh how did it ever come to this? How on earth did one of  our most desirable of national treasures find itself trapped in some very emotional firesale? This of course is the age of the quick buck, mind blowing millions and billions of pounds slowly eroding the moral and spiritual fabric of the national game, the game we've always loved, looked forward to, dreaded at times, resigned ourselves to when the chips were down or when it looked as if we would be on the threshold of victory.

The truth of course that in these cliche ridden times football was never like this in the old days. Little could Johnny Haynes have known when he became the proud recipient of the first £100 wage packet, that well over 50 years later that the game he knew and respected, would be the unwitting victim of football's crazy, zany obsession with vast sums of money. It is a game where obscenely rewarded players lick their lips at the  ludicrously mammoth millions of pounds in their bank balances.

Wembley Stadium is now the ongoing focus of our attention, suddenly thrust into the spotlight of perhaps its most unwelcome sight. Can it be true that American football may well become the potential new owners of English football's greatest football arena? Will those giant helmeted men with thick padded shoulders and muscular arms the size of Florida real estate, finally inherit the English earth? It does seem that the powers that be at FA headquarters may be powerless to stop the torrent of money about to land on its doorstep. This could be the first step down the road to ruination for the national stadium and for  England's devoted fans this could mean disaster. But fear not it could all work out superbly and we're probably worrying for no reason whatsoever.

Throughout the ages Wembley Stadium, both old and new, has witnessed the full gamut of emotions, tears of grief, laughter, demonstrative managers, equally as emotional players and the FA Cup Final in the May showpiece at the end of the season. It is that grand, palatial footballing theatre where the main protagonists look for their day in the sun, their quest for fame and celebrity. It may be their one, and possibly only opportunity, of a lifetime to hold aloft the metaphorical pot of gold.

Now though it looks as if Wembley Stadium may just be sharing the same stage with those bullish, beefy and  belligerent American football players, growling, scowling, barging and shoving their way to thrilling touchdowns and a place in  American footballing history. It could well be the place where gritty gridiron comes head to head with good, old fashioned, pulsating English end to end football where cheerleading American glitz and glamour collides with the cut and thrust of the Premier League.

What we do have though as a proposal is an English national team whose stadium may well be at the heart of a money spinning revolution. Realistically this massive windfall could well be of huge long term benefit to the game at every level of the game and that has to be good news. We now know that the game could be offered a kings ransom for all the right reasons. Football's youthful schoolchildren, often the most important source of concern, might be the ones to gain most handsomely if Shahid Khan gets his way.

There was even the amusing suggestion that Khan might have been considering moving Fulham into Wembley Stadium. Some would regard this as just a humorous musical hall joke but the Cottagers did have rather a famous wartime comedian by the name of Tommy Trinder so this may not be a complete absurdity. Besides, Fulham did have some very lucky fans and they were in the Premier League until a couple of seasons ago. Realistically though Fulham may have to content themselves with life by the River Thames. Craven Cottage always did seem much more homely.

So here we are on in the high tech, deeply enlightened world of 2108 and Wembley Stadium. the stadium that meant so much to so many thousands and millions of footballers throughout the years, could be about to be overtaken by one of the richest men in the world. Can football ever be able to bring itself to be present at the Burger King National Stadium, or the KFC Chicken National Stadium, the Coca Cola National Stadium or quite appallingly, the Mcdonald's National Stadium. Of course the rationale is simple and nobody for a minute would ever dream or begrudge football its commercial endorsements, of feathering its nest, its inordinate wealth nor its pursuit of lifelong financial security.

As somebody though who has followed the Beautiful Game for many years, witnessing both its ups and downs while always keeping an eye on its future, you fear that one day football's continued welfare will be permanently jeopardised and damaged by the greedy corporate world where only substantial profit margins matter. The fear is that football will eventually sink into a world of pampered affluence, a product and commodity rather than the sporting festival which it has always been.

There is now a frightening recognition of where the national stadium may find itself in say 20 years time. The optimists will tell us that nobody could take Wembley out of the hands of its devoted supporters, that body of men, women, children and families who have given so much unqualified care, attention and love to it over the years. But the indications are that all that will be changing quite shortly with the arrival of a new generation, a potentially difficult and challenging climate within the game and of course hardened scepticism from those who believe Wembley will never ever be the same again.

And so I leave you with this thought. On the day the England national team won the 1966 World Cup Final against West Germany there were very few present that day at the old Wembley who thought that the Wembley they'd become totally enamoured of, would one day sacrifice itself to multi billionaires, an American football franchise and an American money maker whose modest English football club whose home nestled by the Thames. It must have seemed like some fantastic dreamscape, an advertising pipe- dream, some futuristic novel where spacecraft come down to Earth and aliens rule the world. Still, it may be happening.

I can still see Jack Charlton dropping to his knees when the 1966 World Cup Final whistle went for full time, Bobby Charlton holding his head in shocked disbelief, Bobby Moore, smiling and angelic, Nobby Stiles, shirt flapping and dancing deliriously around the old Wembley as if it were yesterday. There was an exhausted  Geoff Hurst bending forward, staring around the old stadium as if he'd just been given the keys to the Promised Land and barely able to believe what he'd just seen.

You could call me a romantic fool and maybe the accusation could be true but there is something about this life changing moment for Wembley Stadium that fills me with fear and spine chilling trepidation. What will happen if the Jacksonville Jaguars are joined by the Pittsburgh Steelers? What next? Will Wembley become the regular host to Stars and Stripes American flags with forests of waving red, white and blue banners or will it simply be known as that uplifting FA Cup Final venue where the dreamers and fantasists blend in with those hard bitten pragmatists?

 These are the teams who just want to win the FA Cup because it could be the difference between survival, a new stand or never to be heard of again. For as long as anybody can remember Wembley was that lush light green carpet of grass where Bob Stokoe gleefully hopped, skipped and jumped onto the pitch in his natty coat and hat after Second Division Sunderland had just beaten high flying Leeds United. It is the stadium where Sir Bobby Robson finally got his just desserts after his Ipswich Town had won the FA Cup when the old First Division League Championship had agonisingly slipped from his hands in one notable season.

There was the day when on a sun lit afternoon in 1976 the six foot giant known as Lawrie Mcmenemy smiled warmly for the cameras as his hugely underrated Southampton had upset all odds with a 1-0 victory against Tommy Docherty's Manchester United, supposedly upper class or middle class opponents depending on your point of view.

Who could ever forget the day when two Argentinian players simply won the hearts of the Spurs faithful with quite the most complete of Cup Final performances in 1981? After a dull and uninspiring first game on the Saturday both Osvaldo Ardilles and Ricky Villa returned to Wembley on the following Thursday for a replay to rejoice in. Villa would score the most remarkable solo goal Wembley had ever seen, slaloming his way around perplexed Manchester City defenders, twisting and turning before scoring one of the finest goals ever seen in any FA Cup Final.

Now of course the new Wembley must face its immediate future in the hopefully safe hands of new owners, with the intriguing prospect of American football team and confident in the knowledge that those who genuinely care about it will continue to be regarded with the same kind of respect that those the world over have always seen it. For those who live in a happy-go- lucky corner called Jacksonville this could be the beginning of something that's much bigger than they could ever have hoped for. 

Mo Salah- another Liverpool Kop legend wins the big prize.

Mo Salah- another Liverpool Kop legend wins the big prize.

When it comes to footballing legends and renowned goal scorers Liverpool have got a pretty impressive pedigree. Last Sunday it was announced that another Anfield matinee idol entered into the  club's highly esteemed Hall of Fame. His name is Mo Salah or Mohamed Salah, he comes from Egypt and he has the hairiest and most hirsute beard just for good measure which probably means nothing in the bigger scheme of things but it does lend his character just a hint of  debonair charm.

Of course we know what the Egyptians have historically given the world and when the season of 2017-18 is recorded for posterity and memorably written about the name of Mo Salah may figure much more prominently than even he must have thought possible. The former Roma winger, outstanding scorer from all angles, came back to haunt his old team in Liverpool's astounding 5-2 first leg Champions League semi final at Anfield.

But perhaps, quite appropriately, this may be the time to reflect on the magnitude of Liverpool's achievements when the Champions League was known as the European Cup. Forever more, prolific goal scorers at Liverpool will always be lovingly remembered for their heroic, all conquering exploits. How the Liverpool Kop will reminisce misty eyed at the men who made it all possible during the 1960s, 1970s and then again later in the 1980s.

There was that most multi faceted and versatile of sports men Kevin Keegan, a bundle of destructive dynamism, a bustling busybody, a figure of perpetual motion, as capable and adept in the air as he was on the ground. Keegan ran his opponents into the ground, driving his body forward like some lightning fast sports car, tackling, chasing, scurrying, scampering, creating spaces where none had hitherto existed, inventing and instigating movements which to the rest of his Liverpool colleagues probably seemed highly unlikely. And  then he punched his fists in the air passionately when the goals went in. Keegan scored goals for fun and he scored regularly and systematically.

Then there was John Toshack, a tall, gangling, loitering, menacing and lethal goal scorer whose headers whistled past goal- keepers with that brutal ferocity and velocity that very few of his like could ever emulate or surpass. Toshack, a Welsh international striker of some note and influence, was a powerful forward who connected with his headers at near or far post with the sweetest timing. He and then super sub David Fairclough were like striking assassins who thrived on meting out the ultimate punishment of goals scored on those big European Cup nights for Liverpool.

Of course during the 1960s there was the unstoppable and matchless Ian St John and Peter Thompson both classically trained at the goal scoring finishing school. St John always seemed to be in the right place and the right time and would score consistently for Liverpool whenever the occasion demanded. Rather like his Scottish partner, Thompson had electricity in his feet, speeding, shuffling along the wing deceptively then injecting pace and turbo charged acceleration into his wing play that would leave his full backs gasping at Merseyside air.

And so back to the present day. Mo Salah picked up, richly and deservedly, the Professional Footballers Association Player of the Year award quite certainly the first Egyptian to win such a glittering award. Throughout this season Salah has given quite the amazing demonstration of clinical, bloodthirsty goal scoring. Some of his goals both at Anfield and away from home have not only defied description but also the laws of gravity. He strikes a ball with the most fearsome whip and delivery. The shots have been addressed in much the way that a golfer hits his first shot down a fairway, a clean and precise follow through head up before hammering the ball first time with a superlative accuracy.

With the season rapidly approaching its final stages Salah has now scored an incredible 43 goals in 47 appearances, a figure that his similarly idolised predecessor Kenny Dalglish may well have envied if he was the jealous type which quite clearly he isn't in any sense of the word. Dalglish, like Salah, had an almost mental photograph of where the goal was, turning defenders inside out like the proverbial spinning top and striking the most immaculately judged shot into the roof of the net. Salah moves onto passes swiftly, reads the intentions of Roberto Firmino and Sadio Mane and charges headlong towards goal before drilling his goals into the net with formidable force.

And so it is that Mo Salah now finds himself perhaps on the verge of what would undoubtedly be the crowning moment of his short career, a Champions League Final against either those famous European Cup serial winners Real Madrid which would be a repeat of the 1981 European Cup Final when Alan Kennedy scored the winner in Paris, or the much respected and deeply feared Bayern Munich who could be lying in wait.

Goal scorers come in all shapes and sizes and it is at times like this when we go back to those halcyon days when goal scoring was not so much a habit, more a way of life, second nature, habitual, expected and somehow customary. Somehow they were always there, on the spot, everywhere, determined, persistent, all over the field, wonderfully ubiquitous, an adorable pain in the neck to slow moving defenders who were never quite up to the mark.

During the late 1970s Bob Latchford scored what seemed a mammoth 30 goals for Everton in one season. Latchford was stocky, muscular, broad shouldered, hard and legally aggressive. Latchford ran and rampaged forward onto passes from the likes of Dave Thomas and Martin Dobson, firing home goals with sheer brutality and brusqueness. Latchford was never afraid to mix it with the big boys and the goals came thick and fast.

Further back in time one man, coincidentally also from Everton, broke all manner of goal scoring records. His name was Dixie Dean and back in the late 1920s, Dean, all swept back tidily black hair, scored a barely believable 60 goals in one extraordinary season for the Goodison Park side. In hindsight Dean's goal scoring prowess has to be seen in context. It is hard to believe that today's athletically gifted defenders would have been quite as charitable as they must have been then.

And so it is time that we must return to our man from the land of the Pyramids and the Pharaohs, a man rich in Eastern promise. Mo Salah is quite rightly the PFA's player of the year and if either Keegan, Toshack or St John happen to be leafing through their football annuals at any time they may care to consider that a gentleman from Egypt will now be counting the days down to the World Cup in Russia during the summer with some relish. Some of us will be quietly anticipating a goal scoring machine but not at the expense of Gareth Southgate's England. Mo - this is your stage.

National Stop Snoring Week 2018.

National Stop Snoring Week 2018.

Oh yes! I've been waiting for this week since the beginning of this year. In fact my sleeping patterns have been severely disrupted just thinking about it or maybe I should go to bed earlier. You know what today is or this week. Yes we all know that Kate, the Duchess of Cambridge has given birth to her third baby and fifth in line to the throne and we know that it's a boy. But there are far more pressing issues at hand and we should address them with all due haste because the nation needs to be informed. If  I don't tell you what this week is it may lie heavy on my mind or perhaps that should be a pillow.

For today and this week is National Stop Snoring Week and you know what that means. It's time to examine that age old medical condition which has long been the source of many a sleepless night, deafening blasts of heavy snoring, grunting and much nocturnal disturbance from millions of homes around the world. In fact so distressing has snoring become that nowadays it seems to have taken over from diets, weight loss and keeping fit, as the predominant topic of discussion.

How often have we turned over in the middle of the night after an incessant session of noisy, good old fashioned snoring designed to send the neighbours into furious paroxysms of wall bashing and barely controlled anger? It all seems to start from the nose, travels down to the mouth and before you know it the throat is completely blocked, the epiglottis is totally bunged up, the chest sounds like an old concertina and here begins another night of snoring and driving your wife, husband, girl or boyfriend completely potty.

But this week the subject of topical discourse will turn to  one of those timeless problems that every so often confront us when stress, anxiety, quite possibly depression and any other underlying cause gives us food for thought when somebody mentions snoring. Sleep deprivation is undoubtedly one of those nightmarish scenarios where nothing seems to work, whether it be counting sheep or shifting restlessly about in bed.

So what do we normally do when the lights go out?  Some of us drop into the deepest sleep and suddenly it all happens? One of us will normally vehemently deny that we snore at any point during the night because we're perfect sleepers, paragons of virtue and besides your partner is just as guilty and responsible as you are. Have they heard themselves recently? There follows denial, innocence, insistence that it wasn't me and that it had to be you and then a grudging acceptance that maybe we do but not for that long.

Throughout the decades and years the cures for snoring have been varied and farcical. There are nose clips, sleeping in different rooms for the time being until one of us has finally decided to reach a suitable compromise. Then you trudge into a room of your own, find a comfortable spot to sleep in and hope against hope that even, in slightly different circumstances, nobody will hear you snoring and maybe time will eventually be the great healer.

 Of course the arrangement may still fail and you can still hear your partner blowing away loudly through their nose and mouth and blasting your eardrums quite emphatically. At times the sheer volume and audibility of snoring can be reasonably compared to a low flying aircraft over Heathrow or drilling from a nearby building site. And yet the latest advances in herbal remedies and homeopathy medicine have yet to find some tablet, pill or liquid that can finally silence the nightly brass band.

Throughout the ages sleep has always been one of those peculiarly inexplicable medical dilemmas that no amount of research can ever get to grips with. We plonk our heads on our pillows every night confident in the knowledge that within a couple of minutes we'll all be gently lulled into the most satisfying slumbers but then it just gets very complicated and annoying.

 How to solve a problem like sleeping? You shut out all of those perhaps subconscious concerns and daily worries, blinking your eyes interminably, plumping up the pillows and then just allowing drowsiness to give way to a good night's sleep. But frustratingly it hasn't worked because the mind is still wide awake and the possible becomes impossible. Insomnia sets in and when you next look at your alarm clock it's three in the morning, the radio is still on and you haven't slept a wink.

Having eventually negotiated the one overwhelming obstacle of insomnia you begin to make one of the most horrendous noises ever heard in Western or Eastern civilisation. Suddenly your ribs are rudely nudged and dug, pillows will be desperately flung in your direction and one of you will have to make allowances for their discomfort. So you head for the kitchen, drown your sorrows in tea and resign ourselves to whatever the night may hold.

Snoring of course is one of those highly divisive issues that can never reach the highest seat of governmental debating chambers because those in authority have got far more urgent priorities on their mind. Who cares if you snore? It certainly isn't the end of the world and besides there is a school of thought which believes that if you were to lose a little weight and stop raiding the fridge you might be able to concentrate on the snoozefest without any trouble at all.

So there are you folks. Let's hear it for National Stop Snoring Week. Who cares about the fortunes and welfare of Vladimir Putin, the daily ramblings from a man called Donald Trump, North Korean hot air and childish aggression or even Jeremy Corbyn, a politician who is slowly sinking into some treacherous political swamp, sucked into a dark abyss where only he knows what he's doing.

It's time to get back to the vital news agenda. It's National Stop Snoring Week and how have we criminally overlooked snoring as one of the those crucially important arguments that have to be thrashed out at great length and in some detail. Wouldn't it be good if we could just drop off to the most contented sleep, forget about the rest of the world and then wake up the following morning fully refreshed.

 Then you're reminded that yet again you've been snoring so loudly that it's a wonder the neighbours haven't complained and they'll probably take you to court if you keep making that infernal noise while you're sleeping. National Stop Snoring Week? It almost sounds like some sinister threat doesn't it, some veiled warning that could have dire consequences. But who cares hey? I'm just going to sleep on it?

It's Sancheers from Alexis as United reach the FA Cup Final.

It's Sancheers from Alexis as United reach the FA Cup Final.

The last Chileans to make a song and dance during the FA Cup Final were the Robledo brothers for Newcastle United during the 1950s. Yesterday Alexis Sanchez gave the Chilean tourist board its biggest publicity boost as Sanchez was instrumental in the downfall of  Spurs who, for perhaps the first time in their temporary Wembley home, looked distinctly uncomfortable.

 Those sofa cushions never really looked the right fit and that kitchen wasn't nearly as spacious as their old one. Still, Spurs suffered one of those rare off days when the kettle simply refused to work and that central heating system had to be replaced. And that boiler was rattling away making the most disturbing of noises so all was certainly not well for Tottenham. Suffice it to say their FA Cup semi Final against Manchester United had an almost after the Lord Mayor's show feel about it for the North London side.

For the eighth time in succession Spurs fell over a bucket of water when it would have been easier to just move the bucket away in the first place. Manchester United, who have just struck a rich vein of winning form despite last weekend's banana skin slip at the hands of bottom of the table West Bromwich Albion, have reached their second FA Cup Final in three years and have something really useful to fall back on while their city neighbours do their utmost to rub their collective noses in it.

The age old mutual loathing between Manchester City and United is almost as old as time itself but although City are still gloating at their Premier League coronation United can still find a cosy piece of furniture to sink into. The FA Cup may well soften the blow for Manchester United and manager Jose Mourinho, although far from being overly delighted, will frown and fret at the way United could have been in City's place without going through all that hassle and aggravation of labouring through those tiresome FA Cup rounds. Still, as they say, beggars can't be choosers and United go back to Wembley for the FA Cup Final on May 19 with the scent of glory wafting through their red noses.

Yesterday it seemed to take ages for Tottenham to get their bearings right and by the time the discovery had been made, United were coasting towards victory rather like a barge on a canal. For the home side  this was Spurs at their most muddled, awkward and incoherent, a stuttering and pedestrian performance that emphasised some unnerving defensive weaknesses. Spurs could never really get going properly at any time throughout this flowing, gripping and intriguing FA Cup semi Final.

For the first time in what seems an age, Wembley Stadium did sound genuinely atmospheric and vocal, a throwback to the old days at the old Wembley Stadium when 100,000 was the capacity and the Cup Final had marching bands followed by 'Abide With Me' to look forward to. But both Spurs and Manchester United really did make a raucous racket with an electrifying noise coming from both ends of the pitch. At long last somebody had determinedly turned up the volume without a hint of self  consciousness.

But even with home advantage Spurs seemed to be dwelling almost fondly on this season's Premier League achievements. It had been reported before the game that Spurs manager Mauricio Pochettino had little or no interest in the FA Cup heavily prioritising both the Premier League and Champions League although as the season has unfolded both became realistically beyond their reach. Then an air of dreadful complacency has set in and Spurs have now found that only a top four place can salvage their season.

Regrettably the year hasn't been at its most obliging for Spurs and although that year hasn't ended in a one perhaps 2018 will bring other more lucrative compensations. A place in the Champions League next season could be the platform Tottenham were really looking to establish themselves on and besides the new White Hart Lane is ready and waiting to be unveiled in August. The huge money spinning benefits to be yielded by Champions League qualification for Spurs can hardly be underestimated.

Spurs strong defensive spine of Kieran Trippier, Jan Vertonghen, Davinson Sanchez and Mousa Dembele saw stars in front of their eyes and promptly lost their focus. Throughout the season all four have featured regularly and positively at the back for Spurs. But yesterday they were frequently jolted out of their stride, almost embarrassingly flat footed and never really came to grips with United's quick thinking, quick witted attacking force.

From the start it did seem as if Spurs would grab United by the scruff of their neck and drive home their attacking supremacy. Dele Alli, one of Spurs most vivid, lively and vibrant players, began to trick his way through an often static Manchester United defence. Now Spurs made their decisive breakthrough. A long, floated ball down an exposed United flank found Christian Eriksen whose  perfectly driven cross found Alli who lunged at the ball before steering the ball comfortably past the United keeper David De Gea. Spurs were a goal ahead before Jose Mourinho had had time to produce a snarl.

This was now the springboard and catalyst for a wave of United counter attacks which swarmed forward in ever increasing circles. Suddenly Spurs were now pinned to the ropes, marooned at sea, grasping at anything, clinging on for dear life. The Mourinho psychology was beginning to take effect. It seemed that the intensity of Mourinho's stare, the brooding face and the menacing glare would spark United into life. It did and Spurs were now in hasty retreat.

Chris Smalling and Phil Jones were now galloping forward into huge acres of Wembley's hallowed turf. The now exceptional talent of Paul Pogba was exerting the most powerful influence on this FA Cup semi Final. Pogba was rather like a man who'd just been given the keys to the door whereupon a treasure chest is found in the dirt and dust. The Frenchman could well be the midfield enforcer and natural creator of goals United have been looking for. Now Pogba returned the astronomical millions spent on him with some of the most stirring displays in a Manchester United shirt.

Then there was the evergreen Ashley Young, at 32, still capable of holding his team together, forever economical in his choice of passes and never afraid to lead by example. It is hard to believe that the former Watford winger is still running around like a young gelding in a field and not for a moment did Young look out of place. Nemanja Matic, the former Chelsea defensive holding midfielder gave United a shining gloss and lustre that somehow made United look complete. Matic gingerly sidestepped challenges with all the lightness of touch and devil may care dexterity of a player much younger than himself.

But it was up front that United were regaining their foothold on the game. When Jesse Lingard, Alexis Sanchez and Romelu Lukaku were joining forces and methodically ripping up Spurs now feeble resistance, the game had tilted back in United's favour. United equalised shortly after an incessant attacking bombardment and were now on the front foot rather than the back. Alexis Sanchez powered his header into the back of the net from an inch perfect cross from the ingenious Paul Pogba.

From a lightning sequence of short, snappy passes the ball was quickly shuttled across Spurs teetering back line. Ander Herrera was now looking almost unplayably dangerous every time he touched the ball. The ball was slipped to Alexis Sanchez and after the easiest of touches from Lukaku,  Herrera  made no mistake with a thumping shot that whistled past Spurs keeper Michel Vorm. United were now in their element and threatened to run away with the game from that point onwards. It was now no coincidence that former United boss Sir Alex Ferguson was watching his former charges with a smug look of self satisfaction on his face.

And so it was that Spurs narrowly missed out on another FA Cup Final and suddenly the ghosts of 1991 are beginning to haunt Tottenham. True, there are no Paul Gascoignes in Spurs ranks but then this may have been considered as something of a relief. Gazza did polarise opinion and the extremes of his behaviour may have worked against the present day Spurs team.

Unfortunately this was not to be the kind of day that Spurs must have been hoping for and now Manchester United will now renew acquaintance with Chelsea in a repeat of the 1994 FA Cup Final. That day United simply steamrollered Chelsea with a barnstorming 4-0 win in steady rain. There is a sense from a neutral viewpoint that some of the more recent FA Cup Finals are turning into replicate photocopies. How ironic that Mourinho is facing the club who launched his career in English football. Maybe just maybe Mourinho will manage the briefest and most private of chuckles. Only football's most proficient of script writers could have planned it this way. Cheer up Jose.

Arsene Wenger leaves Arsenal - professor leaves the Emirates with honours.

Arsene Wenger leaves Arsenal- the professor leaves the Emirates with honours.

In the end he was never likely to be pushed but he left with a good deal of dignity, humility and decorum. Arsene Wenger, after 22 years of silver salver service and golden years of football management, has finally taken his leave of the club he's never likely to forget but in recent years found himself to be  the unfortunate victim of circumstances. Then the Frenchman was almost hounded out of his job by Arsenal fans who they felt had not only run out of ideas but also the admirable capacity to win the Premier League again.

There are times when a football manager must feel like the loneliest man in the world, insulted, almost psychologically abused, tormented and rejected by the supporters who once idolised him Many was the occasion when Wenger must have felt both marginalised and horribly mistreated by an Arsenal fan base who probably felt they should have won the Premier League every season. This though is the kind of wishful  thinking that goes against the law of averages at every level of sport.

So it's time to look back at the remarkable achievements of Arsene Wenger. Wenger was the Arsenal professor, the brilliant analytical brain, the deep thinking and cerebral football manager, the first manager to impose the strictest of dietary regimes, rigorous fitness programmes, a superbly disciplined approach to eating the right food, conditioning on the most advanced level and an obsessive commitment to playing the game the right way.

When Wenger walked into the old Highbury during the summer of 1996, many of the hardened snipers and critics were convinced that Arsenal hadn't really researched this one. In fact so unknown was Wenger that even the security guard outside the Highbury marbled halls could have been forgiven for denying the Frenchman entry and insisted that he either show his application form or just confirm his identity.

At the time Bruce Rioch, who had just brought the magnificently stylish Dennis Bergkamp to Arsenal, had played out his contract at Arsenal, leaving Arsenal in its healthiest state for years. Admittedly they had yet to win any major honour although they had beaten Sheffield Wednesday in both the League and FA Cup Final in 1993 under George Graham. But their last League title- the 1989 old First Division League championship with the final kick victory against Liverpool at Anfield, had felt like some remote island and many years distant.

Then a gentleman wearing distinctive glasses, with a thick thatch of predominantly black and just a few white patches of white hair, held up the red and white scarf of Arsenal. Little did we know then what would follow. Nobody had heard of the Frenchman with an utterly undistinguished managerial career at Monaco and who had only come to prominence because somebody at Japanese club Grampus Eight had seen hidden potential in him. 

Overnight Arsenal were a team transformed, emerging from a chrysalis or perhaps they were some wondrous changeable chameleon, no longer the subject of ridicule, mickey taking and parody. No longer were Arsenal boring, boring and boring and blissfully content to put up the defensive shutters when a goal had been scored. Gone were the days when Tony Adams, Lee Dixon, Steve Bould and Nigel Winterburn would throw a colossal cordon across their back four deliberately and cold bloodedly luring teams into the most wretchedly premeditated offside trap.

But the days of the late and great David Rocastle, Paul Davis and Paul Merson had now passed into some vast footballing museum. Rocastle had quite the most intellectual of all footballing outlooks, comfortably controlling the ball, leading by example and looking around him constantly for the most appropriately telling of passes in the right area and the right time.

 Davis was tall, absolutely authoritative at all times, never ruffled or flustered and a man who became something of a fully qualified midfield engineer for Arsenal, always tweaking and tuning the Arsenal midfield with the most skilful of touches. Sadly too there was Paul Merson, who though one of Arsenal's most immensely popular of players and a rightly heralded England player, could hardly control his private life and the debilitating vices that came with his talent. There was the agonising partiality to drink and alcohol, the endless spiral of gambling and general wine, women and song debauchery.

And yet in the summer of 1996 all of those high jinks, high life decadence and nightclub shenanigans came to an end at the old Highbury. Arsene Wenger, the ultimate disciplinarian, the no nonsense task master was having none of this. The Frenchman's blue print philosophy on football bore no relation to the wildly outrageous antics that had so disfigured English football since the late 1970s. Wenger demanded sophistication on the pitch, manners off the pitch, a correct dress sense and a fastidious attention to detail on the training pitch.

Soon the players arrived for Wenger in the smartest of procession. Wenger discovered a promising Juventus winger called Thierry Henry, an equally as competent midfield player called Patrick Vieira, another startlingly fast winger in Anders Limpar and a Dutch wing sorcerer in Marc Overmars. Then Wenger discovered a blond bombshell in Emmanuel Petit. In a matter of years Wenger had mixed up all of the disparate ingredients and overnight fashioned a football team with the most artistic inclinations, the most vivid imagination and a passing game cut from the finest cloth.

In no time at all Wenger had guided Arsenal to the Double, a whole conveyor belt of FA Cup Final victories and then there was the season when Arsenal remained unbeaten from August to May. These were the 'Invincibles' an Arsenal team who went an entire Premier League season unbeaten and never looked likely as if they'd ever lose at any point. Of course there were close shaves but when Wenger lifted the Premier League trophy for the umpteenth time it seemed as if the Frenchman would continue to produce unstoppably mesmeric and winning teams for the rest of his career.

Suddenly the rot set in and after beating Sheffield Wednesday, Newcastle, Southampton, Hull, Aston Villa and Chelsea in a dizzying merry go round of FA Cup victories narrowly missing out on the Champions League trophy against Barcelona and then notching up all of those much coveted Premier League trophies, Wenger seemed to run out of steam. The well preserved engine had now broken down, the irresistible momentum had now gone and the stardust had been blown away for good.

Yesterday Arsene Wenger, undoubtedly one of the greatest Frenchmen ever to lead an English football club drove out of the club he'd painstakingly moulded, chipped, carved away at and finally smoothed away all of the residue rough edges. This was the man who turned both Denis Bergkamp and Thierry Henry into one of the most remarkably versatile, passionate and multi talented footballers ever to pull on a red Arsenal shirt. Wenger was a master of reinvention, a natural motivator of players and dedicated to the cause of smooth, aesthetically eye pleasing football.

The last few months and weeks and Arsenal have not been pleasant ones and there remains a horrible air of anti climax at the Emirates. Wenger may well sign off  with a Europa League trophy which could sweeten a pill soured by those persistent disappointments, failures and near misses. For Bertie Mee and George Graham read now Arsene Wenger. Sometimes football sets the highest of standards and the achievements of both Mee and Graham could never come even remotely close to the stunningly studious Arsene Wenger, a man who not only changed football culture for good but converted Arsenal into a compulsively watchable and at times astoundingly brilliant team. Au revoir Monsieur Wenger. One corner of North London may never ever forget you.   

Salad summer days or is it a spring sunshine fiesta?

Salad summer days - or is it a spring sunshine fiesta?

This morning most of Britain, if not all of Britain, woke up this morning to something they must have thought they'd never see again but privately believed they would see eventually. After one of the hardest and most snow bound of winters in recent years, Britain has got its warm sunshine back rather than its country which has become an almost loathsome political mantra. Not that EU backing track again.

 But yesterday and today in our fair, green and pleasant land of Blighty, spring has been replaced by a victorious burst of glorious summer sunshine albeit temporarily or maybe permanently. Then again the sun coud be here for the duration and the summer of 1976 is about to set up its headquarters again every day, consistently, astonishingly and quite remarkably. Maybe this is just some temporary mirage designed to lull Britain into a false sense of security. Perhaps it's just teasing us, playing fun and games with our minds and by the end of this month the country will be bombarded by hailstones, thunder and lightning and just for a good measure, another wheelbarrow load of snow. Surely not though.

Still, here we are rapidly approaching the end of April and your heart is well and truly lifted  when you see all of those yellow tulips, the fresh green grass in local parks and recreation grounds finally set free of all of those restrictive and repressive white patches of snow. At one point they quite literally covered every pavement, every road and street, hill and valley, meadow and dale on Britain's rich and historic ground. This is the beginning of something new and encouraging, an auspicious omen rather than some demoralising inevitability.

So it's time to get out there and do something proactive, engaging in constructive activities, mowing the lawn, getting rid of those clogging, stifling weeds, pruning the roses, cleaning the car to such a sparkling state of perfection that you could almost imagine that it's June and July which quite clearly it is not but you can see where I'm coming from. It's time to venture into the country, walk along deserted country lanes, take in the invigorating air of late April, listen to the cuckoos, robins and chaffinches in their yearly melodic choirs and then stare up at the trees still patiently waiting for their spring green canopy.

And yet this year mid to late April is doing a pretty good impersonation of June, July and August. Here in Manor House, that gentle and leafy North London suburb there is a feeling that the sunshine may well last for perhaps a week, just a few days and then take itself off to another European city or town where the welcome will be just as warm. You can sense that 1976 could be on the march again and by the beginning of May we'll all be heading for those balmy beaches where sweltering heatwaves will await us rather like a fanfare of trumpets awaiting royalty.

But summer's delicious pomp and pageantry could be ready to delight us with its traditional round of village fetes and strawberry picking in fields of prodigious harvest. Summer has bought itself a brand new wardrobe of clothes. Gone are the dull, black and monochrome shades of dingy greyness and now a siesta of yellows, red, oranges and whites are about to be launched on the City high streets, the rural idylls of Somerset and Kent while not forgetting the industrial powerhouses of Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, Newcastle and Sunderland.

Everywhere in Britain there is a feeling that things are about to open up, ready for summer's street parades, Maypole dancing and farmers in combine harvesters wiping away the sweat from tired foreheads before settling down outside a timber beamed country pub for a cider or two. Hopefully Britain will finally shed all of its problems and complications, its frustrations and setbacks for three or four months of summer's sweetest perfumes and fragrances.

At the moment the spring cherry blossom has once again arrived and for those of us who suffer from hay fever this does represent a negative rather than a positive, a minor inconvenience for a while but not for long because that cherry blossom seems to be flying all over the place.  Now though everything around us looks so much healthier, lighter and brighter. It almost feels as though the weight of the world has been lifted from Britain's aching shoulders, that cumbersome drag that seems to go on for ever. But fear not we can almost see Dame Vera Lynn's blue birds on the white cliffs of Dover. All is well, outstandingly well.

Oh, for the seasonal changes and fluctuations, the warm fronts, the cold fronts, the air currents from varying directions, the weather forecasters who often get it right but, from time to time, completely misjudge the mood of the weather because they can never be sure of themselves with a hundred per cent certainty. How good are the certainties of life, the prolific possibilities that quite suddenly appear when we put on our first T-shirts and shorts of the year.

There is that thrilling sense of anticipation in the air, the realisation that the summer barbecue season is just around the corner. There is the beginning of the cricket season here in Britain, where broad shouldered batsmen with keen eyes and well varnished bats look forward to unveiling mighty, lofted cover drives into the local marquee or tent. They will strike out with vicious, brutal but beguiling strokes off the back or front foot and then clobber the ball for six or four in the hope that the ball will land in some gurgling river next to the Lake District.

Yes folks the cricket season is with us again shortly and in every town, every pretty cricket strip in sleepy market towns, the bakers and blacksmiths will pull on their pads and attempt quite magnificently to crack the ball into the next county. Then the local mayor will grace us with their presence, thick chains glinting on those sun kissed boundaries before another heady over is ready to be delivered.

The bowlers walk slowly back to yet more expectant fans, rubbing that red ball vigorously once again because that's what bowlers have always done since time immemorial. They stride towards the pavilion, carefully measure the length of their stride before turning on their heel quite sharply and heading for the crease, charging in like a bull from an adjacent field and then surging forward purposefully, accelerating furiously and then exploding in a whirl of arms and stamp of feet.

Inside the tents the officials, umpires, dignitaries and the corporate crowd of smart jacketed gentlemen swap tales of long forgotten days of Len Hutton, Denis Compton and Geoff Boycott. Cricketers do like to indulge in the romance of cricket's past. Those were the days when the appearance of a helmet on a batsmen's head would have been regarded as sacrilege. Now though cricket has adopted a completely different mindset.

Now the game is shortened, abbreviated and punctuated with a full stop, semi colon and the familiar exclamation mark. Cricket observes the rules of the one day slog over limited overs, the transient thrill of the T20 blast, the night and day exertions of mid summer and floodlights in cricket grounds which means that the game of cricket can still be played at 10.30 in the evening rather than be being stopped abruptly for bad light.

So then. There you are. April is still playing its early games of hide and seek and hop scotch with that playful innocence that only April knows only too well. The buds are on the trees, the spring equinox is well and truly up and running and the resurgence is all around us. The gardeners are clipping the hedges and bushes with a meticulous thoroughness while the ebb and flow of spring's lively rhythms resonate in our minds sawing and drilling to their hearts content. Oh to be in England in spring's first awakening. 

Bat out of Hell- the musical- a meaty tribute to Meat Loaf

Bat out of Hell, the musical - a meaty tribute to Meat Loaf.

There are times when some West End musicals get you right there. They hit you right between the eyes and tingle through your nervous system and, more often than not, leave you speechless with amazement, puzzled perhaps but then glad that you were there when it happened. Then again you may think that the plot was threadbare, the acting not quite up to the standard you were expecting or you may have been too tired to understand the multi layered complexities of the show. But that was never case last night. Bat out of Hell- the musical was an evening of good, old fashioned fun with plenty to keep you totally engaged, fascinated and engrossed in.

Take one larger than life character, mix in a generous helping of American rock anthems and what do you get? Meat Loaf. The Dominion theatre in London's finger clicking, toe tapping, West End, may well have seen it all but a flattering homage to one of America's full on, in your face, uncompromising rock bands was simply a feast for your senses. This was a West End musical that must have reached parts of your soul that you would never have thought it was capable of reaching.

Last night at the Dominion theatre in London's Tottenham Court Road there was a weird and wonderful collection of hilarious looking scenery, stage props that must have belonged in a production of War of the Worlds and actors and actresses who looked as though they'd just come from a local fancy dress party. It was certainly one of the most extraordinary West End musicals I'd ever seen because quite frankly I had no idea what I'd be getting.

So here we were live on stage with what looked like huge rocks and craters from some very remote planet, a set of traffic lights in one corner of the stage, strange camera angles and shots of people in bedrooms shown in  huge and very revealing video imagery. This is not to suggest that Bat Out of Hell was vulgar, rude or offensive but undoubtedly it was both dark, sexy and provocative.

Suddenly we were witness to the innermost thoughts of a young girl agonising over her teenage years, declaring her love one minute and then having second thoughts the next. Then we were presented with what can only be described as some bizarre, showbiz and quite clearly dysfunctional American family who didn't quite know how to handle their daughter's precocious interest in boys. Maybe the parents could have been accused of being overly protective by a girl whose dreams of fame and celebrity were washed away by a wave of disapproval and criticism.

But then confusion set in for yours truly. Men and women proceeded to run into dark tunnels off stage before embarking on some delightfully choreographed dances full of athletic high kicking and high jumping, racing across the stage like a thousand passengers trying to catch one of the many Routemaster buses running outside Tottenham Court Road. Then some rather risque and erotic scenes must have sent the collective blood pressures of the audience through the roof of the Dominion.

At times there was something of  the old fashioned Carry On mentality about Bat Out of Hell, as clothes were whipped off shamelessly and men threw themselves at women with all of the outrageous lust of a long forgotten Soho caper. Everywhere you looked there were gold and silver boiler suits, girls in varying states of undress and much that would have appalled Mary Whitehouse.

By now the story seemed to be a cleverly fashioned cut and paste account of conflicting emotions, heartbreak, unrequited love, more sadness and more desperation with just a hint of mickey taking irreverence.  There was the mother who didn't quite know how to react to her daughter's troubled adolescence, the father who was similarly lost for words at times and a general sense of mayhem that rippled through the whole production.

Then the whole show seemed to quite literally go off on a number of almost baffling tangents, characters running around the stage as if searching for something they were never likely to find, gang warfare, fiery arguments, heartrending accusations and counter accusations, drama upon never ending drama, melodrama that occasionally resembled soap opera and then more satire of the most harmless kind.

Of course the show gave us its outstanding title track Bat Out of Hell, a rousing, fantastically epic rock number that must have shaken all the foundations in Tottenham Court Road. There were massive black bats on stage and the chart song that sold in millions and would forever take up residence in every rock fan's extensive record collection. Then there was 'You Take The Words Right Out of My Mouth', a hard driving, powerful rock ballad that kept bubbling and smouldering with vitality. The romantically yearning 'I Will Do Everything for Love' had most of the audience hanging on every word. 'Two out of Three Ain't Bad' kept the seasoned Meat Loaf fans in a state of advanced ecstasy for what seemed an age.

Overall then, Bat Out of Hell was rather like an appetising plate of steak and chips, a meaty, beefy musical full of tasty, salivating songs that kept on delivering the goods. There was a super charged dynamism about this show that has to be seen. With motor bikes roaring at full volume and a  man called Falco dominating the stage, it may be worth a visit even if you've no interest in rock music at all. Bat Out of Hell ticked all the relevant boxes even if yours truly was slightly taken aback at times.   

Manchester City, Bell, Lee, Marsh, Sane, Sterling and De Bruyne - Premier League champions 2018

Manchester City, Bell, Lee, Marsh, Sane, Sterling and De Bruyne- Premier League champions 2018.

Who would have thought that one football team could just run away with the Premier League title by so convincingly and so beautifully. Football has plenty of time for aesthetics because it is one art form that looks so fitting on an artists canvas. But with roughly a month left of this hypnotically entrancing season one team have painted quite the most magnificent landscape. In reality it would be a complete exaggeration to compare Manchester City to a Constable or Turner but the analogy is a seductive one.

This afternoon Manchester City won the Premier League title because their neighbours United fancied a spot of neighbourly philanthropy, handing the title to City on a plate. Some of us had to rub our eyes at the surprising unexpectedness of Manchester United's shock 1-0 home defeat to relegation doomed and rock bottom West Bromwich Albion and even United boss Jose Mourinho must have turned the whitest shade of pale when he suddenly discovered that boots do occasionally appear on the other feet. This was the most ironic reversal of fortunes for the two Manchester titans. What exactly is going through Sir Alex Ferguson's mind can only be a matter of guesswork.

Still the facts speak for themselves and for United the truth can certainly hurt. A couple of seasons ago the Chilean Manuel Pellegrini led Manchester City to their second Premier League title in as many seasons. The sour, sullen and bloodshot eyed Pellegrini worked wonders with a City side who must have thought they'd cracked this Premier League winning lark without so much as breaking sweat.

Then, City's super rich Arab owners found a soft underbelly in Pellegrini's character. City simply couldn't hold onto the Premier League title last season at Chelsea's expense, the daggers were out and Pellegrini was toast or just ancient history. One of the essential requirements for any prospective City boss is that he must win the Premier League title every year for the next 30 years or else.

 But Pellegrini didn't fit that criteria and when Chelsea came along to spoil everything by snatching back the Premier League last season it was somehow regarded as the ultimate offence, footballing negligence of the highest order. How dare City miss out on the big prize? The punishment was immediate. Manuel Pellegrini sneaked out of the tradesman's entrance or maybe he was dumped unceremoniously in the shark infested waters of managerial unemployment. Goodbye Manuel.

The new man Pep Guardiola arrived at the Etihad in a blaze of favourable publicity, a man who played for one of Europe's most slick, artistic and fashionable teams, a team who adhered to all of football's classical traditions. Guardiola bled the blue and red stripes of Barcelona and although there were teething problems at first Pep has now completed one of the most polished pieces of artwork ever seen in world football. In fact this has been more of a contemporary art installation with its very own space and an environment perfectly conducive to original, forward thinking and innovative football.

With several games left at the end of this utterly momentous Premier League season, City have swept through their star spangled campaign like the most talented of magicians ever to appear on stage. Their football has been touched with the most glittering stardust, a team whose football has consistently shone with all the lustre of diamonds, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. At times City have just swanned through games as if totally contemptuous of their opponents.

 Their football has had a superior snobbery value about it, a bewildering cat's cradle of passes to each other, linking together almost instantaneously, clicking at exactly the most critical stages of a game, moving around a football pitch with a minimum of effort but an abundance of style. The 'tika taka' simplicity of their close range passing, the finely honed geometry and symmetry of it all, has taken the rest of the Premier League by storm. There have been short and sweet passes to team mates in the closest proximity, neat and almost intimate passing movements that have taken English football into some distant dimension.

Yesterday City completed the first part of their Premier League overture with a masterful 3-1 victory over Spurs at Wembley. Once again it was Kevin De Bruyne, a wondrous Belgian midfield maestro with the quickest feet of a ballroom dancer, Raheem Sterling, a darting, dynamic ball of energy and Leroy Sane quite the most remarkable revelation of the season for City, who have guided their team into a world of football fantasy and the fulfillment of all their dreams.

Somewhere though at the back of the minds of those of who love to revel in the old days are the Manchester City nostalgics. How for instance would have the  likes of Malcolm Allison and Joe Mercer reacted to today's Manchester City's happy go lucky histrionics, the elegant exhibitionism of their football, the operatic quality of their football, the feline flexibility of their positional play, the rat a tat, pick pocket nature of their passing, and the sheer theatricality of Manchester City as a club?

But what on earth would the cigar blowing, fedora hatted Allison have made of it all? Would he have whispered a complimentary word into Joe Mercer's ear or would he have just been blown away by the outlandish attacking gifts of today's Manchester City? He may have stubbornly insisted that Colin Bell was equally as skilful and industrious as Leroy Sane. You suspect that Rodney Marsh would have been regarded as much more creative than Kevin De Bruyne and Francis Lee head and shoulders above Raheem Sterling but then again it is hard to imagine Sterling squaring up to Norman Hunter.

This morning Pep Guardiola, City's now victorious Premier League title winning manager played golf with his son. It is to be assumed there were no bunkers or tricky fairways in their path because father Guardiola probably has the most fluent swing off the first hole. When City won the old First Division in 1968 most of the world was still contemplating landing the first man on the Moon. At times some of City's football has reached planetary heights while only recently wobbing briefly at the final hurdle.

Of course not everything has gone City's way. Their Champions League exit at the hands of Liverpool smeared a nasty blot on their copybook. It was almost as if the lead pianist in some renowned orchestra had dropped a note or the violinist had snapped a string. But City are over the line and nobody can ever question the manner or validity of their Premier League title. Maybe Malcolm Allison would have lit a specially reserved Havana cigar and contentedly swilled a satisfying glass of brandy. Allison loved to be the centre of attention and so too do City in the here and now. Oh to be a Manchester City supporter. 

Tiger Roll roars to Grand National victory.

Tiger Roll roars to Grand National victory.

Once again Aintree was at its most attractive, vocal, joyously vociferous and dominated by the most handsome colour of Irish greenery. The first four horses to pass the finishing post had an Irish backing.  Wow! What a finish to the most exciting steeplechase horse race in the world. The Aintree Grand National delivered in quite the most heart pounding, enthralling, superlatively pulsating finish for quite some time. In fact by the end of the race some of us could barely control our excitement. This was surely Aintree at most inviting, welcoming, warmly discerning and gloriously appreciative.

For the record ladies and gentlemen my horse Pleasant Company finished runner up to the Grand National 2018 winner Tiger Roll but only after the most nerve racking of photo finishes. But Pleasant Company was narrowly pipped to the post but merely by a head and nose and so close to victory that for a moment I was inclined  to believe that every horse I've ever backed at the National was just being lazy or simply disinterested. My horse though had succeeded in finishing and this one actually came second.

 In fact most of my Grand National horses have invariably ended up galloping lackadaisically along Southport beach, genuinely seeking either a sympathetic shoulder to cry on or a handful of carrots to crunch on. But today was different, markedly different. Because today my horse finished second in one of the world's most popular and much loved of sporting events, a sport richly decorated with tradition, history, personality, a grand air of democracy and a noble Englishness.

After so many years of fallow disappointment and complete failure I willed my equine home on horse racing's day of days. This was undoubtedly horse racing at its very best and purest, a race which for the first time included three women jockeys. Aintree now burst into a life as the Grand National's smallest horse for many a year Tiger Roll had the audacity to challenge my bet to a neck to neck gallop to the finishing post.

Here I have to admit to an appalling lack of knowledge of matters of a  horsey nature. The Sport of Kings has somehow eluded me over the years for no particular reason other than a nervous reluctance to gamble or part with any sum of money. Many of us have walked past our local bookmakers ever so slightly tempted to invest our hard earned silver on these most striking of animals. A combination of total ignorance and perhaps shameful indifference have left me in something of a sporting hinterland.

And so it was that the flag went up for this year's Grand National and away they went. This was one of England's most spectacular of stampedes, a cavalry charge of the most stimulating and exhilarating kind, a mind boggling fusion of thundering hooves and thunderous cheering. A huge gathering of multi coloured jockeys with spots and stripes was accompanied by something very special in the air,  a chaotic procession of horses and jockeys with a flurry of flying horse's feet and muddy divots.

Across the wide green acres of Liverpool they went in the relentless search for one of sport's most distinctively unmistakable of sporting events. Everybody has a punt on the National and if they don't, they'll probably listen to it on the radio or watch it on TV. Or maybe they reach for their Smartphone nowadays because that's how widely and immediately accessible all sporting occasions in high tech 2018 have become.

There were thick bunches of horses who streamed across the well manicured grass of Aintree in the most orderly fashion. For mile upon mile they obediently followed each other and then began to stretch away, picking up a noticeable head of steam, before accelerating  and then slowing down again. Then there was an almost palpable tension, as one group of horses spurted to the front, charged forward powerfully before then recognising that they could be in with a chance.

As my horse Pleasant Company and Tiger Roll headed for the final, frenetic finishing line, the heady anticipation could almost be felt. This had to be the year, my year to win the Grand National. That crystal ball gazer had told me quite prophetically that my horse had the potential to win but didn't quite bargain on a horse called Tiger Roll winning by a hairs breadth. So what do crystal ball gazers know? But the imaginary crystal ball gazer wasn't entirely sure so the consolation of second place felt like a moral victory for me.

Straining every sinew both Pleasant Company and Tiger Roll were almost like blood brothers. Together our two equine rivals galloped harder and harder, lengthening their stride, pushing themselves to the front, nostrils flaring, eyes blazing ferociously, faces and necks bursting with fierce determination, convinced that they could take the big prize.

Then at the winning post a brief sigh, a moment of incomprehension. There was a photo finish. Both Tiger Roll and Pleasant Company were level pegging, two sporting giants with nothing between them. In a matter of seconds Tiger Roll had been categorically declared the winner of the 2018 Grand National and the Aintree hordes acclaimed their winner with all the elation of those who had never won anything.

Now Tiger Roll and jockey Davy Russell trotted almost leisurely into the winners enclosure and the crowds went wild. The people from middle England, the hectic metropolitan classes of London, the working classes and the upper class bourgeoisie, flung their hands into the air as if they probably didn't care. It was Tiger Roll by a nose or horse's nose and some of us could hardly believe what we'd just seen. If only the race had been extended by a couple of yards then I may well have been in possession of a twenty pound note or so. Still there's always next year's Grand National to look forward to.

Aintree had done it again for the great racing fraternity. The punters had come from far and wide and the seasoned enthusiasts who turn up every year the Grand National had found that winning formula. Wherever you looked there were overjoyed winning trainers, proud owners and a small knot of passionate Irish men and women who had taken the first four places at the National. This was a quite  remarkable achievement but you somehow knew the Irish would do it because the Irish do like the Grand National. This calls for a celebratory glass of Guinness. 

Jack is back - Jack Laugher wins Commonwealth Gold medal for England.

Jack is back - Jack Laugher wins Commonwealth Gold for England.

In the general scheme of things it probably doesn't sound that impressive. But when Jack Laugher wakes up tomorrow morning he may think that his perseverance has been rewarded and even the most minor of obstacles had been overcome. You see Jack Laugher laughed in the face of defeat and never thought for a single moment that his day in the Commonwealth Games limelight would ever come around again. It was that iconic moment in a sportsman's career when all the pieces fall into place and today is your day.

Four years ago Laugher hadn't quite found that genie out of the lamp moment when everything stops and you have to believe that the impossible can happen. It was in Glasgow 2014 when the Nottingham born Jack Laugher missed out on the gold at the Commonwealth Games because maybe it wasn't quite his time or the stars were in the wrong position. The fact remains that our Jack had chosen this moment to stand on a podium with a gold medal around his neck and nobody could take that away from him.

Sport can often be both puzzling and too mysterious for words. But when Laugher stepped onto the diving board in a small corner of the Gold Coast in Australia, the angels were quite clearly singing. He knew that he could do it because he could feel it in the air, touch it, smell it, experience it and it was attainable. Jack Laugher won a gold medal for England and the facts speak for themselves. The Union Jacks were flying with a particular flourish and this was Laugher's sporting pinnacle.

Stepping forward onto the edge of the three metre springboard, toes poised, arms straight as a needle by his side, the look on Laugher's face was a picture of concentration, intense concentration. His eyes were almost surreally focussed, staring and gazing into the middle distance, briefly acknowledging his fans and family with a small smile before settling himself, bracing himself, waiting patiently.

Suddenly he was ready and prepared. Time seemed to stand still as if suspended by something that was somehow indefinable, something intangible that you couldn't quite put your finger on. Then, leaping and bouncing with remarkable agility, our Jack started jumping and then jumping higher. We were briefly reminded of a certain Tom Daley, an Olympic hero of the richest stock, who performed his dive with such immeasurable confidence in his ability that you wondered whether why we'd ever doubted that he could do it.

Then it was time for that lift off, the highest elevation, one enormous take off and then the immaculate execution. Was it a double pike or a triple pike? Laugher gave us the most amazing display of coolness and composure under pressure. There now followed sport at its most truly astonishing. Laugher, in a matter of seconds, somersaulted acrobatically before spinning, twisting and tucking his body underneath him as if he'd carried out the same dive in training a thousand times. It all looked so breathlessly easy, simple and completed in double quick time.

 It was all so natural, as natural as sleeping, breathing and eating. It was effortlessly beautiful and all over in no time at all. It took roughly the same amount of time that most of us would require to flick on a light switch, an instinctive gesture, a rabbit out of Laugher's hat. There you are. He told you could do it and he quite clearly did so this seemed the right time to dismiss any fears or doubts that might have been taken root in anybody's mind.

Before anybody could blink, Laugher's body splashed convincingly and properly into the water and the patriotic cheers from the British fans must have been like music to his ears. They whooped and yelled themselves silly, delighted to be in the right spot and the right time, possibly a bit smug and blase because privately they knew that Jack could do it. It was almost as if Laugher had put his signature to a letter that needed to be written, confirmation of his diving brilliance and his raison d'etre for being at the Commonwealth Games. Besides why else would he be here if not in the relentless pursuit of gold?

Team England have covered themselves in a fair amount of glory throughout these Commonwealth Games without quite emulating those fabulous achievements of the London Olympics six years ago. Still you  can't have everything. Recently sport has been somewhat accidentally caught up in some morally questionable tangles.

 The Aussies have cheated quite outrageously in cricket, the nasty stench of doping and drug taking continuing to hang around sport with quite the most revolting regularity. One day sport may sit down in an athletics stadium with a clean bill of health, no fingers of suspicion pointing directly in its face and with the sure knowledge that fair play and chivalrous sportsmanship has again won the day.

Jack Laugher will return to England with his gold medal and the acclamation of his British supporters ringing in his ears. When he returns to Nottingham they'll probably dig out the flags, hold quite the most jubilant street party, buy him a brewery of beers and slap him on the back with the kind of congratulations once accorded to Torvill and Dean and then celebrate Laugher's exploits for at least the rest of the year. The Commonwealth Games, rather like the Olympic Games, has once again brought the whole of the Commonwealth together with the most unifying of hugs. Jack Laugher, for one, will certainly never forget.       

Coco- the sweetest of films.

Coco- the sweetest of films.

It almost seems the unlikeliest and improbable of all names for a movie. I know. It does sound a more suitable vehicle for a film about a circus clown  but  then it would hardly be as compelling a subject for the silver screen. Can you imagine for instance the likes of Tom Hanks or Brad Pitt extolling the virtues of a late night, soothing hot drink before you drop off to sleep? Don't forget to add plenty of milk.

But Coco, now showing at some, if not all cinemas around the world, was just the best fun you can ever hope for in a film of any description or genre. It was admittedly very sweet, cute, simple and warmly endearing. It had its very own happy ever after, fairy tale finish, the most touching of stories and the most enchanting and quite unbelievable of characters. In fact it was so good and pleasant that for those who like their movies soppy and sentimental it was neither too long nor so short that even if you'd wanted it to finish much earlier than the allotted time you'd have probably been extremely disappointed and wanting more.

Coco was a classic cartoon cum animation film designed for children and families but acceptable for an adult audience if you were inclined to watch this most loveliest of films. It was one of those films which reminded you why your parents once took you to the movies for the first time. I was introduced to the cinema screen at a very tender age with the stunning Jungle Book and Bambi but now found myself transported back to those times with a film that briefly stirred childhood memories.

Coco was about a Mexican family whose great grand father figure and patriarch Ernesto De La Cruz had once left thousands of female hearts fluttering with his magical guitar. De La Cruz had appeared at all of those atmospheric concert venues with the kind of guitar playing that reduced the ladies to a quivering wreck. Then one day it all came crashing to an end when a huge bell fell on top of him, killing him instantly. But hold on, I did say that this film had the happiest ending and indeed it did.

Cue Ernesto's great great grandson Miguel, a butter wouldn't melt in his mouth angelic child whose only dream is to follow in the gold encrusted footsteps of dear Ernesto. Miguel must have idolised Ernesto for most of his life because as the story strongly makes clear, Miguel was determined to go to all lengths to make sure that one day he too would be acclaimed as one of the finest guitarists of all time.

Miguel promptly escaped the clutches of his family at the youngest of all ages and ran away as far as he possibly could if only to prove that he too could be just as good and talented as Ernesto. Sadly, our story now takes a slightly unfortunate twist which it invariably does in these heartwarming and tear stained children's films. It was time to take out the box of tissues because this was time to sigh with a beating heart and sniffle away incessantly. Don't you just love a weepie?

On his travels away from his doting family Miguel, for whatever reason, comes into  contact with a skeleton. Now this is where Coco begins to assume a completely different character. Now we are confronted with skeletons. Not ordinary skeletons but hundreds and thousands of skeletons, families of skeletons, communities of skeletons, skeletons with rattling bones, skeletons with wide, staring eyes, skeletons with a sense of humour, skeletons who cracked jokes, skeletons who could be sad and melancholy while simultaneously jumping up and down with delight in the next.

Yes folks Coco was all about skeletons, skeletons with strange mannerisms and skeletons with lopsided grins which probably implied that they were either being sarcastic or just plain funny. Poor little Miguel had now adopted the appearance of a skeleton when all he wanted to do was just play the guitar as confidently and competently as his great great grandpa Ernesto.

Now it was that Coco took us somewhat mysteriously into a world of skeleton families, skeleton brothers and sisters and skeletons who really shouldn't have been allowed out of their cupboard. But then they thought in retrospect that their roles in this film had been richly deserved and fully merited. Besides who else would a Hollywood director have turned to when they were looking for the lead roles in a children's movie? Simple! A skeleton. Who else? If only they'd have thought of it.

Miguel had now been lost in a world of crazy looking skeletons, with eyes that popped out and bodies that crumbled into disintegration when leaping off what looked like a rock. We were then taken on one of those technicolour journeys that for all the world looked like a cross between the Wizard of Oz and the Beatles Yellow Submarine. In fact there were so many colours on the screen that you had to stop for a minute in case you were imagining it all. It was a riotous collision of colours clashing and competing with each other for attention. You thought you'd suddenly come into possession of your childhood kaleidoscope only to find that this was a brilliant kids animation movie.

What had started as an ordinary childhood ambition to become a famous guitarist had now degenerated into some weird multi coloured dreamscape that became stranger by the minute. Suddenly Miguel arrives at the shrine of the great guitarist Ernesto and having snatched a loose guitar hanging on the wall, immediately enters a world of familiar figures Miguel thought he'd seen now appearing as those wretched skeletons yet again. There can be no getting away from those skeletons. Now the skeletons were spooky ghosts who had almost come back to haunt poor little Miguel.

But after an almost an eternity of supposedly frightening and hair raising moments, Miguel eventually lands up back in the safe bosom of his family because you knew this would happen. The torn photo of Ernesto at the beginning of the film had now been replaced by a much younger figure, a much more handsome matinee idol with a well trimmed moustache. By now Miguel is so emotionally exhausted and distraught by events around him that when he does get back to where he was at the start of the film your sympathies are in a state of some turmoil.

Finally we do get to cheer Miguel because once he finds another guitar at the shrine of the great Ernesto, he now plays his guitar softly to his wonderfully old grandmother now seemingly fast asleep in her rocking chair. By now you simply can't help but sigh deeply. The great grandmother's face of course is so lined that you'd be forgiven for thinking that several maps of the world had become firmly printed on her face.

Perhaps the most amusing moments throughout Coco were the mariachi guitarists from deepest Mexico who hummed, strummed their guitars and melodiously chanted their mariachi songs from the heart. Coco has to be seen because maybe all films should be essentially gentle and inoffensive. The film is based on the premise that if you should never dismiss the feelgood properties of your average, every day skeleton. Coco is a direct throwback to my formative introduction to the 1960s version of Jungle Book and Bambi. Rest assured folks Coco is not the circus clown  nor is it a late night, soothing hot drink before you drop off to sleep.

Perhaps the truth is that childhood movies should be made compulsory for both children and adults alike because at heart they're never aggressive, they're never obscene and above all they can never be accused of being nasty or violent which is the way it should be surely. There were no thrilling car chases, bloodthirsty gun battles, murders of the most barbaric nature and there was nothing designed to send your children to bed with nightmares.

In a sense Coco didn't insult your intelligence, had nothing that could be accurately described as repulsive and shocking but simply a spoonful of joy and escapism to make you feel that maybe the world isn't such a bad place after all. So if you've got a spare an hour and half you could do worse than the sweetest cup of Coco. 

Remembering the fleet footed Fred- a Hollywood legend.

Remembering the fleet footed Fred- Hollywood legend.


Hooray for Hollywood! Give my regards to Broadway indeed! Fred Astaire and the London Palladium were somehow meant for each other. In fact, this one off and deeply affectionate tribute to the one and only Fred Astaire had found the most appropriate stage for one of the greatest dancers, tap dancers ever to have rolled off that prolific Hollywood conveyor belt of lustrous natural talent.

Remembering Fred was a spectacular tribute to one of America's most fleet footed, twinkling toed, magnificently charming stars in that great firmament of Hollywood greats. For most of that extremely turbulent period in American history Astaire dazzled and sparkled with the kind of highly sophisticated dance routines ever performed by one pure dancing artist.

For the best part of over two and half hours, a spellbound Palladium were treated to the whole varied and remarkable repertoire of the Astaire back catalogue but also an incredible interpretation of the man's best work. We knew that Astaire could dance like a dream but some of us needed reminding of his singing exploits which while never eclipsing Fred as the born hoofer did emphasise his versatility as an all round performer.

This may have been a one off homage to Astaire but it did emphasise the glamour and class he brought to America at its lowest. At the height of the 1920s depression when America badly longed for somebody and something to lift its dwindling spirits, Astaire startled the Americans to their senses with some of the most extraordinary footwork, shoes gleaming throughout the Second World War and then maintaining their hold on the hearts of an American public by now totally enchanted.

Two of the dancers from BBC's enormously popular Saturday evening show 'Strictly Come Dancing' Aljaz Skortanec and Janette Manrara sent us on a warmly nostalgic trip down memory lane, lovingly documenting the serenity and stateliness that Astaire always brought to the dance floor. Here we had the classic story of the kid who just loved to dance from a very early age seemingly destined to reach the very peak of  his profession.

In an almost logical sequence of categories we were treated to Astaire's favourite films, those timeless dance techniques and above all those vital female partners and relationships who made it all possible for Astaire. This was almost like some sweeping Hollywood showbiz extravaganza, a breathless reminiscence of the people, the movers and shakers within Hollywood's inner sanctum, the choreographers and of course Astaire's leading ladies. Then there were the occasionally demanding standards understandably made by Astaire because this was a man who never accepted half measures.

Forever more of course Fred Astaire will always be associated with Ginger Rogers in much the way we think of any other inseparable partnerships. Astaire and Rogers were Hollywood royalty, Hollywood's most celebrated monarchs, the most dynamic of all dancing teams. Astaire had the quickest, nimblest and daintiest feet ever seen. Such was the mercurial nature of his feet and the speed of his delivery, that you half expected that one day the shoes would suddenly miss a beat and Astaire would unfathomably get it all wrong.

But this was never the case. And why should that have been the case when the man was so disciplined, so assured and confident within himself that rare was the occasion if it all that something had been missing. You almost felt that Astaire and Rogers had an almost telepathic understanding that rendered mistakes a physical impossibility.

In the iconic Hollywood movie Top Hat, Astaire and Rogers were almost umbilically linked to each other, as if there was a mystical connection between the two that could never be broken. Astaire danced on walls, ceilings, thick Hollywood columns, flowing balletically, handsomely and fluently across perfectly polished dance floors as if from memory and instinct. There were times when you felt that Astaire and Rogers had almost read each other's minds, telegraphing each other's next delicately beautiful movement and simply recalling everything they'd been taught without a single moment's prompting.

Then there were the songs from the great American songbook. Cole Porter's 'Night and Day', a passionate number that Astaire had executed with some of the most gorgeous attention to detail. There was 'A Fine Romance'. a tenderly memorable and delightful number that left most of the Palladium audience sighing with pleasure.

The songs came thick and fast. 'Can't Dance' was a vibrant toe tapping, vivaciously joyful song that Astaire embroidered with the kind of flair and terpsichorean style that only the greatest could turn into an art form. 'Putting on My Top Hat', a number that was essentially Astaire's most personal favourite, was synonymous with his personality and act. How else could a man with a top hat and tails even think that he could live without a song that was written with him in mind?

We were also introduced to some of other perhaps less well known of Astaire's alliances and richly successful collaborations. It only seemed a matter of time before Astaire would cross paths with Gene Kelly. Both Astaire and Kelly could quite easily have broken all of Hollywood's box office records. Both would remain dancing soul mates throughout the ages, two of the most complete performers showbusiness would ever produce.

When Kelly grabbed hold of an umbrella in 'Singing In The Rain' maybe there was a part of Astaire that must have left him terribly frustrated. But Kelly revelled in the dance routine that made him one of Americas' most adored of stars. Even Astaire would have instantly recognised that only a dancer of Kelly's calibre could have danced around street lamp-posts and over the trickiest of puddles without batting an eye lid. We knew that the rain was make believe and this was Hollywood but how Astaire must have looked on with genuine admiration.

There were of course Astaire's thankfully brief appearance with Judy Garland in Easter Parade. Everybody including Astaire must have been painfully aware of Garland's self destructive demons, a woman who visibly fell apart in front of her once adoring audience and sadly died too early. Astair had now branched into a the diverse of jazz, salsa and anything that bordered on the most unconventional.

Astaire had now teamed up with Cyd Charise, the only Hollywood movie dancer whose long legs seemed to go on forever. Charise was a tall, graceful, impeccably proportioned dancer whose height and statuesque poise became a Hollywood trademark. Charise and Astaire clicked immediately but as the audience discovered, never felt overshadowed by Astaire. Mr Astaire, she remarked, was never quite sure about Charise initially but then fell in love with her leading man.

So it was that the Palladium in all its Palladium splendour and resplendence once again did itself considerably proud. On the stage itself there was the multi coloured giant staircase , red, blue, green yellow lights flashing constantly and impressively. There were the signature Hollywood pieces of furniture such as the white glowing lamps by the edge of the stage  and a whole variety of dancing, prancing, pouting and comically posturing performers with white teeth and beaming smiles.

The London Palladium show had once again delivered the goods. The thunderous applause had reached new levels of boisterousness and wild appreciation. They were on their feet for what seemed an eternity.

In the Palladium bar, your breath was taken away by the showbiz stylists and purists who had once trodden the boards, tripped the light fantastic and left most of Post War London entranced, and gripped with uncontrollable laughter. There was the aforementioned Judy Garland, the female heart throb who was Johnny Rae and the formidably amusing Danny Kaye. There was the giant model of the Palladium with dancing girls, notable landmark dates that came to define the Palladium through the years. It was a night to remember and the night when the entire showbiz industry took off its Top Hat to a dancing genius. The West End were taking off their hats to a quite outstanding Hollywood star.   

The Brownlee brothers miss out on Commonwealth Games medals.

The Brownlee brothers miss out on Commonwealth Games medals.

The Brownlee brothers have always been there for each other. So it was inevitable that when things go ever so slightly pear shaped sport's finest and closest of siblings come together, wrap a comforting arm around each other's shoulders and smile very philosophically in the face of defeat. There was nothing else they could have done under the circumstances because they did bust a gut, they did give everything for their country and the best man won on the day.

We are now a couple of days into the Commonwealth Games in the Gold Coast of Australia and those two brothers in arms did their utmost to cement a place in British sporting memories. They swam gallantly for England, ran determinedly for England and they sweated blood for England. You simply couldn't have asked for any more. The Brownlee brothers are fine, upstanding, deeply patriotic men who must have thought that their world had come to an end when the Commonwealth Games triathlon reached its conclusion.

But on the day it wasn't quite good enough. And yet six years ago in London the Brownlee brothers had gone well beyond the call of duty. They were the gold medal winning duo who electrified the London Olympic Games in 2012. They crushed the opposition, made mincemeat of the rest of the field and won quite comprehensively with plenty of time to spare. They must have broken all kinds of records, left their indelible imprint on the pages of Olympic history and warmed the cockles of British hearts.

Still this is what we've come to expect from brothers. Brothers look after each other, come to each other's rescue when they fall off their childhood bikes, graze themselves, injure themselves or generally support and console one another when their dreams and hopes disappear into obscurity. Brothers often go to the same primary school and secondary school as each other, their hobbies and interests are similar while nothing is too much trouble when the chips are down and adversity lurks in a dark corner.

On one of the first days of this Commonwealth Games that warmth, brotherly camaraderie and a driven, totally focused approach to their sport once again made itself readily apparent. You could almost feel their disappointment at the end of the triathlon and there was an admirable empathy between the two that was deeply heartwarming.

The triathlon itself is the ultimate test of endurance and stamina, a wondrous display of athleticism, colossal strength, cardiovascular fitness in a race against time and sheer bloody minded determination to reach the giddiest heights of perfection. In the Commonwealth Games triathlon, the competitors did their utmost to achieve the impossible, swimming like the most energetic fish, thrashing their way through the Australian water, arms front crawling with furious intent and for the Brownlee brothers it  was all going according to the script. They were out in front by some considerable distance but once out of the water both men began to flag and run out of steam.

After that first punishing swim, men from all corners of Commonwealth scrambled their way onto dry land, foamy water now trailing behind them and it was every man for themselves. The triathlon is quite the most amazing spectacle and none could deny its captivating appeal.  Denying anything that might have looked like exhaustion the two British triathlon giants, surged forward, pushing themselves to the limit, thrusting their bodies forward and giving everything in the cause of sport.

Once out of the water, Jonny Brownlee and Alistair Brownlee must have exchanged the most fleeting of glances, reluctantly accepted that this was not going to be their day and then bit their lips when they knew the race had been lost. Both of the Brownlees now hopped onto their cycles, pedalled like crazy, pumped their legs frantically and furiously but couldn't keep up with the rest of the chasing pack. On another day this could have been their day in the sun, a lung bursting and heroic charge for the finishing line. Not now though.

With the bike race now successfully accomplished it had become patently clear that Jonny and Alistair were now puffing and panting, struggling to make up the ground. Then a Scotsman by the name of Marc Austin arrived on the shoulders of the brothers and nonchalantly flew past their next door neighbours in much the way the Scottish football team had grinned at their English counterparts after they had been beaten at the old Wembley, a year following England's 1966 World Cup victory. How Austin must have derived an almost sadistic pleasure in beating his English rival.

Further back in the field was the lonely sight of Alistair Brownlee who was nowhere to be seen and potentially stirring day for British sport had now become one of those off days at the office when nothing seems to go your way. Eventually Jonny finished seventh and Alistair was now sadly trailing way back out of contention in 10th. This was one of those teeth clenching days of what might have been and what ifs, the best laid plans of mice and men going up in smoke.

Meanwhile at the front of the triathlon the race had been won by Henri Schoeman, a South African whirlwind, a human dynamo, a force of nature and a man who on the day had amply demonstrated all of the qualities needed to become a Commonwealth gold medal. He flung himself over the winning line, milking the applause and leaving our battle hardened Brownlees privately hurt and bruised but pride firmly intact.

In the way that brothers have always behaved they'll probably come back to Britain, climb onto their bikes once again, slap each other on the backs in a show of utter mutual respect and then hurtle up and down the heavenly hills of the Yorkshire Dales. Then after a gruelling session of pedalling and more pedalling they will probably engage in heart to heart discussions about the weather and Brexit before downing a quintessentially English pint of lager. At some point they will shrug their shoulders, smile wistfully at the clouds and then share a blissful moment of brotherly love. This was sport at its most richly satisfying. We knew it wouldn't let us down.