Let the orchestra play.

Let the orchestra play.

Last night an enthusiastic audience gathered together to applaud and celebrate the brilliant BBC Philharmonic Orchestra on an evening of childhood memories, rheumy eyed nostalgia and lovely old tunes from the movies. They clapped, cheered, swayed their arms and generally abandoned themselves to a good, old fashioned evening of light entertainment. It was an evening designed not only to take you back but also to leave you there the widest grin and broadest of smiles.

The venue was the London Palladium, that bastion of celebrity and showbiz, a veritable jukebox of all those great show standards we've all either watched on TV, heard on the radio or just been transfixed by in the cinema. Sometimes  there are West End shows that leave you glowing with the feelgood factor, shows capable of elevating you to that highest summit of pleasure. It could hardly have failed to work on any level because we were all children once and for those who believe in such things will always retain that childish wonder, a throwback to the days when the boys used to play football in the streets and roads while the girls skipped. Halcyon days indeed.

It was though it was one of those eye opening evenings when nothing seemed to matter but the orchestra on stage. Very rarely do we take our hats off to the mellifluous sounds of a major orchestra. Of course there is the yearly summer Proms jamboree and throughout the year the likes of the Royal Festival and the Royal Albert Hall in London frequently caress our ears with those classical pieces of music that have always stood the test of time. Some of the world's greatest composers from centuries gone by are given the most richly nuanced interpretations by note perfect orchestras.

So what did we have like. The BBC Philharmonic Orchestra, fully suited and booted, smart black suits all moving together in blissful unison, childhood movie songs washing over the Palladium like the gentlest shower and beautiful arrangements of the tunes we've all come to hold so dear over the years. There was something deeply moving and engaging about an orchestra who seemed to harmonise perfectly in time to the mood of the evening. It was an evening of perfect arpeggios, pizzicatos and breathless upbeat tempos that flowed from the Palladium stage rather like the sweetest sounding stream.

There was that huge assembly of violinists, sweeping and sometimes weeping with joy, their hands gliding across their strings with an almost telepathic understanding of each others movement. There were trumpets and pianos almost instinctively honking and tinkling as if trying to communicate a message of hope and redemption in a world where some would rather use the gun and bomb as their chosen instruments.

Throughout this two hour special, we were transported to that quintessentially childish world of Harry Potter, where wizards, schools and children with magical powers have suddenly heralded a new dawn of childhood innocence and fantastical escapism. There were numerous references to the wondrous, mystical world of Harry Potter and as the modern generation continue to devour JK Rowling's masterpieces we could only watch on, as BBC Radio 2 played the full repertoire of the film's instantly identifiable tunes.

The chief narrator for the night was Hugh Bonneville, an actor of polished delivery and diction with  clear and articulate introductions of the songs we all loved and continue to love. Bonneville was word perfect, measured and, from time to time, humorous when he needed to be. But there was one childhood movie that did resonate with me personally and something that took me on a particularly intriguing trip down memory lane.

As a child I can remember my parents taking me to see Hans Christian Andersen, starring Danny Kaye at, if memory serves me correctly, the London Palladium. My mum, a lifelong devotee of Danny Kaye was unashamedly a Danny Kaye fan who adored Kaye. And yet Hans Christian Andersen was somehow a metaphor for everything that childhood represented, an iconic figure with a light hearted zest for life.

Danny Kaye was a funny, often hilarious comedian, film comic of some stature and distinction and reducing most of his audiences to gales of laughter. And yet most of the songs from Kaye's distinctive songbook took me on a truly evocative journey back to that distant late 1960s day at the London Palladium.

I can remember feeling enthralled by Hans Christian Andersen, the ornate grandeur of the Palladium, the royal boxes with their velvety seats, decorative furnishings and the abiding air of history about the place. Besides, the Palladium was the theatre that left my dad in hysterics when Jack Benny once walked out onto stage after the war and said nothing for quarter of an hour. It was the music hall capital of the world where the likes of Flanagan and Allen spoke about life 'Underneath the Arches', the Royal Variety Performance had hosted regular performances from showbiz royalty such as Bob Hope, Max Bygraves, Sir Bruce Forsyth, Tommy Trinder and the finest exponents of their craft.

While growing up I was reminded every so often that the Palladium meant something special, a building that gave me a tantalising glimpse of what the world be like as seen through the youngest of eyes. Childhood films and those timeless songs have accompanied me constantly through to the present day and last night it felt as if the worlds of Harry Potter, Hans Christian Andersen and Jungle Book had never left me. They were the lifelong childhood standards that can never ever be forgotten and for which I'll certainly be for ever grateful.

Summer comes calling.

Summer comes calling.

Here she is in all her golden splendour, her stunning timelessness, her seasonal acoustics, her wise and contented appearance, her musical rhythms and that striking beauty. What, you may rightly ask, am I talking about? What on earth has possessed me to string together such purple prose and poetic imagery? Besides, here we are in the middle of May, the football season in Britain is over for another season, the FA Cup Final between Manchester United and Chelsea is just days away and still the remnants of winter are hanging around as if determined to stand their ground.

And yet we can talk about summer because that's how most of us feel at the moment. The coughs, colds, flu, and viral complaints that seemed to sweep  the country in the last couple of months should be consigned to some dusty attic. We should now be looking forward to summer in England which in itself  is so comically unpredictable at times that it's best not to look too far forward. The world will undoubtedly keep spinning regardless of what happens to us and despite the inexplicable events around us.

For instance on Saturday Prince Harry, the Queen's grandson will be marrying Meghan Markle at Windsor Castle. Now there are those who probably believe that anything connected to royalty should be taken with a pinch of salt. But personally as somebody who believes quite fervently in the stability and constancy that Her Majesty the Queen has given us throughout the decades this should be the time for a courteous acknowledgement of everything the Royal Family have unconditionally offered us.

Sadly, the whole history of royal marriages has been burdened by unfortunate circumstances, combustible relationships and a horrible sense of flux. The sniggering cynics still cling onto the terribly mistaken belief that those Royals are just a waste of time, unreasonably privileged, pampered, wealthy and perhaps completely out of touch with the public at large. But my belief is that both the Queen, Prince Philip and their family have done much more for Britain and the Commonwealth than some may or may not think. In good times or bad, Her Majesty has always remained calm, composed and steadfast, unfailingly dutiful and always compassionate.

For well over 64 years the Queen, although meticulously cared for, looked after and immaculately turned out on all occasions, is still the figurehead, the prominent figure admired and respected the world over. Of course she is warmly spoken of the world over, a figure of unswerving graciousness, kindness, sympathy, energy and warmth wherever she goes. The cynics though would give you an altogether less flattering account of the Royal Family but then we're all entitled to our opinions.

But on Saturday, Prince Harry, allegedly the wild child, the restless spirit, the footloose and fancy free, independent Harry has if, you like, been tamed by an American actress charmed by her Prince. It sounds like the ultimate fairy tale but there are those who think that maybe the world in modern parlance is distinctly lacking in fairy tales and romantic alliances.

Summer though will assuredly rest its tranquil head over the streets of Windsor on Saturday. Here within the grounds of the historic Windsor Castle, the soft breezes of late spring will linger and hover for a while, the Union Jack flags and banners waving listlessly but meaningfully over this most picturesque town. There will be a sense that whatever may have happened to the Royal Family over the years, we're still here, we haven't gone away and we were always with them even though the clouds may have been darkening and thickening.

Harry, with that mischievous twinkle in his eye, will check his flawlessly ironed shirt, tie and suit rather like one of those Moss Bros tailors who spend all of their days with that faithful tape measure next to them and forever mindful that on Saturday the Queen's grandson is getting married and he needs to look his best. The hair will be combed a thousand times, the shoes polished to an almost fanatical state of perfection and Harry will be the picture of sartorial elegance as we always knew he would be.

But in the background summer will be having fun and games, teasing and then running away, before flirting and laughing rather like screaming, happy children in a constant state of animation. The Royal Wedding is of course our main focus and summer has made absolutely sure that Windsor is wearing the prettiest carnation on its suit, maintaining a regal dignity and that unique civility that should always adorn Royal Weddings.

Back in the heart of suburban and urban England, Britain and the world, preparations are underway for this great opening summer social event. The Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England and tennis at Wimbledon may well be with us shortly. But for the time being behind every lace curtain and blind in Britain's very private living rooms there is a palpable excitement and the picnics are out, knives industriously buttering pieces of bread for endless sandwiches with whatever spread of their choosing.

 Then there will be the bumper packs of crisps, biscuits and cakes in sheer abundance, the appropriate songs for the day and a general sense of occasion and indulgence, quite possibly over indulgence.  Then families across the world will rush out onto their roads and streets, set up groaning tables of more food and drink. Britain will now come out of its winter stagnation and sense of helplessness to be greeted by a wild air of happy go lucky hedonism, dancing around the street lamp-posts and celebrating everything they might have thought they'd never see again.

You can almost hear summer knocking on our door, the keys rattling and clinking in the lock, eagerly anticipating the arrival of a newly wed Prince and her blushing Princess. And as they leave Windsor with the resounding cheers of the public racing after them and wishing them well we will be comforted with the knowledge that maybe just maybe the Royal Family are still there and that the good, old triumphant days will always beat the bad days quite handsomely.

Summer has brushed itself down, cleaned itself to look utterly respectable and all those dark days of yesteryear have been hidden away in the attic and only taken out when the photo albums bring a nostalgic lump to our throats. Summer is indeed good, excellent, healthy, virtuous, discreet, polite, undemanding, brighter and lighter which goes without saying and soon here. It is full of sedateness, leisureliness, playful happiness and families with their traditional barbecues.

But now we anticipate the nuptials of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle. The chapel bells will be ringing out across the wide rural acres of Berkshire, Buckinghamshire, Hampshire, Yorkshire and Lancashire. Thousands of vicars, priests and bishops will proudly await their parishioners with a warm and welcoming smile. Britain will stop thinking about its now frosty relations with its EU officials, forget about all those binding contracts and documents, forget about those stifling laws and regulations in Brussels and just enjoy the mouth watering prospect of  one enormous knees up, a celebration to remember and a May day that will certainly deliver the goods. Oh yes, bring it on.

The 63rd Eurovision Song Contest and Israel deservedly celebrate win.

The 63rd Eurovision Song Contest and Israel deservedly celebrate win.

Last night the Eurovision Song Contest broke with all tradition. It did something entirely different. No, the cynics might sniff, it wasn't even remotely boring and you did feel as though something exciting did happen because whenever people talk about this most noble of traditions their eyes invariably mist over. But there does seems a grudging acceptance of the facts. It's a rocking and rolling, foot tapping boogie woogie. finger clicking, musical journey into the unknown. And nobody can deny that. Or can they?

Eurovision may have become something of a yearly karaoke contest according to some but it still retains both the charm and gently inoffensive sense of fun it's always had. And there can be nothing wrong with that. Every year the cream of Europe's singing talent converge on some highly charged European city rather like an eagerly fired up group of tourists who know that if they follow the person with the white handkerchief they're bound to get a cappuccino and biscuit sooner or later.

So what was it about the 63rd Eurovision Song Contest that didn't conform to the original plan. For a start there was a bizarre flag waving ceremony where all the participants came out onto the stage, smiling and waving at the audience and hoping that their aunties, uncles and cousins were watching at roughly the same time. For a while the whole albeit brief ceremony didn't quite seem to belong in this now fantastic and fabled song contest. But on they went and then the nationalities all trudged back stage to watch events unfold.

In the cool capital of Portugal, laid back Lisbon held its very first Eurovision Song Contest and for three fizzing, scintillating and captivating hours the rest of Europe was just starry eyed, gripped and spellbound. This was no ordinary Eurovision Song Contest. There were stage invaders grabbing hold of the microphone when the United Kingdom's Suri began her three minute stint and a Hungarian heavy metal group who were both crazy, zany, bonkers and slightly irrational in their thinking. But then where would we be without a bonkers act in the Eurovision Song Contest? The whole show would have been immeasurably poorer without its spot of daftness.

But then we settled down last night and availed ourselves of a cultural spectacle that somehow defies description. Then again to refer to the Eurovision Song Contest as a cultural spectacle may be a complete exaggeration and perhaps inaccurate. Shall we say then that it was watchably acceptable if only just. You must have known what you were going to get with this yearly homage to the sublime and ridiculous, the potty and ingenious as well as the enchanting and life affirming.

Act one then saw our friends from Ukraine, a country with little in the way of songwriting expertise let alone flair or pedigree in the competition. We would not  be disappointed because this was truly awful and instantly forgettable. A gentleman who may want to forget that he was anywhere near a song contest, rose from a black coffin surrounded by flickering flames of fire. Not the best of starts it has to be said but it may be unwise to elaborate on both the song and the reasons why our man from Ukraine chose to be so sombre, morbid and downright mysterious.

Next up Spain, a country that does like a good bullfight and a drop of sangria when  they come home from a hard day. Onto the stage stepped a sugary, sweet and saccharine boy and girl who looked as they'd just stepped out of the pages of a conventional Mills and Boon book. Jason Donovan and Kylie Minogue they quite clearly weren't. But they did tug on the proverbial heart strings, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears quite tenderly before walking up to each other, stretching their hands out and then walking romantically into the sunset. It was all very worthy and well intentioned but love was quite clearly not in the air for the listening judges in the rest of Europe. Sorry Spain. Come back next year.

Slovenia were now the centre of attention and for the first time in the contest you began to feel as if you needn't have bothered to watch this huge confection of candy floss pop. The song was just one loud, thumping, pounding cacophony that should have been reserved for some other song contest. It was one of those modern electro and techno club songs whose only accompaniment was a series of flashing red lights and nothing of any real substance apart from that.

Calling Lithuania. Lithuania it was your turn. Now this song came as the most unexpected of surprises. A girl from Lithuania, suddenly appeared on a softly lit stage with nothing but her personality and a profound message from the heart. The song was endearingly called 'When We're Old' , a tune that did what it said on the tin. It was a lovely, slushy, sentimental, sad, nostalgically reflective, meditative, touching and heartfelt ballad that must have induced floods of tears from the audience, a lullaby for the folks of Lisbon.

And then there was Austria. Austria gave us plenty of upbeat, tantalising techno beats, a dance number with plenty of oomph and pizazz. The singer reminded you of a cross between Craig David and John Legend which is probably an enormous compliment to our man from Austria. There was something very soulful, positive, catchy and agreeable about this song but not one that would have unduly troubled the demanding Euro judges. It was well phrased and presented but not a winner.

Estonia of course are one of those many emerging Eurovision candidates who, at the moment, are just learning the ropes and finding out more about the exacting requirements for Eurovision victory. Now another girl tip toed onto the stage with twinkling eyes and a voice from the highest of mountains. Our girl from Estonia launched into the most rousingly operatic voice you're ever likely to hear, a soaring, floaty, dreamy and angelic number that reminded you of that first bird of spring. It was both soothing, calming and deeply relaxing to the soul but would never look like winning the contest.

Now, straight from the glaciers and fjords came Norway, a country where natural daylight remains one of the world's most spectacular sights at roughly 11.00 at night. In another display of what could be considered muddling mediocrity Norway came up dreadfully short. After the colourful pyrotechnics of Austria the Norwegians presented us with something similar but did redeem themselves with a cheerful, happy-go- lucky, vibrant song called 'That's How You Write a Song' that was both catchy and full of the joys of the season. The lead singer reminded you of a Leo Sayer with braces and that was as good as it got.

It was time for the host country to make their case for the defence. Portugal had exceeded all expectations by winning last year's Eurovision Song Contest but this time couldn't match the excellence of last year's entry. A woman with pink hair sidled up to the microphone, grinned very meaningfully for the cameras but then seemed to lose the plot completely. It was almost as if an attack of stage fright had afflicted her at the wrong moment. It was by far the slowest, dreariest and most ineffectual tune on the night. By the end of the song, you almost felt sorry for our brave Portuguese representative who must have known that the writing was indelibly etched on the wall.

Ladies and Gentleman let me now bring you this year's entry from the United Kingdom. For the last 21 years the UK have seemingly shuffled off the European map in a downward spiral to nowhere. Katrina and the Waves classic 'Love Shine Like a Light' is almost a faint memory. Sadly once again the United Kingdom struggled down in the basement and against a background of petty politics and, quite possibly, a personal vendetta, the UK, now on the verge of EU withdrawal, found themselves in some isolated dark room where nobody likes you any more and nobody will ever do business with you again. So there.

The Eurovision Song Contest used to be about farcically amateurish songs and fun moments where the judges lose contact with the hosts presenters and everybody panics. But Britain has well and truly put their foot in it and they'll never be spoken to or associated with. You'll just have to go it alone and whenever Eurovision crops up every year you'll have to forget about ever winning it again because you don't deserve it and that's final.

Serbia came onto the stage with what looked like a tribe of drummers whose only offering seemed to be some confusing, haunting and strangely Gothic number where not a great deal of any musical import seemed to come out of their mouths. It was a crash, bang, wallop mess of a song with no structure or technique. There was plenty of techno modernism but nothing to get even remotely excited about apart perhaps from the ending of the song which, it has to be admitted, came as a pleasant relief to the impartial outsider. Never mind Serbia you've still got another opportunity one day.

For Germany this was a time for sniffing into your handkerchief, crying into your German beer and becoming deeply emotional. Now when was the last time the Germans ever became emotional although they do know how to pose and posture when things go right. But those Germans keep on and doing it thoroughly.

A ginger haired gentleman walked sheepishly into the centre of the evening's attention. A song called 'You Let Me Walk Alone' was singularly devoted to the singer's late father, a tearful song all about loss, grief and fond memories of a much loved parent. This was a song packed with gentle sincerity, the most affectionate delivery and the most heart rending message.

Albania represented one of the few low points of the evening. Here was a shouty, bellowing, incoherent song that did very little to lift the audience to its feet. 'Mall' was performed by a bearded rock guitarist with a high pitched voice and another set of drums. Perhaps the less said about Albanians the better. This should have been my cue to put the kettle on.

France have always performed quite impressively in most Eurovision contest without achieving the necessary consistency to earn any long term praise. France gave us a husband and wife team with a straightforwardly outspoken political protest song. Dressed all in black they crooned into each other's face and spent most of the act circling each other and then doing their utmost to avoid dizziness.

If somebody had suggested that Czech Republic would one day grace a Eurovision Song Contest 40 or 50 years ago they would probably have been mocked and dismissed as pie in the sky dreamers. But here they were with a jazzy, trumpet blowing number that may have been excessively corny but remained on the right side of bright, bubbly, buoyant and cheeky. Another set of braces came bounding on to perform for the delectation of the Portuguese public.

Denmark were never ever likely to win anybody's hearts in front of a vast Lisbon audience. It was all very wind swept and dramatic but some of us would have much preferred one of the nation's mouth watering pastries to a song that was allegedly about 'A Higher Ground' but may well just have been lodged in some very deep underground tunnel.

This was the point when the Eurovision Song Contest seemed to lose possession of its senses. A couple of years ago some bright spark came out with one of the quirkiest ideas the show had ever thought of. Let's see what happens when we ask some random country from not only another continent but as far from Europe as you could possibly get. What about Australia they thought.You really couldn't have made it up. 'We've Got Love was moderately good with its uplifting disco beat but didn't really do enough to persuade a European jury who probably hadn't a clue why Australia were there in the first place.

Finland and Bulgaria gave us Eurovision at its most eccentric, unusual, two totally indescribable and unfathomable songs that were neither here nor there. By now we were beginning to run out of off beat European countries with weird agendas. Neither song was either tuneful, melodic or lingered long in the memory for even a minute or two.

Moldova took us back to a typical English holiday camp with their rendition of the Butlins red coat entertainers favourite. 'My Lucky Day' looked as if it had been scribbled down hastily on a British beach and then transferred to a higher plane of TV celebrity. The song was genuinely entertaining but then fell flat on its face when it suddenly occurred to us that this was a song written with teenagers in mind.

Sweden, who have always had a soft spot with Eurovision aficionados after Abba's exploits in 1974, were full of groovy, funky disco 1970s optimism, fizzing and sparking with energy, snap and crackle, a number that had vitality in its veins and one that Abba would have been proud to have written. 'Dance You Off' was so lively and joyful that you were tempted to dig out your platform shoes and flared trousers.

Then there was the aforementioned Hungary who were so disastrously bad that you had to blink twice in case you'd imagined it. Long haired heavy metal rock blasted out of the speakers, a sound that was both aggressive, abrasive, no-nonsense and completely off the scale landing very awkwardly in my ears but then what do I know about music? With fierce red and yellow flames surrounding our friends from Hungary comparisons could have been made to Metallica and Iron Maiden but then that would have been grossly unfair.

Holland, somewhat inappropriately, went all country and western with just a hint of middle of the road thrown in for good measure. It was hard to believe that the nation that gave us bicycles, canals and windmills now resorted to men playing twangy guitars from Memphis Tennessee. You half expected Kenny Rogers to join in with the festivities.

With Eurovision now reaching its climax it was time for an Irish ballad and that's always worth its weight in gold. Ireland have been notable absentees in recent Eurovision contests. Now 'Together' was a simple, warmly soothing, pretty and comforting ballad straight from the heart. Admittedly you were just overwhelmed with the song's lyrical beauty but didn't think for a minute that it would actually win the contest.

Cyprus had always developed for a reputation for delivering sentimental folk songs with balalaikas and men with white smocks, songs that might have been more pleasing on the ear in the local restaurant with just a small plate of olives but not in Eurovision. This year was a breakthrough for Cyprus. For most of the evening a provocative lady with a revealing dress sent most of the males pulses racing. It was a fast paced disco number and it could have been Shakira in disguise.

Last but not least Italy bounced onto view, two passionately committed men, wholeheartedly expressing feelings about the world, Italy and its political leaders. It was all very helter skelter, frantic and frenetic and didn't really convey the true meaning of the Eurovision Song Contest even though it looked presentable at times.

After what seemed an interminable nail biting, teeth clenching interim period and some of the most absurd scoring in recent Eurovision history one country emerged as the richly deserved winner. A girl called Netta from Israel offered an amazingly convincing impersonation of the Icelandic chanteuse Bjork. Netta's hair looked as if it had adopted a life form of its own. Her song 'Toy' was indeed a celebration of femininity, a strong and vigorous number that was boomingly memorable and a glorious triumph. It was song designed to register with all women and bursting at the seams with a positive statement about their role in society.

So it was that Israel were declared winners of the 2018 Eurovision Song Contest and for those of us who will always believe in Israel this was an affirmation about everything that is good in Israel and always will be. Next year indeed we will gather in Jerusalem and we will celebrate not only its identity and independence but recognise just how much has been achieved in 70 years. Let's hear it for Israel.

Hammers and Manchester United share the points in tedious goal-less draw.

Hammers and Manchester United share the points in tedious goal- less draw.

There were, believe it or not, three noteworthy incidents during last night's tedious goal- less draw between West Ham United and Manchester United at the London Stadium. The first was that perhaps unseen moment when Manchester United boss Jose Mourinho seemed to be jotting down some notes for his next compulsively readable best selling novel or maybe he was eagerly summarising the bland, pointless fare he'd just experienced. It was never like this at Chelsea or so he must have thought at the time.

The second outstanding moment came right at the end of this match. With the match fizzling out into what seemed a pre-arranged goal-less draw, Mark Noble, West Ham's tirelessly dedicated captain, came face to face with Manchester United's midfield enforcer Paul Pogba. The two men proceeded to stare at each other menacingly before shoulders were engaged, fists were threatened but never connected at any point and the meeting of handbags dissolved into some rather childish playground brawl. Suffice it to say it was all unnecessary and unseemly and everybody shook hands at the end of it all. It was, after all. a meaninglessly irrelevant game and these things happen from time to time.

At the London Stadium last night in West Ham's penultimate end of season match at their two year old ground this was one of those weary looking, end of season games before the Premier League takes itself on a welcome summer break. West Ham scrapped and slugged their way through a match against a team whose local neighbours are already enjoying their first morning by some far off pool or beach. Manchester United earned the point that they were looking for in ensuring finishing second to Manchester City. But it all seemed flat, dreary and colourless.

For West Ham of course this has been another torturous, traumatic, tension filled season where everything that might have gone wrong did go wrong and eventually righted itself in the final weeks of the Premier League season. For those of us who are almost immune to these yearly trials and tribulations perhaps this shouldn't have come as any great surprise. Besides, following West Ham has always been hard work for their lifetime season ticket holders and none should ever exclaim shock at any point.

 West Ham, or so it would seem, thrive on subjecting their supporters to unsavoury relegation battles. The last season at Upton Park almost has the feel of a wartime movie epic where the leading protagonists give award winning performances. And yet this was not the kind of pain and suffering where somebody gets seriously hurt and we all leave the cinema with tears in our eyes. This was West Ham being West Ham, humiliatingly bad at one moment then irrepressibly stunning in the next.

After losing their first three games away from home to Manchester United, Newcastle United and Southampton, West Ham took that now customary roller coaster journey through the season where home form deserted them and away form simply got worse. Admittedly, their first home game against Huddersfield did result in a workmanlike 2-0 victory at the London Stadium but you'd have been hard pressed to figure out what exactly was going on in their ensuing games because very few of the Hammers faithful could ever have come up with an adequate explanation.

Suffice it to say that West Ham face their last Premier League season against Everton in the safe waters of the bottom half of the table but still afloat and without the need of a life raft. Here they will face their old boss Sam Allardyce now at Everton and if the West Ham supporters at the London Stadium feel the need to vent their feelings again then maybe this is the right time. According to the patrons of a claret and blue persuasion Allardyce was the worst thing to happen to them since their last relegation from the top flight.

When Allardyce was at West Ham the football served up was all grime, grit and a minor throwback to the Industrial Revolution where the miners rolled up their sleeves and the pits and collieries were a vision of sweat, hard graft and devotion to duty. Allardyce believed in the hard wired practicalities and harsh realities rather than the ornate decorations advocated by his fellow Premier League colleagues.

Now after the all too brief and moderately successful Slaven Bilic had taken West Ham from their spiritual home at Upton Park and into their first at the new London Stadium, a rough, dodgy spell became intolerable. Bilic fell foul of the boo boys at West Ham and was sacked just as he thought he'd got his feet firmly under the table in the East End. Class may be permanent but football management can often be like a high wire trapeze act in the circus, a short term flirtation rather than something more concrete.

Then shortly before Christmas David Moyes came in from the cold after that frightful spell at Manchester United and last night Moyes must have thought he was looking at a mirror. After several 4-1 hammerings by Swansea, Liverpool and Manchester City, West Ham must have thought the quicksand was beginning to swallow them up too quickly. Then following another 4-1 subsidence at Arsenal, and a 1-1 draw at Chelsea, the crucial face saving 2-0 victory at Leicester City kept West Ham on the credit side.

Perhaps though the one defining moment of West Ham's season came at home to Burnley when all the frustrations and uncertainties of the season simply boiled over. That day West Ham were simply trounced 3-0  by Burnley at home and all the bitterness and vile vitriol came spilling over the barricades. Fans raced onto the pitch with corner flags and a couple of the more hardened West Ham fans had to be carried forcefully from the pitch, banners screaming their unhappiness at the way they felt they were being treated.

Still, in one of the last but one home matches of the season, both West Ham captain Mark Noble, the tall and upstanding Cheikhyou Kouyate, the splendidly mischievous and scheming Manuel Lanzini and the effortless assurance of Joao Mario, on loan from Inter Milan, all conspired to give perhaps one last show of unity and togetherness.

From the point of view of  the neutral it could be that come next season the aforesaid cast members of this production could be wearing different shirts. Kouyate has been an excellent investment but it does seem that his sell by date may well have expired. Too often Kouyate looks as if his legs have been caught up in some inextricable tangle. He seems to pirouette on one foot, adjusting the other before finally loping forward with those long legs with subtly placed passes and the occasional winning goal from either a free kick and an important goal scoring header from a probing cross.

Joao Mario may not be quite the definitive answer to West Ham's midfield problems, calmness personified perhaps but not the effective and clinical midfield link the club are looking for. His comfort on the ball is most encouraging but goal scoring excellence may not be his forte although he has scored a number of vital goals for West Ham recently.

Manuel Lanzini is undoubtedly one of the most loveliest touch players at the club and continues to provide West Ham with variations on a theme, darting, cutting inside opponents and then carving out inviting pathways into an advanced attacking position. Lanzini could be called a footballing bohemian, full of the arts and crafts that are regarded as essential to the role of the modern midfield playmaker. But as Lanzini trudged off the London Stadium last night there was a sense that he's probably given as much to West Ham as could be expected and another challenge lies on the horizon.

And then right at the end of this distinctly underwhelming a gentleman by the name of Andy Carroll came on as a substitute for West Ham. Under the circumstances it seemed a mysterious act given that both West Ham and United seemed to have signed a written agreement before the game that it should finish goal-less. But the pony tailed striker came traipsing onto the pitch with an ironic smile on his face trying desperately to alter what was now a predictable outcome. But the six foot beanpole from Newcastle looked a sorry sight perhaps wondering what would happen if a referee ever gave him the benefit of the doubt.

With the likes of Jessie Lingard, Paul Pogba, Antonio Valencia, Phil Jones and the rest of Manchester United strutting boulevardiers opening up increasingly larger gaps in the West Ham defence it did look for a while that the visitors could have potentially stripped West Ham bare with a hatful of goals but then erred on the side of caution. Their frequent attacks were built from the richest clay and mortar, passes sweeping across the London Stadium pitch with embarrassing regularity.

Sadly though both sides left the pitch unscathed with different thoughts on their mind. West Ham, you suspect, will just be glad to be in the Premier League regardless of results and recent form and Manchester United will now finish as runners up to their neighbours City but with a yawning gap that might take some time to fill. Football supporters of every town, city, village, road and street will now turn their attentions to a World Cup in Russia. The wheels will keep spinning and Jose Mourinho will hope that justice is seen to be done. We can never be sure but one day it could happen. We must hope Jose.

The end of another Premier League season- it's holiday time.

The end of another Premier League season- it's holiday time.

Ah! There you are. It's the end of another record breaking, tumultuous Premier League season and it's time to take stock of the last nine months. If only we could though particularly with a World Cup in a mere couple of weeks time. This though is the one time of the year when Premier League footballers and those all over the country in the Championship, League One and Two throw off their orange, blue and purple boots with yellow polka dots, mop their fevered brows and begin to pack their suitcases for a well earned rest by some exotic beach.

 Oh for that popular footballing vernacular. How often have we heard it! It happens right at the end of every Premier League season when, after all the stresses and exertions of another League season, a whole cluster of teams decide to just ease their feet off their pedals, don the predictable holiday sunglasses and forget that the season hasn't quite finished yet. It's the 'On the Beach' syndrome and and it only seems to apply to those teams in the middle or near the bottom of the Premier League when there's nothing to play for.

The facts, figures and statistics are by now self evident and set in stone. Manchester City won the Premier League by several miles, streets, roads, avenues and vast geographical distances. In fact Manchester City had clinched the Premier League title in the time it took Santa Claus to tumble down the chimney of several million homes in Britain. City were of course, were a phenomenon rather than a football team. playing some of the most spiritually gratifying football ever played by any team in the Premier League season since its arrival at the beginning of the 1990s.

City were joyous, imperious, beautiful and breathtaking. Their football belonged to some indefinable category, a masterful creation, an amalgam of so many different components that it was hard to believe that what you were seeing had actually reached fruition. When City boss Pep Guardiola held aloft the Premier League trophy in an anti climactic goal-less draw against Huddersfield over the weekend it actually seemed possible that this living organism had produced a perfect football team.

For those among the runners up in the Premier League it must have seemed that they were breathing a different kind of air, sampling an altogether alien climate where the football seemed distinctly inferior and somehow insignificant. This is not to suggest that City found everything and everybody around them somehow degrading and hardly worthy of any mention. But the overriding impression was that whatever the likes of Manchester United, Liverpool, Spurs or Chelsea could throw at them, City's air of commanding superiority was always a constant theme.

Behind City are their noisy neighbours United, Liverpool who used to win League titles with their eyes closed and Chelsea who, after last season's Premier League title, have almost flattered to deceive this season. There does seem an almost personal and parochial battle between the top five or six. In fact you're reminded of a children's birthday party where a game of Pass the Parcel or Musical Chairs turns into some frantic scramble to win the elusive runners up prize.

So what of those managers who made this season so disappointingly tedious? In a sense we should be celebrating the extraordinary achievements of Manchester City. But how can this be the point when City have won the Premier League by at least 20 or so points and that sense of a procession seemed so impressively stately? Maybe the rest of the Premier League should have thrown in the towel ages ago and we could have looked forward to the cricket and tennis season at a much earlier date.

For Manchester United the season could still prove a rewarding one. A repeat of the 1994 FA Cup Final against Chelsea lies in wait for manager Jose Mourinho. But the Mourinho face is still one that assumes the look of thunder. The man from Portugal continues to look like the man who can never ever find any satisfaction in anything. Mourinho has spent most of the season, sneering, snarling, gesticulating and throwing his hands into the air like the man who seems to have lost a fortune at a Monaco gambling casino. Should United actually win the FA Cup Final then maybe City's Premier League coronation may not be so bad after all.

Liverpool of course are poised to win the Champions League which to many of their Premier League contenders must seem like salt in a festering wound. Manchester United have more or less stumbled on the right way to win the Champions League in seasons gone past but Liverpool, who have won the European Cup five times, have almost become both pass and past masters of winning the competition.

Under the almost permanently happy Jurgen Klopp Liverpool have enjoyed a marvellously productive season where the Premier League promised land hasn't quite been reached but then Liverpool fans are admirably patient so that can wait for  the time being. Klopp is though quite the most amusing of all Premier League managers and the body language is one of a man who can barely hold himself back when things go his way.

For instance that greying beard and those amazingly flexible glasses are indeed worth the entrance money alone. Many has been the occasion when, in some uncontrollable bodily contortion, Klopp has leapt into the air, punched it quite unashamedly and then lost his bearings quite hilariously. Suddenly the glasses go on some unplanned journey into the Liverpool crowd and Klopp scampers along the touchline like a man running after a train on some remote country railway station.

Then there's the Chelsea manager Antonio Conte, who thought he'd landed the Premier League jackpot last season but then discovered that the following season had less bountiful gifts to deliver. Conte, of course, was renowned for being the man in black whatever the occasion. There was the black suit, the black waistcoat, the black cardigan during the winter, black trousers and yes, you've guessed it the black shoes. Poor Conte has never felt any desire or inclination whatsoever to look bright, bubbly and cheerful although it could have been a whole lot worse.

Instead we had to content ourselves with that dark skinned, swarthy appearance of the Italian mafia, a man apparently cloaked in secrecy but then surprisingly inspired last season when Chelsea could not put a foot wrong. Now Conte has very little to look forward- apart perhaps from a Cup Final victory against Manchester United. Conte looks brooding, moody, frustrated and completely resigned to whatever fate might have in store for him. Maybe his Stamford Bridge predecessor Jose Mourinho could teach him a thing or two.

For Mauricio Pocchetino at Spurs this has been another season where the work in progress which began a couple of seasons ago is no nearer completion. Spurs were beaten in the FA Cup semi final by Manchester United but have continued to play some of the most stupendously sumptuous football in the modern day game. The passes have been swept across the ground with the accuracy of a radar system, the touches on the ball a thing of both culture, art and beauty but here at the end of another Premier League season, Spurs have won nothing of any substance although if you include a place in the Champions League into the equation it could be considered a season of cold comforts.

The rest of the Premier League managers have already packed away their flip flops, Sun Factor 71 bottles, gaudy beach shirts and perhaps their own personal supply of Corn Flakes. They were the characters who formed the lap of honour to Manchester City's crowning moment in the sun.

At Crystal Palace Roy Hodgson will probably be given the freedom of Croydon after Palace looked both doomed and condemned last October and November. After that quite horrendous Euro 2016 defeat by Iceland the then England manager thought there was nowhere to go. But then Palace came along to offer him a valuable lifeline. After Frank De Boer had almost sunk the Palace battleship Hodgson was appointed at Selhurst Park.

After a slow, steady and careful climb out of the relegation quicksand, Hodgson quickly restored faith in those who lived at the Palace. Soon Crystal Palace looked like a team who'd just been resuscitated and revived. Palace were undoubtedly the team who came back to life when all seemed lost and hopeless. Wilfred Zaha has emerged as one of the best and trickiest wingers in the Premier League and may yet find himself in contention for a World Cup place in Gareth Southgate's  England squad.

 Hodgson, now 70, is far from pensionable age and still looks healthy, fit, chipper and sprightly. He stands in his technical area, face and mood betraying the whole spectrum of human emotions. The face creases and winces quite expressively when things have gone wrong. Then in the next breath, the folded arms exclaim joyously when winning goals are scored. There is the broadest of smiles in recognition of victory, a smart suit that seems to swivel when the mood of a match has noticeably changed and then the bitten lip when only defeat has been confirmed. Hodgson looks as though he has a thousand stories to tell on his face, a man who has been there and seen it all.

At Bournemouth, the managerial feats of Eddie Howe may have been quite outrageously overlooked. Howe has been one of the Premier League's brightest and most thoughtful of managers, a man with  most idealistic and deep thinking outlook on the game and immensely forward thinking. Howe has produced one of the most intelligent, capable, skilful and pleasing footballing sides in the country, a team carved and fashioned from the finest clay. They move the ball with short, sweet and staccato passes that hum and purr across the pitch and invariably find their team mates with instinctive ease.

Only one of the newly promoted sides Brighton have made any substantial steps forward. Manager Chris Houghton, who was always a positive and enterprising full back for Spurs and West Ham, created a team that eventually got its act together. Maybe it was that healthy seaside resort but Houghton has turned a team that had looked almost embarrassingly ordinary in the Championship last season into a grandstanding, free wheeling, carefree and brilliantly organised team who will now hold onto their Premier League status.

Finally there are two more allegedly cultural opposites. At Everton Sam Allardyce remains as stubbornly conservative and plain speaking as was ever the case. When he was manager at West Ham, Allardyce almost sparked off a major riot among the fans. Those ludicrously dull and ugly long ball tactics had horribly alienated everybody at the old Upton Park and by the end of it all Allardyce went on the most bizarre managerial expedition. From Sunderland, to the highly prized England job and back to Everton in the present day, Allardyce remains the pantomime villain wherever he goes.

Meanwhile there is the case of Newcastle United, who for so many decades now have wandered delusionally through some footballing dreamland. Under the superb management of Rafa Benitez the club have now found a proper heartbeat, a much clearer idea of where they'd like to be and the grateful realisation that patience is a virtue. One day Newcastle will find themselves in a genuine hunt for trophies. At the moment any hopes of breaking into the top four may have to be put in a realistic perspective but under Benitez Newcastle now have a compass and direction in the game.

Now though is the time when all Premier League managers should take those worried frowns off their faces, thinking all the while of clear blue skies and stunning sunsets. It is only a game and now that my claret and blue troopers West Ham have once again escaped the relegation trap-door, it's time to look forward to yet another World Cup and England's Russian voyage of discovery. Yesterday's image of the now re-installed President Vladimir Putin walking confidently into the rich carpets and chandeliers of one of Russia's grandest halls said everything we need to know about the country itself. Football, what a game!   

Sir Alex Ferguson, best wishes from us all.

Sir Alex Ferguson, best wishes from us all.

When Sir Alex Ferguson arrived at Manchester United in 1986, the club were, not to put to fine a point on it, in a terrible mess, floating around in old First Division obscurity and in a desperate need of a sharp injection of something anything to re-invigorate a team that had for so long remained deeply rooted in the rich tapestry of English football.  Then again of course we always think of  Manchester United in a much wider global context before realising that for a while back in the 1980s United had temporarily fallen asleep and somebody had forgotten to wake them up.

Before the Ferguson era, Ron Atkinson, he of the flashy, ostentatious appearance and controversial turn of phrase, had admittedly won a couple of FA Cups but was no nearer the promised land of the old First Division championship than most of their most devout supporters felt they had a divine right to win.

Manchester United were, remain, and always will be one of the most globally recognisable names within the vast footballing universe, a team whose name so readily trips off the tongue that  when those at dinner parties run out of things to talk about conversation invariably turns to Sir Matt Busby, George Best, Denis Law and the equally as inimitable Sir Bobby Charlton. Our thoughts then turn poignantly to the Munich air tragedy  which bring a flood of tears to our cheeks. But then we think back to more recent times and think of one man. Sir Alex Ferguson.

Yesterday it was announced that Sir Alex Ferguson, the former United manger, had to be rushed into hospital for emergency surgery on a brain haemorrhage. For several long moments the world stopped and then paid its respectful wishes to one of the greatest football managers in the history of football. We could hardly believe the news because here was a man who, to all outward appearances, seemed to be in the rudest health, full of beans and somehow indestructible.

Of course there was Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and United's very own saviour Sir Matt Busby. And you could rightly make a case for Bill Nicholson and Arsene Wenger at Arsenal but Ferguson was popular, hugely successful, no nonsense, a ruthless disciplinarian, a man with an almost pedantic attention to detail. Ferguson was a footballing connoisseur, a man who drank from the richest of red wines and a man who, after an almost torrid couple of months at the start of his United tenure, remarkably salvaged a slowly deteriorating Manchester United side who seemed destined for nowhere in particular.

But in the third round of an FA Cup tie against Nottingham Forest, United found a peaceful haven away from the hellish hullabaloo around them. Mark Robins, a promising if workmanlike striker, scored the only goal of the match and that was the decisive turning point. Within a year or two United had reached their first FA Cup Final for what seemed an age. United demolished Crystal Palace in the 1990 FA Cup Final but only after a replay. The rest, to quote the most obvious cliche, is history.

For the ensuing decade Ferguson would transform, blend, concoct, mould, cut and paste, encourage and inspire what would become one of the most handsomely talented teams ever to tread football's theatrical boards. The glamorous generation of David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs gelled together so powerfully and shrewdly that some of us thought here was a man with the Midas touch. Ferguson was a magician, an oracle, the finest tactician and technician ever to manage a top flight club.

During the 1990s Ferguson won so many Premier League titles, FA Cups and European Cups( the Champions League) that the trophy cabinet at Old Trafford must have been groaning under the sheer weight of silverware on show. But there was one night that even Ferguson must have thought would never ever be bettered or surpassed. It was the night United won their second European Cup, a match with the ultimate in melodrama, pathos, passion and football at its most discriminating.

When Ole Gunnar Solksjaer, the lithe and athletic Norwegian striker, turned the ball home for United's enthralling, last gasp winner for United against a tiring Bayern Munich to not only win the European Cup for United but also complete the remarkable Treble for United, Ferguson, in grey suit, immaculately ironed white shirt and United's club tie, lifted the European Cup and smiled broadly from ear to ear.

It would though take almost another decade before Ferguson would renew acquaintance with the European Cup when Chelsea were beaten in the Champions League final on a soggy night in Moscow. By now though the name of United had become so celebrated throughout the land that even a deeply disappointing Champions League final victory could dilute the sheer size of United's achievement.

Then, after cleaning up 20 Premier League titles in the most attractive of styles, Ferguson would begin to slow down, winding down from the Olympian heights of success. None could even remotely touch Ferguson's record breaking feats, none had his knowledgeable air, that walking encyclopedia of footballing wisdom, that ability to craft and re-construct, to resurrect and rebuild, fashioning the teams he wanted rather than the ones others may have thought preferable.

But as Sir Alex now rests and recovers from major surgery, he may have time to reflect on the world footballing stage that he once graced and remember how one FA Cup tie during the 1980s was so vitally pivotal in the first stage of the United reconstruction. We must hope that once on the road to recovery he will sit up in his bed, glance through the pages of the Racing Post and smile at those marvellously groomed horses that he has now taken possession of.

To those who have followed football and always appreciated the game's prettiest shades, the name of Sir Alex Ferguson is the one that will always command enormous respect from everybody connected to the game. There was Ferguson's unwavering faith in the unique genius of Eric Cantona and his emotional attachment to the kids who were Beckham, Scholes, Giggs and Butt before the kids became men.

So Sir Alex you have our best wishes for a full recovery to both you and your family as the well as the family unit you were once responsible for as United manager. When the compilers of any history of football have completed their work they may think that one man would have several chapters devoted to him exclusively. Manchester United and the entire footballing community are thinking of you and wishing you a speedy recovery. 

All Or Nothing- the Mods musical- the story of the Small Faces.

All or Nothing- the Mods musical- the story of The Small Faces.

When the Mods met the Rockers on one unforgettable August Bank Holiday weekend during the mid 1960s, it was regarded as the ultimate collision of two fiercely antagonistic gangs with a score to settle and an argument to pick. It was 1964 and London was the fashion capital of the world where music, art and Flower Power came face to face, Harold Wilson, the Prime Minister insisted that the White Heat of Technology was the catalyst for radical change and a small bunch of working class lads from Manor Park in East London were doing their thing for the country.

All Or Nothing is the story of the cheeky, wise cracking and hilariously irreverent The Small Faces, the pop music 1960s sensation whose rise from the East End dockyards was gloriously enacted in one of the most gorgeously enjoyable and powerful stories cum musicals that restored your faith utterly in human nature, West End musicals of the highest quality and those behind the scenes people who made it all possible.

So here we had it then. There they were four freshly scrubbed gentlemen from a small corner of suburban Essex, bursting with commendable ambition and all hell bent on releasing so many adult feelings into the air and testosterone that at times it must have felt like the exuberance of  youth would always hold the band back at some stage. But this was a genuine rags to riches story with a dollop of exploitation thrown in for good measure.

This was the story of one Steve Marriott, a confident, cocky and arrogant man fuelled with plenty of get up and go whose motivations and desires are splendidly illustrated throughout the show. Marriott teams up with equally as effervescent Ronnie Lane, two fiercely forthright and blunt characters who strut their way in and out of clubs and local pubs with the impudent gift of the gab, earthy, humorous Cockney humour and a thick thread of big time bravado and swagger in their every day walk or talk.

Marriott suddenly discovers Lane in another struggling band and smartly persuades Lane to join him on one of the biggest and most exciting pop music adventures he'd ever become a part of. All or No Nothing is a sparkling 1960s social documentary with all the fixtures and fittings of that often turbulent, mind blowingly eventful decade. Marriott fervently believes that he is the best thing since sliced bread much to the annoyance of a prissy and domineering mother fiercely opposed to her son's pop music aspirations.

The scene featuring Marriott's mother pleading his son to accept an acting role alongside the great Sir Laurence Olivier was outstanding in the extreme. Marriott sneers and sniggers before launching into a passionate defence for the case. The son obviously knows better because he remains convinced that the sex, drugs and rock and roll existence led by his peers can only lead to a life of late night hell raising, girls on every street corner or stage door and the kind of drunken decadence that most of his mates could only fantasise about.

Steve Marriott is a classic example of the pop star who deludedly thinks that all he has do to achieve his objectives is to sling a guitar around his neck and prance around a concert stage with the most single minded conviction that can possibly be mustered. Marriott throws his body around with a ferocity and all conquering intensity that had to be seen to be believed. The Small Faces hits came flooding out of Marriott's cool guitar like a gushing waterfall, surging out of his mouth and then shaking the floorboards determinedly and dangerously.

Then there were the scheming and deceitful agents, beautifully portrayed with cigars in their mouths and double dealing mischief on their minds. When the lads try to conquer the Northern clubs the overwhelming scepticism paves the way for rejection. But far from daunted the Small Faces continue to knock on doors furiously pursuing more and more lucrative gigs before TV drags them forcefully off the floor. It was at this point that they were thrust headlong  into the studios of Top of the Pops with the ever popular Tony Blackburn. Juke Box Jury was next on the list with the ever dapper David Jacobs. Here was a moment of theatrical magic and hilarity in its purest form.

Now world domination came calling for the Small Faces. Marriott was seduced by the blues without ever really succeeding in their now fruitless efforts to hit the big time. But in yet another comic twist of fame, Marriott and the band would, remarkably, meet up with Sonny and Cher quite by chance. But America was not to be the right place and the right time for the Faces and soon they would be contemplating the twilight of their careers.

At the beginning of their career both Marriott, accompanied by Kenney Jones and Jimmy Winston on drums, harmonica and keyboard respectively, had struck out with their debut single 'Whatcha Gonna Do About It' full of pent up fury, energy and full on, raw aggression, challenging the Establishment with the boldest of pronouncements.  There followed 'Here Come the Nice', a rocky, bouncy number, a song with a meaningful story line and easy going narrative.

By now the money they thought they'd done so much to rightfully merit as theirs was now trickling out of their hands like the proverbial sieve. Royalties on their tracks had now gone missing and Marriott was simply incensed. There were behind the scenes ructions, red blooded arguments, smashed guitars, endless contractual disagreements and Marriott was beginning to lose patience with the people he thought he could trust.

Perhaps the most hotly anticipated moments of 'All or Nothing' came in the latter half of the show with the songs that would define them and immortalise them. 'Itchycoo Park' was a brilliant and deeply reflective piece of music that was delicately crafted and typified exactly where the band were going at the time.

Over the years 'Itchycoo Park' has been variously attributed to a number of suburban London parks but the likelihood is that Marriott and Laine were probably thinking of Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex. It may be that the accuracy of the song's derivation has now been lost in time. But there can be no doubting the song's underlying perky optimism and thought provoking lyrics were undoubtedly right for the time.

By now those in the Ambassador's packed theatre in London's West End were beginning to tap their fingers, clap their hands and bracing themselves for the show's finale. How could any theatre director producing a show about the Small Faces ever overlook one of the band's most timeless anthems, a song about the one day of the week when we all down tools for one day, put our feet up and think about nothing but roast beef and Yorkshire pudding and Family Favourites on the radio. Somehow the Small Faces and Family Favourites were synonymous with the 1960s so perhaps they were meant for each other.

'Lazy Sunday' was a pop masterpiece designed to make us feel that much better about ourselves than we may have been feeling anyway. It was a song about strolling along riverbanks, walking through sun dappled woodlands and then finishing off Sunday afternoon with an ice-cream and a chocolate flake. It was about taking your time, slowing down, gazing into some far off distant land where the waters rippled at sunset and vicars trundled down country lanes with a gentle whistle or two.

It was 'Lazy Sunday' that provided everybody in Britain with the most pleasant full stop to our busy week and then sailed off to a place where serenity always existed. Marriott and company, it could have been said were just idealistic dreamers when they wrote 'Lazy Sunday' but none could deny that this was the way it should be rather than the way it was. Of course we had more time on our hands on a Sunday afternoon because the shops were always closed, the roads and motorways were emptier and besides we could always rely on the sacred stillness of a Sunday.

And so it was the Small Faces slowly broke up, Marriott and Lane went in different directions and sadly it all went horribly wrong. Both Marriott and Lane died and the band from Manor Park in London's suburbia, never did find the right blend and chemistry again. All we were left with were those indelible memories of a boy who was once asked to appear alongside Olivier, greedy agents who had no real interest in the band at all and the music that could only be identified as the sound of the Small Faces.

In a rousing last half an hour or so 'All or Nothing' was belted with showboating gusto and redemptive power. It was one of those songs that, had it been played in a local pub at full volume may well have cracked ceilings or broken glasses. It was a blistering, blustering, feelgood song, urgent and repetitive at times perhaps but saying what it said on the tin.

By the end of this fabulous West End showbiz spectacle those who must have seen the Small Faces on more than one hundred occasions stood up cheering, whooping and demanding more. Of course there was a fleeting reference to the one and only Rod Stewart who in his early days did fancy his chances with the Faces. But then again what West End musical would have been complete without a mention of Rod Stewart? This was the kind of show that was just sprinkled with nostalgia and good times and before it closes in the West End on June 2 this may well be the time to snap up tickets. Oh for those Small Faces with big hearts. What a show!

Abba are back- the most unexpected reunion.

Abba are back - the most unexpected reunion.

Now who saw that one coming? Word has got back to us that one of the world's grooviest, slickest,  most easy listening of all 1970s pop music groups are getting back together for what promises to be one of the most improbable comebacks in the history of pop music. And yet it all seems as if they've never been away because Benny or was it Bjorn told us that it was rather like stepping back into a recording studio and nothing had changed not one iota.

 The men with their thick beards were still there and the girls were also champing at the bit, ready to dust down those platform shoes and bracing themselves for a full blooded concert in front of hysterical teenybopper audiences. Those flared trousers were so right for the time and besides who cared what we looked like because we knew that Abba had monopolised the whole decade and, it has to be said, every club disco up and down the land. The turntables were more or less dominated by Abba singles and how we enjoyed every minute of it.

Yesterday at a light hearted press conference Benny and Bjorn stood side by side with that legendary song writer and musical maestro Tim Rice. It doesn't seem like 30 years ago but both Rice and Abba had once collaborated on the West End musical Chess which for some ended in check mate and others simply a triumphant charge of the knight and castle. Chess, according to your reaction at the time, spent a considerable amount on the London stage and you sensed that Rice was full of gratitude for everything that Benny and Bjorn had done for Chess.

But here we are again on the first day of May and you weren't imagining it. You can open your eyes now in sheer wonderment because Abba are turning back the clock to a time in Britain when miners went on strikes, there was trade union argy bargy confrontation and power cuts that reduced us to candles that never seemed to go out. It was a time of economic heartache and festering dissent in the ranks. It was a time for angry militancy, fury, indignation, unrest, miners rubbing their cold hands together outside bleak picket lines and general winters of discontent.

Then almost exactly 44 years ago a pop music whirlwind swept across the world with unstoppable force. They were called Abba and in 1974 they sung that blissfully melodious song that would win the Eurovision Song Contest by several country miles. The song was 'Waterloo', a jolly, jovial, upbeat and uptempo ditty that came to epitomise Eurovision in all of its cheesy splendour or so some might have told you then.  There was, in essence though, a delightful Scandinavian innocence about Waterloo that in retrospect somehow seems very dated now but then was utterly relevant.

But in 1974 Abba quite literally arrived and would later come to release a somehow aptly titled album called Arrival. Here on the album cover was a helicopter whose occupants would take their songs to the most exalted heights of success and prosperity. Now Abba were here to announce themselves as instantly identifiable pop music icons whose music would transcend every musical genre that had gone before. Some might have called it candy floss pop mixed in with allegedly corny lyrics but nevertheless lovably homespun lyrics.

There was 'Dancing Queen, a catchy number designed exclusively for the disco dance floor where now flared trousers and platform shoes had captured the moods and fashions of 1970s with its sweetly flavoured song titles and equally as piquant words. Dancing Queen suggested that the world had now been overtaken by fashionable young girls determined to rule the disco floor with their flouncy dresses and skirts. Little did they know that towards the end of the 1970s  two record breaking, blockbuster movies 'Saturday Night Fever' and 'Grease' would fulfill those long held dreams.

There was the 'Name of the Game' 'Fernando', the exceptional 'Mama Mia', and of course the ultimate homage to everything that makes the world go around. 'Money, Money, Money' broke all chart topping records quite literally with its enduringly infectious message. Money may have been the root of evil but it could also buy you several islands in the Caribbean, glamorous speedboats that were roughly the size of Monaco, classic looking yachts  in every part of the globe, a huge collection of Rolls Royces, dining rooms with glittering chandeliers and vast houses in gated communities that hid a thousand secrets.

Sadly, by the end of the 1970s Abba, aka Benny, Bjorn and Agnetha and Ani Frid found that the old magic had betrayed them.  Music had moved into an entirely different set of communities and the world had now found itself in a 1980s Russian glasnost where disco had now been replaced by an altogether more aggressive and anarchic pop music style. Now the edgy and apparently disenchanted youth chose punk rather than soul and the desperately disillusioned, disenfranchised kids on the streets must have felt terribly rejected and overlooked.

Here were the fans who must have idolised Abba on their way back from their Golden Egg restaurants and their Chicken in A Basket dinners. Abba always looked so united, deeply harmonious, in touch with the cool, modern zeitgeist, singing in the most heartfelt fashion to a generation who were in their element when Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha and Anni Frid swayed and shimmied their way onto the stage. The girls flicked back their scarves and shawls with deliberately flirtatious intent and the boys played their guitars and pianos with real style, verve and overwhelming passion.

The hits seemed to come thick and fast. Who could ever forget that Abba video that seemed to be  shot on some isolated spot next to a skiing resort? Wrapped up warmly in thick coats, scarves and only a snowman for company the band began to belt out a good old fashioned chart topping song that would have definitely appealed to all age groups, diverse musical tastes and classes.

So now it is that we warmly welcome back our Swedish friends from that far off land of Earth Wind and Fire, Tavares, John Travolta and Olivia Newton John, a society determined to create their very own distinctive landscape with their own watercolours.  We must have known what we were getting with Abba because they certainly knew what their fans wanted. They were all clean, presentable, well mannered and seemingly unfazed by the fans, the idolatry and the adoring adulation.

Yesterday we learnt that the new Abba have now recorded two brand new singles which is rather like discovering that you'd stumbled upon quite accidentally a twinkling set of diamond rings at the back of an attic. It seems certain that it is not a long term project because it is hard to see a 70 plus group of singers reliving the good times and then realising that their competition consists of Ed Sheeran, electro trance music and the powerful voice of Adele.

For years some of the most loyal Beatles fans clamoured for ages for a reunion of the Fab Four when quite clearly there was never any intention to even pick up a guitar let alone revisit the Yankee Stadium in New York. Somehow a rebooted, remastered and revitalised Abba with teenage enthusiasm for their music seems nothing but a pipe dream and absurdly unrealistic. But you never know.

Still Abba, with the same line up are gearing for that long awaited, headline grabbing comeback. They cynics may regard their return as some kind of cheap publicity stunt intended to remind us of the old days. There are quite possibly very few sentimental reasons for this remarkable re-appearance other than a simple desire to perform and play their music. Abba essentially owned much of the 1970's pop scene,  establishing a rhythm, musical motif and precedent that others tried to follow but could never quite re- produce.

 Abba were easy listening, healthy, bracing and salubrious to a certain extent. Benny, Bjorn, Agnetha and Anni Frid can't wait to get going again and Sweden, it is safe to assume, are bound to hold street parties and quite possibly declare a national holiday. You can almost feel the excitement in Stockholm as ardent Abba fans cry with joy at the prospect of two new singles to add to their well stocked record collection. December is reported to be the release date but some of us can still remember both the stage musical and film version of Mama Mia with the brilliantly peerless Julie Waters and the wonderful Piers Brosnan. Oh these are special years, always good times. Abba are back and let me hear you everybody. She was undoubtedly the Dancing Queen and you can almost feel the mid 1970s again. Let's look for the Arrival album again. It's got to be somewhere.