It's 52 years today and England were World Champions.

It's 52 years today and England were World Champions.

It only seems like yesterday and for those who followed the Beatles the musical coincidence could hardly have been more bizarre. It was day unlike any other day and one that will be etched indelibly in the minds of hundreds and thousands, millions nay less, England football supporters. It was 1966, the year England won the World Cup, the Jules Rimet Trophy, the year we danced in the Trafalgar Square fountains after the World Cup had been won, the year we cheered the England players as they emerged from the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington and out onto the balcony.

It was the 1960s, the decades that unashamedly gave us outrageous fashions, hilarious haute couture, crazy but happy, clappy psychedelic music, Woodstock, Vietnam and catastrophic world events that would shape the world we would inhabit for many years after the decade had drawn to a close. But on one Saturday afternoon at the end of July in 1966 England achieved something that most of their vocal critics were convinced would never happen in any lifetime least of all theirs.

After all the teeth gnashing, soul baring, melodramatic weeks leading up to the World Cup opening evening when England could barely scrabble a goal-less draw in their opening group match against Uruguay, none of us could have known the sheer enormity of the events that would follow that game. With the benefit of hindsight it still seems like some huge dreamscape where the things England supporters must have thought they'd never see again, flared into life with all the vibrancy of a Woodstock or maybe that show stopping cabaret at the Talk of the Town at London's West End.

It's now 52 years since a young, shy, modest and humble man with blond hair stepped up to the Royal Box at the old Wembley Stadium, wiped any dirt he thought may have existed on his hands and accepted football's most valuable of all trophies with the broadest smiles. For those who witnessed it all the occasion, in isolation, now assumes an almost historic significance. The man with the blond hair and an engaging smile was West Ham captain Bobby Moore and Moore, overnight, became one of the most celebrated and iconic figures in not only footballing culture but a global superstar.

And yet frustratingly and incredulously, England have never won the World Cup since but it hasn't been for the want of trying. Recently, they reached the semi finals of a World Cup for the first time since 1990 and a vast majority of the nation bit their fingernails once again, privately hoping but never suspecting that maybe it could be this time. But then for reasons that can never be properly understood England graciously acknowledged that they'd got as far as they could and that realistically we were never really destined to reach a World Cup Final because maybe that final obstacle could never be overcome.

Still, there can be no harm in misty eyed recollections and perhaps nostalgia can have its ample consolations. As a three year old child the memories are simply non existent but my grandfather and his colleagues did proclaim both accurately and victoriously that indeed West Ham had won the World Cup. The football historians are many who will tell you that three West Ham players were instrumental in the downfall of West Germany. They were right and the English were besides themselves with delight.

Undeniably Bobby Moore, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters were trained, coached, nurtured, guided, coaxed and cajoled by the patient and avuncular Ron Greenwood at the old Upton Park. Sir Geoff Hurst had ghosted swiftly into acres of space in the West Germany penalty area before leaping like the proverbial salmon and, criminally neglected by the German defence, glanced his header sweetly into the net for England's equaliser after the Germans had taken the lead. Bobby Moore could never have struck a more perfectly weighted free kick for Hurst if he'd rehearsed it a thousand times.

Then in the second half England gained a stronger foothold on the game and always looked the likelier of the two sides to break through decisively. Once again the ball had travelled back into the West German penalty area and after a surge of electricity had run through the six yard box, Martin Peters of Dagenham and West Ham picked up a loose ball and thrashed the ball home for England's second. Peters jumped into the air, a thrilled and elated figure who reacted in much the way any of us would on receiving good news.

For the rest of this elegant epic, Alan Ball gave us his impersonation of a combustion engine that keeps exploding, tireless, indefatigable, immense, running here and there, hither and thither, the lightning bolt in England's relentless attack, full of sound and fury. There was Bobby Charlton, the Manchester United wonder kid who had survived one of the most horrendous of football related tragedies when literally on the brink.

In 1958 Charlton was about to fly back to England after United had just played Red Star Belgrade in the European Cup and then found himself stranded on a Munich airport runaway. While the rest of his closest friends would die in the plane that should never have been allowed to take off, Charlton would embark on the most heroic rehabilitation. Then ten years later after a loyal and emotional attachment to his beloved Manchester United, Charlton would lift the European Cup for United in a stunning 4-1 victory against Benfica.

But on World Cup Final day, Bobby Charlton, he of the dynamic, dynamite shot from long distances, would cry seemingly indefinitely because this had been his day in the sun. Then the explosive Charlton would glance over to his brother Jack, weep ever more copiously, hug his sibling and just embrace both the family feeling engendered by the day and the closely knit communality of this day of all days.

There were the defensive titans of the day, players such as Nobby Stiles. Stiles of course was that toothy kid in the playground who didn't care what the score was as long as he could take the ball home and tell his family all about it. Stiles was hard running, hard in the tackle, totally, remorselessly devoted to the cause. Stiles quite literally, wore his heart on his sleeve, aggressive because he knew he had to be but unforgivably uncompromising. Nobody messed with Stiles and nobody knew more about the opposition he was facing.

Jack Charlton, Bobby Charlton's brother could never be erased from anybody's memory bank. When the final whistle went for the end of the 1966 World Cup Final, Charlton slumped to his knees, looked to the skies and wondered if life could get any better. Our Jack was naturally exhausted but many of us knew that Charlton had been a rock, a deeply inspirational presence, an almost evangelical presence at the heart of the England defence. He was tall if not taller than the average giraffe, patrolling the centre of his back four like a security officer employed by the Bank of England.

The story was that after the game Jack Charlton had wandered away from the joyful hokey cokey celebrations in the West End of London and decided that he just wanted to be alone. Eventually and allegedly Charlton ended up knocking on a stranger's door in Leytonstone in Essex and asking quite innocently whether he could share his World Cup experience with them over a cup of tea.

In the hullabaloo and high fiving revelry, the contribution of Liverpool striker Roger Hunt may have been conveniently overlooked. And yet Hunt was the one man at Wembley that day who simply assumed that the debatable third Sir Geoff Hurst goal had crossed the line by quite a distance. Hunt tore around Wembley, hunting, niggling, pestering, badgering, always making himself available in space for those important touches, tussling for possession and invariably winning it.

And so we come to that moment when the world stopped for a moment, paused for breath, sighed pessimistically and then hit the roof in the full knowledge that nobody could take that moment away from us. When Sir Geoff Hurst turned smartly in the German penalty area after excellent work by Alan Ball the whole nation took another sharp intake.

But we should never have worried for a single second because fate had suddenly intervened. Hurst adjusted his body, moved his feet quite brilliantly and strategically and flashed a thunderous first time shot that hit the crossbar, scraped the white goal line and then bounced out of the goal rather like one of those silver balls in one of those old fashioned pin ball machines. What on earth had happened there?  It must be a goal because the whole of the England team had thought it had.

Then all hell broke loose. White shirted West Germany defenders chased the referee around the old Wembley Stadium as if the whole England team had stolen all of their worldly belongings. They surrounded the man at the heart of it all as if a grievous sense of injustice had been visited upon them. Couldn't the referee see the obvious evidence in front of everybody's eyes? The ball had never crossed the line and the Germans were livid. This had to go before the learned judge at the Old Bailey.

After what seemed an eternity and judicial deliberation the jury delivered their considered verdict. The Russian linesman- for that was his title in 1966- thrust his flag in the air with an officiously serious look on his face and England had scored their third goal. Hurst looked around him briefly, shocked for a minute or three and was then relieved at the end of that hiatus in the action. Hair matted with sweat and bemusement on every feature of his face, Hurst jumped up and down again, knees and legs in unison and then there was the realisation that he had scored. Yes, he had scored for England again.

With the game stretched beyond belief England flowed forward over and over again, determined to put their West German rivals well and truly in their place. The Germans had nothing more to give and it was now that English doggedness and red blooded gallantry took over. England were gambling and gambolling around the Germans like the proverbial sheep in springtime. It was almost game over for Helmet Schoen's Germans and the minutes were inexorably ticking away.

With minutes to go the ball had found its way back in their own defence. Now Bobby Moore would encounter one of those life changing decisions he would never regret. Picking up the ball tight near the touchline, Moore controlled the ball with all the time in the world at his disposal except Moore couldn't hear the cries of exhortation from Jack Charlton. Charlton apparently told Moore to dispose of the ball with all the haste of a man with an unexploded bomb in his hands. Please Bobby. Just get rid of it or words to that effect.

But Moore did heed the well intentioned advice of his esteemed colleague. He looked up, surveyed the geography of the Wembley pitch like a Roman emperor before chipping the most glorious through ball over the top of the fading West German defence. Galloping into vast and open acres of empty grass, Geoff Hurst raced away like the most accomplished sprinter, pulling the ball towards him and then rifling a shot which bulged the German net for the fourth and conclusive goal.

So it was that 52 years ago today, England, that green and pleasant land, that peaceful, serene and placid land where the pubs used to shut at 11pm and Sundays were sacred, were declared winners of the 1966 World Cup. In years to come we may come to believe that such days in our lives will never be witnessed ever again although we can only hope that they might.

Still we love anniversaries and those great state occasions when everything goes exactly according to plan. We did win the World Cup 52 years ago and although the gap is widening and the years are increasing England made all of us proud to be associated with everything that the country had so fondly held dear. But England had created its very personal niche. For one year it was our World Cup rather than the one that dog called Pickles had found, a World Cup we were temporarily deprived  of Still dogs have always been our best friends and when was the last time a dog scored a hat-trick in the World Cup Final? 1966 hey, what a year that was.

Tour De France- cycling at its most competitive.

Tour De France- cycling at its most competitive.

The Tour De France is cycling at its most competitive. Not for those hardened professionals in lycra a gentle pedal up and down the swooping, undulating hills of the Yorkshire Dales or a leisurely cycle to the local village post office where the only exertion involved is that of a brief gasp or pant before wiping off a mere bead of sweat from a slightly reddish forehead, the result of a quick sprint to the top and then hurtling down a sun baked road all the while gleefully clinging on to the handlebars for dear life.

But the Tour De France is serious business. It is cycling for big bucks, cycling at its most combative, fiercely contested and above all cycling where the only motivation comes from within, where the battle of wits with your fellow cyclist becomes much more than a handsome sum of prize money although that has to be the main incentive.

For those of us on the outside and merely impartial of observers cycling  has always looked hugely exciting, a tactical sporting spectacle where the survival of the fittest becomes the predominant theme of the whole contest. Throughout the decades every July when summer reaches its most glorious pinnacle, whole bunches of riders and deeply committed cyclists struggle and toil their way through the sweltering heat of the French countryside.

Every year the streets, roads, winding and twisting country lanes and pretty farmyards of idyllic rural France become the main setting for one of sport's most remarkable of road races, as men with a fanatical determination to get to Paris tomorrow with the winning wreath around their necks pump muscular thighs towards the finishing line.

 It is sport at its most ferocious, sport at its most fascinating and sport that is exhausting to watch, breathlessly exhilarating and sport at its maximum speed. The Tour De France has always delivered some of the most controversial and colourful of characters. It is undoubtedly and quite obviously one of the fastest and most intriguing of all sporting events. Because once those guys on their streamlined, designer bikes get on their bikes there can be no stopping them. For years and years, decades and decades the good people of France have stepped outside their French farmhouses and vineyards to watch the greatest road race in the world. It is sport that beggars description and simply unbelievable.

This year Welshman Geraint Thomas is one of the leading contenders in the British search for yet another Tour De France crown. In recent years, Chris Froome, Sir Bradley Wiggins and Mark Cavendish have all claimed the shining limelight when the focus has fallen on British hopes for success but this year it's Thomas's big chance to win back the cycling plaudits for Britain in this year's Tour De France.

As a mere spectator on a metaphorical roadside, the Tour De France has always been a spectacular watch. Admittedly I haven't been on a bike since I was a wee lad in shorts when my parents bought me one of those  lime green bikes with the obligatory stabilisers attached to them. The smell and sight of grease and oil of course, are remembered with enormous affection but it didn't really occur to me at the time that I would ever pursue this childhood activity with any great passion or businesslike intent.

But the Tour De France does look positively frightening and one of the major challenges you could ever be confronted with. There go tightly knotted bunches of cyclists, frantically and frenetically pushing and pedalling to the front, arms and fingers wrapped around their handlebars, backs bent forwards, helmets securely fastened onto their heads and then jostling, pushing and pulling, shoving and wriggling their way through a chaotic field as if their lives depended on it.

Then there begins the fight to the finishing line, eyes narrowing like late night owls, rocking and rolling athletic bodies from side to side, all the while glancing over their heads, watching, carefully monitoring their opponents. Most seem to be wearing  appropriate sunglasses or the very latest in goggles as the race spreads out expansively across vast mountain ranges and then loops around France, snaking its incomparable way past enthusiastic farmers and never pausing for breath.

The bikes swerve, sway and slide, heaving their bikes up seemingly impossible climbs into the middle of nowhere,  past cheerful shops and newsagents, across fertile lands of rich fruit picking and fragrant vats of grapes with a hint of blackberry in the air. The race continues along neatly built haystacks, dusty fields, green fields with thick  rows of arable and agricultural land. The cheers get progressively louder and more vociferous, the cyclists responding with the briefest of grins and then charging off into the distance once again.

The Tour De France is sport at its most red blooded and masculine with men of courage, heroism and unbelievable stamina. It is cycling with just a hint of personal bitterness in its soul, but nonetheless fair minded and honourable. Of course there are the innumerable roadside crashes, the falls from grace and the embarrassing tumble to the ground. But at its heart the Tour De France is as good as it gets in the great sporting community. There are deeply rooted rivalries, scores to settle, grudges to be addressed but for those who devote themselves to their long distance bike marathons these are men who should be admired unstintingly. 

So as the Tour De France reaches its enthralling climax with that famous appearance at the Champs Elysses and the Arc De Triomphe in Paris our best wishes are naturally extended to the runners and riders, the leaders, the runners up, the heroes and the worthy triers. Then Paris will extend its warmest welcome to the winner of the Tour De France because that's what sport should be about.

It is time to forget about cycling's darkest and most unsavoury hour when the sport became the unwitting victim of doping scandals and self destructive drug taking. The whole sorry Lance Armstrong episode is now nothing more than a horror movie where everything that could go wrong for cycling quite certainly did. Sport has to move on and try to embrace its virtues rather than its pernicious vices. But the Tour De France rolls on year after year and after recently being appointed as football World Champions, the French may be entitled to a private spot of gloating. Vive La France once again.   

Mamma Mia 2- Here We Go Again.

Mamma Mia 2- Here We Go Again.

It could hardly have gone any better. Film sequels can often be either a huge let down or just too incredible for words. In the trailers before Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again, the man reminded us that going to the cinema to watch the latest movie is the ultimate in escapism. He certainly wasn't wrong because this film did everything it said on the tin and much more. If we were in any doubts about its sheer cinematic brilliance then they were swiftly blown away and never to be seen again.

After their sheer superlative magic of the first Mamma Mia most of us had prepared us for yet another spectacular party on the screen. Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again was quite the most exquisitely entertaining, hugely enjoyable, delightfully simple story told with love and utter sincerity. There were no airs or graces, no affected sense of pretence or bombast just good, old fashioned fun, genuine comedy and gloriously marshmallow sweet frivolity. There were smiles, jokes, hilarity and outrageous silliness but Mamma Mia was the one reason why most of us went to the movies in the first place as kids.

Mamma Mia was a fairground ride, a helter skelter, giggling, chuckling, side splittingly funny film with all the right messages and moral values you'd expect from a family film. It had happiness, laughter, sadness, pathos, triumph and disappointment- all in one giant package of movie classicism about it. It had heartbreak, tears, trembling lips, declarations of love, anger and the kind of joyful collective dancing you  probably only see at weddings and bar and bat mitzvahs. It was utterly brilliant and transcended everything that the film experience had to offer.

From its astonishing opening sequence to the very last moments of christening bliss and happy ever after, Mamma Mia 2- Here we go again didn't stop for a single moment, never even remotely suggesting that it would ever come up for air or fail to go any further than it had already had. Sometimes you can have too much of a good thing but none of us were in any way spoilt by the sorcery of the silver screen.

 By the end some of us were just mesmerised by the sumptuousness of it all, the tug and war family relationships, the kissing and making up, the petty arguments and then there was  relief when agreement and reconciliation had finally won the day. It was the underlying theme of victory against all the odds that provoked many of us into belly aching laughter. We cried, we wept and then we just gave up any other kind of emotion because we knew we'd witnessed one of those beautifully designed films that are somehow uniquely untouchable in their perfection.

In the opening scene of the film we were treated to quite the most magnificent piece of film making ever conceived or executed. Set in a university and a graduation ceremony, the successful academics burst into a diaphragm bursting song that was straight from the 1980s blockbuster movie 'Fame'. The only difference here was that there were no teenagers jumping and dancing over yellow New York taxis. But what we did get was a stunning set that had to be seen to be believed.

Suddenly we were treated to Abba's classic 'When I Kissed the Teacher' which was an instant cue for wild dancing, the complete abandonment of caps and gowns and a fantastic singing, cavorting and carousing spectacle.  Both the caps and gowns were now flung into the air, students joking, crazily running up and down a hall before flopping to the floor with utter exhaustion.

There followed quite the most amazing film, a carnival of real human emotions, a rich pageant of wonderfully drawn characters and household names who were determined to have the time of their lives. Little could we have known after the first Mamma Mia that another one was being cooked, boiled and gently nurtured before being delivered like a mouth watering meal in a top class restaurant.

Once again there was the glorious Julie Waters, undoubtedly one of the great comic geniuses of our time and after her debut Mamma Mia, still producing diamonds, emeralds and rubies in every moment of this film. There were the distinctive gestures, the unmistakable comedy mannerisms and that sense of star and stage struck wonder when you couldn't help but scream out with amusement. Walters was simply delightful, a force of nature and permanently up for a grandstanding, boogie woogie dance.

Of course we had, in no particular order, Amanda Seyfried as the sweet and winsome Sophie, the girl whose heart had been broken and then seemingly repaired only to be fixed again by another man. Seyfried captures all of those bottled up feelings that have to be expressed when she finds the man she thought she could rely on only to find that he's two timed her quite brazenly. Sophie is a fragile and vulnerable soul, pleading for love, romance and then marriage, relentless in her pursuit of her man. Perhaps we've seen this romcom a million times without realising what we were witnessing.

But how could we not mention the three men, the three fathers who claimed to be Sophie's dad or so it seemed. There was the outstanding Piers Brosnan, very much the alpha male, macho, strong, suave, debonair, masculine and dependable. Brosnan was all smart suits and shirts, a dependably fatherly and paternal figure who Sophie could always talk to and confide in.

How could we ever forget Colin Firth who at the beginning of the film is seen at a highly important business meeting falling asleep and wondering how he can escape from this Far East summit without humiliating anybody? Firth is straightforwardly English, assured, diplomatic, bluffly humorous and ultra confident in his handling of family issues. Pride and Prejudice must have seemed like a a long time ago.

Then there was Swedish star Stellan Skarsgard, always smooth and splendidly understated throughout with his memorable choice of beach shirts and casual jackets. Skarsgard was another one of Sophie's alleged dads and the character of Bill Austin that Skarsgard gave us was perfectly pitched, veering from deeply compassionate to more jokey comments.

We marvelled at the snobbish haughtiness of Christine Baranski, sunglasses swaying from side to side and an air of judgmental disapproval in her every walk. Alexa Davies was full of cutesy girlishness and flirtatious in the extreme. Hugh Skinner was Harry Bright, a character convinced that he'd fallen head over heels in love with his sketchy command of French and then Lily James was Donna, dizzy headed, ambitious and, rather like Sophie and Rosie, stubbornly independent.

Andy Garcia of course is one of those experienced veterans of the cinema who always lends an air of authority to any film. Garcia is now grey bearded and ageing impeccably but here in Mamma 2- Here We Go Again Garcia was amusing without bringing the house down with a comic masterclass.

Half way through the film there came that classic moment we'd all been waiting for. In the blink of an eye lid she stood proudly at the top of some winding steps. This woman had seen everything that pop stardom during the 1960s could ever give us. She was part of a legendary boy and girl partnership  singing her way effortlessly into the legendary Hall of Fame. She had thick black hair, wore beads and bangles and sung 'I've Got You Babe' with Sonny in a phenomenal, chart busting record.

Her name was Cher. Cher, since the unfortunate death of Sonny, has since undergone reinvention and pop music resurrection.  With her excellent version of Abba's Fernando, Cher sung with all the note perfect poise of a woman much younger than her age. Now in her 70s Cher can still sing like an angel, moulding an old Abba song to her requirements and then belting out it like a blackbird in morning song.

And finally there was the Abba songbook in all its musical splendour. There was the majestic boat disco dance collective of 'Dancing Queen' which after its first airing in the first Mamma Mia, did the trick again supremely well. 'Dancing Queen' must have been played on every retro music radio station around the world so many times that some of us may have memorised every lyric since time immemorial.

Waterloo of course was the one that launched Abba to star spangled prominence in the 1974 Eurovision Song Contest. Waterloo was featured yet again in Mamma Mia - Here We Go Again and it was as if Waterloo had never really been about a battle. It was singalong, easy listening and vibrantly uplifting to your soul. Waterloo rocked from side to side like a boat about to drop anchor.

'I Have A Dream' was tenderly touching and romantically reflective, a song about genuine dreams and visions of the future. 'Knowing Me, Knowing You' was that painful time in the illustrious career of Abba's finest years when everything went terribly wrong. The husbands and wives split, the sense of identity had gone and the accusations began to fly. 'Angel Eyes', by contrast, represented just how close the group had grown to each other and thought butter wouldn't have melted in each other's mouths.

When 'Name of the Game' explored another set of relationship issues and dynamics in the group's career learning curve, we had to sigh once again because that's the way things pan out at times. We can never turn the clock back because we'd only find ourselves in a permanent world of deep reflection, regretting on what might have been but then re-assuring ourselves that it was all for the good.

It is time now for a final recommendation for Mamma Mia 2- Here We Go Again. If you like your films with a dazzling touch of tongue in cheek, feelgood vibes and then a glowing pleasure in every bone in your body then this is the film for you. Besides, the cinema has always been our friend, in many ways an extension of our family and above all, a throwback to those childhood days when Saturday mornings had a very special significance. Pass me the popcorn please.

Ramsgate- seaside fun and Kentish charm.

Ramsgate - seaside fun and Kentish charm.

Oh yes, we knew it would eventually happen and it has. For the first time since, quite possibly, 1976 Britain has done it, re- connected with our favourite subject of all time. It's time to go back to the weather, that delightful topic of everyday discussion and one that Britain should be awarded some kind of Olympic medal for if only because we love to talk about, analyse it, despair over it and then pass comment on when Donald Trump isn't quite as controversial as he should be and Boris Johnson loses interest on his hobby horse known as Brexit.

Yesterday in the Garden of England it was hot, hot, hot, warmly pleasant although sporadically cloudy with just a hint of a seductive coastal breeze to cool everybody down. In fact for most of our day in Ramsgate my wife and I were confronted with what could be described as humid, muggy conditions, the type of weather that must have pleased some but then left others in a high state of discomfort and not  entirely at ease because this is not something Britain has become accustomed to for quite a while.

But deep in the heart of Kent we decided to do something absolutely spontaneous when quite clearly it was stuffy, sticky and oppressively hot in London. Hold on, this had to be the right time to celebrate warm weather and here we were in the county that continues to hold an enduring fascination for those just outside London who revel in the idyllic peace and tranquillity of the Kent seaside.

For as long as any of us can remember, Kent has always been synonymous with lovely hop picking fields, sedate oasthouses, rows and rows of decorative orchards overflowing with apples, oranges, strawberries, bananas, blueberries and blackberries, acres of well ordered vegetables such as the traditional carrots, cucumbers, mouth watering beetroots and a whole host of blossoming fauna and flora, bustling for attention, bristling with colour and richly tempting for the discerning palate.

And yet yesteryday Ramsgate gave us its annual street carnival, a yearly procession winding and steadily inching its way past deeply appreciate crowds, cheering and hollering for all their worth. This is something that Britain has always done exceptionally well, seasoned experts at times, brilliant organisers and proud of their rich heritage. Street processions are something the Brits have always excelled at and this should be never overlooked as one of our principal strengths.

It all started as we got off our train at Ramsgate station. I couldn't help but notice a lonely looking but enormous white gull standing patiently on the opposite platform, ticket quite probably tucked securely in its beak and ready to board the imminent train for London. How annoyingly slow British trains can be for those birds who desperately needed to reach their destination in time.

 For what seemed a couple of minutes or so, the said seagull glanced around at the human passengers with a look that suggested complete confusion. Maybe it had consulted the electronic timetable and found that its train had been delayed for some ridiculous reason. Then the gull found itself lost in a world of curiosity and puzzlement. Things didn't seem to be going well for our feathered friend.

Still, there were things to see and do in the laid back and dignified harbour town of Ramsgate. We ventured forth on one of the longest walks to the sea front any of us had ever experienced. It must have taken us at least three quarters of an hour to reach the bobbing and wealthy looking yachts dotted along the harbour. And then eventually, after what felt like the accomplishment of several walking marathons through the shopping centre and finally hitting the boating heartland we slumped onto our chairs in the loveliest of cafes, gently partook of some hummus and pita bread and soaked up the sunshine.

There is a comfortable respectability about Ramsgate, a serene contentment with Ramsgate life, a timeless sense of deeply rooted tradition and an air of familiarity. You see the point is that Ramsgate feels like the kind of seaside town you've been to a thousand times in a thousand summers before. The pubs look as though they've been there since the English Civil War or even, dare I say it, the Battle of Hastings, the cafes look appealingly trendy and attractive and the bed and breakfast hotels will never ever disappear.

As we took our place for the Ramsgate street procession, you couldn't help but notice the Port and Anchor, the Crows Nest and Royal pub, all immaculately welcoming and hospitable to hundreds of thirsty drinkers immediately intent on quenching their thirsts with several pints of lager. Hundreds of families with their passionately excited children lined the long, meandering roads, streets and esplanades, shining exuberance on their faces and ice creams close to hand.

Then it began eventually but very slowly and surely. In fact by the time the floats began to arrive near our vantage point some of us were yawning soporifically, restless perhaps but wondering what on earth was happening. There seemed a strange reluctance on the organisers part to allow the carnival to move at all. It occurred to us that there have been quicker tortoises or maybe we should have been more tolerant and understanding. After all, we'd only been waiting for at least two years for the floats to arrive and the last train to London would perhaps arrive in the capital city at midnight.

Seriously though it did seem that our friendly street carnival people were stopping and starting at roughly the same blistering pace of the average snail. To all intents and purposes the procession looked as though it had been caught up in some horrendous and imaginary traffic jam stretching back as far as Broadstairs. This had to be the slowest street carnival I'd certainly seen but none of us really cared because we were all basking in the constant heat of a British summer.

There were of course those jokey and jocular street entertainers all entrusted with the thankless responsibility of trying to keep the whole momentum of the day going without any hitches. There were the Mexican maracas shakers and mariachi players, the infectiously rhythmical steel drummers beating out their summery sounds, the Ambre Solaire sun tan cream floats dripping with orange and yellow slogans and last but not least the Kent beauty carnival queens, giggly but almost consumed by the simple joys and enjoyment of this sultry Sunday afternoon at the latter end of July.

Now this is one notable aspect of street carnival furniture that has never really changed. There they all were, assembled from the very regal Whitstable, Ramsgate of course and a whole variety of girls with tiaras from the Medway Towns. Somebody had told me that the Ramsgate street procession is one of the highlights of the British social calendar and you could only agree with them whole heartedly. How we loved just being there, absorbing the very essence of a typically English day in high summer.

Finally, there was something almost quirkily amusing about something we might have taken as granted at these kind of events. Suddenly and exhaustedly, there were the girl majorettes, those tireless cheerleaders with their twirling batons and beaming smiles. On careful reflection you had to feel immensely sorry for these experienced but now desperately tired girls. You could almost feel a wave of sympathy flooding over Ramsgate as the last of the majorettes wearily spun her baton for what seemed the 254th time.

On and on they trudged and traipsed, energy sapping out of their bodies and arms that must have felt like the thickest of rope. There was one girl who passed me whose body language suggested that she  didn't want to go any further and only a rousing edition of BBC One's Song of Praise would lift her sagging spirits.

So a Sunday afternoon at the end of another heavenly day of British heat had come to a close. This astonishing summer just seems to keep giving and giving. The almost incessant sun of both June and July may well take us comfortably into late August and maybe longer. The fans are whirling ecstatically in offices and homes across Britain, windows have been flung open with carefree abandon and some of us are reminiscing on 1976 when blue skies and  the Electric Light Orchestra, during the 1970s, struck up the most harmonious of pop songs. What perfection! England oh England!

It's National Junk Food Day folks.

It's National Junk Food Day folks.

You'll never guess what today is everybody. It's on the tip of your tongue which in many ways, given the nature of that famous phrase, should give you a clue. You'll kick yourself when I tell you. It's something to do with a multi billion pound or dollar industry and we do like to treat ourselves to it every so often. If your mouth is salivating and you can hardly wait any longer then this may be the time to tell you.

According to my reliable sources today is National Junk Food Day. Yes, honestly I kid you not. It's that day devoted to conspicuous consumption of the kind of food that's bad for you and expands your waistline no end. It's a day for excessive eating of burgers, chips, pizzas, crisps, mountainous bars of chocolate while there's nobody around and generally giving in meekly to the temptation of cholesterol coated, sweet things that stimulate the senses and generally leave you feeling happy but guilty at the same time.

Don't think I didn't see you sneaking into the biscuit tin or raiding the fridge for mouth watering cakes from last night's party. And yet seriously folks this is National Junk Food Day, a day when insatiable appetites can never be satisfied because it seemed like a good idea at the time. But fear not because our learned dieticians and nutritionists never tire of telling us about the remarkable amount of sugar in all of those food products that were once considered as perfectly edible.

It does seem that wherever you look some perfectly innocent supermarket product that might have been declared safe to eat 40 years ago is now regarded as a potential killer if eaten or drunk obsessively. How often are we now told that sugary drinks for kids can be so harmful and dangerous to their health that at some point they may be in urgent need of immediate medical attention or a swift visit to the local hospital?

And yet for years and years the likes of Burger King, Pizza Hut, Pizza Express and, above all, the allegedly worst culprit Mcdonalds, have been beckoning us into their junk food parlours for too many decades to mention.  Now, one of the world's most famous or infamous restaurants - depending on your point of view, Mcdonalds is one of the most visible burger and French fries eateries in the world. It is a huge, global marketing brand, stretching its influence to every corner of the planet and still at the forefront of everybody's attention where sport is played and money is to be made in the mainstream commercial world.

So what was the attraction of Mcdonalds in the first place? Is it that rather outlandish red sign with that very prominent letter M in yellow that lures us into its golden palace of burgers, chips and everything rich in so called fat. Or do we genuinely believe that if you happen to be rushing around at lunchtime for a comforting snack and you're too busy to buy what seems to be the healthier option then junk food can be the only plausible option?

But we love indulgence and what's wrong with a little gluttony. Besides it can't hurt and who are our wonderful doctors to tell us what's right or wrong for us? Junk food can make you, albeit temporarily, feel good about yourself, a socially acceptable member of the human race and what's the point in going to a party if you're told to refrain from nibbling at the dreaded crisps, savouries and the hundreds of those sandwiches. There can be little to be derived in the way of enjoyment if diets and abstinence are uppermost on your mind.

Yes ladies and gentleman. Today should be a day for riotous junk food eating, stoking up a medieval banquet of food in your garden, digging out the trusty barbecue, throwing thousands of sausages, steaks and burgers onto a sizzling griddle and making hay in the sweltering British summer sun.  You may even be tempted to provide the children with as many boxes of chocolates and sweets as you possibly can, mixing together an enormous bowl of Pimms and then relaxing with a liberal sprinkling of deeply alcohol drinks just for good measure. It is, after all summer, so who cares?

Hold on a minute though. Many of us can still hear those healthy eating do gooders crying out for commonsense and moderation in everything. They believe, perhaps rightly, that junk food can only damage your heart and eventually lead down the road to ruination. It could, quite possibly, play havoc with your blood pressure, leaving you feeling both bloated, heavy and deeply uncomfortable. You'll put on vast amounts of weight, never be able to catch the bus or train and you can forget about that svelte six pack stomach at some very exotic beach.

For today is National Junk Food Day. a day for snacking, comfort eating, abandoning yourself wildly to huge KFC buckets of chicken in abundance, trays of Coca Cola, fizzy lemonade and all of those dreaded fried foods  designed to satisfy that taste sensation, that craving for more and more until you're simply fit to burst.

Then there's the simple matter of ice cream, delicious helpings of ice-cream, the traditional favourite among many of us on those warm, lingeringly hot days of summer when the sun shimmers over the rooftops of the City and suburbia for ever and ever. Ice cream, while never strictly a junk food, still exerts the most powerful hold on children across the world because this is the one treat of the day we're always likely to remember.

This is indeed National Junk Food Day folks, for feasting on mouth watering burgers that look suspiciously like shoe leather and must leave you with a sense that you've been horribly short changed and of course hungrier than ever before.

Of course before we forget, that alluring chocolate cream gateau in the fridge has to be devoured and those Friday night kebabs with gallons of chili sauce have to be wolfed down. Yes folks it's time to celebrate National Junk Food Day with a massive celebration of everything that can only clutter up the kidneys, liver, digestive system and then all of those arteries that keep us ticking over. Sometimes a balance has to be struck, a happy medium met but then the sensitive issue of obesity that is currently pre-occupying us may never ever go away. Anybody for a choc ice. 

The British Open at Carnoustie and memories of Tony Jacklin in 1969.

The British Open at Carnoustie and memories of Tony Jacklin in 1969.

Next year it'll be 50 years since the great British golfer Tony Jacklin won the British Open at Royal Lytham Saint Annes on the Lancashire coast. Fresh faced and cherubic Jacklin, still pretty chipper and infused with a good deal of hale and hearty good cheer, will undoubtedly look back on that wind swept, summery day of 1969 and wonder whether British golf has ever produced a more popular and likeable sportsman. He grinned delightedly for the TV cameras, probably bought the first pint for BBC commentators Peter Alliss and Henry Longhurst and thought what a jolly good game golf was and still is.

And indeed it is. But there are times when the mind dwells on the famous Mark Twain quote about golf being a good walk spoiled, wondering whether the notable Mr Twain may have had a valid point or simply complaining and moaning about nothing in particular. Besides, the successful completion of a long and seemingly interminable 18 hole course in any part of the world does seem a major slog and unnecessarily demanding. But maybe this couldn't be further from the truth and is just some nonsensical objection based on total ignorance.

Of course the perception of golf as a middle class elitist sport designed for the respectable property developer or the dynamic City stockbroker who now lives in deepest Surrey, could hardly be more inaccurate. Golf is marvellously relaxing, mentally and physically good for you and bracingly invigorating. It is sport for the purist, hand to eye coordination employed to the best use and great exercise on a Sunday morning. Or any morning and perhaps the entire day.

Tony Jacklin may have good cause to remember the 1969 British Open because it was here that Jacklin swung his driver with a vengeance and did what very few had done before him. Jacklin achieved a hole in one and to this day the image is engraved on the minds of all golfing aficionados both in Britain and the rest of the world. The ball gently plopped into the hole from quite the most remarkable distance and ever since the British golfers who have followed Jacklin have always been grateful for Jacklin's lead.

The conveyor belt of British golfers who have since reached the most exalted heights is endless. There was Nick Faldo, Sandy Lyle, Peter Oosterhuis, Ian Woosnam, and more recently Justin Rose, players with fashionable pullovers, huge, booming swings, perfectly pitched chips out of the roughest fairways and the most controlled of putts on carpet greens. All of course had and may still have their very own distinctive styles, temperaments, lovable idiosyncrasies and a natural flair for the game that should never be questioned.

Nick Faldo of course was, allegedly, the bear with the sore head, a grizzly who could hardly control his emotions, irritable, irascible and, according to some, just infuriatingly slow. And yet Faldo would always address a golf ball with a good old fashioned iron and impeccable concentration on his face, swivelling his hips perfectly in line with the ball and blasting the ball into mid air as if he knew exactly where it was going to land. Faldo always oozed class and complete control on a golf course.

Then there was Sandy Lyle and Ian Woosnam, players with an immense geographical knowledge of a golf course, carefully weighing up their shots, crouching on their haunches and measuring their putts with a formidable commonsense and discretion. Lyle always seemed to be a perfectionist and stylist while Woosnam was always confident and sure of himself. Oosterhuis was a good, old fashioned professional, thorough in his preparation and full of cunning strategies.

Tomorrow though, the latest generation of British golfers will wake up at the crack of dawn, stretch their flexible shoulders and arms, clench their irons and woods with supple fingers, and then spend the better part of half an hour swinging at thin air, following through with the ball, practising, practising and then rehearsing over and over again because that's how dedicated golfers are. They live, eat, drink, sleep and  eat their sport  as if it was  the only thing on their mind, their overriding pre-occupation, a livelihood that may well be financially lucrative - and handsomely so- but a sport to be treasured.

In the early hours of Thursday morning the likes of Rory Mcilroy and Ian Poulter will be driving off from the first tee at Carnoustie. The hugely appreciative Scottish public will be gathered in their multitudes, perhaps with umbrellas over their heads or maybe basking in the sweltering Scottish heat. They will huddle together, agog with an enduring anticipation and hardly able to hold back their lifetime love of the game. They will then launch into thunderous applause when the first drive from the first hole is thumped decisively into the air.

Golf has always had its gifted legends, its players of craft and technical genius, players with the most infectious humour and sense of fun and men who, for just a couple of days, happily share their bubbly effervescence and gushing enthusiasm for the game. Down the years and decades their names have been like gleaming gold shields, sparkling jewellery, precious diamonds that can never be valued.

There was the late Arnold Palmer, one of golfing's greatest technicians, a player of grace and graciousness, politeness and utter charm. Palmer would seem to float around the fairways, bunkers and greens with that gentlemanly demeanour that very few of his peers could ever match. He would joke with the crowds from time to time, roll his wrists in search of the most flawless swing, chip the ball out of fairways with an uncanny accuracy and then check his score card.

Who could ever forget Lee Trevino, the ultimate joker and comedian on any golf course whether it be the US Masters or the British Open? Trevino was of course one of the game's greatest entertainers, extrovert, hugely talented, sociable, a man for all seasons and never afraid to try the unexpected. The memory remains of Trevino audaciously holing from a bunker as if it were as natural as breathing or brushing your teeth.

When the subject of golf comes up for discussion in any clubhouse or bar the names of Jack Nicklaus and Tom Watson are almost recited like a familiar song. Nicklaus of course was born to be one of the greatest golfers the game has ever given us. In fact, he was probably memorising his drives from the tee in his cot. Nicklaus was a stunning exponent of the game, majestically striking the ball with eye popping accuracy, mapping out his game, planning his every shot, studying his next moves with a remarkable foresight and then beating his opponent out of sight with a merciless menace.

Watson also won the hearts of the British golfing public with that cheerful but steely eyed determination that always demoralised the rest of the field before they'd had even time to swallow their first bowl of Corn Flakes. Watson was similarly cool, calculating, methodical and the firmest of favourites with British crowds, charming them, captivating them and making them feel as if they were always the most important people every time he set eyes on them.

And so it is that our Irish showman Rory Mcilroy will be the main, headlining attraction, a golfer of smoothness, suppleness and exquisite gifts. Mcilroy is very much the player of our times, embodying the very best that golf can offer. His long and short game is well documented and there is a growing belief that this could be his year to win the British Open.

It is hard to believe that the football World Cup has now left with us with so many delightful images that it may be impossible to forget them. Still, it's time for British and world golfers to turn their attentions to the British Open tomorrow. Then we remembered the words of Mark Twain and couldn't quite understand what he was talking about. The finer points of golf seem to be permanently lost on him and besides when was the last time he won the British Open. We will never know. 

France win the World Cup and a nation celebrates.

France win the World Cup and a nation celebrates.

Phew! After three weeks of Robbie Williams, Russian president Vladimir Putin shaking hands with Arab oil sheikhs, blaring horns, gloriously atmospheric football matches and global entente cordiale, it somehow seemed fitting that France should claim that golden trophy at the end of an almost relentless onslaught of joyous, gorgeous football that fully restored your faith in human nature.

And so it was that France took the Jules Rimet trophy to Paris where 20 years earlier they'd won their first World Cup in their own country and on their own terms. Maybe this is a poetic justice for a country where terrorism on its streets and neighbourhoods in recent years threatened to destroy and destabilise France where once a petit dejeuner with baguettes in the morning seemed the perfect introduction to their day.

France have done it again and they've done with that joie de vivre and innately expressive joy and zest for life that the French love to think of as one of their essential characteristics. 'Les Bleus' have allowed history to strike up the same narrative as the one which accompanied them when Emmanuel Petit, Thierry Henry, Lauren Blanc, Zinedine Zidane and now Didier Deschamps once indulged themselves.

Then they flaunted their finest finery, revealing that peacock plumage to a stunned world and then demonstrating all of the virtues that announced to the rest of the world that the French had a football team to reckon with, never knowingly dismissed as some burlesque cabaret at the Moulin Rouges. This was a France that wanted to be recognised, applauded, eulogised and finally accepted amongst the footballing intelligentsia, the cream of the crop, the ruling elites of the footballing community.

Last night though, the current French incarnation dipped into the richest Proustian lyricism with some of the most colourfully illustrative, richly decorative and mind blowingly picturesque football. In a stupendous and highly enjoyable 4-2 victory against Croatia, France, although briefly rocked back by the lightning speed with which the Croatians had begun the World Cup Final, roared back into contention in a second half of outstanding counter attacking football  that swept their opponents out on to some lonely rock.

Now is the time to pay homage to a French team who, perhaps for the first time, came together in a stunning show of unity where once discord existed. It was a France who may well have plodded their way through this World Cup but then moved much closer together because they knew that if they didn't the consequences may have been severe. This was not the France of the enfant terrible era where the players in blue stormed out of playing camps, sulking and sneering disdainfully at anybody who came anywhere them.

France are now back on the top of the world and at the end of their World Cup winning display manager Didier Deschamps, all suited and booted, was lifted high up into the Russian air. Over and over again Deschamps was thrown high into the night sky in a massive outpouring of appreciation, respect and fervent acknowledgement of everything he'd done for them since taking over as a manager. At times it must have felt like some religious ritual where a football manager is briefly worshipped just for 90 minutes.

Perhaps the French will be chiefly remembered for the way in which they flattened Argentina in the second round of matches. In quite the most extraordinary performance the France of Griezmann, Mbappe, Pogba and Kante stripped open an Argentina defence that were led the ultimate tango by a French team of slick flicks, subtle skills, explosive pace, tantalising tricks, beautiful first time football and soulful sentimentality. It almost felt as if the whole of the French team had been released from captivity and allowed to play in their playground.

When this World Cup exploded it did so with a vengeance. Completely against the run of the play France broke forward in a rare attack. A cross from the right caught out the whole of the Croatian defence and Mario Mandzukic accidentally got in the way of the ball before allowing it to glance off the side of his head for the opening first French goal. It must have felt like the ultimate punch in the stomach for a Croatia side whose tails were definitely up and were certainly in the ascendancy.

Then, within the space of an amazing couple of minutes, Croatia were back on level terms. After a well worked free kick, Marcos Brozovic, an immense footballing figure, headed the ball back firmly into the box where Ivan Perisic stole in forcefully like the fastest of steam train to drill the ball past Hugo Lloris in the French goal.

 It was quite the most unbelievable start to a World Cup Final since Johan Cruyff danced through a static West German defence to earn a penalty for Holland in 1974 which was promptly converted. That penalty took mere seconds but France and Croatia were just as eager to score yesterday. Now we had a World Cup Final that would top the billing, live up to everything we expected of it and a football match that turned into a carnival, fiesta, a parade, a thrilling cornucopia of one and two touch football and a game that left most of us excessively spoiled. How privileged we were.

It was now that controversy took hold of this game. World Cup Finals do like to gorge
themselves  on their moments of drama and melodrama. Now it sparked one of the most hotly disputed goals for ages. From a French corner the ball was played back towards goal and a Croatian hand was alleged to have been responsible for the most debatable penalty for quite some time. The referee, temporarily caught out for a minute, was surrounded by furious French players insisting that a handball should have been punished with a penalty. After a brief VAR consultation France were given their penalty and Griezmann slotted home France's second.

The second half though gave us the kind of intelligent and vastly cultured football that we've come to expect from France. It was almost as if somebody had flicked a switch in the French and somebody had forgotten to turn it off. This was France at their most magnifique, a stately blue galleon, surging and sweeping forward into attack, breaking out of defence like a marauding French Legion attacking on all fronts.

 Now the French were in full flight, quite the irresistible force against an immovable object. Croatia could hardly believe what they were witnessing because the scales of justice had swung back in France's favour. What had happened to that quarter of an hour when Croatia were cutting open and dissecting the French defence with forensic efficiency? Had they mislaid their scissors or maybe mislaid the scalpels? There was very little evidence to prove that Croatia had been anywhere near the scene of any French crime because something had gone missing and they were clueless?

The World Cup  loves to throw up its wonderkids, its prodigies, its superstar teenagers who suddenly appear from nowhere and leave us breathless. It's hard to believe that exactly 60 years have now passed since the inimitable Pele alerted us to his superlative brilliance when he scored for Brazil against Sweden in the 1958 World Cup Final. 60 years later it happened all over again.

Kylian Mbappe, still learning his apprenticeship, became a wondrous sorcerer for France. A vast majority of French supporters must have thought they'd seen it all when Thierry Henry, Raymond Kopa and Just Fontaine scored goals for fun. Mbappe would now give the French a sharp injection of goal scoring genius that perhaps they'd privately thought they'd never see again. All over again France have been given a reason to believe, believing confidently that they've produced a gem.

Last night Mbappe was here, there and everywhere, running with the ball and sprinting over the pitch with all the majesty of a Usain Bolt, eating up the ground, leaving defenders with an air of astonishment on their faces. In a couple of seconds this World Cup Final was over because Mbappe had said it was quite emphatically. It was arguably one of the finest goals scored by a teenager in recent times. Even Pele, you suspect, must have been smiling.

With a blistering, burning burst of pace, Mbappe turned on the afterburners once again, pressed his foot on the accelerator and charged forward like a stallion striding across a beach. He burst forward into open space then checked himself momentarily. It seemed the moment had gone. But there was a wonderful surprise in store for us as he twisted and turned in the penalty area before laying the ball off cleverly and almost succinctly. In fact it reminded of you an author finishing off a sentence or a violinist completing a classical overture.

Paul Pogba, who has once again emerged as one of the most dominant defenders in world football, strode forward in anticipation of Mbappe's trickery. Pogba, in one movement, adjusted his body, quickly shifted his body before thundering home a shot that nestled in the Croatian net before anybody had had time to come up for air.

Minutes later Mbappe completed an unforgettable evening for France with the goal he was fated to get. Griezmann, now blossoming as an attacking force after a slow and sluggish start to recent games, came of age again. We knew that he would find centre stage but there is an undoubted goal scoring talent. He ventured forward toward into the attack and Mbappe somehow sensing that his colleague was somewhere in the vicinity, picked up Griezmann's perceptive ball across the area and blasted the ball home for France's World Cup winning clincher.

But that wasn't quite the end because there had to be that football and comedy join forces, thereby reducing us to gales of laughter. Hugo Lloris, the Spurs keeper, who'd had little to upset an otherwise quite and uneventful evening for France, put on his court jester's clothes. Grabbing hold of the ball for a goal kick from a harmless position, Lloris, perhaps assuming that his team mates had done the job, fumbling his kick and presenting Mario Mandzuvic with the easiest of chances for Croatia's second and consolation goal.

And so it was that the referee blew his final whistle and France were back on top of their Eiffel Tower of happiness, reliving the romance of a World Cup Final victory. There may well be some cynics who wrongfully think that the French have bluffed their way through this World Cup without performing at their best. But art and artistic appreciation has to be a personal thing, totally subjective as it always has been. Cezanne must have had plenty of doubters at the beginning of his career but then Cezanne would never have met Didier Deschamps. France have won the World Cup. It was the right time and place and on careful reflection it had to be France. Vive La France, a nation of bon vivants. 

England miss out on World Cup Final against crowing Croatia.

England miss out on World Cup Final against crowing Croatia.

Deep in the heart of England, the willows are still weeping, the chaffinches still chirruping, the magpies are melodious and the robins are still rejoicing. Far off in the countryside the sheep are bleating, the cows chewing on the cud, the stone walls sternly impregnable  and the village bakery is a seething hive of activity. But all is well in England.

Two days after that night of all nights England, although nursing sore heads and a real sense of crushing disappointment, can still find reasons to celebrate even in the direct aftermath of a World Cup semi final defeat. Of course they could have been contenders but then the World Cup wouldn't have been a World Cup without an England who almost reached the ultimate summit before slipping up at the most crucial moment.

But this is surely not the time for regret, remorse or self questioning because back in 1990 we were doing exactly the same thing and where did it get us then? We kept cursing the Germans, always vilifying Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle because they'd somehow blasted their penalties into some obscure market town in Italy where everybody drops off to sleep at lunchtime. Surely, the English fans must have felt it couldn't happen again but history, without quite repeating itself, bore an uncanny resemblance to it.

These last stimulating three weeks or so England have entered a mystical land of fantasies, imaginings, dreams, occasional ghosts and demons before finally realising where they were and why they were. Sometimes the path has been littered with unnerving reminders of the past but when all was said and done, Gareth Southgate will sit down tonight with his England men privately convinced that it couldn't have gone any better. At long last it did go right on a number of occasions even if that final hurdle couldn't quite be overcome when perhaps the potential was always there.

And so England clutched its arms, buried their faces in some inconsolable state of mortification, grieved over something there was nothing to get all miserable about and then decided to console itself with the knowledge that maybe modest expectations were completely fulfilled. In Hyde Park, London and every town, city and village, bar and pub across the land, the fanatical supporters of England folded up their flags and banners, chucked their beer into the nearest available bin and just became very philosophical.

This is not the end of the world for the England football team because before boarding for Russia many of their carping critics had suggested that there was no point in going to the World Cup. They were no hopers. mediocre, simply there to make up the numbers, too young as a squad of players and inexperience at the biggest of all football tournaments would take its toll eventually. But this was far from the case. England were surprisingly good, sometimes very good and even exceptional at times. The journey was worthwhile and it could have been far worse. We did step up to the plate and we were absolutely brilliant.

From the briskly efficient dismissal of Tunisia in the opening group game to the wholesale destruction of Panama and then the somewhat more emotionally taxing second round match  against Colombia before finishing off Sweden with businesslike professionalism, England did all the right things when they were required to do so. They ticked all of the boxes, followed the job description to the very bitter end and then found that the mood of the nation back in dear old Blighty was exactly in tune with them. They hadn't deserted the team when it looked as though they might have done so and they stayed onside with them all the way when the victories were reeled off  one after the other.

England manager Gareth Southgate of course was the saintliest of all football managers, a paragon of virtue. calm, articulate throughout, enunciating all of his vowels and consonants in a very prim and proper manner, oozing cool, karma, that most sober of perspectives, sangfroid and utter nervelessness.

Southgate reminded you of one of those young investors about to open up a new account in their local bank. Of course he's worried about interest rates, mortgages and capital tax relief but they wouldn't be human if they weren't. There was something richly heartening about Southgate's behaviour, his impeccable handling of every challenge that came his way, that uncanny ability to keep everything at arm's length while everybody around him was literally getting over excited and dreaming the impossible dream.

We'll miss that now famously extensive wardrobe of waistcoats, the waistcoats that came to define Southgate because at times it looked as if they were some kind of lucky mascot. But Southgate will always be remembered for that moment after an England match when that cute and whimsical fist pump of celebration began to look like some therapeutic release for the man in charge and a lovely snapshot of what probably happens to us all when something simply astonishing has happened to us when we were least expecting it. Maybe this had been Southgate's Lottery victory.

Sadly, this was England's final curtain and final tantalising glimpse of a World Cup that had lasted for much longer than they thought it would. And yet it all started so promisingly, so encouragingly and then spectacularly for England. In retrospect England seemed to peak at the wrong time and found that there was too long to go and too much time on their hands. If only the match had worked out differently, if only that schedule could have been re-arranged and the time frame had been  more to their liking.

England flew out of the starting blocks and spent the whole of the first half against Croatia bossing the game, dictating the flow and tempo of the game, calling all the shots, leaving their pronounced imprint on the game. For lengthy spells of that first half an hour England actually looked like a potential World Cup winning team, cannily constructive, building their movements with care, deliberation and stealthy cunning. It lifted the collective hearts of all English supporters watching back in England and made the rest of the world sit up and take notice.

Once the athletic and superbly mobile Kyle Walker found his bearings with those harrying, hurrying sprints up and down his flank England found both a first and then second wind. Walker was rugged, tireless and full of adventurous ambition. Walker was always first in the tackle, thrusting and lunging forward in a way that Mick Mills or Phil Neal would have been proud of during the 1970s. As they say Walker gave us sweat, blood but very few tears. He was committed, ruthlessly uncompromising.

Beside Walker was the hugely impressive John Stones, one of a whole handful of England players to have experienced the muck and bullets of English football in the lower leagues. Stones is rock solid at the back, a player of stylish interventions and interceptions, totally unflustered by the chaotic bedlam around him and completely equipped with all of a good centre half's technical resources. Stones glides forward out of defence, carefully taking stock of his surroundings and then using the ball with absolute attention to detail.

There was Harry Maguire who, while not quite a Phil Thompson or Dave Watson at the heart of the England defence yet, still looks powerful, quietly intimidating at the back against rampaging forwards and heading goals with the same ferocity as Stones from almost identical corners. In fact set pieces had successfully yielded a bumper crop of goals for England which may always have been the national forte anyway. But who were we to complain? Maguire had headed home England's first goal against Sweden and once again appeared capable of scoring in much the same way.

Alarmingly though, England's midfield, generally in complete control during the first half, still has to be a work in progress. The glaring absence of genuinely creative midfield playmakers is almost painfully obvious. England are in desperate need of another Paul Gascoigne, another definitive game changer, a sparking plug, a dynamic catalyst who, once in possession of the ball, will nurse and cherish it while at the same time plotting secret routes into the opposition's half. England need the elegance and beauty of a Trevor Brooking, a Tony Currie or the driving force of a Bryan Robson.

Still, for much of the game against Croatia they did have Jordan Henderson, a player of precise measurements and neat distribution of the ball. From time to time the Liverpool schemer can find his colleague with devastating cross field passes or damaging balls into critical areas of the pitch. But for all of his authority and assurance, Henderson is still missing something, a stronger influence perhaps although the panache is still there at times.

Jessie Lingard of course has been a startling revelation for England throughout this World Cup. Lingard hovers around opposition penalty areas like a predatory vulture, picking up the ball swiftly, hunting for space and then swooping down on his prey with hungry relish. Lingard's goal against Panama was simply outstanding, the result of almost exotic England build up play. Lingard curled the ball into the net like a seasoned golfer chipping out of a bunker and directly into the hole.

Dele Alli has been one of Spurs most consistent of midfield players and for England Alli has made the step up to the national side effortlessly. On one or two occasions some of us were beginning to tremble in the early stages of the Sweden game but then we realised that English vulnerabilities were always likely to be exposed. Alli does look a player of foresight and initiative, of all round vision and perceptive passes to those around him but there are one or two disturbing rough edges that may need to be ironed out.

Finally, there is the captain Harry Kane, whose meteoric rise to fame and prominence as an England forward has been nothing short of amazing. Kane could well pick up the Golden Boot for the abundance of goals scored at this World Cup. Regrettably Kane, although eager and dangerous in previous games, didn't really look like scoring. When England went in front against Croatia, Kane perhaps should have made much more of a goal scoring chance but this is forgivable. Kane, dare we say it, looked sluggish and off the pace slightly, a man aware of the immense contribution he'd made throughout the World Cup but then finding that he'd run out of petrol when it counted.

England though did produce the goal scoring hero against Croatia from the most improbable source. Kieran Trippier, whose name very few around the world had ever heard of us, made the vital breakthrough. After five minutes England were awarded a free kick just outside the area. Trippier, whose set piece expertise had yet to be acclaimed, did something that came almost naturally to David Beckham. He gazed at the wall in front of him, trotted forward like a silent assassin and sent a dipping, soaring shot which flew over the wall and bulged the net in no time at all. Croatia keeper Daniel Subasic could only admire the goal.

For the rest of the first half England continued to rotate the ball with short, smart and staccato passing cameos that looked as if they'd fully absorbed a German or Brazilian reference book from yesteryear. The passes were sugary sweet, arrogantly accurate, the result of studious research in quiet libraries rather than some ugly, ill designed building that looked to have seen better days. England were now in the driving seat, caressing the ball rather than neglecting it.

Then in the second half Croatia, now fully aware that the game appeared to be drifting away, snatched the ball away almost rudely and without ceremony. How dare those English tell us how or how not to play football. Croatia, were livid, incensed and fiercely intent on revenge and retribution. Suddenly, the team who normally wear red and white diamonds on their shirt, slowly wiped out England's attacking advantage.

 Now in black Croatia, inspired brilliantly by their astoundingly imaginative playmaker Luka Modric and now ably assisted by the aggressively combative but ever available Ivan Rakitic, almost mercilessly pulled England from one side of the pitch to the other.  It was rather like waiting for a public execution and finding that the gallows were about to be prepared. England looked weary, exhausted, condemned men, ready and waiting for their brutal punishment.

And so it was that Ivan Perisic, now apparently wanted by Manchester United, made his mark on the game. A ball just outside the England penalty area, was casually knocked back into an open, yawning gap by Mario Mandzukic where Perisic pounced immediately by clipping the ball back across goal and into the net for the Croatia equaliser. 1-1 with a large slice of the game to go.

For the rest of this World Cup semi final England just vanished into the dust, collapsing like a fragile sandcastle and toppling over like an old industrial chimney. England had lost the plot, fought themselves to a standstill and now reminded you of a once great actor fluffing their lines and being subjected to complete embarrassment by their understudies. It could have been 1990 revisited but this time there were no Germans, no penalties and you can only imagine what Sir Bobby Robson would have thought of it all.

Deep into extra time, with England flagging and wilting like long distance marathon runners, now fell back helplessly into the ditch. beaten, eventually overwhelmed and desperate for the final whistle. Madzukic, in the right time and the right place fired home the winning goal for Croatia. And now it was that a nation that had only achieved independence in recent times, demonstrated the full gamut of their emotions. Croatia had reached a World Cup Final and few could have begrudged them their place in the sun.

When the final whistle went England, who had come so far in the shortest time, sat slumped on the pitch, staring around them as if privately hoping that somewhere they'd find ample consolation for their gallant endeavours. This had, undoubtedly been, one of the best World Cups for England since that year of 1990 in Italy and none should readily criticise or denigrate this latest crop of very young English players.

So it was that the players in white shirts reluctantly left Moscow with hanging heads perhaps but straight backs in defeat. Among the crowd three handsome Israeli flags fluttered easily on the Russian breeze. The England band were still experimenting with variations of 'Earth, Wind and Fire' classics while far away the St George's flags and banners were forlornly waving their farewells. These last three weeks in Russia have told us much more about the England football team than we'll ever know. Our England, brave England, heroic England. We can never thank you enough.

France reach the 2018 World Cup Final.

France reach the 2018 World Cup Final.

If this was a French Renaissance then maybe we should welcome it with open arms. The World Cup has now reached boiling point and France have reached their third World Cup Final in recent years with a hard- earned, nerve shredding 1-0 victory over their next door neighbours Belgium. Napoleon Bonaparte may well have described England as a nation of shopkeepers but should England beat Croatia in their World Cup semi final we may have to lock our doors because the stampede for the pizzas and lager will probably exceed all expectations.

Last night there was very little in the way of a French resistance as the current generation of France snuffed out and nullified Belgium in a way that many of us might have suspected they would. This was no ordinary World Cup sem-final. It was much more than that. It was a private grudge match, a historical settling of old scores, fierce rivalry but nothing more than a local skirmish that shouldn't have been allowed to get in the way of a proper football match.

In the end France, now inspired by the sensational Kylian Mbappe and the remarkable skills of Antoine Griezmann, quite literally engaged Belgium in a gripping match of footballing arm wrestling, a contest of passion, furious pace and psychological warfare. Here was a World Cup semi final between two of the most evenly balanced of European teams left in the competition. None dared to catch our breath in case somebody blinked for a moment and you missed something vitally important.

Football need never be the be all and end all of everything and for much of this pulsating contest, it was hard to determine who was the superior and who was the inferior of these two teams. Something had to give and nerves were jangling like keys in your pocket. Would the French crack under the strain of it all or would Belgium give in to the temptation of chocolates and waffles? But this was far more serious than any of such frivolous considerations. There was a World Cup Final at stake and this one mattered enormously.

Belgium, at least for the first half hour or so, took the game right to France with deliciously accomplished football that made the backs at the end of your hair stand up on end. When Kevin De Bruyne, Eden Hazard and Romelu Lukaku passed and passed and passed the ball in ever increasing circles, France found themselves chasing red shadows. In and out, round and across, sideways and then gloriously forward Belgium glued together a thousand mosaic tiles of passes that left the French looking at a meek surrender. It was a pleasure to watch but then you began to wonder when the Belgians would find their end product. It was not forthcoming so the French just looked on.

With Jan Vertonghen and Vincent Kompany once again conducting themselves with utter distinction, the fuzzy headed Marouane Fellaini and the tireless Axel Witsel providing streetwise knowledge in good attacking positions, Belgium were looking both suave and sophisticated with a nod to high fashion and cool, avant garde movements on the ball. Belgium looked the better and more technically equipped of the two sides but then they found themselves lost in those complex avenues and alleyways that football can often throw up in front of them.

In the second half the wondrously gifted Kylian Mbappe, Paul Pogba an immovable rock at the back, Benjamin Pavard now developing into one of the most dependable defenders of the World Cup, N'Golo Kante, forever winning tackles, breaking forward with beautifully timed runs into Belgium's half and generally looking the most complete of midfield players in the modern game, France snatched back the initiative and never looked back.

Slowly but surely the French pinched back possession of the ball and while never entirely sure what to do with it, still glided and wafted around Belgium with intricate touches of their own. Once Griezmann found the spaces he seemed to be looking for and Olivier Giroud finally discovered that this could be his night after all, France began to run at Roberto Martinez's side with well organised breakaways that often caught Belgium on the hop and baffled by the dramatic change of tone of the game.

Then just before an hour of the game completed the stale mate was broken. Belgium, who by now must have felt like one of those frustrated shoppers at the winter sales, were suddenly caught by complete surprise. You were reminded of that circus high wire act where the intrepid performer wobbles precariously and knows that things will be right. Belgium must have thought nothing could shake their composure but it did and how shocked they would become.

A routine corner was whipped in with threat and menace. Samuel Umtiti, full of strength and conviction, jumped powerfully and confidently before flicking home his header for France's opening goal. It would be the last time that Belgium would ever leave their hallmark on the game. They strove marvellously and gallantly with every fibre of their being but the French wall would not be blown down and breached damagingly.

And so it is that France return to a World Cup Final exactly 20 years since their first excursion in their homeland when Brazil must have felt they'd been swept away by a rampant French team including the majestic Zinedine Zidane, Laurent Blanc, Emmanuel Petit and Thierry Henry. France are now back in the place they must feel is their rightful place after losing to the Italians in a World Cup Final.

For England of course their night among the stars against Croatia is yet to come. But all the signs are that the next few days for both England and France could become very personal. The prospect of a cross Channel derby gracing a World Cup Final stage still sounds a slightly bizarre prospect given the strained relations between Britain and her closest European acquaintances. Perhaps the French could have never have anticipated this would happen. Time for a re-assuring entente cordiale.

Oh glory be- England in World Cup semi final against Croatia.

Oh glory be- England in World Cup semi final against Croatia.

Oh glory be! It may or may not be coming home but for the first time in 28 years England are in a World Cup semi final and this is the one of those wow moments in English footballing history when nothing comes close to matching the thrill of it all, the feverish anticipation of that seminal moment when the England football team may be on the threshold of something truly unforgettable.

When the final whistle went against Sweden, every bar, pub and restaurant in England simply went bonkers, stir crazy, gripped by wild paroxysms of cheering, unbridled celebration and explosions of beer, plastic cups of lager flying into the air, a blur of alcohol soaring into the ether never to be seen again. For now, England, the country that prides itself on its literary lions, kings and queens, warm beer and timber beamed cottages in the heart of its country, can finally let go and enjoy itself again.

It is hard to believe that it's been 28 years since Bobby Robson's England almost left Germany with egg on its faces and another World Cup defeat. It was the night that the wonderfully talented Paul Gascoigne saw the red mist and England lost its mischievous imp. Gascoigne was booked, promptly blew his hopes of winning a World Cup sky high, the Germans won on penalties and it's never really been the same since. Every four years England have continued to blow hot and cold, never sure of their bearings entirely and then falling on their sword.

But last night it all seemed like another country, another venue, another mentality and a huge cultural shift in the latest fortunes of the England football team. Of course it's been painful and excruciating, of course its been frustrating and exasperating but then this is what we've come to expect over the years. And yet for one night and maybe a couple more nights it may just happen when least expected because 52 years of emptiness and hollowness could be about to come to an end.

It is easy to imagine the likes of Bobby Charlton, Jack Charlton, Sir Geoff Hurst and Martin Peters all patiently waiting at home and hoping against hope that the epic feats of that famous day at the end of July 1966 are about to be replicated and revived again. Dare the English dream again, per chance to dream to quote Shakespeare? Is there indeed a bright rainbow on the horizon after so many turbulent storms for the English national side?

So here are the facts. England beat Sweden quite comprehensively in the quarter finals of the World Cup in Russia. Hold on, England were so superior to Sweden that any of us could have beaten Sweden on Hackney Marshes because Sweden had no alternative game plan when the one they'd devised in the first place seemed to be going nowhere.

 Sweden were quite awful, dreadful, a mockery of a football team, a team of loose and flimsy nonentities with little in the way of ambition. In the end though, England must have thought they'd made much heavier weather of this game than should have been the case. But the yellow shirts of these Scandinavian warriors had nothing to offer the true connoisseurs of the Beautiful Game.

Sweden gave us leaden footed football, wearisome and tiresome, one dimensional football that seemed to be designed by an IKEA flat pack furniture store. It was wooden, mechanical, painstaking football with no focal point, very few forward thinking ideas and hopelessly stuck in a loop. It was football that was harsh, grinding, dull and laborious. Above all, none of us knew quite what to make  of it all.

England of course, quite clearly should have had this match wrapped up with bows on it much earlier than eventually proved the case. For the first time in many a World Cup, England did look like a proper team, united in occasional adversity, a model of togetherness and male bonding, young and perhaps vulnerable at times but nonetheless harmony personified. We may have to pinch ourselves because these days, weeks, months and years very rarely come around if  you happen to be an England football supporter.

Then of course there was the England boss Gareth Southgate. Southgate is immensely likeable, amiable, pleasant in interviews, agreeable, civilised and utterly modest. In fact Southgate is a paragon of virtue, quiet, humble, unassuming, totally without airs and graces. And he also shares a surname with a North London suburb which does seem to be an encouraging omen given that another North London venue was the idyllic setting for another glorious World Cup day in 1966.

So here we were in deepest Russia 52 years later and England have discovered a new identity, feeling, a much deeper emotional affinity to not only their fans but the people who keep the whole operation ticking over behind the scenes. Now England have employed a psychologist, all the latest in conditioning and fitness equipment. There is a very real sense that this time England will not come up short on preparation and planning. Forever England will owe a huge debt of gratitude to St Georges Park where all the finishing touches were fine tuned.

Once again the defensive fortress built exclusively for Gareth Southgate's men, played as one, moving as a unit, communicating on the same level and never for a minute doubting their credentials. John Stones, Kyle Walker, Harry Maguire and Ashley Young were confident, never disturbed or perturbed by anything Sweden could throw at them. They blocked and won the second ball on more than several occasions and were never afraid to carry the ball out from the back with the most streetwise air and unfailing assurance.

It was no coincidence that Dele Alli, initially jittery and frighteningly nervous, eventually made the ball work for him. Alli did lose possession quite wastefully and there were times when it looked as if he needed a thorough refresher course into how not to give the ball away. As the game progressed Ali rectified his mistakes and came through with flying colours with the second decisive goal for England.

But England, after their unnerving introduction to the game, eventually re-cycled possession of the ball and knitted their passes together much more quickly and intuitively. Then it all came right for England. Another superb corner aimed straight  at the centre of the penalty area prompted Harry Maguire to hurl his body at the ball before powering his header ferociously into the back of the Swedish net for England's opener.

From that point onwards England grabbed hold the ball, stretching the whole of the Swedish back four and forcing Sweden back into their defence like a retreating army that doesn't really know what to do when the first grenades are thrown in combat. England were now commanding and demanding the ball, making all of the right noises and then just cutting off any semblance of a Swedish supply line.

We somehow knew that England were always likely to have their bad patch, a pale imitation of who they were in the first half and this was the case. Suddenly Sweden launched a mini comeback threatening to score but they were never more than cautionary warnings. Jordan Pickford, England's new number one pulled off perhaps the save of this World Cup when a Swedish header seemed destined to  turn the game upside down. A Swedish goal would have changed the dynamics completely.

And then delightfully and with some relief  England scored again. Following another spurt of England attacking, a blissfully weighted diagonal cross from just outside the Swedish penalty area, hung in the air until reaching the head of Dele Alli, who, with the most nonchalant of flicks with his head, nodded the ball into the net.

Now it was that the game was psychologically over as a contest. Sweden did clamber their way back into the game but England had stifled the Swedes and drained their opponents with perfect game management and football that was clear, articulate and easier to appreciate.

England were through to only their second World Cup semi final against Croatia. The bitter cynics who dismissed them as has beens and mediocre nobodies had to eat a sizeable portion of humble pie. England admittedly are far from being the complete article and the chances are that the World Cup may well elude them this time but you never know it is England and anything is possible when everything seems impossible. So one more push for the finishing line Gareth Southgate. Those waistcoats are this year's fashion. Let's go for it England.

Five times World Cup winners Brazil go out of the World Cup to buoyant Belgium.

Five times World Cup winners Brazil go out of the World Cup to buoyant Belgium.

Brazil have come a long way in this World Cup in Russia but not quite as far as they would have liked. But Brazil are out of the World Cup and for some of us that in itself is nothing short of disastrous. Brazil will always have a place in our hearts because they were the ones who gave the World Cup a very special polish and lustre, a stamp of quality, the most beautiful turn of phrase, breathtaking originality and a star studded shine, a team with a  classical sense of innovation and the sweetest fluency.

 They were the best of international teams, a team that never stopped giving and will always do so regardless of decade, generation or time frame. Sadly though, this was not the Brazil of old, the Brazil with a very distinctive history and heritage, a team who have left their enduring legacy down the ages and the most convincing of statements wherever they go.

 Brazil have now left the World Cup in Russia because their opponents Belgium were almost kindred spirits, heir apparents to the Brazilian footballing crown of yesteryear and a side whose vastly progressive and attractive football may be the successors to the Brazil we used to know. So we dabbed a tear from our eyes and quietly congratulated Belgium on their commendable intentions and suspecting that Belgium may become proud inheritors of  today's World Cup and whose now deposed world champions Germany can only wonder if things might have been different.

Last night Belgium quite literally played Brazil at their own game and looked as though they'd stolen the fading documents of a Brazilian portfolio. For lengthy periods of the first half Belgium played with all the artistry and sensitivity of a team for whom the passing game has now become second nature. At times their football reminded you of a precious stone, a team playing with all that freedom and that rich sense of indulgence which occasionally left you speechless with wonder.

From the kick off Roberto Martinez, who started his English playing career with Wigan and then moved into management with both Wigan and then Everton, watched with unashamed pride as his Belgium team broke free of the shackles and restraints of years gone past. For years Belgium have been the strangers at the party, observant onlookers but never really participating with style or class.

Now though Thomas Meunier, Toby Alderweireld and the massively stylish Vincent Kompany and the hugely trustworthy Jan Vertonghen of Spurs nailed up their defence, carefully marshalling and patrolling their back four with the beady eyed scrutiny and vigilance of security officers guarding an important building. They mopped up all the damage and carnage that the Brazilians threatened to create in their second half, throwing the most protective red curtain around them at all times.

But it was in midfield and up front that Belgium excelled. Frequently, Belgium looked as if their stunningly efficient and improvisational football on the counter attack would leave Brazil on some remote island in the middle of nowhere. It was football of the sharpest, quickest and most incisive kind. Belgium drilled holes in the Brazilians defence relentlessly and powerfully, weaving their way in and out of the five times winners of the World Cup rather like needlework technicians, carefully sewing their patterns with delicate precision.

And then Belgium let their magicians out of the hat and the world looked on agog. Kevin De Bruyne of Manchester City was now playing some of the finest football of his life, dribbling with the ball with a conjuror's sleight of hand, assessing and analysing every attacking possibility like a scientist in a laboratory experimenting with chemicals in a test tube. De Bruyne was forever asking questions, posing teasers, scheming, testing the ground, exploring avenues, opening up Brazil like a present at a children's birthday party.

Then there was Marouane Fellaini, whose remarkably large afro hairstyle really does stand out in a crowd. Fellaini has enjoyed  a moderately satisfying season for Manchester United but, to the outsider, still has the unorthodox and unconventional about him This is not to suggest that Fellaini should take up basketball or perhaps tennis but his passing can be on the wayward side at times. Still, against Brazil he did look much more comfortable on the ball and never remotely ill at ease.

Finally, Belgium had the inimitable Eden Hazard, surely one of the players of the World Cup so far. Hazard has been impeccably skilful, always imaginative and he body swerved his way around players as if they'd been rendered temporarily invisible. For Chelsea Hazard runs at defenders from deep in his own half, sweeps forward like a gazelle on the plains and then exchanges the daintiest of wall passes or short passes as if he'd done the same thing a thousand times.

For Belgium, Hazard was absolutely breathtaking, a master craftsman with all the hammers and chisels of the most skilled practitioners. Hazard, even when confronted with a wall of yellow shirted Brazilians, somehow wriggled his way in and out of cul-de-sacs, reversing out of brief moments of crisis with all the composure of the most experienced driver.

It was no surprise at all when Belgium took the lead. A corner swung dangerously towards the near post seemed to hang in the air and Fernandinho, who was outstanding for Pep Guardiola's Manchester City last season jumped with a posse of players and his header seemed to brush off his forehead. It was a Brazilian own goal and that if that sounds like a novelty then it probably is.

Minutes later Belgium extended the lead quite amazingly. Just when the Brazilians came up for air, the red shirts of Belgium swarmed forward on the break, tip toeing through a now fragile Brazilian team with the neatest of footwork and passes. This was football of Brazilian simplicity, of streamlined perfection, devastating speed of thought and clinical execution. It couldn't be happening and yet it was. This was the most radical breakthrough for Belgian football and very few of us could have ever imagined that this was the way things would turn out.

Quite what must be going through the minds of their neighbours Holland is anybody's guess because this must be unbearable. For years Holland were the model pioneers, the exponents of Total Football, Johan Cruyff dragging back and stepping over the ball with all of the wizardry and dexterity of a street footballer in Amsterdam. Now though Belgium have their own performance artists such as De Bruyne and Hazard and this must seem like the most upsetting of insults.

Belgium scored what proved to be the game's conclusive second goal half way through the first half. De Bruyne picked up the ball from quite a distance after another piece of Belgian passing poetry he drove the ball fiercely past Brazil keeper Alisson. Game over for Brazil.

In the second half Brazil did produce the most stirring of recoveries and some of the old lyrics, verses and grammatical niceties that the Brazilians have always been renowned for re-surfaced hearteningly and rousingly. Marcelo held onto the ball as if the kid in the playground had given it to him permanently. Marcelo began to nurse and cherish the ball, Paulinho, still looks graceful and well balanced and Phillipe Coutinho is an enormously gifted player of severe striking power. But this was not to be a day of genuine Brazilian showpieces, a day when everything came together.

Although Renato Augusto pulled a goal back for the Brazilians from another inventive and well weighted cross from Coutinho, Brazil were now searching for buried treasure. They rallied forward with their usual fare of bewilderingly dizzying passes to feet but nothing seemed to stick. And so the Brazilian symphony has been silenced and the conductor has put down their baton.

Belgium have set themselves up with perhaps the tastiest, spiciest and juiciest World Cup semi final contest with their neighbours France. Who could have envisaged that the World Cup had this up its sleeve when the tournament started a couple of weeks ago? Argentina, Germany and Spain have been and gone and England are still there which can only be a good thing. We can sense a World Cup Final that may live indelibly in the memory for many a decade and that's something we should always remember.