Theresa May- what a dancer.
This week saw the arrival of one of the greatest dancers of modern times. In fact there have been some valid comparisons to Ginger Rogers in her Top Hat pomp with the equally as nimble footed and gloriously athletic Fred Astaire. You can only assume the summer heat might have gone to the Prime Minister head because things were certainly taking an unusual turn this week.
At a school in South Africa Theresa May took a gentle trip back to her heady school disco days with the kind of performance that would have left the likes of Nureyev, Dame Margot Fonteyn and, more recently, John Travolta, breathless and consumed with envy. May did what any political leader worth their salt would have done if confronted with a playground of hugely energetic schoolchildren.
She danced and danced and danced until she could hardly believe what she was doing. It must have been like one of those afternoons when you have to join in with the spirit of the occasion. Some of us are still scratching our heads and others just speechless. Besides, it was the middle of the week and what else would you do if somebody told you to do something completely spontaneous and unexpected?
But this was the Prime Minister of Britain, there was a photo opportunity to grab and the prying eyes of the world were firmly on her. Here was the Prime Minister finally discovering that at long last the pressure had temporarily been taken off her for at least a while and now it was time to break into the kind of dancing routine that over enthusiastic wedding or bar or bat mitzvah guests would not think twice of acting out without any prompting whatsoever.
The fact is that Theresa May took this most celebrated of all art forms to the most extraordinary heights. Wearing a red jacket and dark trousers topped with the cheesiest of grins, May at first swayed backwards and forwards on her heels rather like somebody who didn't quite know what to do next when the cameras were on her. She carried on with unashamed courage and daring, rocking and swinging her hips somewhat awkwardly before realising that this could be her day to shine and completely win over her hardened critics. She clicked her fingers and did the hippy, hippy shake.
Now May found herself revisiting the spirit of Michael Jackson and quite possibly Olivia Newton John in Grease. Firstly, there was the half baked, stuttering, robotic dance, followed by the delirious Jackson moonwalk followed by a couple of neat, nifty steps and then the Showaddywaddy rock and roll, drain pipe trousered boogie woogie. Wow! What a display! How on earth any respected or discredited politician of any party could match that fleet of feet, terpsichorean showtime spectacular is quite anybody's guess.
Seriously though the Prime Minister of Britain is back on the Brexit trail banging the drum vociferously for Britain as a world class trading partner. She is building those proverbial bridges of commercial prosperity on behalf of a country that still finds itself unsure and indecisive in its role as an economic powerhouse. But come on, that dance was something pretty special and any relevance it might have had with the whole way in which we conduct ourselves with our global counterparts is hard to fathom.
As things stand at the moment most of us are just flummoxed with hard or soft Brexit deals at the top table of political negotiations. Are we in or we are out? Or do we simply do the Hokey Cokey, turn around and decide that that's what it's all about? What do we do if the country decides that it wants a second referendum thus jeopardising everything that the first one could have potentially offered? Perhaps we should just go back to eating Dutch cheese and buying German cars without a single word of scathingly hurtful commentary on our European friends.
Theresa May now finds himself teetering on the brink of humiliation and unsure whether to stick or twist. Somehow you begin to wonder whether the life of Prime Minister is worth all that aggravation and worry. You take yourself off on an innocent walking holiday in Italy and before you know it you're back on the front pages of the national newspapers dancing, joking, smiling and then dancing again. This may be the right time for quality time, for kicking off your high heels and pretending you're some uninhibited teenager at the end of term school high prom where the adrenaline has kicked in with a vengeance.
As the party political conference season looms on the horizon for our British speechmakers and rhetoric magicians, the Conservatives, Labour, and Lib Dems are gearing up for another season of verbal fist fights, childish name calling. opportunistic grandstanding statements and the kind of ludicrous behaviour normally expected at a kids birthday party. We await flying fur, mud flinging, spiteful off the cuff remarks, vindictive insults and a whole succession of impassioned rants.
In the middle of it all will remain that most classical of dancers, a performer of the most original and balletic beauty. Theresa May has just floored everybody with a finger snapping, body popping, head rolling, dancing masterclass. It is to be hoped that there were just a couple of talent scouts out there watching and scrutinising this natural hoofer, this tap dancer extraordinaire.
Now we await the efforts of the now much reviled and despised Jeremy Corbyn, surely now one of the most singularly unpopular and disagreeable of Labour leaders since the beginning of time. Quite what Corbyn may have to offer the rarefied world of the ballroom can hardly be imagined. Perhaps the military two step or some very regimented sequence of steps? This is not a good time for Corbyn and dancing of any kind would perhaps be the last thing on his mind. It's time for the Labour leader to think about singing some slow ballad or perhaps an introspective chant to himself.
But as august August gives way to soulful and sanguine September we can only look back to that last week in August 2018 when the Prime Minister of Britain just let herself go, loosened her hair and got down with the kids. At the moment her stock has risen ever so slightly and the sun, although now autumnally watery, is still shining metaphorically on Theresa May. If there has been a more memorable dance by a serving Prime Minister then somebody should tell us now. To quote those soul meisters Chic. Dance, Dance, Dance Theresa! Keep those feet moving.
Friday 31 August 2018
Wednesday 29 August 2018
Andy Murray- Britain's finest but with a point to prove at the US Open.
Andy Murray- Britain's finest but with a point to prove at the US Open.
Now that summer has more or less gone and autumnal shades begin to hover in the distance, sport finds itself back in one of its more genteel summer pursuits. You'd have thought that the tennis season had been and gone with the last crack of a winning forehand return at Wimbledon but you'd be wrong to think along those lines because tennis is still on the radar of British sport and very much the intriguing issue in the USA.
Because a certain Andy Murray, the two time Wimbledon champion, has some pretty important assignments on his mind and perhaps a point or several to prove. We all know that Murray won the gold medal at the London Olympics in 2012 and also captured the hearts of an adoring British audience when he swept to a conclusive, double dose of Wimbledon singles titles. But there is something missing in the Murray locker and it's hard to know whether he can identify it.
Sure, Murray is undoubtedly one of the greatest British tennis players in modern times and of course he is technically gifted, well adjusted and brilliantly resourceful particularly when the chips may be down or defeat may be imminent. But when he walks out to face Fernando Verdasco this evening at the US Open Murray may be tempted to look over a couple of worried shoulders and hope against hope that his recently chronic injury record may become a thing of the past.
You see the problem with Andy Murray is that although he is now officially the poster boy and heart throb idol for many a fluttering feminine hearts there are those who unfairly believe that Murray is just a walking disaster, horribly susceptible to all manner of injuries, both long and short term. And this is the problem. Of course Murray is by far and away the best tennis player Britain has ever produced but he does seem prone to bad backs and every conceivable strain, pull, debilitating pain or ache that keeps him out of action for much longer than seems possible.
In the old days of course Britain didn't really concern themselves overmuch with the welfare of our tennis players because there weren't that many to bother ourselves over. But this time Murray is the real thing, the genuine article and we should really wrap him up in cotton wool. This is no time for over reaction or panic but you fear that in the boiling heat of an American evening, something will be snapped or jolted out of place. Maybe, dare we say it, dehydration will set in and Murray will just flop to the ground, wiping copious sweat beads from his forehead and desperate for something cool.
Still, when Murray walks out this evening to face Verdasco it must be hoped that his thought processes will be fully functioning, concentration is at its sharpest and the physical troubles of recent times will melt away into a sultry American evening. We will hope that the Murray temperament and mindset will be focused, body and soul joined in perfect union and mum Judy will try to keep her feelings in check knowing all the time that her son is doing his utmost to win the US Open.
We all know now about the relationship between mum Judy and son Andy because mum Judy, while understandably the gloating and boasting mum of a British tennis legend, does enjoy her own personal spot in the public limelight. A couple of years Judy appeared on the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing show winning a whole host of new admirers and quite a number of disbelieving souls into the bargain.
But now Andy and brother Jamie are still hogging all of the adulatory highlights and mum Judy may find that she might need to take more of a back seat rather than basking in her son's reflected glory. How can you keep leaping up and down with barely suppressed pleasure and joy while acutely aware that your son is just trying to make you enormously proud of you? Then she claps her hands wildly, cheering and whooping, naturally elated at her son's amazing achievements.
When Murray won his first Wimbledon title, son Andy did what most would have expected sons to do. He flung his hands into the air, looked to the blue Wimbledon skies in a state of shock and sheer incredulity but then jubilation followed. You know what it's like. You win your first Wimbledon title, you're British, your nation hasn't been able to acclaim a men's singles title at Wimbledon for decades and there is a kind of delayed reaction because it hasn't hit you yet. But then you turn around and you found that's it happened. It's been well over 70 years now but if Fred Perry could do it back in the 1930s then so could Murray.
This year at Wimbledon there was no Andy Murray because injuries intervened and Murray found himself in a position that maybe he hadn't been acquainted with before. After winning Wimbledon again Murray was left twiddling his fingers, stretching out on a treatment table and wondering whether he'd ever hear those hysterically happy Wimbledon fans singing and chanting his name again.
Now though, at the US Open, Murray is back at the tennis coal face, swinging those shoulders, pumping himself up with those familiar growls and grunts of self criticism and just relieved to be back on a tennis court. He may have cause to reflect on a summer of frustration and emptiness, a sense that no longer could he remain out of the public's mind because Murray's considerable army of supporters have been waiting with teeth clenching anticipation.
Tonight at Flushing Meadows the Americans will have another chance to express their innermost feelings as British tennis stoops to conquer. Of course the Americans are just as patriotic as their British cousins from across the pond but perhaps this could be the ideal time for Andy Murray to give us a tantalising glimpse of the player he still is rather than the player who couldn't play because his body wouldn't let him.
Which brings us very neatly back to Judy, Andy Murray's mum. Of course she's protective and of course she's very nurturing and compassionate. You'd hardly expect anything else from a mother because that's what mums have always done. Judy will be there this evening rooting for her son, willing him on, inspiring, yelling her head off, always encouraging, always supportive, screaming and shrieking and then realising that perhaps such heartfelt emotions may have to be kept in check.
But of course Judy will be forgiven for getting ever so slightly over excited because sport is a something passionate, something very visceral, raw and tender. Tennis is very personal, something very dependent on that vital moment when points are won or lost by a thunderous ace, a booming backhand or forehand return or that feathery drop shot that droops over the net and wins the Wimbledon final.
The sight of Andy Murray celebrating a Wimbledon singles title by running up to where mum Judy was sitting remains an enduring memory. The image of Murray climbing into the family area and accidentally ignoring his mum is etched on the mind forever. Should son Andy beat Verdasco in the white heat of an American evening then most of us will raise a glass to the all conquering British hero who shrugged off injury, sneered at adversity and reminded us all that he was still there. You can hardly say fairer than that. Come on Andy!
Now that summer has more or less gone and autumnal shades begin to hover in the distance, sport finds itself back in one of its more genteel summer pursuits. You'd have thought that the tennis season had been and gone with the last crack of a winning forehand return at Wimbledon but you'd be wrong to think along those lines because tennis is still on the radar of British sport and very much the intriguing issue in the USA.
Because a certain Andy Murray, the two time Wimbledon champion, has some pretty important assignments on his mind and perhaps a point or several to prove. We all know that Murray won the gold medal at the London Olympics in 2012 and also captured the hearts of an adoring British audience when he swept to a conclusive, double dose of Wimbledon singles titles. But there is something missing in the Murray locker and it's hard to know whether he can identify it.
Sure, Murray is undoubtedly one of the greatest British tennis players in modern times and of course he is technically gifted, well adjusted and brilliantly resourceful particularly when the chips may be down or defeat may be imminent. But when he walks out to face Fernando Verdasco this evening at the US Open Murray may be tempted to look over a couple of worried shoulders and hope against hope that his recently chronic injury record may become a thing of the past.
You see the problem with Andy Murray is that although he is now officially the poster boy and heart throb idol for many a fluttering feminine hearts there are those who unfairly believe that Murray is just a walking disaster, horribly susceptible to all manner of injuries, both long and short term. And this is the problem. Of course Murray is by far and away the best tennis player Britain has ever produced but he does seem prone to bad backs and every conceivable strain, pull, debilitating pain or ache that keeps him out of action for much longer than seems possible.
In the old days of course Britain didn't really concern themselves overmuch with the welfare of our tennis players because there weren't that many to bother ourselves over. But this time Murray is the real thing, the genuine article and we should really wrap him up in cotton wool. This is no time for over reaction or panic but you fear that in the boiling heat of an American evening, something will be snapped or jolted out of place. Maybe, dare we say it, dehydration will set in and Murray will just flop to the ground, wiping copious sweat beads from his forehead and desperate for something cool.
Still, when Murray walks out this evening to face Verdasco it must be hoped that his thought processes will be fully functioning, concentration is at its sharpest and the physical troubles of recent times will melt away into a sultry American evening. We will hope that the Murray temperament and mindset will be focused, body and soul joined in perfect union and mum Judy will try to keep her feelings in check knowing all the time that her son is doing his utmost to win the US Open.
We all know now about the relationship between mum Judy and son Andy because mum Judy, while understandably the gloating and boasting mum of a British tennis legend, does enjoy her own personal spot in the public limelight. A couple of years Judy appeared on the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing show winning a whole host of new admirers and quite a number of disbelieving souls into the bargain.
But now Andy and brother Jamie are still hogging all of the adulatory highlights and mum Judy may find that she might need to take more of a back seat rather than basking in her son's reflected glory. How can you keep leaping up and down with barely suppressed pleasure and joy while acutely aware that your son is just trying to make you enormously proud of you? Then she claps her hands wildly, cheering and whooping, naturally elated at her son's amazing achievements.
When Murray won his first Wimbledon title, son Andy did what most would have expected sons to do. He flung his hands into the air, looked to the blue Wimbledon skies in a state of shock and sheer incredulity but then jubilation followed. You know what it's like. You win your first Wimbledon title, you're British, your nation hasn't been able to acclaim a men's singles title at Wimbledon for decades and there is a kind of delayed reaction because it hasn't hit you yet. But then you turn around and you found that's it happened. It's been well over 70 years now but if Fred Perry could do it back in the 1930s then so could Murray.
This year at Wimbledon there was no Andy Murray because injuries intervened and Murray found himself in a position that maybe he hadn't been acquainted with before. After winning Wimbledon again Murray was left twiddling his fingers, stretching out on a treatment table and wondering whether he'd ever hear those hysterically happy Wimbledon fans singing and chanting his name again.
Now though, at the US Open, Murray is back at the tennis coal face, swinging those shoulders, pumping himself up with those familiar growls and grunts of self criticism and just relieved to be back on a tennis court. He may have cause to reflect on a summer of frustration and emptiness, a sense that no longer could he remain out of the public's mind because Murray's considerable army of supporters have been waiting with teeth clenching anticipation.
Tonight at Flushing Meadows the Americans will have another chance to express their innermost feelings as British tennis stoops to conquer. Of course the Americans are just as patriotic as their British cousins from across the pond but perhaps this could be the ideal time for Andy Murray to give us a tantalising glimpse of the player he still is rather than the player who couldn't play because his body wouldn't let him.
Which brings us very neatly back to Judy, Andy Murray's mum. Of course she's protective and of course she's very nurturing and compassionate. You'd hardly expect anything else from a mother because that's what mums have always done. Judy will be there this evening rooting for her son, willing him on, inspiring, yelling her head off, always encouraging, always supportive, screaming and shrieking and then realising that perhaps such heartfelt emotions may have to be kept in check.
But of course Judy will be forgiven for getting ever so slightly over excited because sport is a something passionate, something very visceral, raw and tender. Tennis is very personal, something very dependent on that vital moment when points are won or lost by a thunderous ace, a booming backhand or forehand return or that feathery drop shot that droops over the net and wins the Wimbledon final.
The sight of Andy Murray celebrating a Wimbledon singles title by running up to where mum Judy was sitting remains an enduring memory. The image of Murray climbing into the family area and accidentally ignoring his mum is etched on the mind forever. Should son Andy beat Verdasco in the white heat of an American evening then most of us will raise a glass to the all conquering British hero who shrugged off injury, sneered at adversity and reminded us all that he was still there. You can hardly say fairer than that. Come on Andy!
Monday 27 August 2018
New football season in Britain- same old faces.
New football season in Britain- same old faces.
After the first three games of the new Premier League football season, the familiar names are there at the front of the queue, the same old faces and names still very much instantly recognisable. Before long the furious debates will be held and those by now customary egos will take centre stage. If all goes according to plan then the likelihood is that one team may well run away with the Premier League emerging with the top prize by several swimming lengths.
At this stage it may be impossible to find an obvious indicator as to how things might turn out but by this time last season Manchester City were already preparing their acceptance speech. By last Christmas the Premier League had been won, done and dusted, clinched handsomely without any of their challengers anywhere to be seen and a sense of shuddering anti climax setting in. In the second week of May City were Premier League champions because nobody could possibly catch them. They were, quite literally in a League of their own.
We may be in the season's infancy and inevitably Liverpool and Chelsea are setting the pace with a triple whammy of victories under their belt. But hold on, look who's behind them. It's Watford. Yes Watford. Now this may be the time to rub our eyes with bemusement because Watford aren't supposed to be in the top four of the Premier League and yet they are.
Watford are intruders, impostors, party poopers, supposedly average, totally unfashionable, also rans, not to be considered as serious contenders for anything let alone the Premier League title. Or even a place in the Europa League and, quite possibly, a place in the Champions League. That's plainly wishful thinking, too daft to contemplate. Even in Watford's wildest fantasies this is not the way things will pan out. Surely, they'll wake up and conclude that this isn't the set for an epic Hollywood movie. This is real life or is it?
Just over 30 years ago the late Graham Taylor, freshly scrubbed from his managerial apprenticeship in the lower Leagues at Watford, guided, cautiously steered, gently encouraged and eventually revolutionised a football club who had been heavily snoring in the old Fourth Division. He had at his disposal a workmanlike group of players including Wilf Rostron, Nigel Callaghan, John Barnes, Luther Blissett and Ross Jenkins.
Vicarage Lane was, and still is, Watford's very traditional looking ground, an eminently respectable piece of Hertfordshire turf. Watford were a side of very few ambitions and just survival on their immediate itinerary. Then Taylor arrived with few fanfares, few guarantees and no promises. There were no airs or graces about Taylor. He knew what he was looking for and for a number of seasons he did exactly what others might have thought impossible. He dragged Watford from the muck and bullets of the old Fourth Division to the aristocratic staircases of the old First Division which is now the swanky Premier League.
And then in one astonishing season, Watford almost won the old First Division championship or became the League champions in the old currency. They finished second to Liverpool and the club's supporters must have felt that the thrilling roller coaster ride that had taken them to the giddy heights of fame, celebrity and global recognition would never stop.
In the years that followed there were moments of leanness and hardship for Watford. When the dark clouds of struggle and mediocrity began to gather for both Graham Taylor and the fans, the Hertfordshire club began to wave the white flag of surrender. There was a painful sense of drift, a breakdown in momentum, the awful realisation that a feared collapse was about to be met head on whether they liked it or not.
For a whole succession of seasons Watford's rather allegedly ugly, predictable and one dimensional approach to the game had been rumbled quite disturbingly. Taylor belonged to the old school of football where the long ball, up and under and flatly functional game still ruled the waves. Taylor told us that all of those fancy dan, tippy tappy, pretty passes would never work in British football.
It was all very over elaborate and unnecessary, superfluous to requirements and besides who ever won the League with all of that attractive approach work and the kind of inventive football that remained on the ground. Who needed arty sophistication when you could always rely on that unsightly long ball? But to his eternal credit Taylor stuck by his guns refusing to budge from his principles and perhaps deludedly believed that the way forward was very much onwards and unfortunately upwards. This is where Taylor and the critics parted company because the purists wanted a completely different end product.
Undoubtedly though Watford still seemed like some very dated anachronism, footballing dinosaurs, footballing cavemen who scribble their very indecipherable carvings on walls scratched by a thousand messages. Watford were stubbornly independent, insistent that their way was the right way. The ball had to be transferred to the forward line as quickly and urgently as possible in case it caught light or burst unexpectedly when a Watford attack had been picked up by a passing helicopter.
Now though Watford are a brand new creation with lethal forwards such as Argentine Roberto Pereyra, English red blooded types such as Will Hughes buzzing around like the club's controversial mascot Harry the Hornet, the cultured Jose Holebas full of cool,calculating thought processes, Daryll Janmaat, a Dutch delight always available for the right pass and Etienne Capoue delivering an experienced eye on the game, Watford were firing on all cylinders.
This morning Watford, under the quiet but very businesslike management of Javi Garcia, have crept into third place in the Premier League almost unnoticed. They remind you of one of those studious sixth form school boys with copies of Tolstoy's War and Peace in their pockets. They are neither rebels, or a major threat to the established status quo and the chances are that the bigger boys around them will muscle in on their act. Maybe Watford will find their level and drop into their very precious comfort zone.
But the fact remains that the legacy that Graham Taylor left behind will always be remembered if only for what seemed at the time like the wrong reasons. Recently, Sam Allardyce seemed to find a Taylor imitator with his very blood and thunder, cavalry charge style of football, football laced with sweat, hard work and unfussy pragmatism. Allardyce may well have found a kindred spirit in Graham Taylor because both men had no truck with all those elegant flourishes or neat touches.
Still here we are with three games into the season and Watford are sitting happily third in the Premier League and nobody seems to mind much as long as they don't get any big ideas above their station. On Saturday against Roy Hodgson's disappointing Crystal Palace, Watford did indeed resemble the club's hornet design. There were the broad yellow and black stripes that looked as if they had plenty of venom, a side of bite but now craft.
It suddenly occurs to you that their once very extrovert chairman Elton John may have to remind all of us that Watford are indeed still standing after all these years. From the very bottom of the old Fourth Division to the dizzy heights of top flight football Watford are living proof of a team that fully embraced the rags to riches story. At this rate the Elton John piano may be required to celebrate a new chapter in Watford's history. This may be more than a pipe dream. Stranger things have been known to happen but you never know. Let's hear it for the Hornets.
After the first three games of the new Premier League football season, the familiar names are there at the front of the queue, the same old faces and names still very much instantly recognisable. Before long the furious debates will be held and those by now customary egos will take centre stage. If all goes according to plan then the likelihood is that one team may well run away with the Premier League emerging with the top prize by several swimming lengths.
At this stage it may be impossible to find an obvious indicator as to how things might turn out but by this time last season Manchester City were already preparing their acceptance speech. By last Christmas the Premier League had been won, done and dusted, clinched handsomely without any of their challengers anywhere to be seen and a sense of shuddering anti climax setting in. In the second week of May City were Premier League champions because nobody could possibly catch them. They were, quite literally in a League of their own.
We may be in the season's infancy and inevitably Liverpool and Chelsea are setting the pace with a triple whammy of victories under their belt. But hold on, look who's behind them. It's Watford. Yes Watford. Now this may be the time to rub our eyes with bemusement because Watford aren't supposed to be in the top four of the Premier League and yet they are.
Watford are intruders, impostors, party poopers, supposedly average, totally unfashionable, also rans, not to be considered as serious contenders for anything let alone the Premier League title. Or even a place in the Europa League and, quite possibly, a place in the Champions League. That's plainly wishful thinking, too daft to contemplate. Even in Watford's wildest fantasies this is not the way things will pan out. Surely, they'll wake up and conclude that this isn't the set for an epic Hollywood movie. This is real life or is it?
Just over 30 years ago the late Graham Taylor, freshly scrubbed from his managerial apprenticeship in the lower Leagues at Watford, guided, cautiously steered, gently encouraged and eventually revolutionised a football club who had been heavily snoring in the old Fourth Division. He had at his disposal a workmanlike group of players including Wilf Rostron, Nigel Callaghan, John Barnes, Luther Blissett and Ross Jenkins.
Vicarage Lane was, and still is, Watford's very traditional looking ground, an eminently respectable piece of Hertfordshire turf. Watford were a side of very few ambitions and just survival on their immediate itinerary. Then Taylor arrived with few fanfares, few guarantees and no promises. There were no airs or graces about Taylor. He knew what he was looking for and for a number of seasons he did exactly what others might have thought impossible. He dragged Watford from the muck and bullets of the old Fourth Division to the aristocratic staircases of the old First Division which is now the swanky Premier League.
And then in one astonishing season, Watford almost won the old First Division championship or became the League champions in the old currency. They finished second to Liverpool and the club's supporters must have felt that the thrilling roller coaster ride that had taken them to the giddy heights of fame, celebrity and global recognition would never stop.
In the years that followed there were moments of leanness and hardship for Watford. When the dark clouds of struggle and mediocrity began to gather for both Graham Taylor and the fans, the Hertfordshire club began to wave the white flag of surrender. There was a painful sense of drift, a breakdown in momentum, the awful realisation that a feared collapse was about to be met head on whether they liked it or not.
For a whole succession of seasons Watford's rather allegedly ugly, predictable and one dimensional approach to the game had been rumbled quite disturbingly. Taylor belonged to the old school of football where the long ball, up and under and flatly functional game still ruled the waves. Taylor told us that all of those fancy dan, tippy tappy, pretty passes would never work in British football.
It was all very over elaborate and unnecessary, superfluous to requirements and besides who ever won the League with all of that attractive approach work and the kind of inventive football that remained on the ground. Who needed arty sophistication when you could always rely on that unsightly long ball? But to his eternal credit Taylor stuck by his guns refusing to budge from his principles and perhaps deludedly believed that the way forward was very much onwards and unfortunately upwards. This is where Taylor and the critics parted company because the purists wanted a completely different end product.
Undoubtedly though Watford still seemed like some very dated anachronism, footballing dinosaurs, footballing cavemen who scribble their very indecipherable carvings on walls scratched by a thousand messages. Watford were stubbornly independent, insistent that their way was the right way. The ball had to be transferred to the forward line as quickly and urgently as possible in case it caught light or burst unexpectedly when a Watford attack had been picked up by a passing helicopter.
Now though Watford are a brand new creation with lethal forwards such as Argentine Roberto Pereyra, English red blooded types such as Will Hughes buzzing around like the club's controversial mascot Harry the Hornet, the cultured Jose Holebas full of cool,calculating thought processes, Daryll Janmaat, a Dutch delight always available for the right pass and Etienne Capoue delivering an experienced eye on the game, Watford were firing on all cylinders.
This morning Watford, under the quiet but very businesslike management of Javi Garcia, have crept into third place in the Premier League almost unnoticed. They remind you of one of those studious sixth form school boys with copies of Tolstoy's War and Peace in their pockets. They are neither rebels, or a major threat to the established status quo and the chances are that the bigger boys around them will muscle in on their act. Maybe Watford will find their level and drop into their very precious comfort zone.
But the fact remains that the legacy that Graham Taylor left behind will always be remembered if only for what seemed at the time like the wrong reasons. Recently, Sam Allardyce seemed to find a Taylor imitator with his very blood and thunder, cavalry charge style of football, football laced with sweat, hard work and unfussy pragmatism. Allardyce may well have found a kindred spirit in Graham Taylor because both men had no truck with all those elegant flourishes or neat touches.
Still here we are with three games into the season and Watford are sitting happily third in the Premier League and nobody seems to mind much as long as they don't get any big ideas above their station. On Saturday against Roy Hodgson's disappointing Crystal Palace, Watford did indeed resemble the club's hornet design. There were the broad yellow and black stripes that looked as if they had plenty of venom, a side of bite but now craft.
It suddenly occurs to you that their once very extrovert chairman Elton John may have to remind all of us that Watford are indeed still standing after all these years. From the very bottom of the old Fourth Division to the dizzy heights of top flight football Watford are living proof of a team that fully embraced the rags to riches story. At this rate the Elton John piano may be required to celebrate a new chapter in Watford's history. This may be more than a pipe dream. Stranger things have been known to happen but you never know. Let's hear it for the Hornets.
Saturday 25 August 2018
Northern Lights- Whitby and the Isle of Arran
Northern Lights- Whitby and the Isle of Arran.
We all know that Britain is blessed with some of the most breathtaking countryside. On a late August family break away from it all, we re-discovered why the tourist boards of every county, shire, town and village in dear old Blighty could rightly point to those jaw-dropping, eye popping, aesthetically remarkable sights and sounds and puff out their chests.
Here we found Britain's towering grandeur, its timeless beauty and a landscape that was fabulously fetching, its comely shapes and curves a pleasure to watch. There was an enduring sense of perfect proportion about St Helens buildings that make it one of the most lovable places in Britain to visit when autumn whistles around its blustery corners, nooks and crannies.
We arrived in St Helens to see our son and his girlfriend, to find that this most robust of rugby league heartlands in the best of health. We were treated with the most impeccable hospitality and promptly settled in for the night. It was now that we realised that the Northern Lights of England were still shining brightly, comfortably nestling next to these closely knit, back to back terraced houses, windswept car parks, warmly inviting supermarkets and the pub which was to be our intended location for that evening.
That evening St Helens rugby league side were playing a meaningless end of season game which looked as though it might have been won judging by the loud cheers that finally accompanied St Helens victory. There is a richly industrial solidity and traditionalism that has never really left this quaint corner of Northern England. St Helens is strong and perfectly capable of looking after itself and the rugby league enthusiasts have never lost their voice or sense of loyalty.
The following morning we all set out for the Knowsley Safari Park, one of those spaciously beautiful parts of the North West of England that held the eyes totally transfixed and hypnotised by nature at her most peaceful and restful. Sometimes you can travel across large swathes of any country and not find anything so pleasing on the eye, so utterly graceful and totally natural, so right and proper, so pure and calming to the soul.
Firstly, there were the long necked giraffes, languidly wandering and roaming around, animals almost arrogantly aware of their height and never for a minute breaking sweat. There were the delightful sea lions in splendidly exhibitionist mood. In a laugh a minute show before an upbeat audience of children and the family Arthur and Roger, the cheeky double act with the most contagious sense of humour, clapped their flippers together hilariously as if on cue and with a unique understanding of what they were supposed to be doing. Apparently Arthur was the naughtier of the two sea lions so remember where you read that first.
Then it was off to bonny Scotland where my wife, son and girlfriend were taken back to their respective childhoods. Deep on the Ayrshire coast a Havens holiday camp was the setting for another few days of eyes down bingo, flashing lights, tinkling machines and the sheer vividness of the modern amusement arcade, leaving me slightly overcome and very old. Holiday camps are very much where it all started with our kids but there was a sense here of deja vu, a sense of revisiting somewhere where it would have been easy to just forget that you were 20 years younger. Then your kids were lively athletes with all the unbounded energy that kids seem to have in abundance.
Let me point out to you immediately that an ageing dad had now been severely handicapped by a series of injuries. Firstly the crown in my teeth just came tumbling out of my mouth as if it had endured one too many toffees in the car. This would have been regarded as a minor setback had it not been for the fact that another misfortune was about to head my way without any prompting. If only I'd had some prior warning.
Sadly, this was not to be the entirely relaxing break I was hoping for. On arrival in Scotland it suddenly occurred to me that my foot and ankle were not working in tandem, a sharp spasm of pain shooting up my legs and more or less rendering me completely incapable of walking properly for the best part of two days or so. It was all vaguely embarrassing as a brief session of hopping turned into an amusing display of hopping, dragging of the feet and a shameful inability to put one foot in front of the other.
But I survived and did what any crocked father would probably have done under the circumstances. I grinned and grimaced, occasionally crying out with an anguished yelp when no medicine seemed to have the desired effect. Firstly, there were the reliable Paracetamol followed by a comforting foot spray which did nothing and if anything compounded the problem.
And so it was that we carried on. Saturday afternoon was spent traipsing around the local supermarket. In a constantly dispiriting day of rain and then drizzle we made our way back home wondering whether anything could possibly lift our grumpy despondency. It wasn't the worst afternoon we could have spent but the mind went back to those bump and grind wrestling contests on TV over 40 years
. It was a time when those Northern town halls hosted some of the most gripping grapple fests ever seen on British TV. Would it ever make a comeback? The sight of those sweaty and vastly overweight wrestlers throwing each other up into the air before crushing and trampling over them with the most horrendous clump still sends the proverbial shiver up your spine. But it was all good, clean fun and we did enjoy the spectacle because we knew in our heart of hearts that nobody had really been hurt and at the end the likes of Giant Haystacks and Big Daddy were just larking around. These were indeed days of complete innocence when nobody seemed to take anything that seriously.
On the Sunday afternoon we all decided to make a real day of it. The weather was kind and gracious, overcast for most of the day and occasionally suggesting torrential downpours but we were not to be daunted. We headed for what was undoubtedly one of the most pleasant and civilised places on Earth. It was gentle, undemanding, spiritually satisfying and deeply enjoyable. It was the kind of place where you simply wanted the day to last for ever but knew it wouldn't because there were only so many hours in the day.
The Isle of Arran was Scotland's most purple of jewels, a diamond encrusted island with scenery that looked as though it had been painted by the most gifted watercolourist. As the rest of the family wrestled with the intricacies of what looked like the biggest crazy golf course on the planet, your eyes were transported by the most outstanding mountain range it has ever been my privilege to watch and admire.
With small parcels of darkening cloud gathering together their forces overhead you suddenly encountered immaculately drawn outlines of mountains and rocks that seem to be perched on an artists canvas rather than the mainland. There it was carefully pencilled into the background, the contours of the land rising and soaring into the air before dropping almost seamlessly into a lovely, jagged dip into the far distance. It felt as though somebody had given me the keys to some wondrous British paradise where everything is unspoilt, untouched and still the same as it ever was.
Then the peace was abruptly stopped. High up in the Scottish sky the seagulls were up to their usual mischief, flying high and then suddenly falling like genuinely soft flakes of snow. It was now that I began to notice the sheer size of nature's most carefree birds. Now I've no idea what exactly they've been feeding these gulls but it did seem that most of them had eaten rather too many plates of meat pie and chips for anybody's liking. They seem to stand there motionless and still, waiting patiently for goodness knows what. To all outward appearances these birds were enormous, monumental and almost frighteningly large at times.
We were now on our way to Gretna Green famously referred as that place all couples elope to in order to be married. We quietly made our way indoors to be confronted with the familiar history of Gretna Green, two very strikingly old fashioned wedding carriages and that very intimate room where marital life begins for the newly weds. In hushed silence we tiptoed around the museums and very different rooms where brightly coloured tartan kilts sit next to glamorous presentations of more tartan and tempting tins of Scottish shortbread.
Back we headed to a friend of ours in the now celebrated Yorkshire town of Redcar once renowned for its TV racecourse over four decades ago. There were no stables or horses to be seen nor those heavy breathing paddocks where our equine friends love to hang out in. Redcar has the most impressive seaside feel but on the day we were there the beach was now deserted after the long and hot summer of Britain 2018.
There were one or two isolated rock pools but the sea did look as if it was huffing and puffing its way to the shore. A couple of kids gleefully shrieked but Redcar looked like a child who had temporarily lost its parents. The summer had now gone and Redcar was waving a fond farewell to the gold-plated summer heatwave. For the first time in ages Redcar was yearning for long forgotten sunshine and romantically hoping that sooner or later it would come back.
So it was that we finally set off to our last port of call. Roughly an hour or so away was Whitby, one of the busiest and most contented of all seaside towns with much to commend it. Essentially, Whitby is one of Yorkshire's prettiest of fishing havens. Wherever you look there were boats and more boats, yachts bobbing agreeably in the late summer sunlight and trawlers with bumper crops of mackerel, cod, trout and skate. Bunched together with thick netting, salty faced fishermen flung their ropes out into barely rippling seas.
Before we left Whitby we had to watch what felt like one of the most attractive sights that Whitby had to offer. Suddenly and without quite being prepared for it, two very smartly dressed formations of Morris dancers stood smiling and waiting for their moment. Before you could blink, the Morris dancers skipped and jigged merrily for our delectation. They engaged in what looked like one of those County and Western line dances that you couldn't help but be enchanted by. With tiny bells strapped to their ankles, they tapped their wooden sticks together before weaving their way in and out of each other, circling once and then going through the same procedure again and again.
This had been the great folk week at Whitby and how joyous that had been. If this is what happens in England towards the end of a mid August day then you'll have to make sure that we might consider a return visit. Folk music has always been criminally overlooked and unfairly ridiculed by a few as some odd piece of British culture.
But this was different. For a moment you were totally taken by Morris dancers from Nottingham and Morris dancers from another part of the country. This seemed like the World Cup of the Morris dancing world and the competition, although friendly, had something that was indefinably British about it; understated, modest, deliciously diverting and appealing. Somebody told me that this yearly ritual dated back to the early 19th century and could only be appreciated by good Yorkshire folk by the seaside.
It was time now to head back home to North London where there is, regrettably, no tartan, no bottles of whisky, no seaside gulls the size of a house and no sign of a rugby league team of any known provenance. There were no fishing trawlers huddling next to rocky outcrops nor mountain ranges that somehow defied superlatives.
We were home from our brief trip up North with confirmations of things we'd always read about but never thought we'd see again in the foreseeable future at least. Northern Britain is alive and well, flourishing and there as a permanent reminder of a Britain that does indeed seem to possess an air of constancy and permanence about it.
Looking over at the steelworks that Redcar was so proudly thought of as part of its treasured heritage, there was a thin line of once thriving chimneys. Now though times are hard for Redcar and although the dark spectre of poverty has now gone, unemployment has once again reared its ugly head again.
But we were home and back again in the seething hustle and bustle of London suburbia where the traffic still inches forward lethargically and slowly like a tortoise while the City sprints around the capital desperately searching for some elusive financial goldmine. They say travel always broadens the mind but when the Northern lights come calling we shall be back on your fair isle. Oh for the joys of Northern England.
We all know that Britain is blessed with some of the most breathtaking countryside. On a late August family break away from it all, we re-discovered why the tourist boards of every county, shire, town and village in dear old Blighty could rightly point to those jaw-dropping, eye popping, aesthetically remarkable sights and sounds and puff out their chests.
Here we found Britain's towering grandeur, its timeless beauty and a landscape that was fabulously fetching, its comely shapes and curves a pleasure to watch. There was an enduring sense of perfect proportion about St Helens buildings that make it one of the most lovable places in Britain to visit when autumn whistles around its blustery corners, nooks and crannies.
We arrived in St Helens to see our son and his girlfriend, to find that this most robust of rugby league heartlands in the best of health. We were treated with the most impeccable hospitality and promptly settled in for the night. It was now that we realised that the Northern Lights of England were still shining brightly, comfortably nestling next to these closely knit, back to back terraced houses, windswept car parks, warmly inviting supermarkets and the pub which was to be our intended location for that evening.
That evening St Helens rugby league side were playing a meaningless end of season game which looked as though it might have been won judging by the loud cheers that finally accompanied St Helens victory. There is a richly industrial solidity and traditionalism that has never really left this quaint corner of Northern England. St Helens is strong and perfectly capable of looking after itself and the rugby league enthusiasts have never lost their voice or sense of loyalty.
The following morning we all set out for the Knowsley Safari Park, one of those spaciously beautiful parts of the North West of England that held the eyes totally transfixed and hypnotised by nature at her most peaceful and restful. Sometimes you can travel across large swathes of any country and not find anything so pleasing on the eye, so utterly graceful and totally natural, so right and proper, so pure and calming to the soul.
Firstly, there were the long necked giraffes, languidly wandering and roaming around, animals almost arrogantly aware of their height and never for a minute breaking sweat. There were the delightful sea lions in splendidly exhibitionist mood. In a laugh a minute show before an upbeat audience of children and the family Arthur and Roger, the cheeky double act with the most contagious sense of humour, clapped their flippers together hilariously as if on cue and with a unique understanding of what they were supposed to be doing. Apparently Arthur was the naughtier of the two sea lions so remember where you read that first.
Then it was off to bonny Scotland where my wife, son and girlfriend were taken back to their respective childhoods. Deep on the Ayrshire coast a Havens holiday camp was the setting for another few days of eyes down bingo, flashing lights, tinkling machines and the sheer vividness of the modern amusement arcade, leaving me slightly overcome and very old. Holiday camps are very much where it all started with our kids but there was a sense here of deja vu, a sense of revisiting somewhere where it would have been easy to just forget that you were 20 years younger. Then your kids were lively athletes with all the unbounded energy that kids seem to have in abundance.
Let me point out to you immediately that an ageing dad had now been severely handicapped by a series of injuries. Firstly the crown in my teeth just came tumbling out of my mouth as if it had endured one too many toffees in the car. This would have been regarded as a minor setback had it not been for the fact that another misfortune was about to head my way without any prompting. If only I'd had some prior warning.
Sadly, this was not to be the entirely relaxing break I was hoping for. On arrival in Scotland it suddenly occurred to me that my foot and ankle were not working in tandem, a sharp spasm of pain shooting up my legs and more or less rendering me completely incapable of walking properly for the best part of two days or so. It was all vaguely embarrassing as a brief session of hopping turned into an amusing display of hopping, dragging of the feet and a shameful inability to put one foot in front of the other.
But I survived and did what any crocked father would probably have done under the circumstances. I grinned and grimaced, occasionally crying out with an anguished yelp when no medicine seemed to have the desired effect. Firstly, there were the reliable Paracetamol followed by a comforting foot spray which did nothing and if anything compounded the problem.
And so it was that we carried on. Saturday afternoon was spent traipsing around the local supermarket. In a constantly dispiriting day of rain and then drizzle we made our way back home wondering whether anything could possibly lift our grumpy despondency. It wasn't the worst afternoon we could have spent but the mind went back to those bump and grind wrestling contests on TV over 40 years
. It was a time when those Northern town halls hosted some of the most gripping grapple fests ever seen on British TV. Would it ever make a comeback? The sight of those sweaty and vastly overweight wrestlers throwing each other up into the air before crushing and trampling over them with the most horrendous clump still sends the proverbial shiver up your spine. But it was all good, clean fun and we did enjoy the spectacle because we knew in our heart of hearts that nobody had really been hurt and at the end the likes of Giant Haystacks and Big Daddy were just larking around. These were indeed days of complete innocence when nobody seemed to take anything that seriously.
On the Sunday afternoon we all decided to make a real day of it. The weather was kind and gracious, overcast for most of the day and occasionally suggesting torrential downpours but we were not to be daunted. We headed for what was undoubtedly one of the most pleasant and civilised places on Earth. It was gentle, undemanding, spiritually satisfying and deeply enjoyable. It was the kind of place where you simply wanted the day to last for ever but knew it wouldn't because there were only so many hours in the day.
The Isle of Arran was Scotland's most purple of jewels, a diamond encrusted island with scenery that looked as though it had been painted by the most gifted watercolourist. As the rest of the family wrestled with the intricacies of what looked like the biggest crazy golf course on the planet, your eyes were transported by the most outstanding mountain range it has ever been my privilege to watch and admire.
With small parcels of darkening cloud gathering together their forces overhead you suddenly encountered immaculately drawn outlines of mountains and rocks that seem to be perched on an artists canvas rather than the mainland. There it was carefully pencilled into the background, the contours of the land rising and soaring into the air before dropping almost seamlessly into a lovely, jagged dip into the far distance. It felt as though somebody had given me the keys to some wondrous British paradise where everything is unspoilt, untouched and still the same as it ever was.
Then the peace was abruptly stopped. High up in the Scottish sky the seagulls were up to their usual mischief, flying high and then suddenly falling like genuinely soft flakes of snow. It was now that I began to notice the sheer size of nature's most carefree birds. Now I've no idea what exactly they've been feeding these gulls but it did seem that most of them had eaten rather too many plates of meat pie and chips for anybody's liking. They seem to stand there motionless and still, waiting patiently for goodness knows what. To all outward appearances these birds were enormous, monumental and almost frighteningly large at times.
We were now on our way to Gretna Green famously referred as that place all couples elope to in order to be married. We quietly made our way indoors to be confronted with the familiar history of Gretna Green, two very strikingly old fashioned wedding carriages and that very intimate room where marital life begins for the newly weds. In hushed silence we tiptoed around the museums and very different rooms where brightly coloured tartan kilts sit next to glamorous presentations of more tartan and tempting tins of Scottish shortbread.
Back we headed to a friend of ours in the now celebrated Yorkshire town of Redcar once renowned for its TV racecourse over four decades ago. There were no stables or horses to be seen nor those heavy breathing paddocks where our equine friends love to hang out in. Redcar has the most impressive seaside feel but on the day we were there the beach was now deserted after the long and hot summer of Britain 2018.
There were one or two isolated rock pools but the sea did look as if it was huffing and puffing its way to the shore. A couple of kids gleefully shrieked but Redcar looked like a child who had temporarily lost its parents. The summer had now gone and Redcar was waving a fond farewell to the gold-plated summer heatwave. For the first time in ages Redcar was yearning for long forgotten sunshine and romantically hoping that sooner or later it would come back.
So it was that we finally set off to our last port of call. Roughly an hour or so away was Whitby, one of the busiest and most contented of all seaside towns with much to commend it. Essentially, Whitby is one of Yorkshire's prettiest of fishing havens. Wherever you look there were boats and more boats, yachts bobbing agreeably in the late summer sunlight and trawlers with bumper crops of mackerel, cod, trout and skate. Bunched together with thick netting, salty faced fishermen flung their ropes out into barely rippling seas.
Before we left Whitby we had to watch what felt like one of the most attractive sights that Whitby had to offer. Suddenly and without quite being prepared for it, two very smartly dressed formations of Morris dancers stood smiling and waiting for their moment. Before you could blink, the Morris dancers skipped and jigged merrily for our delectation. They engaged in what looked like one of those County and Western line dances that you couldn't help but be enchanted by. With tiny bells strapped to their ankles, they tapped their wooden sticks together before weaving their way in and out of each other, circling once and then going through the same procedure again and again.
This had been the great folk week at Whitby and how joyous that had been. If this is what happens in England towards the end of a mid August day then you'll have to make sure that we might consider a return visit. Folk music has always been criminally overlooked and unfairly ridiculed by a few as some odd piece of British culture.
But this was different. For a moment you were totally taken by Morris dancers from Nottingham and Morris dancers from another part of the country. This seemed like the World Cup of the Morris dancing world and the competition, although friendly, had something that was indefinably British about it; understated, modest, deliciously diverting and appealing. Somebody told me that this yearly ritual dated back to the early 19th century and could only be appreciated by good Yorkshire folk by the seaside.
It was time now to head back home to North London where there is, regrettably, no tartan, no bottles of whisky, no seaside gulls the size of a house and no sign of a rugby league team of any known provenance. There were no fishing trawlers huddling next to rocky outcrops nor mountain ranges that somehow defied superlatives.
We were home from our brief trip up North with confirmations of things we'd always read about but never thought we'd see again in the foreseeable future at least. Northern Britain is alive and well, flourishing and there as a permanent reminder of a Britain that does indeed seem to possess an air of constancy and permanence about it.
Looking over at the steelworks that Redcar was so proudly thought of as part of its treasured heritage, there was a thin line of once thriving chimneys. Now though times are hard for Redcar and although the dark spectre of poverty has now gone, unemployment has once again reared its ugly head again.
But we were home and back again in the seething hustle and bustle of London suburbia where the traffic still inches forward lethargically and slowly like a tortoise while the City sprints around the capital desperately searching for some elusive financial goldmine. They say travel always broadens the mind but when the Northern lights come calling we shall be back on your fair isle. Oh for the joys of Northern England.
Friday 24 August 2018
Aretha Franklin - a Motown legend dies.
Aretha Franklin - a Motown legend dies.
With the recent death of Aretha Franklin Motown has lost one of its favourite daughters. The many tributes and kind words of wisdom have already flooded in but it's hard to believe that the queen of soul, Motown's most celebrated of mother earth figures and matriarchal of musical legends is no longer part of that thriving soul music industry.
This was that special place where the greats shook hands with the up and coming and the ones who are now rapidly blossoming can only dream of a glittering future. Sadly, the loss of Aretha Franklin has now deprived the world of one of the smoothest, gutsiest and rawest sounds ever heard in popular music. We are now left with only the memories of a woman determined to make an unforgettable statement with her sugar sweet lyrics and boldly strident performances on stage.
Franklin was not so much a singer, more of a vociferous campaigner on behalf of women and their rightful position and role within society. It was a heartfelt cry for equality, unity and positive recognition at all levels in the public mainstream. Her voice was a powerful instrument for good, a rumbustious roar and stunning scream that reached previously untouched heights that some must now believe will never be touched again.
Born into the now traditional church gospel family background which has accompanied so many of the narratives and backdrops of so many of those twinkling Motown stars, Aretha Franklin was somehow destined for fame and celebrity. Now though it seems as if somebody has taken a plug out of one of the speakers from which her powerhouse voice used to blast out into vast and feverishly responsive audiences.
Now though the prolific Motown factory is in a state of mourning and grief for one of the most dynamic of all female voices. But on a more general level what on earth for instance must be going through the minds of the likes of Roberta Flack, Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, Dionne Warwicke and all of those magnificent ladies who would command a stage, shaking Las Vegas to its foundations with the sheer vocal majesty and range of their songs and messages? For the black soul singing sisterhood the day Aretha Franklin left us was indeed a much poorer place.
During its most turbulent period of the 1960s, Franklin represented much more than a glorious soul singer with the voice of an angel. She broke down the rigid boundaries of racial discrimination and division that threatened to tear America apart. She added her considerable tonsils to the civil rights movement, and sung songs that clearly resonated with the poor, the misunderstood, oppressed and the permanently downtrodden. She came to the rescue of the underclass, standing up firmly and decisively for those who could never be heard.
But it was one song that would completely change the landscape and mood of 1960s soul music. When Franklin belted out 'Respect', it became not merely a sloganeering piece of feminist propaganda but a genuine song from both the deepest heart and soul. 'Respect' was released as a single and overnight shot into both the British and US charts. It would develop into one of those remarkable songs that would never leave your consciousness, your sensitive ear for a great song.
Even now 'Respect' remains one of those songs that will never be forgotten if only because it did what it said on the tin. Finally and emphatically, Franklin was there at the top of her form and respect was a vital necessity, almost a social imperative, essential to the way we lived our lives and the way we treated each other as fellow human beings.
But Aretha Franklin demanded much more than respect and global reverence from not only her adoring fans. She desperately wanted to be recognised as one of the most consistently successful soul singers of all time. 'Respect' was loud, forceful, repetitive perhaps but urgently impressive, a song delivered with confidence and unequivocal passion. a song of feeling and truth.
'Say a Little Prayer' was rightfully acclaimed as one of those religiously uplifting songs that gave America a sense of re-assurance that no harm would ever come its way. It was the song frequently requested in every bar, club and juke box by all of those who must have privately felt that Vietnam would never end and America would always be embroiled in a war that had to be ended at all costs.
And then there was 'Feel Like a Natural Woman', another song with the most personal and emotional nuance, a song that must have felt like a yearning for playtime on more and more of the millions of American radio stations that always seemed to be increasing during the 1960s. This was not merely another a black singer making her presence felt among the whole music community but a woman with a lust and zest for life, a woman who grabbed hold of a microphone, utterly convinced that the song she was singing was a serious announcement, a cautionary warning and not to be dismissed as some candy floss piece of pop.
Over a week has passed since Aretha Franklin died and the repercussions can be felt by all of today's contemporary singers. It is hard to imagine that any will ever equal the intensity and reach of Franklin's rip roaringly raucous voice, a voice that was punched out with both weight, influence and gravitas. It was music that will continue to be heard every Sunday morning at every gospel gathering. The lady pleaded respect and she certainly got respect. The Queen of Soul may have been dethroned but the words will never be allowed to drift away. Motown and the rest of the world will always miss you.
With the recent death of Aretha Franklin Motown has lost one of its favourite daughters. The many tributes and kind words of wisdom have already flooded in but it's hard to believe that the queen of soul, Motown's most celebrated of mother earth figures and matriarchal of musical legends is no longer part of that thriving soul music industry.
This was that special place where the greats shook hands with the up and coming and the ones who are now rapidly blossoming can only dream of a glittering future. Sadly, the loss of Aretha Franklin has now deprived the world of one of the smoothest, gutsiest and rawest sounds ever heard in popular music. We are now left with only the memories of a woman determined to make an unforgettable statement with her sugar sweet lyrics and boldly strident performances on stage.
Franklin was not so much a singer, more of a vociferous campaigner on behalf of women and their rightful position and role within society. It was a heartfelt cry for equality, unity and positive recognition at all levels in the public mainstream. Her voice was a powerful instrument for good, a rumbustious roar and stunning scream that reached previously untouched heights that some must now believe will never be touched again.
Born into the now traditional church gospel family background which has accompanied so many of the narratives and backdrops of so many of those twinkling Motown stars, Aretha Franklin was somehow destined for fame and celebrity. Now though it seems as if somebody has taken a plug out of one of the speakers from which her powerhouse voice used to blast out into vast and feverishly responsive audiences.
Now though the prolific Motown factory is in a state of mourning and grief for one of the most dynamic of all female voices. But on a more general level what on earth for instance must be going through the minds of the likes of Roberta Flack, Diana Ross, Gladys Knight, Dionne Warwicke and all of those magnificent ladies who would command a stage, shaking Las Vegas to its foundations with the sheer vocal majesty and range of their songs and messages? For the black soul singing sisterhood the day Aretha Franklin left us was indeed a much poorer place.
During its most turbulent period of the 1960s, Franklin represented much more than a glorious soul singer with the voice of an angel. She broke down the rigid boundaries of racial discrimination and division that threatened to tear America apart. She added her considerable tonsils to the civil rights movement, and sung songs that clearly resonated with the poor, the misunderstood, oppressed and the permanently downtrodden. She came to the rescue of the underclass, standing up firmly and decisively for those who could never be heard.
But it was one song that would completely change the landscape and mood of 1960s soul music. When Franklin belted out 'Respect', it became not merely a sloganeering piece of feminist propaganda but a genuine song from both the deepest heart and soul. 'Respect' was released as a single and overnight shot into both the British and US charts. It would develop into one of those remarkable songs that would never leave your consciousness, your sensitive ear for a great song.
Even now 'Respect' remains one of those songs that will never be forgotten if only because it did what it said on the tin. Finally and emphatically, Franklin was there at the top of her form and respect was a vital necessity, almost a social imperative, essential to the way we lived our lives and the way we treated each other as fellow human beings.
But Aretha Franklin demanded much more than respect and global reverence from not only her adoring fans. She desperately wanted to be recognised as one of the most consistently successful soul singers of all time. 'Respect' was loud, forceful, repetitive perhaps but urgently impressive, a song delivered with confidence and unequivocal passion. a song of feeling and truth.
'Say a Little Prayer' was rightfully acclaimed as one of those religiously uplifting songs that gave America a sense of re-assurance that no harm would ever come its way. It was the song frequently requested in every bar, club and juke box by all of those who must have privately felt that Vietnam would never end and America would always be embroiled in a war that had to be ended at all costs.
And then there was 'Feel Like a Natural Woman', another song with the most personal and emotional nuance, a song that must have felt like a yearning for playtime on more and more of the millions of American radio stations that always seemed to be increasing during the 1960s. This was not merely another a black singer making her presence felt among the whole music community but a woman with a lust and zest for life, a woman who grabbed hold of a microphone, utterly convinced that the song she was singing was a serious announcement, a cautionary warning and not to be dismissed as some candy floss piece of pop.
Over a week has passed since Aretha Franklin died and the repercussions can be felt by all of today's contemporary singers. It is hard to imagine that any will ever equal the intensity and reach of Franklin's rip roaringly raucous voice, a voice that was punched out with both weight, influence and gravitas. It was music that will continue to be heard every Sunday morning at every gospel gathering. The lady pleaded respect and she certainly got respect. The Queen of Soul may have been dethroned but the words will never be allowed to drift away. Motown and the rest of the world will always miss you.
Monday 13 August 2018
Boris Johnson- the Tory politician who would be Prime Minister?
Boris Johnson- the Tory politician who would be Prime Minister?
Winston Churchill would probably be turning in his grave if he knew. These are interesting times in the weird and wacky world of British politics and now that the summer recess is upon us it is hard to believe that anything could possibly happen while the mice play. But there's something decidedly shifty and underhand going on in our midst. One man refuses to keep quiet and there must be a part of him that believes that he had every right to state his case without fear of contradiction.
The man in question is Boris Johnson and if there's any justice Johnson should be sacked on the spot, rapped over the knuckles, severely reprimanded, left with a flea in his ear and docked several months of his wages for violating every rule in the political handbook. Because poor old Boris has done it again. He's put his foot in it, upsetting the apple cart, alienating half of the Muslim community and today offering his verdict on affordable housing. You really couldn't make it up.
But hold on. This may be to form a more sober assessment of Boris Johnson, formerly Foreign Secretary, formerly Mayor of London and all round good egghead. Essentially, our Boris has done very little that might be considered either libellous, slanderous, damaging or physically destructive. He hasn't attacked anybody nor has he said anything could rightly be described as outrageously insulting.
The fact is though that Johnson is committed the ultimate sin. Last week while the rest of the country bathed in the most stunning heatwave of recent years, the Old Etonian with a penchant for quirky Latin phrases and a partiality for bikes and zip wires, trod on the most explosive political grenade he'll ever tread on. For a few, fleeting moments it sounded almost harmlessly comical and amusing but then the sudden realisation hit him that he'd said something he perhaps might have regretted under different circumstances.
You see the truth is that Boris Johnson is hugely intelligent, vastly knowledgeable and impeccably educated but tact and diplomacy may not be his strongest point. Boris has a wonderful command of several languages and has also written a biography of Winston Churchill, a huge tome of superbly researched detail and undoubtedly excellent prose. But when Boris decides to engage in the most sensitive and potentially combustible of subjects the wires are crossed or somebody gets hurt.
For a number of years Boris Johnson has been one of the most eloquent of advocates of Brexit, an issue so horribly confusing and contentious that even Boris may have felt he'd lost the popular vote for a while. Johnson told us quite clearly that once Britain came out of the EU or the European Union we'd all feel much better about ourselves and the whole process of globalisation which Britain should become an integral part of, would soothe our fevered brows and the world would be our oyster.
Boris told us quite categorically that those wretched scoundrels in Brussels were making our lives a misery and as such those high ranking officials in European circles should leave us alone and stop interfering all the time. How dare the EU keep pontificating about all those nasty rules, laws and regulations that are much more of a hindrance to Britain than any other consideration.
There did come a point when for all his alleged buffoonery and eccentricity, Boris Johnson did actually seem to make some kind of sense. He battled on our front, spoke for the nation and hinted at something akin to political excellence at times. And then when it all looked as if the blond haired one had settled for a back seat in the House of Commons, the Johnson mouth accelerated out of control. Oh dear. Or had it?
In what must have seemed like one of those off the record moments when none could have heard any of his impassioned rhetoric, Johnson expressed one of those statements that were, to not put too fine a point on it, daft and ill advised. In retrospect they were the measured views of another politician a number of years ago. So here was history quite definitely repeating itself and just another classic case of double speak.
Many years ago Labour cabinet minister at the time Jack Straw went on record as saying that he found the burka completely covering the face of Muslim women was extremely intimidating and ever so unsettling and offensive. Straw maintained that whenever a woman in a burka came into his surgery or greeted him on the street the fact that he could neither see their face or talk to him properly was both problematic and troublesome.
And so it was that Boris Johnson aired the same objection and inevitably the whole of the country reacted either furiously and in wholehearted support of the Johnson mantra. Although fully defending the right of Muslim woman to wear their chosen dress, Johnson then went on to plunge his hand into the most unseemly bucket of muddied waters. We were not unduly surprised because this is the Johnson way when the public glare isn't quite fully on him personally.
After quitting as Foreign Secretary recently some of us felt that he'd go and hide in a corner and lick his bloodied wounds. This whole EU business wasn't going according to his plan and Boris threw all of his toys out of the pram. All of those stuffy, red tape complexities that were now stifling Prime Minister Theresa May. were now, quite simply, getting on Johnson's nerves. Enough was enough.
Then he made his latest and most peculiar announcement. Muslim women, in Johnson's estimation reminded you of letter boxes or bank robbers. Now in the general scheme of things it does sound like one of those joky and facetious comments you would normally make at a dinner party having consumed one or too many bottles of Chateau Marks and Spencer red wine. But for Boris Johnson this was just an innocent observation and comparison that would blow away and never be commented on again.
But oh no how misguided was the Old Etonian with the permanently ruffled blond hair and the supercilious air of a learned professor. He'd completely misjudged the mood of the nation although there were some who agreed with him and couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Even now there are some Tory ministers who really don't know whether to cry or laugh about one of their colleagues.
Yesterday Johnson, on a gentle and inoffensive Sunday morning, he welcomed the Press into his garden with cups of tea, bonny chit chat and buoyant bonhomie. Now what exactly was he being accused of here? Had he done something seriously wrong or perhaps the country had lost its sense of humour? It was hard to know why we were all getting all hot and bothered about something that should have been forgotten about as soon as it left Boris's mouth.
Still the damage looks as though it might have been done without any legal recourse or far reaching repercussions. Was Johnson just echoing the sentiments of the nation or was he just joshing about, trying desperately to make small talk when we knew and he must have known that this was perhaps a knee jerk comment that could have been kept in house rather than let out in the public domain?
The hardened cynics may well tell you that this could be a cunning, calculated plot on Boris's part to bring down Theresa May and plant himself cosily into that nice hot seat as Prime Minister of Britain. 10 Downing Street must have a very prestigious ring to it and besides this might have been the only reason Johnson entered politics. Surely a case of an ultra ambitious politician scrapping and struggling his way to the top job in the country. What could be simpler?
So as the dust settles and the country continues to play this preposterous game of Musical Chairs, Boris Johnson sits in a private corner of his London home, wondering and thinking, reflecting but still unapologetic. Even though he might be privately regretful about his unfortunately phrased remark, the fact is that some of his closest friends may tell him to hold back on matters of public interest and of course religious sensitivities.
However Johnson has succeeded in conjuring up some wondrous imagery with his similes and parallels. It all began at the end of the Beijing Olympic Games when our Boris told us that he was looking forward immensely to games of whiff waff or what to the rest of us is table tennis.
Now though we are left with the tricky image of Muslim women resembling those red letter boxes that used to populate every street corner or road. Or maybe he was referring to our very own letter boxes where whole rainforests of paper drop casually through that small opening on our front door? Quite how letter boxes can even be remotely said to look like a Muslim woman with a loose black dress and two slits through which to look at the wider world is quite possibly beyond anybody's understanding.
And so we had the reference to bank robbers which you suspect would have mortally offended any such criminal with a balaclava over their head. It is hard to figure out both Johnson's logic or reasoning but to some extent Boris may have something there. It just seemed that this was the wrong time and the wrong place for frothy, off the cuff remarks that should have merited no attention at all.
The fact is that Boris may have to concentrate all of his attentions on keeping out of the public eye, because although he may well be well intentioned, he might become in the goodness of time the figure of fun that was quite clearly not the plan of action.
But as we reach the middle of August and autumn begins to creep up on us inexorably, the blond haired, right honourable gentleman who represents the interests of Uxbridge and South Ruislip may be quietly flicking through the aforesaid book on Churchill and recalling some of his controversial pronouncements.
It is highly unlikely that Boris Johnson has ever fought anybody on any beach or landing ground but he has now left himself marooned in the hottest water. You suspect that shortly Johnson will take himself off to some isolated sun spot away from the noise and pandemonium of Westminster. He will sit down on his wicker or rattan chair or stare out at a glistening blue sea and think of letter boxes or armed robbers. To quote another government anthem from yesteryear things can only get better. Keep calm Boris.
Winston Churchill would probably be turning in his grave if he knew. These are interesting times in the weird and wacky world of British politics and now that the summer recess is upon us it is hard to believe that anything could possibly happen while the mice play. But there's something decidedly shifty and underhand going on in our midst. One man refuses to keep quiet and there must be a part of him that believes that he had every right to state his case without fear of contradiction.
The man in question is Boris Johnson and if there's any justice Johnson should be sacked on the spot, rapped over the knuckles, severely reprimanded, left with a flea in his ear and docked several months of his wages for violating every rule in the political handbook. Because poor old Boris has done it again. He's put his foot in it, upsetting the apple cart, alienating half of the Muslim community and today offering his verdict on affordable housing. You really couldn't make it up.
But hold on. This may be to form a more sober assessment of Boris Johnson, formerly Foreign Secretary, formerly Mayor of London and all round good egghead. Essentially, our Boris has done very little that might be considered either libellous, slanderous, damaging or physically destructive. He hasn't attacked anybody nor has he said anything could rightly be described as outrageously insulting.
The fact is though that Johnson is committed the ultimate sin. Last week while the rest of the country bathed in the most stunning heatwave of recent years, the Old Etonian with a penchant for quirky Latin phrases and a partiality for bikes and zip wires, trod on the most explosive political grenade he'll ever tread on. For a few, fleeting moments it sounded almost harmlessly comical and amusing but then the sudden realisation hit him that he'd said something he perhaps might have regretted under different circumstances.
You see the truth is that Boris Johnson is hugely intelligent, vastly knowledgeable and impeccably educated but tact and diplomacy may not be his strongest point. Boris has a wonderful command of several languages and has also written a biography of Winston Churchill, a huge tome of superbly researched detail and undoubtedly excellent prose. But when Boris decides to engage in the most sensitive and potentially combustible of subjects the wires are crossed or somebody gets hurt.
For a number of years Boris Johnson has been one of the most eloquent of advocates of Brexit, an issue so horribly confusing and contentious that even Boris may have felt he'd lost the popular vote for a while. Johnson told us quite clearly that once Britain came out of the EU or the European Union we'd all feel much better about ourselves and the whole process of globalisation which Britain should become an integral part of, would soothe our fevered brows and the world would be our oyster.
Boris told us quite categorically that those wretched scoundrels in Brussels were making our lives a misery and as such those high ranking officials in European circles should leave us alone and stop interfering all the time. How dare the EU keep pontificating about all those nasty rules, laws and regulations that are much more of a hindrance to Britain than any other consideration.
There did come a point when for all his alleged buffoonery and eccentricity, Boris Johnson did actually seem to make some kind of sense. He battled on our front, spoke for the nation and hinted at something akin to political excellence at times. And then when it all looked as if the blond haired one had settled for a back seat in the House of Commons, the Johnson mouth accelerated out of control. Oh dear. Or had it?
In what must have seemed like one of those off the record moments when none could have heard any of his impassioned rhetoric, Johnson expressed one of those statements that were, to not put too fine a point on it, daft and ill advised. In retrospect they were the measured views of another politician a number of years ago. So here was history quite definitely repeating itself and just another classic case of double speak.
Many years ago Labour cabinet minister at the time Jack Straw went on record as saying that he found the burka completely covering the face of Muslim women was extremely intimidating and ever so unsettling and offensive. Straw maintained that whenever a woman in a burka came into his surgery or greeted him on the street the fact that he could neither see their face or talk to him properly was both problematic and troublesome.
And so it was that Boris Johnson aired the same objection and inevitably the whole of the country reacted either furiously and in wholehearted support of the Johnson mantra. Although fully defending the right of Muslim woman to wear their chosen dress, Johnson then went on to plunge his hand into the most unseemly bucket of muddied waters. We were not unduly surprised because this is the Johnson way when the public glare isn't quite fully on him personally.
After quitting as Foreign Secretary recently some of us felt that he'd go and hide in a corner and lick his bloodied wounds. This whole EU business wasn't going according to his plan and Boris threw all of his toys out of the pram. All of those stuffy, red tape complexities that were now stifling Prime Minister Theresa May. were now, quite simply, getting on Johnson's nerves. Enough was enough.
Then he made his latest and most peculiar announcement. Muslim women, in Johnson's estimation reminded you of letter boxes or bank robbers. Now in the general scheme of things it does sound like one of those joky and facetious comments you would normally make at a dinner party having consumed one or too many bottles of Chateau Marks and Spencer red wine. But for Boris Johnson this was just an innocent observation and comparison that would blow away and never be commented on again.
But oh no how misguided was the Old Etonian with the permanently ruffled blond hair and the supercilious air of a learned professor. He'd completely misjudged the mood of the nation although there were some who agreed with him and couldn't see what all the fuss was about. Even now there are some Tory ministers who really don't know whether to cry or laugh about one of their colleagues.
Yesterday Johnson, on a gentle and inoffensive Sunday morning, he welcomed the Press into his garden with cups of tea, bonny chit chat and buoyant bonhomie. Now what exactly was he being accused of here? Had he done something seriously wrong or perhaps the country had lost its sense of humour? It was hard to know why we were all getting all hot and bothered about something that should have been forgotten about as soon as it left Boris's mouth.
Still the damage looks as though it might have been done without any legal recourse or far reaching repercussions. Was Johnson just echoing the sentiments of the nation or was he just joshing about, trying desperately to make small talk when we knew and he must have known that this was perhaps a knee jerk comment that could have been kept in house rather than let out in the public domain?
The hardened cynics may well tell you that this could be a cunning, calculated plot on Boris's part to bring down Theresa May and plant himself cosily into that nice hot seat as Prime Minister of Britain. 10 Downing Street must have a very prestigious ring to it and besides this might have been the only reason Johnson entered politics. Surely a case of an ultra ambitious politician scrapping and struggling his way to the top job in the country. What could be simpler?
So as the dust settles and the country continues to play this preposterous game of Musical Chairs, Boris Johnson sits in a private corner of his London home, wondering and thinking, reflecting but still unapologetic. Even though he might be privately regretful about his unfortunately phrased remark, the fact is that some of his closest friends may tell him to hold back on matters of public interest and of course religious sensitivities.
However Johnson has succeeded in conjuring up some wondrous imagery with his similes and parallels. It all began at the end of the Beijing Olympic Games when our Boris told us that he was looking forward immensely to games of whiff waff or what to the rest of us is table tennis.
Now though we are left with the tricky image of Muslim women resembling those red letter boxes that used to populate every street corner or road. Or maybe he was referring to our very own letter boxes where whole rainforests of paper drop casually through that small opening on our front door? Quite how letter boxes can even be remotely said to look like a Muslim woman with a loose black dress and two slits through which to look at the wider world is quite possibly beyond anybody's understanding.
And so we had the reference to bank robbers which you suspect would have mortally offended any such criminal with a balaclava over their head. It is hard to figure out both Johnson's logic or reasoning but to some extent Boris may have something there. It just seemed that this was the wrong time and the wrong place for frothy, off the cuff remarks that should have merited no attention at all.
The fact is that Boris may have to concentrate all of his attentions on keeping out of the public eye, because although he may well be well intentioned, he might become in the goodness of time the figure of fun that was quite clearly not the plan of action.
But as we reach the middle of August and autumn begins to creep up on us inexorably, the blond haired, right honourable gentleman who represents the interests of Uxbridge and South Ruislip may be quietly flicking through the aforesaid book on Churchill and recalling some of his controversial pronouncements.
It is highly unlikely that Boris Johnson has ever fought anybody on any beach or landing ground but he has now left himself marooned in the hottest water. You suspect that shortly Johnson will take himself off to some isolated sun spot away from the noise and pandemonium of Westminster. He will sit down on his wicker or rattan chair or stare out at a glistening blue sea and think of letter boxes or armed robbers. To quote another government anthem from yesteryear things can only get better. Keep calm Boris.
Friday 10 August 2018
The new football season in England and West Ham are about to be headline news.
The new football season in England and West Ham are about to be headline news.
No sooner has the football World Cup become yesterday's fish and chip paper then the new football season in England dawns brightly on our doorsteps. Soon we'll be hearing the thunderous rumble of football's waggons charging through the Wild West saloon town that is the Premier League. You'll be hearing a whole load of cowboys with cigarettes in their mouths, threatening a complete takeover and demanding Bourbons almost immediately. This is no time for showing any pity pard'ner because this is a one horse town and those boys with their rooting tooting guns mean some serious business.
But seriously folks the new football season is back this weekend and football fans from every corner of the country will be dusting down their scarves, oiling their vocal chords, bellowing out their boisterous songs and pinning their colours to their respective masts. Football loves to be the centre of attention and once again the summer solstice in England which this year was a positively remarkable sight to behold, is slowly dropping anchor on a sun kissed portside and ready to take its place in the history books.
Tomorrow, thousands of referees and linesmen and lineswomen will walk out into state of the art football stadiums that are slowly and increasingly turning into lavish hotels rather than football stadiums. They will be dressed in the whole rainbow spectrum of colours, some in red, some in blue, some in green and some in goodness knows what combination of shades before marching towards the centre circle where Sky TV cameras will witness the ritual of perhaps a mauve, purple and orange football that could have been manufactured anywhere.
Last season of course Manchester City, the new Premier League champions, won the Premier League by such a sizeable margin that police were sending out search parties to find out where exactly City had taken the trophy. The brand of football that City delivered throughout all of last season was so breathlessly inventive and groundbreakingly innovative that many of us had run out of superlatives by February let alone the season's conclusion in May.
But tomorrow the whole of the Premier League will start with a clean slate and a new desk in the classroom, new teachers, new players and new managers. Some of our less fashionable of clubs will be parading what can only be described as a fantasy football team of all stars. For those of us of a claret and blue allegiance it was the kind of summer that bordered on the unbelievable and the indescribable.
New West Ham manager Manuel Pellegrini, who once led the aforesaid Manchester City to the Premier League title, has now been entrusted with perhaps the ultimate of all footballing challenges. West Ham have invested in the thick end of almost £100 million in an effort to transform the club's fortunes quite dramatically and win back the fans who threatened to desert them when things were going wrong last season.
Shortly into the second half of West Ham's Premier League 3-0 home defeat to Burnley a disaffected minority of West Ham fans, clearly annoyed with the club's downward spiral to relegation, made their feelings patently clear. One fan, strangely in possession of a corner flag, stormed his way purposefully to the centre circle, planting the flag firmly and angrily into the centre circle. Another disgruntled supporter had to be dragged away by the police and another day in the life of a Premier League team slipped away in a wholly grotesque fashion.
But now West Ham have signed at least ten new players many of whom their most critical supporters must have thought would never even contemplate a move to the London Stadium after the events of that day. It was a gradual conversion to the claret and blue gospel, a veritable busload of new faces making their presence felt in Stratford, East London.
In a steady procession there was full back Ryan Fredericks, a promising and allegedly lightning quick defender with a clear vision of the future. And then there was the man some of us had been waiting patiently for with bated breath. In fact some of us had been tracking the development of the on and off transfer on both social media and that marvellous medium known as You Tube.
It has to be said that here and now that Jack Wilshere is undoubtedly one of the classiest midfield players England have given us for quite some time. But Wilshere is finally a West Ham player and from a personal point of view this has to be one of West Ham's best signings for many a season. It isn't often that you found yourself totally enraptured by the extraordinary gifts of one player but Wilshere fits into the category very snugly.
After a turbulent, injury prone, stop, start career at Arsenal the youngster, who joined the Gunners at the age of nine, took a long, hard look at himself and discovered that a change had to be made. Of course Wilshere enjoyed a commendably successful career at Arsenal but by the player's own admission things had become stale and static. Wilshere's boyhood club West Ham were waiting in the wings.
Wilshere has that priceless ability to roll his body forward in an almost complete rotation before surging his way past the half way line, ball closely tied to his feet, before an extension of both feet enables him to thrust his way past defenders. Then in a blink of an eyelid, Wilshere looks for that dazzling sequence of wall passes that open up opposition defences. The low centre of gravity gives him a jet propelled explosion of pace that leaves defenders gasping at thin air.
Then before the West Ham fans could break into another stirring rendition of the club's anthem 'Bubbles' it was to time to drop your cup of tea and gasp with astonishment. The rumours had become more or less constant and eventually speculation became reality when Felipe Anderson, a Brazilian winger, who had hitherto been plying his trade at Italian club Lazio, could hardly wait to pull on a claret and blue shirt as West Ham's second signing of the season.
When Anderson declared that he was proud to be associated with the club that had given the world the legendary Bobby Moore, the equally as fabled Carlos Tevez and the much loved Paolo Di Canio, you found yourself quivering with disbelief. Had Anderson really plastered the likes of Harry Redknapp, Johnny Sissons, Jimmy Neighbour, Mark Ward and Bobby Barnes on his bedroom wall as a child.
The wing wizards of West Ham's yesteryear had once again come to full and vibrant life and maybe new manager Manuel Pellegrini may want to cast his mind back to the days when Ron Greenwood and John Lyall were passing their worldly expertise onto players who were similarly receptive to their original thinking. Pellegrini has something of Greenwood and Lyall's mindset, men of gentle modesty but forward thinking theories.
But Anderson becomes one of West Ham's marquee's signings, a player with a lightning turn of pace and speed off the mark, a winger of breathtaking propulsion and power, cutting in from the flank with magnificent bursts into opposition's half and making the most of his natural talent. In the pre season friendly against Aston Villa Anderson seemed to swerve in from the touchline and feed the most perfectly weighted ball into the path of Arthur Masuaku who raced down the flank before clipping the ball across for Marko Arnautovic to slide in another West Ham goal in a 3-1 victory.
Literally days later West Ham had another winger to savour but one rather less acclaimed than Anderson. Andriy Yarmolenko, a Ukrainian flankman, arrived at West Ham while West Ham were about to start their pre- season preparations amid the stunning mountain ranges of Austria. It is hard to judge either Anderson or Yarmolenko before a ball has been kicked. But these are just four of the fresh faced recruits to adorn the London Stadium turf and some of us are quietly confident about the forthcoming season.
West Ham begin their season at Anfield on Sunday with perhaps the most thankless assignment. Although beaten in the Champions League Final by Real Madrid, Liverpool will want to start their season on the highest of notes. With Fabian Balbuena, Portuguese forward Xande Silva, Lucas Perez from Arsenal, experienced goalkeeper Lukasz Fabianski and Issa Diop as another central defensive reinforcement, the base, spine and heartbeat of this newly refurbished West Ham side may take a number of the more hardened critics of their football by complete surprise.
But the caveats are well and truly in evidence. Some of us have been following West Ham for much longer than seems possible and we have been there through both thick and thin. For well over 40 years we have closed our eyes, buried our heads, leapt up into the air with almost unreasonable exultation and then just sighed with despairing exasperation. From early August and the autumnal mists to the blossoming flower of spring, this is one long, difficult road to somewhere without establishing how or why.
Still I'm ready and millions of football supporters in both the Premier League, Championship, League Ones and Two will drive down a thousand motorways, stopping off at a thousand service stations and then travelling all over the country just to see their Roy of the Rovers heroes. These are the loyal ones, the hardcore followers, the devoted enthusiasts, the supporters who worship at the shrine of a thousand football grounds in all weathers, spending vast sums of money on both programmes, souvenirs and refreshments. They do this because they are besotted with the Beautiful Game, charmed by its deeply ingrained sense of tradition, its glorious history and its head spinning continuities.
Tomorrow morning, whole families with their starry eyed children, uncles, aunties, cousins, brothers and sisters will be heading towards their favourite teams football grounds wearing the distinctive and defining colours, emblems and badges on their teams shirt. They will spend small fortunes on souvenirs, cups, mugs, scarves, the new sponsors of the club, barely able to control their understandable excitement.
And then they will reach their teams ground, startling examples of modern ground architecture, huge 60,000 stadiums that look more and more like Roman amphitheatres with their multi - tiered seating arrangements. They will buy their pre match teas, coffees, cappuccinos and lattes with perhaps a well cooked meat and potato pie for good measure. It will be extortionately expensive because that's the game as we know it today.
Sadly, football completely lost its innocence when Trevor Francis became the first million pound English footballer when he signed for Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest several decades ago. And of course there was the outrageous £100 a week offered to Fulham's Johnny Haynes during the 1960s.
By complete contrast today's generation of footballers are cared for, protected, ludicrously pampered and totally spoilt. They earn many hundreds and thousands of pounds a week, are worth obscenely criminal millions on the open market and drive the kind of cars that only millionaires can possibly afford. And then football asks itself why it continues to be regarded with much the same suspicion as a first time gambler at a Monte Carlo casino where fortunes are won and then lost with the spin of a wheel.
Where will it ever end? When Neymar signed for Paris St German for roughly £200 million we hung our heads in shame and privately apologised for what we had witnessed. It was the investment of a lifetime but you began to image what exactly must have been going through the minds of those who work in the money markets of the world where high flying financiers compete with belt and braces City stockbrokers.
For now though football in Britain will resume its competitive rivalries, its local animosities and occasionally bloodthirsty hostilities. Sometimes it may get unnecessarily personal and spite will meet head on with malice. But we wouldn't have it any other way. We love its delicious improbabilities, its mouth watering unpredictabilities, the sense of a level playing field on the first day and then the fairy tale romance that was Leicester City who won the Premier League, two seasons ago, if only because sometimes dreams do come true.
So hold on tight everybody the Premier League will be coming to a Freeview TV channel near to you, a lovely radio that paints a multitude of word pictures and a Tablet next to your sofa. From early August to early May of next year, relegation and promotion issues will become the overwhelming concern on our minds apart from the bills that have to be paid. For some football is an addiction and others a religion but then again such cliches have become the accepted norm. Welcome back football. It's so good to have you back where you belong.
No sooner has the football World Cup become yesterday's fish and chip paper then the new football season in England dawns brightly on our doorsteps. Soon we'll be hearing the thunderous rumble of football's waggons charging through the Wild West saloon town that is the Premier League. You'll be hearing a whole load of cowboys with cigarettes in their mouths, threatening a complete takeover and demanding Bourbons almost immediately. This is no time for showing any pity pard'ner because this is a one horse town and those boys with their rooting tooting guns mean some serious business.
But seriously folks the new football season is back this weekend and football fans from every corner of the country will be dusting down their scarves, oiling their vocal chords, bellowing out their boisterous songs and pinning their colours to their respective masts. Football loves to be the centre of attention and once again the summer solstice in England which this year was a positively remarkable sight to behold, is slowly dropping anchor on a sun kissed portside and ready to take its place in the history books.
Tomorrow, thousands of referees and linesmen and lineswomen will walk out into state of the art football stadiums that are slowly and increasingly turning into lavish hotels rather than football stadiums. They will be dressed in the whole rainbow spectrum of colours, some in red, some in blue, some in green and some in goodness knows what combination of shades before marching towards the centre circle where Sky TV cameras will witness the ritual of perhaps a mauve, purple and orange football that could have been manufactured anywhere.
Last season of course Manchester City, the new Premier League champions, won the Premier League by such a sizeable margin that police were sending out search parties to find out where exactly City had taken the trophy. The brand of football that City delivered throughout all of last season was so breathlessly inventive and groundbreakingly innovative that many of us had run out of superlatives by February let alone the season's conclusion in May.
But tomorrow the whole of the Premier League will start with a clean slate and a new desk in the classroom, new teachers, new players and new managers. Some of our less fashionable of clubs will be parading what can only be described as a fantasy football team of all stars. For those of us of a claret and blue allegiance it was the kind of summer that bordered on the unbelievable and the indescribable.
New West Ham manager Manuel Pellegrini, who once led the aforesaid Manchester City to the Premier League title, has now been entrusted with perhaps the ultimate of all footballing challenges. West Ham have invested in the thick end of almost £100 million in an effort to transform the club's fortunes quite dramatically and win back the fans who threatened to desert them when things were going wrong last season.
Shortly into the second half of West Ham's Premier League 3-0 home defeat to Burnley a disaffected minority of West Ham fans, clearly annoyed with the club's downward spiral to relegation, made their feelings patently clear. One fan, strangely in possession of a corner flag, stormed his way purposefully to the centre circle, planting the flag firmly and angrily into the centre circle. Another disgruntled supporter had to be dragged away by the police and another day in the life of a Premier League team slipped away in a wholly grotesque fashion.
But now West Ham have signed at least ten new players many of whom their most critical supporters must have thought would never even contemplate a move to the London Stadium after the events of that day. It was a gradual conversion to the claret and blue gospel, a veritable busload of new faces making their presence felt in Stratford, East London.
In a steady procession there was full back Ryan Fredericks, a promising and allegedly lightning quick defender with a clear vision of the future. And then there was the man some of us had been waiting patiently for with bated breath. In fact some of us had been tracking the development of the on and off transfer on both social media and that marvellous medium known as You Tube.
It has to be said that here and now that Jack Wilshere is undoubtedly one of the classiest midfield players England have given us for quite some time. But Wilshere is finally a West Ham player and from a personal point of view this has to be one of West Ham's best signings for many a season. It isn't often that you found yourself totally enraptured by the extraordinary gifts of one player but Wilshere fits into the category very snugly.
After a turbulent, injury prone, stop, start career at Arsenal the youngster, who joined the Gunners at the age of nine, took a long, hard look at himself and discovered that a change had to be made. Of course Wilshere enjoyed a commendably successful career at Arsenal but by the player's own admission things had become stale and static. Wilshere's boyhood club West Ham were waiting in the wings.
Wilshere has that priceless ability to roll his body forward in an almost complete rotation before surging his way past the half way line, ball closely tied to his feet, before an extension of both feet enables him to thrust his way past defenders. Then in a blink of an eyelid, Wilshere looks for that dazzling sequence of wall passes that open up opposition defences. The low centre of gravity gives him a jet propelled explosion of pace that leaves defenders gasping at thin air.
Then before the West Ham fans could break into another stirring rendition of the club's anthem 'Bubbles' it was to time to drop your cup of tea and gasp with astonishment. The rumours had become more or less constant and eventually speculation became reality when Felipe Anderson, a Brazilian winger, who had hitherto been plying his trade at Italian club Lazio, could hardly wait to pull on a claret and blue shirt as West Ham's second signing of the season.
When Anderson declared that he was proud to be associated with the club that had given the world the legendary Bobby Moore, the equally as fabled Carlos Tevez and the much loved Paolo Di Canio, you found yourself quivering with disbelief. Had Anderson really plastered the likes of Harry Redknapp, Johnny Sissons, Jimmy Neighbour, Mark Ward and Bobby Barnes on his bedroom wall as a child.
The wing wizards of West Ham's yesteryear had once again come to full and vibrant life and maybe new manager Manuel Pellegrini may want to cast his mind back to the days when Ron Greenwood and John Lyall were passing their worldly expertise onto players who were similarly receptive to their original thinking. Pellegrini has something of Greenwood and Lyall's mindset, men of gentle modesty but forward thinking theories.
But Anderson becomes one of West Ham's marquee's signings, a player with a lightning turn of pace and speed off the mark, a winger of breathtaking propulsion and power, cutting in from the flank with magnificent bursts into opposition's half and making the most of his natural talent. In the pre season friendly against Aston Villa Anderson seemed to swerve in from the touchline and feed the most perfectly weighted ball into the path of Arthur Masuaku who raced down the flank before clipping the ball across for Marko Arnautovic to slide in another West Ham goal in a 3-1 victory.
Literally days later West Ham had another winger to savour but one rather less acclaimed than Anderson. Andriy Yarmolenko, a Ukrainian flankman, arrived at West Ham while West Ham were about to start their pre- season preparations amid the stunning mountain ranges of Austria. It is hard to judge either Anderson or Yarmolenko before a ball has been kicked. But these are just four of the fresh faced recruits to adorn the London Stadium turf and some of us are quietly confident about the forthcoming season.
West Ham begin their season at Anfield on Sunday with perhaps the most thankless assignment. Although beaten in the Champions League Final by Real Madrid, Liverpool will want to start their season on the highest of notes. With Fabian Balbuena, Portuguese forward Xande Silva, Lucas Perez from Arsenal, experienced goalkeeper Lukasz Fabianski and Issa Diop as another central defensive reinforcement, the base, spine and heartbeat of this newly refurbished West Ham side may take a number of the more hardened critics of their football by complete surprise.
But the caveats are well and truly in evidence. Some of us have been following West Ham for much longer than seems possible and we have been there through both thick and thin. For well over 40 years we have closed our eyes, buried our heads, leapt up into the air with almost unreasonable exultation and then just sighed with despairing exasperation. From early August and the autumnal mists to the blossoming flower of spring, this is one long, difficult road to somewhere without establishing how or why.
Still I'm ready and millions of football supporters in both the Premier League, Championship, League Ones and Two will drive down a thousand motorways, stopping off at a thousand service stations and then travelling all over the country just to see their Roy of the Rovers heroes. These are the loyal ones, the hardcore followers, the devoted enthusiasts, the supporters who worship at the shrine of a thousand football grounds in all weathers, spending vast sums of money on both programmes, souvenirs and refreshments. They do this because they are besotted with the Beautiful Game, charmed by its deeply ingrained sense of tradition, its glorious history and its head spinning continuities.
Tomorrow morning, whole families with their starry eyed children, uncles, aunties, cousins, brothers and sisters will be heading towards their favourite teams football grounds wearing the distinctive and defining colours, emblems and badges on their teams shirt. They will spend small fortunes on souvenirs, cups, mugs, scarves, the new sponsors of the club, barely able to control their understandable excitement.
And then they will reach their teams ground, startling examples of modern ground architecture, huge 60,000 stadiums that look more and more like Roman amphitheatres with their multi - tiered seating arrangements. They will buy their pre match teas, coffees, cappuccinos and lattes with perhaps a well cooked meat and potato pie for good measure. It will be extortionately expensive because that's the game as we know it today.
Sadly, football completely lost its innocence when Trevor Francis became the first million pound English footballer when he signed for Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest several decades ago. And of course there was the outrageous £100 a week offered to Fulham's Johnny Haynes during the 1960s.
By complete contrast today's generation of footballers are cared for, protected, ludicrously pampered and totally spoilt. They earn many hundreds and thousands of pounds a week, are worth obscenely criminal millions on the open market and drive the kind of cars that only millionaires can possibly afford. And then football asks itself why it continues to be regarded with much the same suspicion as a first time gambler at a Monte Carlo casino where fortunes are won and then lost with the spin of a wheel.
Where will it ever end? When Neymar signed for Paris St German for roughly £200 million we hung our heads in shame and privately apologised for what we had witnessed. It was the investment of a lifetime but you began to image what exactly must have been going through the minds of those who work in the money markets of the world where high flying financiers compete with belt and braces City stockbrokers.
For now though football in Britain will resume its competitive rivalries, its local animosities and occasionally bloodthirsty hostilities. Sometimes it may get unnecessarily personal and spite will meet head on with malice. But we wouldn't have it any other way. We love its delicious improbabilities, its mouth watering unpredictabilities, the sense of a level playing field on the first day and then the fairy tale romance that was Leicester City who won the Premier League, two seasons ago, if only because sometimes dreams do come true.
So hold on tight everybody the Premier League will be coming to a Freeview TV channel near to you, a lovely radio that paints a multitude of word pictures and a Tablet next to your sofa. From early August to early May of next year, relegation and promotion issues will become the overwhelming concern on our minds apart from the bills that have to be paid. For some football is an addiction and others a religion but then again such cliches have become the accepted norm. Welcome back football. It's so good to have you back where you belong.
Wednesday 8 August 2018
International Cat Day.
International Cat Day.
You're on the edge of your seats. It could hardly be any other day. Indeed it is. Today folks is International Cat Day. At some point throughout another crowded year there had to be a day devoted to cats. It would have been a glaring oversight on my part had you not been told that cats have their own day to themselves, a celebration of the feline world, our family pets throughout the ages, the animals we've grown to love or in some cases simply tolerate whenever they become ever so demanding.
So what is about cats that divides opinion? Cats are strangely unpredictable, irritatingly mischievous at times, utterly secretive at others with their very own specific agenda. Cats sit in the most peculiar places of our living room, curling up into a furry ball, perching themselves comfortably on TV's, swinging their tails with unfathomable regularity if only because the family have started talking about Andrew Lloyd Webber's famous musical about them.
And then the family will gather around for a bite or two or another get together when suddenly the cat walks into the room totally unexpectedly with a very real mission. Whether the said cat be a tabby or black and white the behaviour and mood patterns are much the same as they've always been. In it comes with that very set expression on its face before swaggering away, absolutely the dominant force.
Let's face it. Cats always look very judgmental, deeply observant of every human mannerism, watching intently, slowly padding across the living room, almost critical, maybe sceptical and never entirely sure why those humans keep talking, keep sharing intimacies about very private aspects of their lives that cats may never be privy to. You should always be weary about the cat because these animals are very cunning, very knowing and very worldly. They've got the whole of the human race completely worked out.
Then they'll start wandering restlessly around chairs and sofas, inspecting curtains with all the close scrutiny of health inspectors searching for rebellious dust and dirt that the vacuum cleaner didn't quite pick up on. Now marks that moment when the cat just keeps on moving, roaming , loitering in the kitchen in the forlorn hope that somebody will kindly open up a packet of fish fingers for the evening meal.
In the world of the cat, the sheer act of walking is almost a ritual expedition, a unique experience that only a cat can appreciate. There are times when you can never be quite sure what your cat is looking for. Is there a hidden chest of financial treasure that you're never likely to find out about? Are they simply bored, restless, discontented or looking for spiritual fulfilment? There is a deeply mysterious air about the family cat that may never be explained.
Suddenly your amiable moggie will stop sharply in the middle of your living room before breaking out into what can only be described as some therapeutic yoga session. There is a pause for breath followed by the arching of the back and then stretching itself, pulling every muscle in its flexible body before treading its way carefully towards the fridge on another feline pilgrimage where tins of cat food sit enticingly within reach of its grasping paws.
All family pets and animals have their very own personal characteristics but cats have always given out an air of nobility, superiority, completely in charge of every situation or predicament they may find themselves in. There is something very all conquering about a cat that is ever so slightly unnerving. They stroll around your home as if they were the occupants of your home and not you. To some it may be ever so slightly intimidating but then you begin to realise that you're the boss and not the cat.
Up and down the stairs your feline friend goes, forever on the prowl, occasionally scratching its back against an unsuspecting banister or wall. This is the very idiosyncratic world of the cat, an animal with a real set of priorities in its life, a sense of purpose and direction that we'll never know anything about. Cats love that sense of overwhelming freedom, the realisation that nobody dare tell them what to do because they know what they're doing.
Somehow inevitably the cat will decide that as soon as it's swiftly finished off its breakfast that this is the time to disappear for days on end. Having squeezed through the cat flap it will set off on a magnificent voyage of discovery to who knows where. It didn't require the services of a map or satnav and above all it didn't ask for permission. It just goes and doesn't even have the decency to leave a note to tell you that it might be away for quite a while. So don't wait up for the cat because it could be gone for some time.
As soon as morning dawns our worst suspicions have now been confirmed. The cat has gone, over huge fences and walls, allotment sites, leaping onto roofs with all the agility of a well trained athlete, crawling, foraging, scheming, wrestling with bushes and brambles, climbing, tracking something, eyes constantly narrowed, swatting away insects with effortless ease, trotting, skipping through the undergrowth before planning another operation with military precision.
And this is where things get annoyingly complicated. Why, you ask yourself, does it just leave the family home without any prior warning? Hasn't it heard of loyalty and fidelity, a sense of feeling wanted and belonging in your home rather than getting up to no good in somebody else's home. It must occur to them surely that cats might be considered an integral part of your family.
Where on earth do they go at night? The local bingo hall, a pop corn filled evening at the cinema or maybe a night out with their feline acquaintances. It's a safe bet that the cat will never be allowed to cross the threshold of the pub because lager is forbidden and besides it'll only be chucked out for behaving very irrationally.
No, the point is that there can be no emotional attachment to a cat because it has quite obviously decided that its future doesn't lie in your home. There it goes sneaking furtively around the hedgerows, shinning athletically up and down pipes, hopping across garden sheds, negotiating every crook and cranny they can conceivably find, sniffing danger and then slumping helplessly on a sodden patch of grass with nothing to guide it towards safety or a warm sanctuary.
Cats seem to inhabit a world of complete independence and self sufficiency. They never seem to look particularly concerned about anything particular, there are no hang ups in their lives, no bills to pay, rent to be paid and everyday is just another adventure. There can be no sense of insecurity in their everyday mindset. They are never consulted about their choice of dinner for that evening's consumption and nobody asks them for their considered views on Jeremy Corbyn or Donald Trump because that's plain silly and pointless.
The truth is of course that cats like their own space, their much coveted privacy, their solitude, their precious quality time on their own. As long as they get their daily take of meaty chunks and good, old fashioned bowl of milk then that's just fine. There are no agreements or ultimatums that have to be thrashed between you and your cat. The chances are that one day we'll find out why it is that they get so uncomfortable, so edgy, agitated at times, never quite knowing whether the sofa is the right place for them to be.
But ladies and gentlemen this is International Cat Day and hooray for everything that means to you. One day we'll find out exactly why a cat makes it abundantly clear that curling up under your bed is perhaps the most rewarding time of the day that a cat can ever have. Then they'll make the 74th visit to the bathroom, jumping onto another window sill for the umpteenth time before completing another exhaustive marathon of every room of your home, relentless in its pursuit of whatever it is they happen to be looking for.
Before you can blink it's time for your nightly nap. You would have thought your family cat has decided to stop and drop off to sleep on some very accommodating rug or carpet of your living room or maybe it's looking for the TV remote control because it fiercely disapprove of something you maybe watching.
It probably goes without saying that the life of a cat is a hard and complex one. They keep seeking some indefinable answer to the meaning of everything without ever quite finding it. They chase mice because they've always chased mice, they drink milk because they've always drunk milk from saucers and they keep hopping up and down at that cat nip in the middle of your living room when it doesn't appear to be necessary. To all cats on International Cat Day I do hope you've had a fantastic day because this was your day and nobody can take that away from you.
You're on the edge of your seats. It could hardly be any other day. Indeed it is. Today folks is International Cat Day. At some point throughout another crowded year there had to be a day devoted to cats. It would have been a glaring oversight on my part had you not been told that cats have their own day to themselves, a celebration of the feline world, our family pets throughout the ages, the animals we've grown to love or in some cases simply tolerate whenever they become ever so demanding.
So what is about cats that divides opinion? Cats are strangely unpredictable, irritatingly mischievous at times, utterly secretive at others with their very own specific agenda. Cats sit in the most peculiar places of our living room, curling up into a furry ball, perching themselves comfortably on TV's, swinging their tails with unfathomable regularity if only because the family have started talking about Andrew Lloyd Webber's famous musical about them.
And then the family will gather around for a bite or two or another get together when suddenly the cat walks into the room totally unexpectedly with a very real mission. Whether the said cat be a tabby or black and white the behaviour and mood patterns are much the same as they've always been. In it comes with that very set expression on its face before swaggering away, absolutely the dominant force.
Let's face it. Cats always look very judgmental, deeply observant of every human mannerism, watching intently, slowly padding across the living room, almost critical, maybe sceptical and never entirely sure why those humans keep talking, keep sharing intimacies about very private aspects of their lives that cats may never be privy to. You should always be weary about the cat because these animals are very cunning, very knowing and very worldly. They've got the whole of the human race completely worked out.
Then they'll start wandering restlessly around chairs and sofas, inspecting curtains with all the close scrutiny of health inspectors searching for rebellious dust and dirt that the vacuum cleaner didn't quite pick up on. Now marks that moment when the cat just keeps on moving, roaming , loitering in the kitchen in the forlorn hope that somebody will kindly open up a packet of fish fingers for the evening meal.
In the world of the cat, the sheer act of walking is almost a ritual expedition, a unique experience that only a cat can appreciate. There are times when you can never be quite sure what your cat is looking for. Is there a hidden chest of financial treasure that you're never likely to find out about? Are they simply bored, restless, discontented or looking for spiritual fulfilment? There is a deeply mysterious air about the family cat that may never be explained.
Suddenly your amiable moggie will stop sharply in the middle of your living room before breaking out into what can only be described as some therapeutic yoga session. There is a pause for breath followed by the arching of the back and then stretching itself, pulling every muscle in its flexible body before treading its way carefully towards the fridge on another feline pilgrimage where tins of cat food sit enticingly within reach of its grasping paws.
All family pets and animals have their very own personal characteristics but cats have always given out an air of nobility, superiority, completely in charge of every situation or predicament they may find themselves in. There is something very all conquering about a cat that is ever so slightly unnerving. They stroll around your home as if they were the occupants of your home and not you. To some it may be ever so slightly intimidating but then you begin to realise that you're the boss and not the cat.
Up and down the stairs your feline friend goes, forever on the prowl, occasionally scratching its back against an unsuspecting banister or wall. This is the very idiosyncratic world of the cat, an animal with a real set of priorities in its life, a sense of purpose and direction that we'll never know anything about. Cats love that sense of overwhelming freedom, the realisation that nobody dare tell them what to do because they know what they're doing.
Somehow inevitably the cat will decide that as soon as it's swiftly finished off its breakfast that this is the time to disappear for days on end. Having squeezed through the cat flap it will set off on a magnificent voyage of discovery to who knows where. It didn't require the services of a map or satnav and above all it didn't ask for permission. It just goes and doesn't even have the decency to leave a note to tell you that it might be away for quite a while. So don't wait up for the cat because it could be gone for some time.
As soon as morning dawns our worst suspicions have now been confirmed. The cat has gone, over huge fences and walls, allotment sites, leaping onto roofs with all the agility of a well trained athlete, crawling, foraging, scheming, wrestling with bushes and brambles, climbing, tracking something, eyes constantly narrowed, swatting away insects with effortless ease, trotting, skipping through the undergrowth before planning another operation with military precision.
And this is where things get annoyingly complicated. Why, you ask yourself, does it just leave the family home without any prior warning? Hasn't it heard of loyalty and fidelity, a sense of feeling wanted and belonging in your home rather than getting up to no good in somebody else's home. It must occur to them surely that cats might be considered an integral part of your family.
Where on earth do they go at night? The local bingo hall, a pop corn filled evening at the cinema or maybe a night out with their feline acquaintances. It's a safe bet that the cat will never be allowed to cross the threshold of the pub because lager is forbidden and besides it'll only be chucked out for behaving very irrationally.
No, the point is that there can be no emotional attachment to a cat because it has quite obviously decided that its future doesn't lie in your home. There it goes sneaking furtively around the hedgerows, shinning athletically up and down pipes, hopping across garden sheds, negotiating every crook and cranny they can conceivably find, sniffing danger and then slumping helplessly on a sodden patch of grass with nothing to guide it towards safety or a warm sanctuary.
Cats seem to inhabit a world of complete independence and self sufficiency. They never seem to look particularly concerned about anything particular, there are no hang ups in their lives, no bills to pay, rent to be paid and everyday is just another adventure. There can be no sense of insecurity in their everyday mindset. They are never consulted about their choice of dinner for that evening's consumption and nobody asks them for their considered views on Jeremy Corbyn or Donald Trump because that's plain silly and pointless.
The truth is of course that cats like their own space, their much coveted privacy, their solitude, their precious quality time on their own. As long as they get their daily take of meaty chunks and good, old fashioned bowl of milk then that's just fine. There are no agreements or ultimatums that have to be thrashed between you and your cat. The chances are that one day we'll find out why it is that they get so uncomfortable, so edgy, agitated at times, never quite knowing whether the sofa is the right place for them to be.
But ladies and gentlemen this is International Cat Day and hooray for everything that means to you. One day we'll find out exactly why a cat makes it abundantly clear that curling up under your bed is perhaps the most rewarding time of the day that a cat can ever have. Then they'll make the 74th visit to the bathroom, jumping onto another window sill for the umpteenth time before completing another exhaustive marathon of every room of your home, relentless in its pursuit of whatever it is they happen to be looking for.
Before you can blink it's time for your nightly nap. You would have thought your family cat has decided to stop and drop off to sleep on some very accommodating rug or carpet of your living room or maybe it's looking for the TV remote control because it fiercely disapprove of something you maybe watching.
It probably goes without saying that the life of a cat is a hard and complex one. They keep seeking some indefinable answer to the meaning of everything without ever quite finding it. They chase mice because they've always chased mice, they drink milk because they've always drunk milk from saucers and they keep hopping up and down at that cat nip in the middle of your living room when it doesn't appear to be necessary. To all cats on International Cat Day I do hope you've had a fantastic day because this was your day and nobody can take that away from you.
Monday 6 August 2018
Bournemouth- this heavenly seaside resort.
Bournemouth- this heavenly seaside resort.
Yesterday Bournemouth dozed sleepily in the remarkable heatwave of this long and beautiful British summer. For hour upon hour the sun settled in the most cloudlessly cobalt blue sky, resting and slumbering, simmering and sizzling in some of the highest temperatures ever recorded in modern meteorological history. Some of us could hardly believe what we were experiencing and feeling because quite frankly none of us could have seen this one coming. There was though again the element of surprise reinforced by a wonderful sense of the unexpectedness.
But on quite a stunning early Sunday afternoon on the palm fringed promenades of this quiet and genteel Dorset jewel, the good people of Dorset flooded the beaches of Bournemouth and Boscombe in a staggering mass of humanity. This is rapidly developing into the hottest and warmest summer since 1976. Comparisons will never be sufficient but 2018 has certainly gone a long way to equalling if not surpassing its deeply satisfying radiance and enduring beauty.
For as far as the eye could see Bournemouth was bathed in an impossibly glorious haze of summer sun that gradually gathered in strength and intensity as the day progressed. This had been only my second visit to Bournemouth's bejewelled necklace of blue and white, shimmering seas, gently rolling breakers with large swathes of people joyously splashing in endless, blameless waters.
From early morning to late tea time at roughly 5pm in the afternoon the whole world and the entire population of Bournemouth seemed to descend on this timeless and loveliest of seaside resorts. The British have always held an affectionate spot for long, hot summers by the sea-side where the paddling populace mixed easily with the more intrepid swimmers who fancied their chances. But this was no competition because yesterday British seaside makers just embraced their summer with the most heartfelt hug of love.
This was quite the most unique and compelling of spectacles. Very rarely have we seen the British so recklessly immersing themselves in an atmosphere they were probably convinced they'd never ever see again. More quickly than ever before they packed that vast carpet of Bournemouth's famous beaches with the delighted squeals of joy more commonly associated with kids on the first day of their six week summer holiday.
Wherever you looked along the entire stretch of yellow thick sand there were enormous umbrellas, sun parasols, discreet screens and thousands of families gingerly hopping across the sand and tip toeing over hot sand dunes with a fair degree of caution because it must surely have felt like jumping over hot coals. By lunchtime some of the kids looked as though they'd exhausted themselves, as if ready to re-charge batteries ready for the afternoon session.
Then there were the kids inflatable animals liberally scattering the whole of the beach like the colourful candy floss and ice-creams that must have been selling like- in a manner of speaking- the traditional ice-cream along the Bournemouth front. It did seem that by the afternoon the temperature must have been nudging the 90s because some of us were beginning to suffer severe sun burn.
In the distance there were huge inflatable ducks bobbing carelessly on both the sand and sea, pink swans and flamingos in similar inflatable attire. Far out at sea speedboats tore around in ever increasing circles while more thoughtful yachts lazed languidly in a state of absolute contentment. Suddenly you felt the British had been released from their inevitable daily routines, exposing well concealed wintry flesh to the warm, record breaking sunshine that had been blazing down on them for much longer than any of them could possibly remember.
Everywhere you looked there were otherwise conservative men in working suits whipping off their buttoned up shirts and expressing relief, elation and delight in equal measure. For Bournemouth is, essentially, quite a wealthy, well to do seaside resort, oozing respectability, middle class gentility and a faint air of worldliness. Of course there are those who will insist this is not the case for Bournemouth is simply a seaside resort that likes to do things with a touch of class. And why shouldn't it?
For years of course Bournemouth was for a number of years the venue for the party political conference where the combined forces of Conservative, Labour and Liberal Democrats came to air their grievances, gossiping furiously about their rivals obvious deficiencies and humiliating incompetence. The critics and cynics would tell us that Bournemouth has a faded grandeur about it, a tired, old fashioned look, drabness and dowdiness in every brick of its Victorian hotel and guest house.
But then you notice something quite eye catching on the Bournemouth pier. Bournemouth is quite spectacular. Right at the end of the pier there was that very modern de rigeur of sights. It's called the zip wire and a zip wire was the chosen method of transport of a certain Boris Johnson who took a shine to it when he was Mayor of London. The amusing sight of London's mayor hanging precariously on a slender piece of wire still leaves us with an unrestrained chuckle in our throats.
Still there they were gladly whizzing down at a rate of knots speeding across the sky like those adventurous parachutists who love nothing better than that wondrous feeling of freedom in the air. At the far end of the pier there was the timelessly tiny fairground that has undoubtedly transported generations of children into some dizzying fantasy land.
Now the eye was cast irresistibly to the massive Observation Wheel. The Observation Wheel has dominated the London landscape since the beginning of the 21st century, a splendid piece of engineering and design that remains one of the most extraordinary pieces of architecture in our times.
The Observation Wheel is a big, white wheel that looks like a ferris wheel appearing as if it belongs more aptly at a summer fairground. Now Bournemouth has its very own Observation Wheel, something that the thousands of tourists who converge on the South Coast will rub their eyes with fascination at as they watch this vivid tourist magnet slowly wend its way around the magical coastline.
And yet the lasting sound of yesterday's day in the Bournemouth sun will be that of screaming, excited, excitable children, yelling and whooping for the thousandth time of the day, Indian families dipping their feet tentatively into small puddles of water, more kids with more inflatables grabbing hold of their possessions and then running full pelt into the Dorset waters.
From time to time the summer peace was suddenly disturbed by loud, cautionary warnings from tannoy speakers. All bathers were reminded that at no point should they venture too far out to sea because this was a blatant violation of health and safety. Every so often men in red and yellow life jackets would rush out to the edge of sea to attend to a child in minor distress. Then the kids were told that they had to stay within direct view of their parents in case they drifted away and temporarily lost mum and dad.
The hours seem to fly past for some of us and before we'd had time to enjoy yet another hour or so of pleasant watching the world go by, it was time to pack up for the day with now the almost obligatory ice cream and family pizza. After an almost effortless stroll through the pleasure gardens, the birds, parrots and parakeets of Bournemouth at her most natural and unspoilt, it was time to depart this sceptred isle where the sun gradually and reluctantly sunk, the sultry heat of the day now a distant memory.
If it sounds as though I may be waxing overly lyrical about bracing Bournemouth then I make no apology. For a moment you looked up at that soft, blissfully benevolent blue sky and thought of Dorset's greatest poet and hugely celebrated classic author. You wondered whether the spirit of Thomas Hardy was still lurking behind one of its playful souvenir shops or the historic pier alive with its resonant one armed bandits, ringing noughts and crosses machines and more machines that shunt out hundreds of tickets.
Oh we love the British seaside resorts where all the cares of the world are forgotten and summer becomes a rich tableaux of picnics, hampers, family fun, food and drink and not forgetting the sweet music from summers gone by. Bournemouth began to nestle peacefully on the horizon, elusive swallows and gulls darting and diving daringly into a hundred human chip packets. It is the way Bournemouth has always conducted itself, always doing it the way it's always done it.
One morning we shall wake up and find that this memorable summer has now gone for a while, like a bright, translucent light that suddenly disappears. But we'll fondly remember 2018 because just for a few months it really was a scorcher, a real humdinger of a summer. The sun kept shining for day after day although it may have gone in from time to time. It seemed to shine incessantly and continuously, properly and impressively with perhaps the occasional shower to cool everybody down. Mungo Jerry had it absolutely right about the summertime.
Yesterday Bournemouth dozed sleepily in the remarkable heatwave of this long and beautiful British summer. For hour upon hour the sun settled in the most cloudlessly cobalt blue sky, resting and slumbering, simmering and sizzling in some of the highest temperatures ever recorded in modern meteorological history. Some of us could hardly believe what we were experiencing and feeling because quite frankly none of us could have seen this one coming. There was though again the element of surprise reinforced by a wonderful sense of the unexpectedness.
But on quite a stunning early Sunday afternoon on the palm fringed promenades of this quiet and genteel Dorset jewel, the good people of Dorset flooded the beaches of Bournemouth and Boscombe in a staggering mass of humanity. This is rapidly developing into the hottest and warmest summer since 1976. Comparisons will never be sufficient but 2018 has certainly gone a long way to equalling if not surpassing its deeply satisfying radiance and enduring beauty.
For as far as the eye could see Bournemouth was bathed in an impossibly glorious haze of summer sun that gradually gathered in strength and intensity as the day progressed. This had been only my second visit to Bournemouth's bejewelled necklace of blue and white, shimmering seas, gently rolling breakers with large swathes of people joyously splashing in endless, blameless waters.
From early morning to late tea time at roughly 5pm in the afternoon the whole world and the entire population of Bournemouth seemed to descend on this timeless and loveliest of seaside resorts. The British have always held an affectionate spot for long, hot summers by the sea-side where the paddling populace mixed easily with the more intrepid swimmers who fancied their chances. But this was no competition because yesterday British seaside makers just embraced their summer with the most heartfelt hug of love.
This was quite the most unique and compelling of spectacles. Very rarely have we seen the British so recklessly immersing themselves in an atmosphere they were probably convinced they'd never ever see again. More quickly than ever before they packed that vast carpet of Bournemouth's famous beaches with the delighted squeals of joy more commonly associated with kids on the first day of their six week summer holiday.
Wherever you looked along the entire stretch of yellow thick sand there were enormous umbrellas, sun parasols, discreet screens and thousands of families gingerly hopping across the sand and tip toeing over hot sand dunes with a fair degree of caution because it must surely have felt like jumping over hot coals. By lunchtime some of the kids looked as though they'd exhausted themselves, as if ready to re-charge batteries ready for the afternoon session.
Then there were the kids inflatable animals liberally scattering the whole of the beach like the colourful candy floss and ice-creams that must have been selling like- in a manner of speaking- the traditional ice-cream along the Bournemouth front. It did seem that by the afternoon the temperature must have been nudging the 90s because some of us were beginning to suffer severe sun burn.
In the distance there were huge inflatable ducks bobbing carelessly on both the sand and sea, pink swans and flamingos in similar inflatable attire. Far out at sea speedboats tore around in ever increasing circles while more thoughtful yachts lazed languidly in a state of absolute contentment. Suddenly you felt the British had been released from their inevitable daily routines, exposing well concealed wintry flesh to the warm, record breaking sunshine that had been blazing down on them for much longer than any of them could possibly remember.
Everywhere you looked there were otherwise conservative men in working suits whipping off their buttoned up shirts and expressing relief, elation and delight in equal measure. For Bournemouth is, essentially, quite a wealthy, well to do seaside resort, oozing respectability, middle class gentility and a faint air of worldliness. Of course there are those who will insist this is not the case for Bournemouth is simply a seaside resort that likes to do things with a touch of class. And why shouldn't it?
For years of course Bournemouth was for a number of years the venue for the party political conference where the combined forces of Conservative, Labour and Liberal Democrats came to air their grievances, gossiping furiously about their rivals obvious deficiencies and humiliating incompetence. The critics and cynics would tell us that Bournemouth has a faded grandeur about it, a tired, old fashioned look, drabness and dowdiness in every brick of its Victorian hotel and guest house.
But then you notice something quite eye catching on the Bournemouth pier. Bournemouth is quite spectacular. Right at the end of the pier there was that very modern de rigeur of sights. It's called the zip wire and a zip wire was the chosen method of transport of a certain Boris Johnson who took a shine to it when he was Mayor of London. The amusing sight of London's mayor hanging precariously on a slender piece of wire still leaves us with an unrestrained chuckle in our throats.
Still there they were gladly whizzing down at a rate of knots speeding across the sky like those adventurous parachutists who love nothing better than that wondrous feeling of freedom in the air. At the far end of the pier there was the timelessly tiny fairground that has undoubtedly transported generations of children into some dizzying fantasy land.
Now the eye was cast irresistibly to the massive Observation Wheel. The Observation Wheel has dominated the London landscape since the beginning of the 21st century, a splendid piece of engineering and design that remains one of the most extraordinary pieces of architecture in our times.
The Observation Wheel is a big, white wheel that looks like a ferris wheel appearing as if it belongs more aptly at a summer fairground. Now Bournemouth has its very own Observation Wheel, something that the thousands of tourists who converge on the South Coast will rub their eyes with fascination at as they watch this vivid tourist magnet slowly wend its way around the magical coastline.
And yet the lasting sound of yesterday's day in the Bournemouth sun will be that of screaming, excited, excitable children, yelling and whooping for the thousandth time of the day, Indian families dipping their feet tentatively into small puddles of water, more kids with more inflatables grabbing hold of their possessions and then running full pelt into the Dorset waters.
From time to time the summer peace was suddenly disturbed by loud, cautionary warnings from tannoy speakers. All bathers were reminded that at no point should they venture too far out to sea because this was a blatant violation of health and safety. Every so often men in red and yellow life jackets would rush out to the edge of sea to attend to a child in minor distress. Then the kids were told that they had to stay within direct view of their parents in case they drifted away and temporarily lost mum and dad.
The hours seem to fly past for some of us and before we'd had time to enjoy yet another hour or so of pleasant watching the world go by, it was time to pack up for the day with now the almost obligatory ice cream and family pizza. After an almost effortless stroll through the pleasure gardens, the birds, parrots and parakeets of Bournemouth at her most natural and unspoilt, it was time to depart this sceptred isle where the sun gradually and reluctantly sunk, the sultry heat of the day now a distant memory.
If it sounds as though I may be waxing overly lyrical about bracing Bournemouth then I make no apology. For a moment you looked up at that soft, blissfully benevolent blue sky and thought of Dorset's greatest poet and hugely celebrated classic author. You wondered whether the spirit of Thomas Hardy was still lurking behind one of its playful souvenir shops or the historic pier alive with its resonant one armed bandits, ringing noughts and crosses machines and more machines that shunt out hundreds of tickets.
Oh we love the British seaside resorts where all the cares of the world are forgotten and summer becomes a rich tableaux of picnics, hampers, family fun, food and drink and not forgetting the sweet music from summers gone by. Bournemouth began to nestle peacefully on the horizon, elusive swallows and gulls darting and diving daringly into a hundred human chip packets. It is the way Bournemouth has always conducted itself, always doing it the way it's always done it.
One morning we shall wake up and find that this memorable summer has now gone for a while, like a bright, translucent light that suddenly disappears. But we'll fondly remember 2018 because just for a few months it really was a scorcher, a real humdinger of a summer. The sun kept shining for day after day although it may have gone in from time to time. It seemed to shine incessantly and continuously, properly and impressively with perhaps the occasional shower to cool everybody down. Mungo Jerry had it absolutely right about the summertime.
Wednesday 1 August 2018
England collapse in the first Test against India.
England collapse in the first Test against India.
Oh dear! Just when we thought the English sporting season would end on a high, suddenly we came across a devastating Indian quickfire seaming bowling attack that made English cricket squirm with embarrassment. It is far from the end of the world and the footballers of England still performed creditably in the Russian World Cup. Perhaps for the first time though in this glorious summer, the cricketers of England still missed their cue on the first day of the first test against India.
On a beautifully hot day at Edgbaston, the good people of Warwickshire witnessed an England batting side who collapsed like the traditional deck of cards or pub set of dominoes. This is not the way things were supposed to work out for English sport. It may be the first day of a cricket first test and how we've feared that the very concept of a Test match would be jeopardised by some corrosive outside force.
But on the first day of August, with not an intrusive cloud in the sky to upset anybody's after breakfast mood, Edgbaston positively gleamed and sparkled in the very early August sunshine. The huge, imposing acres of Warwickshire grass were still in evidence despite the recent heatwave and the crease naturally looked as grey as you would expect it to be.
England though, after the most positive start against the India, wilted alarmingly during the day and by the end of the day reminded you of those sagging petunias seen in many a suburban garden. Sometimes you begin to wonder whether English sport may have had too much of a good thing and cricket was probably the last thing on their minds. Football may have given us a healthy four course meal but cricket now seems like a heavy and indigestible dessert.
Still, the formalities were there to be carried out and you had to wonder if the cricketers of England may have temporarily taken their eye off the ball. When Alistair Cooke and Keaton Jennings came out to bat you rubbed your hands in anticipation in much the way that some of us looked forward to the opening partnership of a Dennis Amiss or John Edrich innings or indeed the highly industrious legend that is Geoff Boycott.
Boycott it was who used to build and assemble an innings rather like a construction worker with a pile of bricks in his hands. Boycott remains one of our finest and patient of batsmen and who cares if he was still there when evening came and stumps were about to be pulled. Of course our Geoff was an accumulator rather than a speculator but there were times when this current generation looked to be in desperate need of a cool, calculating Boycott head. When Boycott chalked up centuries they were result of sweat, toil, hard graft, knowledge and experience.
Alistair Cooke came out to bat with the air of calm maturity and responsibility that we've come to expect from England opening batsmen. Cooke was utterly composed, unflustered by anything that might have been considered to be a major distraction and did everything the right way. He flicked the ball off the back foot quite majestically, before slashing cover drives purposefully to all four corners of Edgbaston. He began to look secure and set for the rest of the day, cutting the loose ball to exactly the right spots, generally giving off the air of technical mastery.
Then eventually Cooke, after settling in for the day's proceedings, failed to read the deceptively wicked spin and break back of Ravichandran Ashwin who managed to induce the loveliest of teasers that Cook simply couldn't handle. So far so moderately good. Early wickets taken in Test matches are standard practice in the modern game so England could have had little to overly trouble themselves. There was though an underlying tension and concern as the day progressed so that by tea England, though still sitting comfortably at 163-3, were nervously looking over their collective shoulders.
Now the air of superiority that England must have thought they'd have asserted vanished, crumbling away like the brickwork and masonry of an old building. It came crashing to the ground, toppling over like the most wind swept of birch trees, flopping and crumpling into the ground before blowing away amid darkening skies.
It was now that Joe Root, who was beginning to establish a handsome innings with Jonny Bairstow, threw caution to the wind. Of course Root is one of the most skilful and brilliantly assertive of English batsmen. And when he came in to bat for England, India must have thought they were about to face a long and punishing afternoon in the field. For a while it certainly looked that way and Root, the very model of controlled aggression and superbly adventurous batting, reverted to type, flicking and pulling powerfully through the covers, dismissive and contemptuous of any the ball that had to be punished and then launching a series of flowing cover drives that clattered to the pavilion in no time at all.
Suddenly on 80 and a mere whisker away from a well deserved century Root was horribly run out for by fellow Yorkshireman Jonny Bairstow who went for another run when the need was never there. Root, who must have thought he'd taken out a leasehold on the Edgbaston batting strip had now gone. Bairstow crouched despairingly, shaking his apologetic head and wondering whether the ground would swallow him up.
Then Keaton Jennings who also looked as though the day had suited him perfectly was unfortunately out, accidentally tangling himself in knots and knocking back his wicket for 42. Bairstow had compiled a neat half century but England were beginning to look chronically vulnerable. Bairstow then dragged a ball back softly clipping his own wicket perhaps submissively. Oh woe England 163-3 had now turned into a disastrous collapse. Dawid Malan couldn't quite find his bearings and lost his wicket reasonably cheaply.
By the time the Indian pace attack had broken the heart and soul of the English batting, most of the Edgbaston crowd were beginning to find comfort in an idyllic English summer. Jos Buttler only seemed to stick around for as long as he felt was necessary before heading back for the dressing room for a duck. When Ben Stokes was smartly caught and bowled by Ashwin again England had been well and truly hung out to dry.
And yet in a year of remarkable sporting surprises and novelties many of us may harbour just a modicum of optimism. Besides, who could have predicted that the England team, under the wonderfully respectable and gentlemanly Gareth Southgate would reach a World Cup semi final? The certainties and finalities of modern sport are no longer set in stone.
Of course defeat can be the most painful and sobering of feelings and this first test against India may yet have a long way to go but English cricketers are a quietly optimistic lot and anything and everything may come up roses for them. A certain Geoff Boycott would have regarded as alien the very hint of defeat. This is one Test match which may well blossom and keep growing. You never know.
Oh dear! Just when we thought the English sporting season would end on a high, suddenly we came across a devastating Indian quickfire seaming bowling attack that made English cricket squirm with embarrassment. It is far from the end of the world and the footballers of England still performed creditably in the Russian World Cup. Perhaps for the first time though in this glorious summer, the cricketers of England still missed their cue on the first day of the first test against India.
On a beautifully hot day at Edgbaston, the good people of Warwickshire witnessed an England batting side who collapsed like the traditional deck of cards or pub set of dominoes. This is not the way things were supposed to work out for English sport. It may be the first day of a cricket first test and how we've feared that the very concept of a Test match would be jeopardised by some corrosive outside force.
But on the first day of August, with not an intrusive cloud in the sky to upset anybody's after breakfast mood, Edgbaston positively gleamed and sparkled in the very early August sunshine. The huge, imposing acres of Warwickshire grass were still in evidence despite the recent heatwave and the crease naturally looked as grey as you would expect it to be.
England though, after the most positive start against the India, wilted alarmingly during the day and by the end of the day reminded you of those sagging petunias seen in many a suburban garden. Sometimes you begin to wonder whether English sport may have had too much of a good thing and cricket was probably the last thing on their minds. Football may have given us a healthy four course meal but cricket now seems like a heavy and indigestible dessert.
Still, the formalities were there to be carried out and you had to wonder if the cricketers of England may have temporarily taken their eye off the ball. When Alistair Cooke and Keaton Jennings came out to bat you rubbed your hands in anticipation in much the way that some of us looked forward to the opening partnership of a Dennis Amiss or John Edrich innings or indeed the highly industrious legend that is Geoff Boycott.
Boycott it was who used to build and assemble an innings rather like a construction worker with a pile of bricks in his hands. Boycott remains one of our finest and patient of batsmen and who cares if he was still there when evening came and stumps were about to be pulled. Of course our Geoff was an accumulator rather than a speculator but there were times when this current generation looked to be in desperate need of a cool, calculating Boycott head. When Boycott chalked up centuries they were result of sweat, toil, hard graft, knowledge and experience.
Alistair Cooke came out to bat with the air of calm maturity and responsibility that we've come to expect from England opening batsmen. Cooke was utterly composed, unflustered by anything that might have been considered to be a major distraction and did everything the right way. He flicked the ball off the back foot quite majestically, before slashing cover drives purposefully to all four corners of Edgbaston. He began to look secure and set for the rest of the day, cutting the loose ball to exactly the right spots, generally giving off the air of technical mastery.
Then eventually Cooke, after settling in for the day's proceedings, failed to read the deceptively wicked spin and break back of Ravichandran Ashwin who managed to induce the loveliest of teasers that Cook simply couldn't handle. So far so moderately good. Early wickets taken in Test matches are standard practice in the modern game so England could have had little to overly trouble themselves. There was though an underlying tension and concern as the day progressed so that by tea England, though still sitting comfortably at 163-3, were nervously looking over their collective shoulders.
Now the air of superiority that England must have thought they'd have asserted vanished, crumbling away like the brickwork and masonry of an old building. It came crashing to the ground, toppling over like the most wind swept of birch trees, flopping and crumpling into the ground before blowing away amid darkening skies.
It was now that Joe Root, who was beginning to establish a handsome innings with Jonny Bairstow, threw caution to the wind. Of course Root is one of the most skilful and brilliantly assertive of English batsmen. And when he came in to bat for England, India must have thought they were about to face a long and punishing afternoon in the field. For a while it certainly looked that way and Root, the very model of controlled aggression and superbly adventurous batting, reverted to type, flicking and pulling powerfully through the covers, dismissive and contemptuous of any the ball that had to be punished and then launching a series of flowing cover drives that clattered to the pavilion in no time at all.
Suddenly on 80 and a mere whisker away from a well deserved century Root was horribly run out for by fellow Yorkshireman Jonny Bairstow who went for another run when the need was never there. Root, who must have thought he'd taken out a leasehold on the Edgbaston batting strip had now gone. Bairstow crouched despairingly, shaking his apologetic head and wondering whether the ground would swallow him up.
Then Keaton Jennings who also looked as though the day had suited him perfectly was unfortunately out, accidentally tangling himself in knots and knocking back his wicket for 42. Bairstow had compiled a neat half century but England were beginning to look chronically vulnerable. Bairstow then dragged a ball back softly clipping his own wicket perhaps submissively. Oh woe England 163-3 had now turned into a disastrous collapse. Dawid Malan couldn't quite find his bearings and lost his wicket reasonably cheaply.
By the time the Indian pace attack had broken the heart and soul of the English batting, most of the Edgbaston crowd were beginning to find comfort in an idyllic English summer. Jos Buttler only seemed to stick around for as long as he felt was necessary before heading back for the dressing room for a duck. When Ben Stokes was smartly caught and bowled by Ashwin again England had been well and truly hung out to dry.
And yet in a year of remarkable sporting surprises and novelties many of us may harbour just a modicum of optimism. Besides, who could have predicted that the England team, under the wonderfully respectable and gentlemanly Gareth Southgate would reach a World Cup semi final? The certainties and finalities of modern sport are no longer set in stone.
Of course defeat can be the most painful and sobering of feelings and this first test against India may yet have a long way to go but English cricketers are a quietly optimistic lot and anything and everything may come up roses for them. A certain Geoff Boycott would have regarded as alien the very hint of defeat. This is one Test match which may well blossom and keep growing. You never know.
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