Manchester United, Manchester City and all that jazz.

Manchester United, Manchester City and all that jazz.

We may be only over a month into the new Premier League season but things are quite literally kicking off in the salubrious city of Manchester. The fires are burning, tongues are wagging feverishly and the football clubs who comprise Manchester City and United are expressing themselves in entirely different ways.

Of course the current Premier League champions Manchester City are back up and running in their chase for their second consecutive Premier League title while across the road at Old Trafford things are imploding and exploding simultaneously for Manchester United. It only seems like yesterday since United were the governors, the bosses, the management team with a superior air about them, permanent residents at the top of the Premier League because City were staggering around like drunken office workers at the Christmas party desperately seeking something to cling onto by way of consolation.

But now the landscape could hardly be more contrasting. Yesterday City continued their unbeaten ways with a regulation home victory against breezy Brighton while United were disconnected, lost, shapeless and disjointed, looking around themselves like men surrounded by a smouldering grenade hoping against hope that the whole building had just been evacuated. At the moment United remind you of one of those distinguished politicians who may have fallen on hard times. They glance around them and find nothing but a sniggering public who believe that what goes around comes around.

This morning Manchester United manager Jose Mourinho awoke to the deafening sound of criticism, character assassination and raucous laughter. Football managers of any description can never get it right because they're the ones in the firing line when cracks and deficiencies appear in their team. Mourinho is a particularly unique species among football managers in as much that he can never ever accept defeat graciously whereas others would seem to let it just go.

At the moment United, although starting the new season moderately well, will not, you feel sure, be the leading contenders for one of those elusive Champions League places. By the outrageously high standards that Manchester United have always set themselves this is not good. In fact it's wretchedly bad because managers and players are ripping each other's hair out, morale is barely above a tolerable level and you can only wonder what Mourinho's wonderful predecessor Sir Alex Ferguson must be making of this dreadful fiasco.

For the last week or so - perhaps even longer- Mourinho, all sullen moroseness and curmudgeonly grumpiness, did what seems to have come notoriously natural to him. He picked out one of his players World Cup winner Paul Pogba and decided to lay down the law to him. The words were apparently strong and emotional, passions were high and feelings were patently clear. The relationship was more or less at breaking point and it was hard to know who was the guilty party.

Suffice it to say Mourinho was at daggers drawn and threatening to kill, maim, blame, bludgeon or hit anybody who came even remotely close to him. The stand off between Mourinho and Pogba was an accident waiting to happen or an argy bargy altercation where swords were raised and pistols were drawn. The two men seemingly detest each other, can't stand to be in the same room as each other and if Pogba had his way he'd be on the first plane to Spain and Barcelona.

Yesterday Mourinho's Manchester United were unfairly beaten by West Ham at the London Stadium. United lost 3-1 but it was the wrong result, the wrong kind of grass on the pitch, the posts were the wrong height, the tunnel from which the players emerged was too narrow and the crossbar was much longer and wider than any other Premier League team's bar. You just can't please our Portuguese friend because he knows what's best for his team and that's final.

According to Mourinho none of West Ham's goals should have been allowed to stand, the referee was a member of the Mafia and the referee's assistants should have been running the line at a children's kick about in a local park. For Jose you simply can't get the staff and even if they were available they'd still be incompetent, useless, biased and narrow minded. Poor persecuted Mourinho. If somebody challenged him to a game of snap he'd still think he deserved to win every time.

But there he was yesterday at the London Stadium squinting in the autumn lunchtime sunshine, growling, muttering under his breath, snarling almost repeatedly, smiling almost sarcastically, cursing his technical area and looking for a thousand plausible excuses for defeat. The withering looks, the stern face, the barely concealed fury, the simmering sense of injustice, were a psychologist's dream. Oh a penny for your thoughts Jose Mourinho.

Then he realised that something was fractured, ill proportioned, badly misshapen, formations improperly devised and any game plan not executed in quite the way he was looking for. At the heart of the United defence Chris Smalling and Scott Mctominay had lost their walkie talkies, communication was at its most farcical and Manchester United were, geographically, all over the place. There was none of the glamour and free flowing fluidity of United's most recent past. The hip swaying, finger clicking pizzazz of Ferguson's young fledglings had now been replaced by a team with bad posture, dubious table manners at tea time and nothing that could ever be called stylish.

True, United are still motoring along at the right pace and tempo, the players still have unquestionable quality and the internal infrastructure of the club is in no immediate danger of just crumbling before our eyes. It's just that their manager seems wholly incapable of handling players whose egos are roughly the size of a shopping centre,whose wage packets are almost as large as the combined assets of a globally reputable oil company and whose sense of perspective may have been obscured by the millions that fall conveniently into their bank balances every year.

Still, Mourinho looks out from his ivory tower as if everything he does or says can never be challenged. In the world of Jose, Manchester United should win every single Premier League game for ever more without any goals being conceded. Every United player should be seen in the most favourable light, appearing in chat shows every night with twinkling eyes and perfect teeth, knighted by the Queen, paragons of virtue and model sportsmen.

And yet we are still left with Mourinho, sneering, miserable, begging for pity and completely wronged by society. His relationship with Paul Pogba is entirely different in much the way Sir Matt Busby could neither control or talk to George Best. When Best made up his mind to quit at the top, Sir Matt just threw in the towel and relented.

Pogba thankfully hasn't followed Best into the horrible world of alcohol and was never seen pouring champagne into a mountain of glasses or flouncing shamelessly around in a kaftan. These are sensible, disciplined and infinitely more restrained times. Footballers now drink the best Chablis wine, the finest cheeses and a smattering of caviar before bed time. Besides Pogba has just won a World Cup with France while  poor George had no chance at all with Northern Ireland. Admittedly he did win an unforgettable European Cup 50 years ago with Manchester United but a World Cup may have been even sweeter for Best.

Meanwhile across the city at Manchester City manager Pep Guardiola is still riding on the crest of a wave with a City side which, although held to a 1-1 draw by newly promoted Wolves, are still on course for a snug place in the history books. Yesterday City beat a Brighton side who seemed to be wearing the most bizarre green shirt of them all.

 Quite how Brighton came to be playing in a natty away strip of green is quite beyond us but they were and if it was a fashion statement then it hadn't succeeded. Essentially there is nothing wrong with a green shirt as worn by a Premier League team but you began to wonder what one of their former managers Brian Clough would have said on the subject. Maybe Cloughie would have sat down with his chairman and decided that green is no colour for a football team and he was always right.

City were once again graceful, gracious, artistic perfection, sweeping and suggestive, a beautiful physical manifestation, supernatural at times, stunning at others, virile and vigorous, impeccably balanced, full of romantic invention and the richest of pastel colours. Once again the City passing factory was functioning smoothly and remarkably skilfully. The passes are clean, tidy, well varnished and almost punctilious. There is an order, procedure and well thought out manifesto to their football. Their football has a clarity, honesty and integrity about it that has to be commended. It has a proper structure and brilliantly constructive intentions that have echoes of a modern Germany, France and Spain without ever overlooking Brazil.

Leroy Sane, who was weirdly left out of the German World Cup this team, conducted City's well tuned choir with another display of footballing eloquence and match winning footwork. Sane sways forward into his opponents, forever dropping shoulders, turning players superbly in tight spaces and then running like the wind for goal, deviousness and skulduggery permanently on his mind.

Then there was Fernandinho, a Brazilian blend of genuine craftsmanship, Raheem Sterling, brave and valiant for England during the World Cup and now delivering some of his finest wing play. Sterling was at his most unstoppable and Brighton had not a clue how to pin him down. With the ball at his feet Sterling of course has to be worth a fortune, dinking, jinking, teasing, luring his opponent into any number of complex cul de sacs.

So it was that Sergio Aguero, their Argentine goal scoring machine extraordinaire, completed perhaps the most spellbinding of goals to secure City's 2-0 victory against Brighton. City had once again demonstrated that they have to be the team to be respected, applauded and never dismissed as show ponies. The chances are though that the fortunes of both Manchester City and United may follow the most intriguingly diverse of paths.

The enduring image of the weekend would have to be of a football manager with all the troubles of the world heavily weighing down on him. Deep within the corridors of Old Trafford, there are rumblings of unrest and two very high profile footballing men who shouldn't be in the same room as each other. This could end in tears but without any of us knowing why.

Still, as the last day of September passes peacefully over the Manchester ship canal, it must be hoped that the life and times of Jose Mourinho will continue to be chronicled in the most eye catching way. Mourinho somehow defies categorisation as a football manager because very few of  his contemporaries would ever behave in the same way as he does. Then again when there is a press conference to be had and a microphone in front of him then football will always have something to get excited about. Over to you Jose.

 

National Good Neighbour Day

National Good Neighbour Day.

You may be interested to know that today is Good Neighbour Day. Who'd have known it? While the rest of the world may be at loggerheads with each other and battling for survival this is the day when neighbours should become the best of all friends. You spend most of your life living next to the same people and now you suddenly discover that you've got to get on with them because on  one of the last days of September it's time to invite your neighbours in for lunch or a cup of tea. What's the point in just taking our neighbours for granted?  They'll always try to help regardless of circumstances.

Every so often your neighbours will do their utmost to instigate a lively and friendly relationship over the garden fence and the male will invariably be spotted in deep discussion with his male neighbour on Sunday mornings while washing the proverbial car or mowing the lawn in the garden. Then in a spirit of diplomacy and entente cordiale one member of the family will cordially join in with a private summery barbecue because that's the accepted norm when neighbourly hospitality has been fully extended to each other.

So it is that today around the world leafy roads and sleepy suburbs will come alive to the sound to small clusters of men, women and children chatting, laughing and perhaps gossiping light heartedly with each other. Mum will hang out the washing on the line while her neighbour will be doing much the same thing. Then through a forest of flapping sheets and shirts the two women will engage amicably on the topical subjects of the day. Maybe they'll offer their opinion on the exorbitant price of washing powder, bread, milk, lettuces, carrots or the latest episode of Coronation Street.

But we do get on well with our neighbours. My mind drifts pleasantly back in time to my parents neighbours while I was growing up. They were two very elderly ladies but some of the most charming and approachable neighbours you could have wished for. They were both very private but uncomplaining people, always read to lend a co-operative hand whenever they felt the time was right. Nothing was ever too much trouble for them and nobody ever had a bad word to say about any of them.

On the one side were a middle aged couple who seemed to fall hopelessly in love with their beloved garden. The wife, a wonderfully mild mannered and polite lady, would always be seen popping in and out of their kitchen and was forever tending very considerately either to her plants, flowers or grass. Wherever you looked you would always find handsomely pruned and manicured roses and a whole host of violets, chrysanthemums, orchids and magnolias.

Then for years the husband would lovingly follow his wife into the garden for a brief potter around the garden before quietly inquiring about her welfare and whether a cup of tea would be appropriate. So it was that springtime would be accompanied by the traditional moment when the husband would heave his manual lawnmower out of its wintry seclusion. But although a painstaking and laborious chore, the husband would never grumble and was invariably contented with his lot.

Then there was the almost reclusive lifestyle by the neighbour on the other side. Grey, silver haired and sadly perhaps a widow, she would always greet both my parents and the rest of her neighbours with the most cheerful greetings and radiant smiles. We never really discovered whether she was on her own or maybe had simply chosen not to marry but she always took a solicitous interest in her garden. Always caring, always concerned and compassionate, she would always find things to do in her patch of grass although there was something frail, fragile and vulnerable about her that always made you sympathise with her lonely plight.

Still it is Good Neighbour Day folks. It's time to knock on their door or ring their bell, shake their hands and make them feel an integral part of the community. Some of us go through our whole lives without really knowing who our neighbours are. We may see them as they set off to work or school in the morning but our respective lifestyles may differ so markedly to ours that it may be impossible to know quite what may be going through their minds.

There are the neighbours who simply keep themselves to themselves, completely detached from society and blissfully unaware of each other's existence. There are the neighbours with whom we  form lifelong attachments, sharing good news, asking them whether they want for anything or just good, sharing and caring neighbours who ooze good natured generosity, a genuine sense of humanity and a willingness to come together in a crisis.

In 1977 the Queen celebrated her Silver Jubilee, a cue for national merriment and jubilation. In every back road, town, city or snoozing country village, the neighbours of the world decided to throw the biggest party ever seen in Britain. It was now that the street party had re-surfaced 24 years after the Queen's Coronation when the whole nation lifted itself out of its post War gloom, rationing and despondency.

Across the meadows, hills, valleys, hamlets, pubs and post offices of every corner of Britain, good neighbours came into their own. They lugged huge trestle tables into deliberately empty roads, smothering the whole of the road in a riot of colour. Union Jack flags were hung in the most orderly fashion, bright bunting decorating every table, table cloths neatly laid out across a proudly British landscape and parents with a veritable banquet of food in their hands.

Unfortunately I wasn't there to see our road's Silver Jubilee but it must be assumed that everybody had the jolliest and happiest day in many a year. Archive photos show quite clearly that this was perhaps one of those precious days when good neighbours made the most emotional commitment to each other. They made cakes on behalf of their road, they buttered sandwiches for each other, they invested in small supermarket shelf quantities of fizzy drink, spared no expense on equipment for those memorable party games  and then there was the confirmation of neighbourly harmony and joky conviviality.

In a world of seemingly constant division, disagreement and nonsensical hatred at times, there must surely be a great deal to be said for striking up lasting friendships with our neighbours. Besides these are the people who we have to live next door to, maybe tolerate each other at times and when things do go wrong always be there to lend a helping hand to when we run out of vegetables or just ready to lend an ear for the most confidential of chats.

Neighbours are friends, our confidants, our sympathetic ears, the ones we go to for well intentioned advice, the ones we look out for when we go on holiday. Neighbours are the people we come to rely on when the going may get too tough. Neighbours are the people who, for no apparent reason, ask you whether you'd like to join in a game of improvised cricket with a rickety old bat and a cricket ball which bears a much closer resemblance to a tennis ball.

Still it's time to run across the road and ask Tom, Pete or Bill whether they'd like to get some chicken or beef sausages for their family neighbours barbecue. It was about time everybody got together for a neighbourly social gathering. We'd done it in 1977 and we could always find the time to do it all over again. Didn't Jason Donovan and Kylie Minogue become the most chummy neighbours in that most celebrated of Australian soap operas? We must pop in again because good neighbours are so utterly priceless and we might as well.

Happy Birthday Blue Peter- BBC TV national treasure.

Happy Birthday Blue Peter- BBC TV national treasure.

For a generation who grew up on BBC TV classic children's programmes Blue Peter had everything. It was instructive and educational, enlightening and revealing, gentle and inoffensive. It was thought provoking and charitable, very seasonal and utterly topical. It led us into worlds none of us had ever  explored before and travelled the world to make us feel at home. It was moving and funny, relevant and never dated. And you know what. It still is - quite convincingly.

Next month Blue Peter celebrates its 60th birthday and you feel sure it deserves not only the traditional birthday cake and candles but the obligatory set of Blue Peter badges and a number of trophies. It hardly seems possible that after 60 years of bringing the very best in children's TV into our living rooms, Blue Peter is entering its diamond age. Undoubtedly one of the most influential of kids programmes Blue Peter is still around, still alive, full of informative facts and figures to keep us all entertained well into future generations.

How grateful were we all those years ago to sit in front of our DER telly set at exactly the point when mum put the kettle on for tea, school was over for another day, the kids came in from next door and then there was a general frisson of activity. We plonked ourselves regularly in front of our black and white Pandora's box of fun and found out that the programme we were watching had been on since the latter days of Bill Haley and Comets rock and roll extravaganzas.

After an excited moment of finger pointing amazement, we cast our eyes upon what to us was the best thing since sliced bread, butter, jam and the most enticing of Swiss jam rolls. It was indeed Blue Peter. Eventually it would become our national anthem because we thought this was TV royalty, a programme that catered specifically for us, pandering to our whims, capturing our imaginations and stimulating our burgeoning intellect. This was good stuff, the stuff we knew we were going to like because all of the neighbourhood kids were watching it and they were just hooked.

With that wonderfully naval and nautical music to open the show, Blue Peter became for us essential viewing, compulsive viewing, excellent entertainment. There was a time during the late 1960s when we somehow felt duty bound to watch Blue Peter because we knew for a fact that we were bound to learn something that maybe we had no knowledge of before.

In a sense it was rather like a natural extension of our primary school because in a sense we were still in a classroom but a classroom with a difference. Here we had a programme with amiable presenters who'd obviously attended etiquette classes because quite clearly they'd never ever been anywhere near either alcohol or drugs and besides Blue Peter was clean cut, respectable, polite and intelligent.

It must have been the late 1960s when Blue Peter first came to my attention. There was lovely Valerie Singleton, the delightfully amusing John Noakes and Peter Purves. For as long as any of us can remember all three seemed to be permanently moored to their seat in the middle of the studio. They would sit there, seemingly for the duration of the programme perhaps reflecting on the latest developments in  Dr Finlay's Casebook, Dixon of Dock Green or That Was The Week That Was.

But then you were suddenly distracted by the Blue Peter dogs. Now the Blue Peter dogs enjoyed a very privileged position in the Blue Peter hierarchy. They were top dogs, superstars, household legends, spoilt something rotten, pampered almost incessantly and never forgotten. There was the sadly brief appearance of Petra before Shep sat very comfortably next to Val, John and Peter but particularly John because John Noakes developed a lifelong friendship with Shep. Shep went everywhere with John and the alliance was deeply moving. When Shep died John Noakes was heartbroken, mortified, barely able to control his grief and sadness.

Blue Peter was though a radical and pioneering children's TV programme because before then TV and children had been left in a desolate wasteland. Of course there was Muffin the Mule and the likes of Bill and Ben, Watch With Mother and Andy Pandy did occupy some of the younger and more impressionable minds but it wasn't Blue Peter and those programme controllers who were still wet behind the ears were still serving their apprenticeship.

And yet here we are at the tender age of five or six and totally absorbed by something brand new, exciting, astonishingly good and fresh. Blue Peter had a blue chip originality and imagination, a vision of the future, a programme that featured practicality as its central feature. You could make things, create things, make things with sticky backed plastic, washing up bottles, toilet rolls, biscuit tins, cereal boxes, milk bottle tops, yoghurt tops, nylon stockings perhaps, wet cloths and general domestic paraphernalia.

By the end of the programme you almost felt as though you were perfectly qualified to become an eminent fashion designer, a rocket scientist or maybe an astronaut. The world would become your oyster, your plaice, haddock, your world. Some of the programmes creations are now of course the stuff of legend.

Then right at the end of the Swinging Sixties in London at least, something deliciously funny happened in the Blue Peter studio. It was the kind of moment that any TV historian or retro archivist would have given the right arm for. It was classical TV, outstanding TV, side splittingly hilarious TV  that none of us could have expected or legislated for. 60 years later and the reverberations can still be felt in TV studios across Britain.

Take one BBC studio, three children's presenters, a dog, a couple of eager and receptive cameras sliding across the Blue Peter floor while all the time giggling their heads off and trying to stave off total embarrassment. It was supposed to be a perfectly innocent feature about a baby elephant and its adjustment to its new home. It turned into a hellish nightmare for those who still saw the programme as a bastion of morality and squeaky clean rectitude.

Lulu the elephant trundled onto the Blue Peter set with seemingly honourable intentions. Minutes into its debut on British TV, Lulu had made it abundantly clear that when you've got to go you have to go so Mother Nature took its course and what we now had was a scene from the Carry on film that was never made- Carry on Elephants. A helpless zookeeper slid and slithered around the floor complete with bucket and cap while poor Val, John and Peter desperately held everything together. We were left with the parting shot of John throwing his hands into the air laughing uncontrollably. It was TV gold.

At Christmas time of course Blue Peter wore its most humanitarian of all cloaks, a warmly charitable face that warmed the hearts of parents, families and children everywhere. The Blue Peter Christmas appeal was the programme's favourite time of the year. There were tinsel festooned Christmas trees, glitter and baubles everywhere with no expense spared, Advent Calendars and festive cards with festive messages. All good clean fun.

But a couple of weeks before Christmas the Blue Peter charity appeal board showed just how much the children had raised, lighting up almost happily when substantial amounts had been made. There was and still is a good, old fashioned civility and correctness about the programme that always seems to deliver.

From its early days at the end of the 1950s, through to the 60s, 70s,80s,90s, early 2000 years and now the present day Blue Peter remains a beacon for everything that is good and civilised. Blue Peter seems to have the highest of moral standards and values without ever descending into banality and boredom. Of course there were the off set private wrangles, petty arguments and silly confrontations but what TV programme would ever claim that everything had gone absolutely right from day one?

So it is that we rejoice in the marvellous longevity of Britain's greatest children's TV programme. Where on earth have those 60 years gone because some of us are just baffled. At this rate Radio Four's The Archers may have to doff its cap to another long running BBC jewel in the crown in Blue Peter. Or maybe Desert Island Discs should take its respectful bow and extend its heartfelt  congratulations to its worthiest contemporary.

When the children of our generation cast our minds back to those halcyon days of giggly, cheerful, happy go lucky TV they will recall just what childhood meant to us.  It was a time when, as some of our most nostalgic friends never tire of reminding of us, you could leave your back door open, the kids could play on their bikes until midnight and the smell of pale ale would drift fragrantly from the local off licence. Blue Peter was our guilty pleasure, the kids programme that brought an eternal smile to well scrubbed faces. Well done Blue Peter. 60 years old hey! What a notable landmark, what a programme.

Tiger Woods roars again with Tour Championship victory.

Tiger Woods roars again with Tour Championship victory.

A couple of years ago many of our most reliable authorities on golf would tell you quite categorically that Tiger Woods was by far the best golfer they'd ever seen. The kid was simply unplayable. He could play the game with his eyes closed and still sweep all comers aside with a disdainful sweep of a golf club. Who were they to wax lyrical about the great Jack Nicklaus. the incomparable Gary Player, the peerless Arnold Player and the wonderfully humorous Lee Trevino when, quite clearly, Tiger Woods had everything in his locker?

Yesterday on another sun soaked day at the East Lake club in Atlanta, Georgia, the precocious child became the most mature of men. Tiger Woods had clinched his 14th victory on the Majors circuit and there is a widespread feeling that once again Woods was back and ready to roll up his sleeves. Sport can often be cruel and unforgiving but when Woods career seemed to reach rock bottom nobody thought he'd pick himself up, dust himself down and return to the dazzling glare of the public limelight.

The recent calamities that have so bedevilled Woods private life are slowly seeping into a distant corner of his mind. The dirty linen has been left to hang out to dry and the sleaze, so extensively chronicled, had  just been another chapter in his life.  The one night stands, passionate affairs and dangerous liaisons are something Woods may not want to be reminded of. His almost embarrassing admission of several infidelities at that famous press conference are not the kind of subject matter that anybody in the public eye would willingly want to revisit. Woods though bounced back on a hot Sunday afternoon  in Atlanta with a masculine vengeance.

A two stroke victory against some of the toughest and strongest players in the world must have been so immensely gratifying that any of his doubters may have to revise their long held opinion of a player who at his best, remains in the highest of classes. Throughout the day Woods frequently rolled back the years with golf that was sublime, driving from the tee that was stunningly powerful and the kind of putting that left his opponents desperately scrambling for some kind of explanation.

From the moment he drove from the first hole, it was obvious that Woods had one or two things to get off his chest, to address misconceptions, redress wrongs and release problems from a mind that may have been tormented. It was indeed the Tiger Woods we once knew and this was no disappointment. On practically every hole Woods driving from the tee was relentlessly joyous, natural, off the cuff, a work of art, made to measure and as the ball travelled through seemingly innumerable continents to the putting greens it almost seemed that Woods had planned it that way, so effortless had it all been.

Wearing that bright red shirt and dark trousers, Woods, now ageing gracefully, was a picture of composure. Legs slightly askance on some of his tee shots, Woods shuffled his wrists, clenched his driver and with eyes as focused as an owl, Tiger swivelled his hips and swung the club with a huge and wide follow through of his body. The ball was hit with almost surreal hostility, flying and flying through the air until eventually the whole bird community began to scatter furiously for cover.

The ball plopped down on the fairways as if relieved that Woods had just got it out of his system. It was magnificent driving that sent the ball so far down the fairway that at some point you could almost hear the hole in the distance calling. Woods, as we know, is a perfectionist who demands so much of himself that it's a wonder whether he can ever be completely satisfied with his game.

Of course there were the cries of despair when the ball didn't quite land in the spot he thought it would. Of course there was a need for self betterment, that constant search for a quality he knew just didn't exist. And yet Woods kept on privately criticising himself, full of self chastisement, anger, almost cursing himself when the shots went astray or the putting had let him down.

But then it must have occurred that this sun lit day in Georgia might just be the ultimate remedy to everything that had gone so terribly wrong before. Gloves neatly hanging out of his back pocket and that remarkable concentration at its most intense, Woods powered his way around the East Lake with an almost uncanny mastery of a golf course. Occasionally he was irritable and tetchy but then he just got on with the task in hand, eventually showing once again why many years ago he was so admired and acclaimed by all of his devoted followers.

It did seem that all of those missing and wasted years had now been left behind him. It was time to  indulge in just a spot of reinvention, forget about those unfortunate relationships and try to piece together the remnants of a game that  looked as if it had fallen down the deepest of drains. Now though Tiger Woods had fully repaired the damage and demonstrated to his loyal public that he can still hit a golf ball in a way that a few others can do on their day.

And then onto the final 18th green. With several pars to his credit, Woods huddled over the ball for the last time on the putting green, feet almost locked together, arms ever so slightly bent in wondrous anticipation and putter next to him like an old acquaintance at the clubhouse bar. He moved those soft hands and gently stroked the ball into a welcoming hole. Cue massive cheering from the Georgia multitudes.

Finally, Tiger Woods had got it absolutely right and how the crowd were lapping it up. He raised his arms and the smile was as wide as Georgia. The cap was firmly secure, the evening was embracing him in a kind of warm recognition of his achievements and it was Woods day. He could still swing a golf club, still please the purists and still display that magic touch. This was the day Tiger Woods knew that golf  had never really deserted him. We can only hope that this Tiger will keep roaring, proving  once again that even sport can shine a favourable light on the temporarily downtrodden. It must be hoped that the good times will roll for one of America's favourite sons.   

Darts- it's sport but maybe not as we know it.

Darts - it's sport but maybe not as we know it.

It is hard to understand what all the fuss is about. The very definition of sport would appear to be a simple one. Sport is either a collective or individual effort that requires both the highest level of skill and a fair degree of ability without necessarily revealing a natural flair for your chosen field of endeavour. Sometimes sport may rightly or otherwise be accused of taking itself too seriously and when that happens that may not work in its favour.

It is only when sport resorts to the lowest common denominator that some of us have to turn our heads away in revulsion since this is not the way sport should be performed in any arena. Sure sport should be competitive, full of needle, highly charged excitement with just a hint of animosity and resentment but there must come a time when surely sport may lose something in the translation of the term.

Which is where darts provided us with another heated discussion. For years darts has become immensely popular, easily accessible, inexplicably hypnotic and a dream ticket for a captive TV audience. For those of us though who still regard darts as the ultimate pub game which should never be considered as a sport then maybe this is not what you'd like to hear. But then what on earth do I know about darts to pass a qualified argument on its behalf?

For years of course darts has rapidly established itself as one of those extraordinary spectacles which normally take place when the long, dark winter nights set in and nobody else wants to play dominoes or shove ha' penny with you. And yet the doubts and reservations remain because, quite frankly, how a game that only demands a flick of your wrists, the steadiest of nerves and the nimblest of finger actions next to a dart board, can still register as a sport on the tabloid newspaper radar.

Roughly 40 years ago British TV presented darts with its first exposure to the masses with regular appearances on ITV's commercial sports programme World of Sport. Back then darts players became immediately recognisable if only because their alcohol consumption far outstripped their accuracy on a darts oche- which as we all know is that strategic spot where all darts players have to stand.

Every so often the likes of Jocky Wilson, Eric Bristow, Bobby George and, more recently, Phil 'The Power' Taylor would step forward confidently, grinning eagerly with several pints of extra strength beer next to them and hordes of hysterical supporters screaming out with the most powerful thoraxes shouts of encouragement. Then the voices become ridiculously loud and you may find yourself in dire need of a good set of ear muffs.

Every week Britain would be taken across to either Alexander Palace in North London, the Lakeside Leisure Complex, Frimley Green in Essex or maybe Sheffield if the others weren't available. During the 1970s darts enjoyed an almost phenomenal popularity with thousands of fans across Britain packing massive halls to the rafters.

Once the TV cameras had been safely installed in the said darts venue there was no stopping these demons of the tungsten arrow. Darts players were somewhat cruelly and unfairly portrayed as those big, blokes with large stomachs, with an insatiable appetite for lager and cigarettes. Amid those lengthy rows of tables and chairs, those darts maestros with iron clad concentration and an unquenchable thirst would grace TV screens far and wide with their infectious wit and lovely self mockery.

Surely nobody could ever imagine that darts would ever endure to the present day as one of those must watch events that have to be performed. From its earliest origins in the local pub alongside its faithful ally snooker, darts is now a global, big business, excessively sponsored sport that has broken down all barriers of opposition and scepticism with a casual throw of the arrow.

Brighton, one of Britain's most favourite seaside resorts, is this week the host to the Darts- Champions of League Darts which to those who would pour scorn on it may sound faintly ludicrous but others a well deserved and highly regarded sporting fixture. Of course this should in no way be compared to the football equivalent of the Champions League since there are those who consider football and darts as polar opposites.

And here is the point when snobbery value rears its head quite obviously. How can you possibly defend the case of darts as a sport when nobody has broken into sweat, nothing remotely athletic ever happens and not a hint of  physicality seems to manifest itself ? But to millions of darts fans darts is brilliantly compelling, nerve racking, teeth chattering, nail biting and a pleasure to feast your eyes on.

Today for instance a gentleman by the name of Simon Whitlock faced another darts enthusiast named Peter Wright. One seemed to be sporting the bushiest beard since ZZ Top, those 1980s rockers, whose  mustard coloured silk shirt  looked as though it belonged on one of those mechanics who frantically fix cars on the Formula One circuit. Whitlock looked determined, pumped up, totally motivated and desperate to win.

His opponent was one Peter Wright who displayed perhaps the craziest, gaudiest and most outrageous mohican hair style. But Wright thought he'd go the whole hog by dying his mohican an outlandish shade of mauve. Then there was the darts player who couldn't resist the temptation to cut and crimp his hair in the design of half a dart board.

Lest we forget there was still the matter of the current champion to make his first appearance on the oche. His name is Mensur Suljovic who presumably must be fancied to do well yet again. But this is darts and we all know how tense and atmospheric things can get. The announcements will loudly be made above the blur of boozy banter and bonhomie. The glasses will forever be tinkling and clattering, sharp yells punctuating the air and the likes of Dave Chisnall, Rob Cross and Daryl Gurney dominating the proceedings.

Ladies and gentlemen. This is darts. You either love it or loathe it. Of course opinions are divided and for some of us that remains part of its niche market appeal. Or maybe darts has always been great fun to watch. But there is something quite literally intoxicating about the way darts players seem to revel in the big occasion, constantly aware that millions of eyes are watching them and concentrating intently for every single second of every single match.

So it is that we wish our men in silk shirts and easy going temperaments the very best of luck in the Champions League of Darts. Rarely has the numerical combination of 180 become such a familiar sounding British number. Whether still the pub pastime that it may have always been in years gone by or the hugely entertaining game and sport it quite clearly is now, darts is the biggest of money spinners.

During the 1980s British TV once proudly presented a darts based quiz show called Bullseye whose  sole objective it seemed was to send the winners home with a caravan or a speedboat. Invariably those self same victors would come, quite hilariously, from a council estate on the outskirts of London. But darts is lovable, simple, straightforward and logical which, in a sometimes volatile world, must have something going for it. 180 yet again!

That Yom Kippur feeling.

That Yom Kippur feeling.

It was one of those days that seemed to go on indefinitely, for ever and ever, a long, winding, tiring, emotionally exhausting day of silent prayer, mournful chanting, religious solidarity, beautiful singing, a choir with the sweetest of voices and then finally that indefinable something within the human soul that can neither be quantified nor explained. It simply sent a warm glow through you, goose bumps down your back and that extraordinary sense of achievement and spiritual well being that only holy Jewish festivals can make you feel.

Yesterday was the Jewish day of atonement of Yom Kippur when the Jews of the world congregate in that yearly gathering of repentance, sorrow, remorse and that clearing of the head known as absolution where we all devote 25 hours to fasting, praying and doing nothing, abstinence, refraining from all of the pleasures most of us take for granted. There was no eating, no drinking, no telly watching, radio listening, no physical or mental activity of any sort- just 25 hours from early evening Tuesday to the early evening hours of Wednesday.

For some of us this has become one of those customary Jewish rituals that we've become conditioned to. The truth is that from the moment you hit your teens and your barmitzvah has been observed and conducted in your local synagogue(shul) this is your lifelong obligation to which you feel entirely committed.

I have to admit that there were frequent points during my teenage years when the act of fasting every September or, as was the case last year in early October, became a daunting chore. On reflection though you did feel as fasting was one of those events in a Jewish teenager's life that was somehow very rewarding in as much that by the end of the day, you did have something to look forward to.

But while I was a kid I would bombard my parents with a series of incessant objections and groans about that ghastly prospect of horrible starvation and an oppressive sense of discomfort in the pit of your stomach. In a mood of constant protestation and dissatisfaction I would complain to my parents for hour on end, questioning the fast, promising that I would never be forced to do it every year against my will before just waving the white flag of surrender at 13.

And yet from 13 onwards I submitted to the alluring charms of no food or drink but only under sufferance. It became a way of life, something you felt duty bound to do because, as my mum frequently pointed out, fasting was good for you and would certainly not do you any long term harm. So resistance was futile and I willingly accompanied my parents to synagogue for that 25 hour marathon known as fasting.

Back to the present day. From late Tuesday evening to early evening Wednesday my family and I joined together in that mass communal get together where just for a short while we dropped everything, parked the previous year into some old building skip of yesteryear and just got on with the business of praying for forgiveness, a happy, healthy and sweet New Year before re-charging batteries for the year ahead.

As usual the Last Supper before the beginning of the New Year still seemed like a rushed, awkward moment in time and perhaps the most unpleasant meal of the year, a combination of desperate scoffing and ravenous munching in the hope that you wouldn't have to face indigestion or chronic pain. Still rather like any marathon once you were half way through there was no turning back. Might as well face the music.

By the following morning we were all ready for 25 hours of soul searching, solemnity, intense thinking, contemplation, rumination, dwelling and pondering, re-examining our consciences and just relishing the end of the fast. Throughout the day we embarked on our yearly expedition of standing up and sitting down rather like one of those fashionable Mexican waves at any sporting confrontation.

Now the realisation occurred to us that this is the way the whole day would proceed. It was the template for a day of reflective soul baring, cleansing and purifying, looking for divine intervention and then reading from our Days of Awe book. Suddenly you became patently aware of where you were and our utterly unconventional Yom Kippur location. This was no ordinary venue for the Jewish High Holy Days, a place for conventional and historical worship in the most unlikely of settings.

Yes folks my family and I spent the whole of Yom Kippur at Saracens rugby union club. So it was that yesterday morning the congregation of Finchley Reform Synagogue joined together for the morning, afternoon and evening of our lives with a whole procession of gorgeous prayers, delectable stories from the Torah, lengthy parables, moving passages from rabbis and yet more dramatic narratives of suffering combined with survival against the odds. It was drama and history told in exquisite detail.

But this was a Yom Kippur service with the most noticeable of differences. This was Yom Kippur at Saracens rugby union club. Saracens have been one of the most outstanding and consistently successful rugby union clubs for a good few years. In fact they have been European Champions so that has something to be proud of and shout about. Now though they were hosts to a huge Jewish community bursting at the seams with much more on our minds than prop forwards, rucks and mauls.

Apart from my personal 25 hours of praying and chanting, I couldn't help but notice and marvel at the magnificence of my surroundings. It was quite the most eye opening of all experiences and for somebody who so thoroughly enjoys both the watching and participating in sport, this was overwhelmingly rewarding. It was hard to believe that sport and religion had met in a head on collision of great minds thinking alike.

Wherever you looked there were paintings, cartoons, caricatures, trophy cabinets, England World Cup 1966 shirts hidden in glass cases and a cavalcade of sporting souvenirs and memorabilia. This was not a rugby union club, this was a veritable sporting museum devoted to sports related issues. And then as you walked down a floor or two you set eyes on the legendary cricket batsman who was Sir Donald Bradman, a glint in his eye, a finely honed athlete who once created havoc with the very best that English cricket could offer.

My eyes were though transfixed by the rugby union crowd paintings. Very rarely had I ever seen a collection of paintings so beautifully and accurately depicting a big sporting occasion. There were two paintings in particular that took my eye and just transported me to a specific time and place. In both crowd scenes there were fathers wearing working class caps, standing closely and happily next to their sons. You could just see the merest glimpses of smiles and a genuine sense of involvement on their faces.

All around me were dynamic paintings of rugby line outs, men leaping for their lives and wholeheartedly embracing the game they were playing for both club and, for some, country. There were framed photographs of today's generation of players holidaying in Barcelona, pictures of collective joy and a real sense of togetherness. There were cups and trophies, hastily scribbled signatures on photographs, amusing pictures and ones that paid a massive homage to sport.

In front of me there were rows and rows of seats and chairs methodically spread out across the whole of the hall that Finchley Reform Synagogue has now temporarily hired out for the High Holy Days. Normally this would be the place where Saracens players would mingle socially after a game, wives, husbands, girl and boy friends, children et all. Now though for one day only it had become converted into a religious shrine where the community would come together and think very deeply about themselves and the rest of the world.

During Yom Kippur day your whole body seems to go through the whole spectrum of emotions which can never be properly analysed or dissected. We arrived at roughly 10.45 in the morning with the first rumblings and pangs of hunger or thirst beginning to accumulate ever so slowly. For the best part of that hour or two before what would be normally considered lunchtime, most of us seemed to look at each other in the early signs of bewilderment. You're neither hungry or thirsty at all at this stage but you do know that this a day unlike any other throughout the year.

After a morning service of introductory prayers, blessings and chants the afternoon seemed to creep up on us quite pleasantly. Some of the congregation had decided to make their way home while a large majority of us stayed for the rest of the day. It was almost as if the whole key and tone of the day had been sharply changed for the better.  There was a sense of reinvigoration, a re-energised enthusiasm, a clearer perspective on what the day was essentially about. We had re-grouped, exchanged healthy banter and the topic of discussion was now, clearly, a different one.

The rabbis, suitably attired in white robes, shawl(tallit) and couples on their head, launched into a thought provoking series of sermons which were both highly entertaining, witty and maybe a tad provocative. But then where would a Yom Kippur be without its stirring sermons and rabbis in white robes not so much preaching to the converted but just testing our innermost reflexes? At some point throughout the afternoon I began to sit back and just relax, all the while absorbing everything that had already been said without quite knowing how to react.

Then after a brief shuffling of seats and adjustments of my shawl, afternoon had now rapidly given way to the soft serenity of late evening, the end of the afternoon undoubtedly but all the same very re-assuring. The late afternoon light was now beginning to fade almost reluctantly, a palette of blue skies and early autumn sunlight slowly replaced by  a pronounced shade of greyness and darkness.

Afternoon paid a fond farewell and evening had set in like the most joyous of revelations. I had never felt such  a huge sense of belonging to Judaism. The choir had quite stolen my heart and although I would never pretend to be the next big thing on Britain's Got Talent, it had been the most stirring, rousing and delightful of days.

Admittedly I have no singing voice whatsoever but this was a genuine chance to appreciate the richness and diversity that life can always offer, savouring the beauty of a Jewish choir, the cantor's reverential guitar and voice, soothing, trusting, warm and resonant. We were here to celebrate Yom Kippur and the final hour or two was upon us. With strength and purpose our voices blasted out to all points of the universal compass, pulsing through us, pumping out to all and sundry and sending messages of eternal hope and optimism.

Of course as Jews we were also here to sing the praises of Israel, that wonderful country that only craves peace and stability, where the call for love and understanding seems to be carried to every corner of the world. How the Israelis though have suffered throughout the ages and more so than ever the peaceful messages that have to be broadcast to every other troubled country have to be more relevant than ever as well.

And so we quietly chanted the prayer for the dead(Yiska). The entire congregation fell into an almost comforting silence, heads bowed, engrossed in private remembrance for lost and loved ones. Occasionally there would be a cough or a sneeze but then Saracens rugby union club shared their best wishes in a kind of mutual kinship while behind us the floodlights had now been switched on.

Behind us. the Saracens pitch had been bathed in an evening light show. There was something strangely incongruous about a very holy and religious day in the Jewish calendar playing out to a backdrop of rugby goalposts, corporate hospitality boxes and line out specialists. It hardly seemed possible that men with muscular shoulders and fiercely robust stomachs had kindly offered their home to  our Jewish community.

At roughly 10 minutes before 8 on a Wednesday evening in the year of 5779 the Jews were united as one. In a matter of seconds the shofar was blown loudly and powerfully across the whole of London and the rest of the world. This signified something very special, something upliftingly moving, touching the heart and soul, a sense that a summit had been reached and we were there to see it and experience it.

On behalf of all my Jewish friends and family let me take this opportunity to wish you all a happy, healthy and sweet New Year. This is your year, my year, our year and a year to be part of something very special in the grander scheme of things. We may wish passionately that the warmongers set on  complete destruction will realise what they're doing and put down their arms immediately. Life indeed is precious and never to be abused because the repercussions have become all too obvious down the ages.

So to all Jews who we love and respect, this is the time to settle our differences, resolve our dilemmas and just seize that day, week, month and year. And if anybody has got a salt beef sandwich which they don't particularly want then some of us would happily accept any leftovers. To quote Fiddler on the Roof to life to life l'chayim. Chag Semach and Shana Tova to you all. A happy and healthy New Year to you all. Bring on Succot.

At long last - a West Ham victory in the Premier League.

At long last - a West Ham victory in the Premier League.

Patience of course is a virtue. How long some of us have had to wait. But it was worth it in the end even if we were beginning to think it would never happen again. We twiddled our thumbs, tapped our fingers, buried our heads in despair and began to fear the worst. It was one of those momentous days when West Ham United finally discovered that winning habit and not before time. For a while the impossible became an improbable before finally bearing fruit in the autumnal harvest.

At long last West Ham supporters rid themselves of the dark cloak of melancholy, shook off their early season torpor and rustiness and then finally hit the ground running. After four straight defeats in the new season, those of a claret and blue persuasion could barely hide our delight. We cracked open the champagne of celebration, flew the flags, dug out the bunting, laid out the tables, prepared the food and then the street party could commence shamelessly.

And yet this was the perfect moment to congratulate a Chilean gentleman whose 65th birthday this was yesterday. For Manuel Pellegrini, West Ham's hitherto troubled boss, whose side who had been bottom of the Premier League, defeat at Everton would have left him in no mood whatsoever for presents and best wishes. Suddenly, Pellegrini's West Ham bucked up their ideas, looked each other in the face and ultimately proved too good for an Everton team who continue to blow hot and cold.

It is at times like this when you begin to question your sanity, asking yourself precisely why on earth you should put yourself through the purgatory of football support. Nine months are almost absurdly spent on that emotional investment and you remember the words of Nick Hornby in his classic book Fever Pitch.

Hornby faithfully followed Arsenal through thick and thin, the trials and tribulations of that connection with your football team, that sometimes fraught relationship with your team, shivering on freezing terraces, wrapping the club scarf around you rather like some comfort blanket and then rubbing your hands together because the game is destined to finish in a desperately boring 0-0 draw.

There was a part of Hornby that deeply regretted those wasted years, the relationships with girls that were irreparably sacrificed because he could never make his girlfriends understand why the game was so vitally important to him. There was the intriguing fan obsession, the long, meandering travels to Newcastle, Liverpool and Manchester United when in his heart of hearts he must have known that those journeys would be bleak and fruitless. No point in traipsing all the way to St James' Park, Anfield and Old Trafford when you knew Arsenal would get a severe hammering. Not now as any Arsenal fan would rightly tell you but at the time it must have felt that way.

Yet the analogy may be correct. For some of us the pill has been too bitter to swallow and although West Ham finally notched up their first win of the season against an admittedly poor and lack lustre Everton at Goodison Park, the suspicion may well be that it is only West Ham's first victory and the mountainside is still terrifyingly challenging. It could be that West Ham will need a decent set of crampons because this journey could be littered with seemingly insurmountable obstacles. Time will tell of course.

Still, yesterday was full of ironies, coincidences  and conundrums. How for instance could a West Ham team struggling so desperately for any kind of victory, finally win their first game of the season at a ground where they have been notoriously unsuccessful in recent years? Three seasons ago a Dimitri Payet influenced West Ham beat Everton at Goodison while last season they were soundly thrashed by Everton with another one of those amazing Wayne Rooney goals from the half way line.

But now for the strange coincidence. West Ham's last victory in 2018 came against Everton in the Hammers final game of the last season at the London Stadium. Guess what? West Ham, rather like yesterday's result, ran out 3-1 winners on that occasion. A case of what goes around comes around although there are few West Ham loyalists who will be unduly worried about how matches are won as long as they are won.

In a small corner of Goodison you could almost hear that definitive Bubbles anthem, muffled at times but nonetheless audible. These will be testing times for West Ham supporters because if the worst comes to the worst in next weekend's game against a high flying, unbeaten and rampant Chelsea at the London Stadium then those self same fans are likely to turn on their team in much the way that they did last season.

When all said and done though West Ham yesterday looked like a team who had fully taken on all of those shrewd tactical instructions conveyed to them by their patient manager. Their passes were crisper, sharper and quicker than at any time since their opening day 4-0 defeat against Liverpool at Anfield. There was a much more polished patina about West Ham's football, more substance, easy on the eye co-ordination, a flow and fluency that hadn't been in evidence against either Liverpool, Bournemouth, Arsenal or Wolves.

Two goals from the increasingly popular Marko Arnautovic and a stunner from new Ukraine winger Andriy Yarmolenko lifted West Ham from rock bottom of the Premier League and into the sunny uplands of 16th. There was a healthier glow about West Ham's game, a willingness to take risks, an established game plan and very little in the way of the sluggishness that had characterised their opening games.

At the back Fabricio Bulbuena, Issa Diop, Pablo Zabaleta and the permanently adventurous Arthur Masuaku provided West Ham with much of the balance, ballast and underlying strength. But it was the performance of young Declan Rice that held the attention for those West Ham fans who cherish good, ball playing players who will pause for breath, consider their options and are always prepared to play from the back. This is in preference to neglecting the whole expanse of the pitch with the dull, clanking, long, high ball.

Rice it was who delivered a composed, almost dignified display of natural footballing intelligence, awareness of his colleagues around him and all of those qualities that sort the men from the boys. He covered and cherished possession of the ball, nipping in front of encroaching Everton blue with clever and easy distribution of the ball. Rice it was who performed with a calmness and maturity that may yet see him in an England shirt. The decision is his.

Beside Rice was the ever reliable and inexhaustible Mark Noble who, returning from injury, captained by example, biting into tackles and whipping the ball away from opponents as if terribly offended that somebody had dared to beat him for the ball. Noble it was whose intervention from some sloppy defending by a hesitant Everton, eventually moved the ball forward to the feet of Yarmolenko whose fabulous curling shot past Everton keeper Jordan Pickford reduced most of Goodison to a worrying silence.

With the other new recruit Felipe Anderson, another potential West Ham idol running directly at the home side with the ball and searching out huge acres of the pitch to open up Everton at every opportunity, West Ham were in front foot mode, attacking from a whole variety of angles, pushing forward, prompting and inventing, flinging open the flimsy doors of an often fragile and soft Everton defensive underbelly.

After Everton had pulled a goal back from Sigurdsson's bullet of a header, West Ham, who thought their two goal cushion had made them completely secure, momentarily panicked. In the second half though West Ham came to life again. A swarming claret and blue formation made life for the home side extremely uncomfortable.

And then West Ham clinched their much deserved victory on the day with the kind of goal that West Ham fans may have thought they were entitled to score in every match. The sweetest of passing movements on the edge of the Everton penalty area resulted in the loveliest of one twos between Pedro Obiang and Arnautovic. Arnautovic smartly latched onto a wonderfully intelligent give and go and slid the ball into the net for West Ham's conclusive third and winning goal.

So it was that the travelling hordes of West Ham fans filed out of Goodison Park wondering whether Sunday afternoons on Merseyside could ever be such fun again. They blew their bubbles and buoyantly danced out of a now very subdued Goodison. It is only now that you can begin to understand  what Nick Hornby was talking about.

The contrasting moods which football can so easily engender may have a much more profound effect on a football supporter's whole persona. Of course football is not a case of life and death although Bill Shankly may have regarded it as much more important than that. But for a team who hadn't won a single match since the second week in May this was sheer nectar. Oh to follow the team from East London and play at the London Stadium. Some of us deserve a medal.

Serena Williams- the feisty lady of tennis.

Serena Williams- the feisty lady of tennis.

Hell hath no fury than a woman scorned. And so it was that this week the world of tennis was shaken to its foundations by another outraged outburst. The woman at the heart of this unfortunate flare up took it upon herself to once again remind any of those doubting Thomases that women should never ever be questioned, challenged or just taken for granted.

At a crucial point of her US Open match against Naomi Osaka Serena Williams, still very much acclaimed as the golden girl of world tennis, threw her toys out of the pram, spat out the proverbial dummy, demanded a packet of sweets and then sobbed her heart out because, quite clearly, nobody was listening to her. She'd poured out her heart, bawled out her frustrations and then lifted the pitch of her voice even higher. When everybody seems out to get you, conspiracy theories are an easy excuse.

For years now Williams has dominated global tennis alongside her loyal sister Venus. She's cleaned up at Wimbledon, travelled the world and then conquered a vast majority of that world. The tennis courts have almost been Williams absolute dominion and there are few who would deny that when Serena Williams is at the top of her game, her opponents may just as well be invisible.

But when you get on the wrong side of Williams and the decisions are not quite as clear as they should be, then the darker side to her character leaps out of her mouth and you'd be well advised to keep a respectful distance from her. When an umpire named Carlos Ramos had taken more than he could endure, Williams flipped and the red mist began to descend like a thick fog.

Apparently Williams has a previous record on such matters and many an umpire and innocent official has suffered the backlash of what sounded like a maliciously verbal attack on Ramos. There were no obscenities as such nor foul mouthed invective designed to humiliate but the message was loud and clear. Cross her at your peril and she'll launch several rather colourful rockets in your direction.

Now we all know by now that Williams has recently become a mother again and the hormones may be raging, kicking and bobbing around in her body. But surely the lines have to be drawn now. Williams spilled out a whole reference book of very personal insults, direct accusations and questioning of the umpires competence.

All might have been forgiven had Williams just left things to drop after perhaps a couple of seconds but the rant went on and on like an old, cracked vinyl record. Williams said that Ramos was a thief, liar and a wholly reprehensible individual. These crass remarks were by no means without precedent but Williams somewhat childish behaviour left an unnecessarily dark stain on one of the finest of sports.

Then, not content with her babbling, blustering tirade, Williams kept going at a by now blistering pace. She once again brought out of the cupboard those familiar defence mechanisms. There were the inevitable remarks about racism, discrimination, misogyny, women's rights, equality and blatant unfairness. She pointed fingers, jabbed fingers, stared angrily at Ramos and then blurted out another set of well prepared comments that eventually sounded like a persecution complex. Why was the world always picking on her when they should be starting on somebody else?

You cast your mind back to the days when the likes of Martina Navratilova and Billy Jean King were the female champions of fair pay and conditions. Navratilova fought her corner with feisty persistence and determined vigour on the court itself. Of course she was the undoubted queen of Wimbledon for a number of years but when the vultures intermittently circled around her, she would launch into a very vocal and measured commentary where no holds were barred and everything was up for debate.

This may not be the most appropriate time to join in on the soapbox of criticism against Williams but what remains is a rather sour taste in the mouth, a sense that here is one of the world's richest of sportswomen fiercely at odds with officialdom because, for whatever reason, the moon was in the wrong position or maybe her dad Richard may have been unavailable for comment or maybe he was and nobody was watching at the time.

At her best of course Serena Williams is a force of nature, the very model of supple athleticism with a competitive drive and will to win that is matchless.  Her all court, baseline game is liberally laced with  heroic chases from one tram line to the other, lunging and miraculous forehand returns, powerful drives, beautifully judged lobs from every part of the court and a volcanic blast of the ball when drilling her cross court shots beyond her opponent. Of course the back hand winners should never be forgotten because Williams knows everything there is to know about placement and timing.

And yet earlier on this week Williams seemed to let the side down with her school sixth form lectures to those in authority and her offensive conduct on the court. In the bigger picture Williams has not committed a heinous crime and only suffered a £13, 000 fine for her indiscretions. The fact is though that tennis might have briefly wished that it had looked away for a moment or two, slightly shame faced and chastened but nonetheless confident that no lasting damage had been done to its reputation.

We also remembered a rather annoyed gentleman during the late 1970s and 80s who kicked up a fuss because once again people were ganging up on him and nobody liked him. When a certain John Mcenroe gave vent to his feelings the whole of South West London may well have heard him. Mcenroe, we thought, was just a bad loser, an irascible bear with a sore head, a grumpy young man with an inflated ego, wealthy parents and a thick streak of rebellion that refused to just let it go.

None of us will ever forget those gigantic explosions on court when Mcenroe was convinced that the world was, quite literally against him. He slammed his rackets on the ground like an incensed six year old at a birthday party, broke rackets with the most ferocious temper, argued ridiculously with umpires about the legitimacy of dubious shots and then threatened to take the whole of Centre Court to the High Court if they didn't obey his requests.

We all know of course that bad and disreputable behaviour in any sporting arena should never be condoned by any fair thinking spectator. Besides, what on earth can anything be gained in the breaking of the laws of the game and an appalling disregard for the rules and regulations. It may be that Williams had stepped out of line on one too many an occasion and she may want to think again the next time she boils over.

Perhaps now should be the time to let the dust settle on a week that could have gone seriously wrong for tennis but only disturbed a small minority of those who simply frown on indecent language in a sporting theatre. Somewhere out there the voice of reason is out there crying out for commonsense. It's been a very good year for sport so far. Surely the whole Serena Williams banal sideshow has to be regarded with the contempt it rightly deserves. Tennis, most certainly, deserves better.

Jimmy Anderson- cricket's Burnley Express breaks more records.

Jimmy Anderson- cricket's Burnley Express breaks more records.

English cricket fans love to celebrate their fast bowlers. Throughout the years England have produced a conveyor belt of terrifying, electrifying quickies who stampede their way to the wickets rather like bulls in the proverbial china shop before flattening wickets or simply humiliating the poor, besieged batsmen who can do nothing but cower, duck, hide, tremble or just pretend they didn't see the ball.

In England's last hurrah against India in a classic series and victory, Jimmy Anderson gave us chaos, carnage, destruction and a whole load of record breaking wickets for England.  It was another display of relentless brutality that sent a shiver down the spines of the Indian batting attack and confirmed the supreme consistency and pure virtuosity of this remarkable bowler.

For Lancashire Anderson is known as the 'Burnley Express' but for those who have followed his progress for England is just a bulldozer with the ruthless air of a demolition expert. During 143 Tests Anderson has now accumulated 564 wickets which sounds like one of the greatest achievements of all cricketing time. That's because it is and none can ever take that away from him as he looks down from that princely plateau where only the greats congregate.

From Harold Larwood to Freddie Trueman, John Snow to Chris Old, Ian Botham to Mike Hendrick and Bob Willis to Graham Dilley English cricket should be heartily congratulated on its speed merchants, its seaming, swinging quickies who have arrowed in over after of fast, yet deceitful strong arm bowling where a red cricket ball has gone on the most extraordinary journey but ultimately ended up nipping back with a vicious sharpness, leaving the batsman at the other end standing there in an advanced state of confusion.

Anderson has been one of the latest batch of deadliest and devilish bowlers, steaming in aggressively and savagely with ball after ball of meaty menace and barbaric pace. The ball would swing almost immediately before veering deep into a petrified batsman. Yesterday's incredible haul of 5-73 against India was just the latest chapter of a career of staggering accuracy matched only perhaps by the inimitable Ian Botham.

The 'Burnley Express' has been the quiet assassin before exploding forward and planting powerful feet onto the crease, firing the lethal missile into the batsmen's hapless pads and sending a flurry of bails into the air. Once again yesterday Anderson surged his way smoothly onto the bowler's favourite position, unwinding his body, carefully judging and measuring his delivery while all the time intent on causing utter mayhem and then destruction in equal measure. Then the ball flies like the lethal catapult, the ball assuming all kinds of trajectories and then whipping over the wickets as if it was fated to happen.

Throughout his career and particularly our mischievous rivals Australia for whom he once notched up five for five wickets, Anderson has gloried in his well honed craft, a player of style, spine tingling professionalism and a player completely comfortable in the face of any opposition. By the end of the day against India he looked as fresh as a daisy, shirt undoubtedly drenched with sweat and whole hearted toil but flapping dangerously on an early autumn day at the Oval.

Yes the Oval, that hallowed, sacred piece of Surrey turf with those famous, brooding gas holders and a once huge outfield. Now of course those cash counting sponsors with pounds in their eyes have renamed the Oval the Kia Oval and now cricketers play in helmets and play day and night cricket, lights blazing away at roughly 10pm in the  evening. What on earth has happened to English cricket?

Now of course cricketers play in the T20 blast a biff and bash, clobber and clout competition where big hitting batsmen launch swashbuckling hooks onto the roof of a Surrey village hall or, quite possibly, Kent. Then they execute the very fashionable reverse sweep, the neatly clipped shot off the back foot or that lofty drive into a small market town in Worcestershire which would never be greeted warmly because that would disturb the peace of the locals and that just isn't cricket.

And so it was that English cricket said its goodbyes to the cricket season. Beneath the concluding Test match against India at the Oval the citizens of Surrey drifted away to their evening meal, easily satisfied with the day's entertainment. The whole England team, as you would have expected, saluted Jimmy Anderson because once again one of their own had created havoc with international opposition.

Anderson for his part, gazed around the Oval rather like a Roman emperor surveying his admirers, holding onto the ball tenaciously as if  privately wary of some nasty incident that would spoil his perfect day. He was rapidly swallowed up by his victorious team mates, the all conquering hero being hugged and slapped on the back as if the football World Cup had been won. Then the 'Burnley Express' gently puffed his way from his very own cricketing platform and out into the welcoming suburban fields of rich Middle England contentment. What a day this had been for Jimmy Anderson. English cricket could rest easily, grinning very smugly at the Lancashire hot pot. 

Trades Union Congress and Jewish New Year.

Trades Union Congress and Jewish New Year.

It is that time of the year again folks. It can't be avoided. The last glimmers of summer sunlight are now slowly fading into some nostalgic hideaway where autumn will await with the full red carpet treatment. September has now arrived with everything that September brings with it. September is quite naturally reflective, pondering, looking forward to winter but perhaps dreading those long, dark nights when the population of  Britain huddle together in the warmth and security of their living rooms.

Outside, early September is bidding farewell to those long, hot days of the British heatwave and that could only mean two things. There are two events in the social calendar which herald the start of the autumnal equinox. Isn't it strange that we almost take these occasions for granted because they always seem to happen at roughly this time of the year without fail? They look as though they've been around for ever but the truth is that, from a traditional point of view, it may seem as they have.

Firstly, there is the Trades Union Congress, this year in Manchester where the ladies and gentlemen from the blue collar industries and more recently the highly influential high tech industries begin to flex their muscles. Normally the beer and sandwiches brigade will be gathering its forces while the brothers and sisters of the trades union fraternity wave their fists in righteous indignation and verbal conflict will rage into the late hours of the afternoon and evening.

Throughout the ages and decades the Trades Union Congress has always been that hotbed of discussion, fiery exchanges of opinion, forthright and blunt speaking, a noisy hubbub of opinionated speech making and dogmatic hot air where plenty will be said but rarely achieved. Every year the men and women from those smoking factories of yesteryear climb onto their platform to express their yearly grievances and objections because the country of course is in a complete mess.

Then we are confronted with the boiler makers, the hard working engineers, the dedicated train drivers, the militant tendencies, the angry unionists who stubbornly stand on picket lines refusing to work under the most stressful conditions. They will shout the odds powerfully and forcefully, hollering boisterously at the top of their voices determined to make the Government of the day sit up and take notice.

Normally their speeches will be accompanied by cheering that becomes progressively louder, applause that reaches a deafening crescendo and then more howling laughter, outraged fury and amusing intervals of heckling, giggling silliness. Deep in the audience life long trade union members will loosen their ties, pull restlessly on their shirt collars and then sweat rivers of anxiety.

This year TUC leader and secretary Frances O' Grady will be supervising a hot blooded rabble of disillusioned trade unionists who are probably fed up with being exploited and undermined by lousy pay and bosses who think they ought to be grateful for small mercies. This year the main topic of conversation is of course the EU and its far reaching implications.

Eventually the Amalgamated Unions will get all hot and bothered again over nothing in particular. They will storm the barricades, threaten to cheerfully strangle each other if nothing is done in the immediate future and then blame Prime Minister Theresa May because it has to be her fault. In a matter of minutes the whole of Manchester will just erupt like a volcano because once again nobody can agree on anything.

Suddenly we have a mini riot on our hands. We will now have to address a whole sequence of motions passed, hands shown, rowdy consultation, blather, bluster, hubble, bubble, toil and trouble. Voices will be raised, accusations fired from every direction, fingers pointed and blood pressures at their most dangerous level.

Again the complaining, quarrelsome, bickering and confrontational from the trade union coal face will rise to their feet and just moan to their hearts content quite possibly with justification. It is one of the year's most controversial of spectacles. There are moments when you suspect that here is the one event of the year where nothing constructive ever seems to get done. At times it does seem like one hellish bear pit where old fashioned unionists clash with the new and upwardly mobile while the old school stick firmly to their guns.

This year they've got Britain's withdrawal from the EU to contend with and they don't quite know what to do so they'll just sit tight, hang on and just sink their pints of Guinness. They will look at their bulky documents, leaf through rain forests of paper with very little of consequence and probably go to sleep for an hour or two. Far too confusing. Yet it'll probably sort itself out and with maybe a  few interventions and contributions from our trade union friends we'll be all be far better off without our European allies anyway.

And then finally we'll find that all of those trade unions will do their usual round of negotiations and recriminations, go outside into the reception area and bite into another cheese sandwich or two. It is all very complex, detailed, long and, when all is said and done very tedious. But our trade union members love their moments in the limelight because the media are watching them and they can't get enough of that oxygen of publicity.

Meanwhile in the heart of the Jewish community my wonderful family and I have all been celebrating Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, that yearly pilgrimage to the promised land of milk and honey. It is that yearly period of solemn prayer, truly delightful singing and chanting, worship, thinking back and forwards to the future, more contemplation and more religious forgiveness and repentance.

Now Rosh Hashanah is indeed that time of pausing for breath, taking stock of the world around us, revelling in the good times, consigning the bad ones to the dustbin of history, uniting and then doing the same things again and again because that's the way it's always been and always will be.

It all seems like the same repetitive fairground merry go round where everything that seems familiar is always welcome because we love that sense of familiarity. For all Jews around the world this is also a time for feasting, drinking and laughing cordially with those we love. It is religion at its cosiest, most pleasant and civilised. It is a religion where the celebration of everything it holds dear will always deliver the richest rewards.

Today was the first day of the Jewish New Year and around the globe huge quantities of sweet, sticky honey, masses of honey cake and a veritable orchard of apples will be eaten. We sung from the proverbial hymn sheet and for some of us this was religion at its most emotional and poignant. From time to time the hairs on the back of your head would stand up on the back of your neck. The choir sung with angelic resonance and throughout North London all was perfect.

But for most of the Jewish community this is the start of the festival season where much that needs to be rejoiced in is given the full treatment. The ram's horn( the shofar) is blown with hearty vigour, the rabbis give their hugely eloquent sermons and we give profuse thanks to those who have sacrificed so much for our generation. Of course we count our blessings and mercies, of course we read beautiful prayers and passages from our book. There will be always be that yearly outpouring of gratitude since this is one time of the year when we appreciate where we are, who we are and what we are. We are the proudest of Jews and that has to be something to feel good about.

Regents Park run on behalf of wonderful charity.

Regents Park run on behalf of wonderful charity.


It happened to me with literally yards to go in this morning's Regents Park 5k run. I had one of those Mo Farah moments when the finishing line beckons and all of the muscles and joints in your ankles are screaming, protesting, disputing and shouting vehemently at you. It was one of those triumphant days in your life when it's only you against the rest of the world. You pinch yourself at the enormity of your achievement, congratulating the runners around you and the trees nod in silent acknowledgement.

For this morning my daughter and I completed a 5k run which if my deplorable maths serves me correctly is roughly 3.5 miles or something in the region of the figure. It was the kind of morning when you just wanted to fling open the blinds or windows, punch the air with delight and be thankful for a wonderful organisation known as the British Heart Foundation.

I think it only fair to point out that the comparison to Mo Farah may well be the most ridiculous exaggeration because although middle distance running may be the extent of my athletic capabilities Mo Farah is an astonishingly charismatic and Olympic champion which quite clearly I'll never be able to lay claim to.

So it may be advisable to stick to more modest and much humbler accomplishments. Today I set out with the only objective of finishing the course in a moderately respectable time although I have to tell you that even the time was both irrelevant and never my uppermost consideration. Now in my mid 50s three miles is not only difficult and hard going but at times painfully awkward. Then again it wasn't quite as bad as I thought it was going to be and although challenging, the beautiful parklands of London's West End more than adequately compensated for the inevitable aches and twinges that were slowly developing in my beleaguered feet.

But this was the day for giving generously to a splendidly and vitally important charity. I did feel as though I'd made a memorable contribution to an organisation that remains one of the most foremost of charitable concerns. Besides, where on earth would we be without our ticker, that essential bodily organ that pumps monumental gallons of blood around the rest of the body?

The whole subject of health in Britain is more or less a constant source of news in the daily media agenda. Not a single day seems to pass without a whole advertisement board of health warnings, faddish diets bombarding us from Tube trains in London, the national newspapers, bus stops and campaigning shops promising us that if we stop eating a million pizzas every day for the rest of our lives then no harm may come our way.

And yet for roughly over an hour or so amid the stunningly sylvan backdrop of Regents Park in early autumn, my daughter and I put our best foot forward and charged into the distance. After a series of moving speeches from one of the organisers and participants in the race our daughter gave me the most inspirational of smiles before leaving poor old dad to gasp, puff and pant his way to glory.

The route was a straightforward one of long and meandering paths and pavements, gentle slopes and twisting corners that wound their way around the park with an agreeable simplicity about them. There were no endless stretches of road or street where the thunder of traffic can never be drowned out completely and at frequent points you may found yourself stranded at traffic lights.

Here was the opportunity to take stock at some of the nation's finest and timeless trees standing commandingly above the West End's seething hive of activity and sometimes maddening maelstrom. There can never be any moment of our lives when we simply can't help but fall helplessly in love with nature because the symmetry and geometry of it all is just so right and accurate.

As we entered Regents Park my wife, daughter and I were taken aback by the eye catching sculptures and the entirely but surprisingly attractive water features that held us for a number of moments. Then we moved easily into a riot of colourful flowers, begonias perhaps, nasturtiums, magnolias of wildly pleasing colours and huge red leaves snoozing in the early morning calm.

Now for the beginning of run. Naturally our daughter, a far superior athlete, alert and hugely intelligent brain was here to show her dad the cleanest pair of heels. Off we went at our own respective paces, sharp, sprightly, full of overflowing vitality and va va voom. For the briefest period of time I had my daughter within clear view of me but then reality began to make its presence felt. After roughly 50 yards or so, we reluctantly agreed to go our leisurely way, the dawning realisation hitting me that a 37 year age gap couldn't be filled at any point.

For my part this was an interesting study of the human body language. Suddenly I'd encountered something that was strangely uplifting. For mile upon mile a red column of British Heart Foundation shirts with numbers tightly pinned on to said shirts snaked its way around Regents Park. During the race I began to find out that the human race is, quite definitely, a fascinating one. It wasn't long before a couple of people in front of me had come to a standstill, stopping for a while as if just glad to be associated with this most magnificent of human endeavours.

Then as the run progressed, I became aware of the typical sense of  British humour; giggly jokes and frivolous comments followed by masses of modesty and self deprecation. We're only here to run for charity so why don't we just have some fun by exchanging some of the most light hearted banter? So they chatted, trundled forward, stumbled forward happily, staggered for a while again, before breaking into that authoritative jog that implies that they do indeed mean business.

Before long I was into my imperious stride which meant that at roughly tea time I may have gathered up enough energy to actually finish the run. There was a rumour that the train staff at nearby Great Portland Street would conveniently be on hand to pick my sagging body off the ground. Thankfully though the assistance of the local paramedics would not be required and as morning became lunchtime I knew that the flags were flying and my lumbering carcass of a body had achieved much more than I could ever have imagined at the start.

At designated points of the run, sympathetic stewards and marshals were on hand to thrust bottles of water into the combined collective of Regents Park's most exemplary of athletes. After being overtaken by perhaps every participant in the run the thought occurred to me that Saturday mornings do not come as rewarding as this one. This was the spirit of taking part taken to its utmost extreme. Sprinting- I kid you not- to the finishing line I flung weary arms into the air in quiet celebration all the while conscious that I'd just become the most benevolent of humanitarians. It was time to party privately.

Slowly but surely I began to glow in the rose tinted glare of victory. My wife, daughter and I made our way back to Regents Park station, discussing times and marvelling at my flourishing state of health. I had to admit that I did feel reasonably confident of completing the 5k run. Around me hundreds of fit and healthy red shirts pottered around Regents Park, medals gleaming around the neck and pride oozing from every pore of their body.

Oh yes. How could I ever forget the medal at the end of the Regents Park? Shortly, after racing over the finishing line, I was presented with my very own medal, an unforgettable souvenir of the day that has to be remembered for quite some time.

There you have it ladies and gentlemen another Saturday and another day to be recalled with fond clarity. It isn't often that I find myself in a position where I can confidently declare that I made a noticeable difference to the day. But I do hope that I've made a positive contribution to the British Heart Foundation. Thankyou. This may be an opportune moment to pat myself on the back as long as the rest of my body co-operates gratefully tomorrow morning. Time for a Saturday afternoon nap.   

Alastair Cook steps down as former England cricket captain.

Alastair Cook steps down as England's former cricket captain.

It may have felt like the end of the world but England cricket captains have to move on. When Alastair Cook stepped down as the former England captain yesterday there was a sense that another generation of English cricketers had now given way to a new dawn, another chapter in the illustrious history of cricket's leaders.

During the 1970s the studious, professorial and towering intellectual who was Mike Brearley always looked like a captain, a wise, reliable, cultured and bookish man with a very learned perspective on the game. Throughout that remarkable 1981 Ashes Test series against Australia, Brearley resembled one of those military colonels constantly plotting the downfall of his opponents with a quiet but purposeful authority.

Roll forward 40 years later to the present day and Cook leaves the centre stage of international cricket with a safely established set of records, an untarnished reputation and bouquets of praise from far and wide. He was, too all outward appearances, one of the most successful and consistent of opening batsman but, by his own admission perhaps, would never have been regarded  as one of those showboating, barnstorming players who would take residence at the crease and just smash the bowlers to smithereens.

And yet when Cook once racked up 243 runs for England in a night and day Test match against West Indies you wondered whether England had found a batsman who was ideally suited for the big games and the big moments. How ironic that the West Indies would provide the opposition since they were the ones who had so richly decorated summer afternoons in England with the breathless bravura of their batting and utter disregard for convention.

For it was the West Indies who completely stole the hearts of the British sporting public with their immensely gifted batsmen and their frighteningly quickie bowling attack. Cook, you feel sure, must have learnt everything he hitherto known from the spectacular batting of Gordon Greenidge, Sir Viv Richards and the equally as notable Alvin Kalicharran.

Now captain Cook has brought down the curtain on his England career and it would be interesting to know what exactly Mike Brearley would make of the Cook leadership years. Cook always seemed assured, controlled, disciplined, capable of batting brilliance but never outwardly showy or pompous. He did what England cricket captains were meant to do. He carved out his innings intelligently, never knowingly threatened to throw away his wicket cheaply and never shied away from criticism of his methods.

This is not to imply that Cook was just plain boring, bland, unemotional or dull. Rather he was positive, hard working, perhaps too modest for his own liking and never one for the back page or indeed front page headlines. Cook for instance would never have dreamt of eye balling an umpire with a fierce and confrontational stare and there were no Mike Gatting moments.

Cook would never have flown a plane into the middle of nowhere before an important Test match but then Cook was no David Gower. Then there was the hilarious day when Andrew Flintoff got pleasantly drunk after England had regained the Ashes in 2005. You sense that Cook was a man who took his captaincy responsibilities far more seriously. There were no outrageous antics when Cook bounced out of the pavilion at Lords as skipper.

During his freewheeling 243 against West Indies Cook demonstrated the whole back catalogue of strokes that his predecessors Geoff Boycott and Denis Amiss would have been so jealous of. He slashed his cover drives square of gully and cover with a destructive finality, nudged shots off the back foot with a dismissive swipe that flew across the ground and directly to the boundary, and swept the ball off his back foot with a minimum back lift. Then he steered the ball comfortably wide of the slips as if no slip cordon existed.

There was about Cook a strategic mind so essential in a a skipper's armoury, an educated erudition that made a considerable difference when the final wickets were falling for England. At his county club Essex, Cook has been very much the stabilising influence on a team that once proudly had on its books John Lever, Graham Gooch and Keith Fletcher.

So it is that Alastair Cook takes his leave of cricket's greenest fields, a seasoned trooper who will now pack away his helmets and pads with the air of a man who knew that the game had been good to him. There will be a wistful yearning to once again  lead his men out at Lords, Edgbaston, Trent Bridge and Old Trafford.

When he settles down next to a wintry, roaring log fire of reflection, Cook will cast his mind back fondly to that stunning double century against the team who once dominated their sport for several decades. English cricket will now bid farewell to the man who knew all of the game's setbacks, pitfalls and the brimming potentialities that it can still offer in the future. The BBC Radio 3 Test Match special awaits you with eager anticipation. Captain Cook we salute you!