Wembley Stadium - what a horrible mess.
There are times when you have to say what's on your mind. And this is it. You could hardly believe what you were seeing. It was almost as if somebody had broken into your home, taken your precious ornaments, stolen your cutlery and crockery, pinched your books and DVDs and then just for good measure, defaced your walls with the nearest available aerosol can before spraying defamatory nonsense all over your cupboards and ceilings.
On Saturday afternoon the American football teams of the Philadelphia Eagles had beaten the Jacksonville Jaguars 24-8. Nothing wrong with that perhaps. But then it suddenly occurred to you that last night Spurs, who are still borrowing Wembley Stadium because their new White Hart Lane ground has yet to complete its health and safety checks as well as the structural problems, were playing Premier League champions Manchester City at Wembley. And we all knew what that meant.
A day after the American football showpiece somebody had obviously forgotten to tell the groundsman that the Wembley pitch was in a horrible mess. In fact this was vandalism of the worst kind, a ghastly disfigurement of a pitch that English football was once so immensely proud of. Wembley had been hijacked by the graffiti experts, those revolutionary artists whose sole mission at the moment is to decorate any dull looking wall, turning it into a striking work of art.
But last night really did take the whole concept of abstract art to the lowest levels of vulgarity. For those of us who were brought up with that snooker table top green of the old Wembley in all its handsome pristiness then this was the rudest shock to our system. What on earth possessed both the Spurs and Manchester City players to even think of playing on a surface that reminded you of Billy Smart's circus before the arrival of the clowns and the trapeze acts came bouncing into the main arena?
And yet last night's match continued against that weird and bizarre backdrop of numbered markings on the pitch and the bold crest of the NFL emblazoned all over the pitch. It felt as if the whole existence of Wembley Stadium had been sacrilegiouly tampered with and just left us feeling dumbfounded. At times it must have felt that the players were being asked to endorse some very outlandish advertising campaign.
Now the truth is that we are not opposed to American football because when it comes to anything American we know exactly what they're capable of doing. Their commercial acumen, their sophisticated production values and their attractive presentation of all of those big match sporting events have never been in any question whatsoever.
But the point to be made here is that this was an English football Premier League match and not football of the gridiron variety. There were no helmets to be seen last night, none of those thick padded shirts with equally as thick socks and there were no touchdowns. To the best of my knowledge there were no cheerleaders waving their pom poms or players throwing the ball to the farthest corners of the pitch, frantically running into each other at top speed.
For one night only though English football seemed to share the same stage with an American sport which, although equally as traditional as its counterpart, didn't seem to have the same impact in an English sporting context. It appeared as if a collision of sporting cultures didn't quite fit in with each other. To those of us in Britain, American football looks both complicated and intense, a constantly fast moving sport which never seems to pause for breath. Of course it has its dramas and melodramas, its fiery passions and red blooded tempers. But for long periods it just bordered on the farcical, the ridiculous and the unrecognisable.
On behalf of my American readers it should be pointed out that American football still looks marvellously exhilarating, genuinely exciting and never less than gripping. It is what America does best and will always do best. This is quintessentially American, viscerally American, symptomatic of what the Americans do at the weekend or any day of the week. It is the sport they instill into their youngsters when they're old enough to appreciate it, the sport where father and son rush over to Central Park and play until midnight or until such time as the park closes.
Last night American football seemed to gatecrash English football without any invitation. All over Wembley was sufficient evidence that two sports were getting in each other's way. We all know about the fertile imagination of Banksy, that brilliant graffiti practitioner who scrawls his surrealistic drawings on any surface and then conveniently drops into obscurity when somebody mentions his name.
To any impartial observer it all looked very strange and incomprehensible. For a moment you thought of the old days and the old players for whom last night would have represented a crime against humanity. What would those saintly, cigarette card heroes such as Tom Finney, Len Shackleton, Dixie Dean, Stanley Matthews, Stan Mortensen, Bobby Charlton, Len Shackleton and Bobby Moore have thought of it all? You can only imagine that it would have felt like a gross invasion of their privacy. How dare they break into our home and scribble terrible profanities all over our home?
Besides, this was our game of English football and nobody gave you permission to raid, loot and pillage everything we once so held dear. And yet by the end of the evening it must have felt as if this huge charade of a football match would never finish. Of course all of the Spurs and Manchester City looked to be taking it in their stride without any visible effect on them. In the end though you were still left with the abiding impression that the circus had indeed come to town, the fairground had left and for one night only, a unique phenomena had just taken place.
So for those of you who may be reading this in those wonderful states and cities of the USA this is not the ferocious rant against American football that it might seem. But some of us were still bemused and speechless at the spectacle that both Spurs and Manchester City had been part of. Of course American football or indeed baseball has a place in any sporting environment. For long periods of the Spurs and Manchester City game though, it seemed as if the Philadelphia Eagles and Jacksonville Jaguars were still playing each other before realising at once that they, quite clearly, weren't.
So it was that the seemingly unstoppable Manchester City claimed yet another victory against a Spurs side who may yet feature prominently in the race for the top four without quite being able to dredge up the energy to win the Premier League. The truth was though the home of English football must still have been of the opinion that somebody, albeit briefly, had taken away its identity and mislaid it. But America- you'll always be our friends and closest allies and that's a cast iron certainty.
Tuesday 30 October 2018
Sunday 28 October 2018
Glen Hoddle- still one of English football's finest.
Glen Hoddle- still one of English football's finest.
For a generation of Tottenham supporters Glen Hoddle had the lot. Hoddle had elegance, grace and a fundamental understanding of the game's inner and outer beauty. But above all else, Hoddle was in love with football, smitten with its simplicity, fascinated with its core values, intrigued by its mysteries and components and always ready to embrace its changing patterns and technologies.
Yesterday's news that Glen Hoddle had collapsed with a heart attack at the BT Sports studios came not only as a shock to the purists within the game but also the traditionalists who still fervently believe that football is essentially simple, flexible, open to experimentation and always enriching to the soul. Hoddle was one of those easy going, naturally gifted players, always unflappable and utterly in control of a football wherever he was in the world.
During the 1970s Hoddle's world found itself surrounded by a crop of players who shared a common bond with him, a true kinship and similar temperaments. When Keith Burkinshaw, then the Spurs manager, invested in two of the most articulate and visionary of footballers it seemed as if Spurs had suddenly discovered two blue chip and highly marketable assets that seemed to vastly appreciate with every match.
When Osvaldo Ardiles and Ricardo Villa lit up North London with their spectacular range of passing and running skills, the whole of the old First Division sat up and took notice. But when Hoddle began to establish that most compatible of relationships with Ardiles and Villa, Spurs realised that they had in their team three of the most hugely imaginative talents the club had known in quite a while.
Throughout the late 1970s and part of the 1980s, Hoddle carried the baton for a Spurs midfield orchestra who were always willing to respond to his instinctive promptings in the middle of the pitch. What seemed to set Hoddle apart during a trophy laden career was his ability to make practical decisions at the right time and place, judging a game with the cool detachment of somebody determined to take as much as time on the ball as possible. Then he would weigh up the law of averages and dab those artistic splashes of paint onto a vibrantly colourful canvas.
During an early season match against Manchester United in the late 1970s Hoddle scored perhaps one of the most magnificent and stunning volleys ever seen at White Hart Lane. Playing the most intricate of one twos and almost telepathic wall pass Hoddle adjusted his body accordingly, swung back his kicking foot and thundered a destructive volley high into the roof of United's net. It was a moment that to those who witnessed it will always register in the mind. It was rather like biting into the sweetest apple or peach and just rolling the taste and texture on your lips.
Hoddle, undoubtedly was cunning and manipulative, never an amateur or dilettante, just the most spellbinding magician in possession, a player of deeply creative impulses and neatly delivered touches that would bisect opposition defences. Of course Hoddle the player was the most sweetly expressive of poets, a lyricist at times and never short of a goal or several to his credit when the mood took him.
Hoddle was very fussy and almost pedantic in his choice of passes, slotting his through passes to forwards with a clear sense of direction. He was fastidious in his study of the game's finer points, knowing perhaps subconsciously at times that one day those studies would result in a successful career in football management.
After sampling the splendour and opulence of Monaco, Hoddle returned to England, dipping tentative toes in the managerial waters of Swindon, his hometown club Spurs, Southampton and then Wolves. It was towards the end of the 1990s that things got serious for Hoddle. Having hugely impressed the FA hierarchy, Hoddle was wanted by England as full time boss.
During the World Cup of 1998 Hoddle's England did moderately well but when Hoddle's controversial stance on the disabled got rather lost in the translation, Hoddle made a swift exit out of the door as England boss. Hoddle was still attractive managerial material but the moment seemed to have gone. He stepped out of the hullabaloo and madness of international football, pursuing a career in the media as a pundit, a now intensely analytical mind totally concentrated on passing comment rather than the ball.
Thankfully the diagnosis on Hoddle's health isn't quite as serious as was first thought. But it is the image of Hoddle as a player, a player of statesmanlike appearance rather than some grotesque scuffler that many of us will clearly identify with. Hoddle was always a classical footballer rather than some pretentious poseur. a player of silks and satins rather than rags and patches. He glided about the pitch like a gadabout at times, never a pompous dandy, more the ingenious inventor than the outright destroyer.
Now though Hoddle is slowly recovering from a heart attack at home and we must hope that those considered views he had as a media pundit will continue to entertain those who were entertained by him. There was never anything of the false charlatan about Hoddle because he was genuinely committed to the game as both player and manager.
In the early autumn of 1979 Hoddle made his debut for England against Bulgaria on a cold night at Wembley. Perhaps inevitably he scored one of those trademark goals steering the ball precisely past the Bulgarian keeper. It was rather like watching Jack Nicklaus or Lee Trevino chipping out of the rough on a St Andrews fairway and landing the ball in the 18th hole with laser like accuracy.
Above all, Spurs fans will be praying for Hoddle's health because they know all about the club's midfield heritage. Back in the 1960s the midfield sergeant major who was Danny Blanchflower emerged as the most exemplary of gentlemen, an intuitive footballing brain who knew exactly where to find his men with the ball.
And then finally Hoddle will remember another young prodigy who almost exploded in front of his adoring Spurs fans but now, to the relief of all football supporters, is still loved and revered wherever he goes on the after dinner circuit. His name is Paul Gascoigne and although comparisons could be made with Hoddle the chances are that neither player would willingly want to be thought of as great minds thinking alike. Hoddle was the university swot whereas Gascoigne was the classroom misfit who never really paid any attention to the teacher. Then again Hoddle did have his Top of the Pops moment with Chris Waddle. Oh for those Diamond Lights.
For a generation of Tottenham supporters Glen Hoddle had the lot. Hoddle had elegance, grace and a fundamental understanding of the game's inner and outer beauty. But above all else, Hoddle was in love with football, smitten with its simplicity, fascinated with its core values, intrigued by its mysteries and components and always ready to embrace its changing patterns and technologies.
Yesterday's news that Glen Hoddle had collapsed with a heart attack at the BT Sports studios came not only as a shock to the purists within the game but also the traditionalists who still fervently believe that football is essentially simple, flexible, open to experimentation and always enriching to the soul. Hoddle was one of those easy going, naturally gifted players, always unflappable and utterly in control of a football wherever he was in the world.
During the 1970s Hoddle's world found itself surrounded by a crop of players who shared a common bond with him, a true kinship and similar temperaments. When Keith Burkinshaw, then the Spurs manager, invested in two of the most articulate and visionary of footballers it seemed as if Spurs had suddenly discovered two blue chip and highly marketable assets that seemed to vastly appreciate with every match.
When Osvaldo Ardiles and Ricardo Villa lit up North London with their spectacular range of passing and running skills, the whole of the old First Division sat up and took notice. But when Hoddle began to establish that most compatible of relationships with Ardiles and Villa, Spurs realised that they had in their team three of the most hugely imaginative talents the club had known in quite a while.
Throughout the late 1970s and part of the 1980s, Hoddle carried the baton for a Spurs midfield orchestra who were always willing to respond to his instinctive promptings in the middle of the pitch. What seemed to set Hoddle apart during a trophy laden career was his ability to make practical decisions at the right time and place, judging a game with the cool detachment of somebody determined to take as much as time on the ball as possible. Then he would weigh up the law of averages and dab those artistic splashes of paint onto a vibrantly colourful canvas.
During an early season match against Manchester United in the late 1970s Hoddle scored perhaps one of the most magnificent and stunning volleys ever seen at White Hart Lane. Playing the most intricate of one twos and almost telepathic wall pass Hoddle adjusted his body accordingly, swung back his kicking foot and thundered a destructive volley high into the roof of United's net. It was a moment that to those who witnessed it will always register in the mind. It was rather like biting into the sweetest apple or peach and just rolling the taste and texture on your lips.
Hoddle, undoubtedly was cunning and manipulative, never an amateur or dilettante, just the most spellbinding magician in possession, a player of deeply creative impulses and neatly delivered touches that would bisect opposition defences. Of course Hoddle the player was the most sweetly expressive of poets, a lyricist at times and never short of a goal or several to his credit when the mood took him.
Hoddle was very fussy and almost pedantic in his choice of passes, slotting his through passes to forwards with a clear sense of direction. He was fastidious in his study of the game's finer points, knowing perhaps subconsciously at times that one day those studies would result in a successful career in football management.
After sampling the splendour and opulence of Monaco, Hoddle returned to England, dipping tentative toes in the managerial waters of Swindon, his hometown club Spurs, Southampton and then Wolves. It was towards the end of the 1990s that things got serious for Hoddle. Having hugely impressed the FA hierarchy, Hoddle was wanted by England as full time boss.
During the World Cup of 1998 Hoddle's England did moderately well but when Hoddle's controversial stance on the disabled got rather lost in the translation, Hoddle made a swift exit out of the door as England boss. Hoddle was still attractive managerial material but the moment seemed to have gone. He stepped out of the hullabaloo and madness of international football, pursuing a career in the media as a pundit, a now intensely analytical mind totally concentrated on passing comment rather than the ball.
Thankfully the diagnosis on Hoddle's health isn't quite as serious as was first thought. But it is the image of Hoddle as a player, a player of statesmanlike appearance rather than some grotesque scuffler that many of us will clearly identify with. Hoddle was always a classical footballer rather than some pretentious poseur. a player of silks and satins rather than rags and patches. He glided about the pitch like a gadabout at times, never a pompous dandy, more the ingenious inventor than the outright destroyer.
Now though Hoddle is slowly recovering from a heart attack at home and we must hope that those considered views he had as a media pundit will continue to entertain those who were entertained by him. There was never anything of the false charlatan about Hoddle because he was genuinely committed to the game as both player and manager.
In the early autumn of 1979 Hoddle made his debut for England against Bulgaria on a cold night at Wembley. Perhaps inevitably he scored one of those trademark goals steering the ball precisely past the Bulgarian keeper. It was rather like watching Jack Nicklaus or Lee Trevino chipping out of the rough on a St Andrews fairway and landing the ball in the 18th hole with laser like accuracy.
Above all, Spurs fans will be praying for Hoddle's health because they know all about the club's midfield heritage. Back in the 1960s the midfield sergeant major who was Danny Blanchflower emerged as the most exemplary of gentlemen, an intuitive footballing brain who knew exactly where to find his men with the ball.
And then finally Hoddle will remember another young prodigy who almost exploded in front of his adoring Spurs fans but now, to the relief of all football supporters, is still loved and revered wherever he goes on the after dinner circuit. His name is Paul Gascoigne and although comparisons could be made with Hoddle the chances are that neither player would willingly want to be thought of as great minds thinking alike. Hoddle was the university swot whereas Gascoigne was the classroom misfit who never really paid any attention to the teacher. Then again Hoddle did have his Top of the Pops moment with Chris Waddle. Oh for those Diamond Lights.
Friday 26 October 2018
The end of October and it's all change on the weather front.
The end of October and it's all change on the weather front.
So here we are again rapidly heading towards the end of October and you'll never guess who's back for yet another season. The heavenly heat that made its star studded appearance on British shores during this summer has sadly departed and could well be on its way back to a city, town or seaside near you next April and May.
Now though, there is an air of reluctant farewell to summer before Halloween does its utmost to haunt us all. The weather has about it that sad resignation to its inevitable fate that almost breaks your heart. This morning there were those swift, beefy showers that hung around for a while before dropping a hearty sprinkling of rain. It must have undoubtedly met with the unanimous approval of British farmers across the country.
But that old chestnut of the British climate has to be mentioned again because none of us could possibly survive without at least a whole news broadcast of those warm isobars or those cold fronts from the Atlantic which threaten to dominate our everyday lives whether we like it or not. There is a real sense that a biting chill has set in with a vengeance, a foreboding that a severe winter may well be just around the corner.
It's at times like this that those in the Southern half of England always seem to get a kind of advanced warning of winter's colder excesses with mini gusts of wind, spasmodic gale force winds, torrents of rain that sweep and slant across our faces with a cautionary blast before it really turns treacherous, gloomy and extremely dangerous in December and January.
Of course more sympathetic souls will always feel sorry for the poor Scots where high up in the Grampian hills and the heather clad Highlands the weather is rather like some unwelcome and nasty burglar who keeps trying to break in and invariably steals valuable jewellery. Scotland becomes an almost unwitting victim of its own geographical position because at some point the rain and snow will arrive much sooner than it does down South. Which seems highly unfair.
But slowly the blameless, cobalt blue skies of summer are receding into some dark and cosy corner of our living rooms, thickening dark clouds conniving and conspiring behind our backs, waiting patiently for the right moment to pounce. Earlier a gang of chocolate coloured clouds crept up unobtrusively over Manor House in a concerted attempt to sabotage all of our best laid plans.
At the moment the evening has kept a low profile. There is a quiet stillness about North London, a peaceful lull before what could be considered as a forthright storm. The weather here is showing a languid indifference to everything around us. It simply can't make up its mind whether to chuck it down with incessant rain for the rest of the year or just hold fire for a while. Everybody is preparing themselves for the weekend with temperatures dropping like the proverbial stone and pullovers by the ready.
Tomorrow night the clocks go back an hour to signify the end of British summertime and the nation's body clocks ready for themselves for an extra hour in bed. At times like this some of us begin to resign ourselves to the fact that by 3pm daylight has effectively ended, it's time for a mug of hot cocoa and an early night. We may know that it's still daytime but there can be few of us who look forward to those early evening tea times when it feels as though you should in fact be turning over to sleep.
Winter is about to make its official announcement and the country is about to brace itself for those meanderingly long winter evenings when the roaring log fires and central heating systems of our winter's existence send the warmest of invitations to our neighbourhood and we all get very cosy. Suddenly the darker complexions of the seasons make themselves all too apparent, fleeting rain squalls which once tapped softly and gently against tightly secure windows now proper statements of intent.
The stark contrasts that the seasons inevitably bring every year are never more clearly highlighted than they have been this year. None of us saw that delightful summer coming and for the first time in many years we can look back at a summer that was determined to imitate the seemingly endless sunshine of 1976 when every day seemed like one eternal dream that we couldn't quite believe.
Still it's time to close the shutters on those powerful sun beams of May, June, July and August and hunker down in our dining rooms, only occasionally glancing out of the window at those comforting amber beams of light from glowing streets and silent back roads. Here, suburbia slumbers and sniffles with a thousand handkerchiefs on its sturdy coffee tables. Then we sprawl out on spacious sofas and settees as the table begins to groan under the burden of more and more magazines, newspapers, books and all kinds of vital necessities such as the TV remote control.
Winter is that very specific time where we begin to feel the rest of society has almost shut down, that rather like the hedgehog hibernation is our only source of comfort. We huddle around the TV, dig into our extensive selection of Netflix films and then find ourselves spoilt for choice for alternative things to do rather than stare spellbound into that flickering, flashing instrument of fun and entertainment that seems to have been around for thousands of centuries.
Then one member of the family turns to their Tablet or I-Pad just to make sure that they've successfully expanded their number of friends on Facebook. Then one of the children or one of their school friends will suddenly admit to having accidentally tweeted Donald Trump at which point somebody will mention Jeremy Corbyn and an aching silence will descend on 25 Acacia Avenue.
Now that all the politicians have gone back to work after what seemed an interminable summer recess Theresa May, the British Prime Minister, Jeremy Corbyn allegedly the most hated man in the whole wide world and Vince Cable perhaps the most anonymous man in the world are doing their utmost to collectively engage us in quite the monumentally boring subject British politics has ever known.
Now that winter is about to make a perennial visit to British shores the temperature in the House of Commons and Lords may well fall to its lowest point. Some of us are beginning to climb the walls with utter exasperation, cursing the day David Cameron let slip the imminent day of the EU referendum and wondering if we can possibly hurl as many vulgar expletives at our TV screens as possible.
These could well be some of the coldest and bleakest days of our lives if we continue to allow those sharp tongued representatives on behalf of our so called democracy to batter our heads with more and more variations on Brexit. Oh to be in Britain now that a winter is here and Brexit continues to break all conceivable records for the lengthy bouts of tedium it seems hell bent on subjecting us to all.
You almost feel tempted to summon the services of Michael Palin and the Monty Python team. If only some of us could avail ourselves of that wet fish which was cruelly slapped across the face of Palin by a London lock, sending him flying into the water. With the pantomime season not that far distant this could be the time to tell our noble members of Parliament to take their Brexit grievances well away from the public's disillusioned ears and just boo, hiss, sneer and snarl.
So with a day to go before we all adjust our clocks and watches and the world spins around quite chaotically at times this has to be the time to get used to those limited hours of daylight and try to cram in as much as we can. We may find that all those hours spent gazing out in misty, dark evenings could have a beneficial effect on us without ever realising it at the time.
You see Saturday tea time can only mean one thing. Yes folks, it's that time of the week when we all congregate around the TV and lose ourselves in Strictly Come Dancing. Here is one of the most polished, most utterly engaging and glamorous of early Saturday evening telly programmes. Strictly is terrific fun, side splittingly funny, never remotely dull and outrageously invigorating to the soul.
During the winter months that will now stretch in front of us, the sequins, the glitter, the dresses and those wildly unbelievable clothes will make us long for more of the same every week. As the people of the world pull up their coat collars against the strengthening, blustery winds and winter keeps knocking remorselessly against our ever resilient rooftops, Strictly Come Dancing removes us from a season that always feels like some ceaseless motorway tunnel from which there would appear to be no escape. Still we've always got Strictly Come Dancing and what about that hot tomato soup we've been promising ourselves for a couple of weeks? Whatever you do, don't forget the crusty bread. That's a must.
So here we are again rapidly heading towards the end of October and you'll never guess who's back for yet another season. The heavenly heat that made its star studded appearance on British shores during this summer has sadly departed and could well be on its way back to a city, town or seaside near you next April and May.
Now though, there is an air of reluctant farewell to summer before Halloween does its utmost to haunt us all. The weather has about it that sad resignation to its inevitable fate that almost breaks your heart. This morning there were those swift, beefy showers that hung around for a while before dropping a hearty sprinkling of rain. It must have undoubtedly met with the unanimous approval of British farmers across the country.
But that old chestnut of the British climate has to be mentioned again because none of us could possibly survive without at least a whole news broadcast of those warm isobars or those cold fronts from the Atlantic which threaten to dominate our everyday lives whether we like it or not. There is a real sense that a biting chill has set in with a vengeance, a foreboding that a severe winter may well be just around the corner.
It's at times like this that those in the Southern half of England always seem to get a kind of advanced warning of winter's colder excesses with mini gusts of wind, spasmodic gale force winds, torrents of rain that sweep and slant across our faces with a cautionary blast before it really turns treacherous, gloomy and extremely dangerous in December and January.
Of course more sympathetic souls will always feel sorry for the poor Scots where high up in the Grampian hills and the heather clad Highlands the weather is rather like some unwelcome and nasty burglar who keeps trying to break in and invariably steals valuable jewellery. Scotland becomes an almost unwitting victim of its own geographical position because at some point the rain and snow will arrive much sooner than it does down South. Which seems highly unfair.
But slowly the blameless, cobalt blue skies of summer are receding into some dark and cosy corner of our living rooms, thickening dark clouds conniving and conspiring behind our backs, waiting patiently for the right moment to pounce. Earlier a gang of chocolate coloured clouds crept up unobtrusively over Manor House in a concerted attempt to sabotage all of our best laid plans.
At the moment the evening has kept a low profile. There is a quiet stillness about North London, a peaceful lull before what could be considered as a forthright storm. The weather here is showing a languid indifference to everything around us. It simply can't make up its mind whether to chuck it down with incessant rain for the rest of the year or just hold fire for a while. Everybody is preparing themselves for the weekend with temperatures dropping like the proverbial stone and pullovers by the ready.
Tomorrow night the clocks go back an hour to signify the end of British summertime and the nation's body clocks ready for themselves for an extra hour in bed. At times like this some of us begin to resign ourselves to the fact that by 3pm daylight has effectively ended, it's time for a mug of hot cocoa and an early night. We may know that it's still daytime but there can be few of us who look forward to those early evening tea times when it feels as though you should in fact be turning over to sleep.
Winter is about to make its official announcement and the country is about to brace itself for those meanderingly long winter evenings when the roaring log fires and central heating systems of our winter's existence send the warmest of invitations to our neighbourhood and we all get very cosy. Suddenly the darker complexions of the seasons make themselves all too apparent, fleeting rain squalls which once tapped softly and gently against tightly secure windows now proper statements of intent.
The stark contrasts that the seasons inevitably bring every year are never more clearly highlighted than they have been this year. None of us saw that delightful summer coming and for the first time in many years we can look back at a summer that was determined to imitate the seemingly endless sunshine of 1976 when every day seemed like one eternal dream that we couldn't quite believe.
Still it's time to close the shutters on those powerful sun beams of May, June, July and August and hunker down in our dining rooms, only occasionally glancing out of the window at those comforting amber beams of light from glowing streets and silent back roads. Here, suburbia slumbers and sniffles with a thousand handkerchiefs on its sturdy coffee tables. Then we sprawl out on spacious sofas and settees as the table begins to groan under the burden of more and more magazines, newspapers, books and all kinds of vital necessities such as the TV remote control.
Winter is that very specific time where we begin to feel the rest of society has almost shut down, that rather like the hedgehog hibernation is our only source of comfort. We huddle around the TV, dig into our extensive selection of Netflix films and then find ourselves spoilt for choice for alternative things to do rather than stare spellbound into that flickering, flashing instrument of fun and entertainment that seems to have been around for thousands of centuries.
Then one member of the family turns to their Tablet or I-Pad just to make sure that they've successfully expanded their number of friends on Facebook. Then one of the children or one of their school friends will suddenly admit to having accidentally tweeted Donald Trump at which point somebody will mention Jeremy Corbyn and an aching silence will descend on 25 Acacia Avenue.
Now that all the politicians have gone back to work after what seemed an interminable summer recess Theresa May, the British Prime Minister, Jeremy Corbyn allegedly the most hated man in the whole wide world and Vince Cable perhaps the most anonymous man in the world are doing their utmost to collectively engage us in quite the monumentally boring subject British politics has ever known.
Now that winter is about to make a perennial visit to British shores the temperature in the House of Commons and Lords may well fall to its lowest point. Some of us are beginning to climb the walls with utter exasperation, cursing the day David Cameron let slip the imminent day of the EU referendum and wondering if we can possibly hurl as many vulgar expletives at our TV screens as possible.
These could well be some of the coldest and bleakest days of our lives if we continue to allow those sharp tongued representatives on behalf of our so called democracy to batter our heads with more and more variations on Brexit. Oh to be in Britain now that a winter is here and Brexit continues to break all conceivable records for the lengthy bouts of tedium it seems hell bent on subjecting us to all.
You almost feel tempted to summon the services of Michael Palin and the Monty Python team. If only some of us could avail ourselves of that wet fish which was cruelly slapped across the face of Palin by a London lock, sending him flying into the water. With the pantomime season not that far distant this could be the time to tell our noble members of Parliament to take their Brexit grievances well away from the public's disillusioned ears and just boo, hiss, sneer and snarl.
So with a day to go before we all adjust our clocks and watches and the world spins around quite chaotically at times this has to be the time to get used to those limited hours of daylight and try to cram in as much as we can. We may find that all those hours spent gazing out in misty, dark evenings could have a beneficial effect on us without ever realising it at the time.
You see Saturday tea time can only mean one thing. Yes folks, it's that time of the week when we all congregate around the TV and lose ourselves in Strictly Come Dancing. Here is one of the most polished, most utterly engaging and glamorous of early Saturday evening telly programmes. Strictly is terrific fun, side splittingly funny, never remotely dull and outrageously invigorating to the soul.
During the winter months that will now stretch in front of us, the sequins, the glitter, the dresses and those wildly unbelievable clothes will make us long for more of the same every week. As the people of the world pull up their coat collars against the strengthening, blustery winds and winter keeps knocking remorselessly against our ever resilient rooftops, Strictly Come Dancing removes us from a season that always feels like some ceaseless motorway tunnel from which there would appear to be no escape. Still we've always got Strictly Come Dancing and what about that hot tomato soup we've been promising ourselves for a couple of weeks? Whatever you do, don't forget the crusty bread. That's a must.
Tuesday 23 October 2018
The return of Blockbusters- once a tea time British TV favourite.
The return of Blockbusters- once a tea time British TV favourite.
Can this really be true or maybe not? Perhaps we were just imagining it all. The rumour mill among those in ITV boardrooms is well and truly alive. If recent reports are right then we could be in for a treat. Yes, believe it or not that once adored children's tea time British quiz show Blockbusters could be on its way back to our TV screens. Now that's what some of us would call proper news.
During the 1980s a genial host by the name of Bob Holness was that charmingly avuncular figure who presented a show called Blockbusters. The format was simple; take two sets of school children, ask them questions relating to any subject and then challenge their powers of quick witted observation and intelligence. The trick was to find the famous phrase from the three letters of the alphabet and stun the nation with their marvellous capacity for working out those three letters with the relevant phrase.
In essence, Blockbusters was a light hearted, humorous and pleasant prelude to a teenager's main tea time meal. There was nothing complicated or incoherent about it because most of us could identify with its easy going charm and educational motif. But it was the sight of four youngsters racking their brains for the solution to what were effectively everyday phrases that resonated with us. It was all very well knowing the answer to some of the great historical events in school. But could you crack Blockbusters? When push came to a shove you had to decipher three letters on an electronic board designed in the shape of a honeycomb. What could be simpler?
The truth is though that over 30 years have passed since those halcyon days of Blockbusters, rude sounding letters and knockabout fun. We were all versed in the ways of general knowledge because we'd all been to those supper quizzes whose only objective was to tie you up in knots with rounds on words, plays on words and phrases that were on the tips of our tongues. But those kids were so quick off the mark, so bright, alert, responsive and hugely intelligent. They knew their stuff and Blockbusters seemed to be their perfect platform for sharp and immediate answers.
But there has been a long hiatus since those wondrous days of verbal dexterity, logical reasoning and deduction. Blockbusters came to an abrupt end and, with the passing of Bob Holness, a once highly esteemed broadcaster for London radio station LBC, also went a children's programme that had once brought a gentle smile to the nation's face.
Sadly, we have a downside to the proposed return of this much loved quiz show. Is there a popular demand for an old quiz show and has it a feasible shelf life three decades after since it was last shown? Recent experience has proven that TV has had to tread very carefully when it comes to the restoration of a decaying TV programme that once worked on all levels so successfully.
How Britain once rejoiced to the dulcet theme tune of Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game during the 1970s? How we fell about with riotous laughter at the crazy and seemingly haphazard nature of a quiz show with little in the way of any semblance of a pre planned script. But we knew we were in the capable hands of showbiz royalty. Bruce Forsyth, consummate comedian, pianist and singer, had achieved everything that was attainable in the world of light entertainment and the Generation Game became his property, his Saturday early evening TV treasure that would last and last.
After brief flirtations with Larry Grayson and Jim Davidson, the Generation Game was never quite the same and some of us were relieved when the Generation Game was locked away in a BBC cupboard. You see the problem was that the novelty had gone, the shine had been tarnished and that aura of family friendly TV had more or less vanished.
There was no need for games that featured a potters wheel, loads of messy clay and couples valiantly trying their hands at creating some wobbly jug or plate to decorate their living room. There was no need for games that required couples to become actors or actresses in one of Bruce's stunning plays at the end of the show. And you didn't have to remember all of those dreadful prizes on the conveyor belt. To some it might have been regarded as very cheap, superficial and frothy TV but for a number of years the Generation Game did have its time and place.
This is where, you feel sure, Blockbusters may well fall into the same trap. It's rather like the cover versions of your favourite pop song where the said artist has bravely endeavoured to pump new life into the song with their very unique interpretation of the tune. So we are faced with the same scenario with Blockbusters. How to replace that very smart gentleman named Bob Holness who once read the news on the radio and was very formal on the radio. It was when Holness switched to TV that his personality became even more rounded and formality was replaced by frivolity.
With the recent 60th birthday of BBC's Blue Peter and ITV's equivalent Magpie now no more than a sad memory from a long time ago, children's TV may be about to get an injection of something fresh and familiar. Children's TV has long been the easiest audience to please and as the likes of Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, the Wombles, Play School, Jackanory and Trumpton leave their classic imprint on our schooldays this may be an opportune moment to bang the drum for Blockbusters. It was our childhood and nobody can ever take that away from us.
Can this really be true or maybe not? Perhaps we were just imagining it all. The rumour mill among those in ITV boardrooms is well and truly alive. If recent reports are right then we could be in for a treat. Yes, believe it or not that once adored children's tea time British quiz show Blockbusters could be on its way back to our TV screens. Now that's what some of us would call proper news.
During the 1980s a genial host by the name of Bob Holness was that charmingly avuncular figure who presented a show called Blockbusters. The format was simple; take two sets of school children, ask them questions relating to any subject and then challenge their powers of quick witted observation and intelligence. The trick was to find the famous phrase from the three letters of the alphabet and stun the nation with their marvellous capacity for working out those three letters with the relevant phrase.
In essence, Blockbusters was a light hearted, humorous and pleasant prelude to a teenager's main tea time meal. There was nothing complicated or incoherent about it because most of us could identify with its easy going charm and educational motif. But it was the sight of four youngsters racking their brains for the solution to what were effectively everyday phrases that resonated with us. It was all very well knowing the answer to some of the great historical events in school. But could you crack Blockbusters? When push came to a shove you had to decipher three letters on an electronic board designed in the shape of a honeycomb. What could be simpler?
The truth is though that over 30 years have passed since those halcyon days of Blockbusters, rude sounding letters and knockabout fun. We were all versed in the ways of general knowledge because we'd all been to those supper quizzes whose only objective was to tie you up in knots with rounds on words, plays on words and phrases that were on the tips of our tongues. But those kids were so quick off the mark, so bright, alert, responsive and hugely intelligent. They knew their stuff and Blockbusters seemed to be their perfect platform for sharp and immediate answers.
But there has been a long hiatus since those wondrous days of verbal dexterity, logical reasoning and deduction. Blockbusters came to an abrupt end and, with the passing of Bob Holness, a once highly esteemed broadcaster for London radio station LBC, also went a children's programme that had once brought a gentle smile to the nation's face.
Sadly, we have a downside to the proposed return of this much loved quiz show. Is there a popular demand for an old quiz show and has it a feasible shelf life three decades after since it was last shown? Recent experience has proven that TV has had to tread very carefully when it comes to the restoration of a decaying TV programme that once worked on all levels so successfully.
How Britain once rejoiced to the dulcet theme tune of Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game during the 1970s? How we fell about with riotous laughter at the crazy and seemingly haphazard nature of a quiz show with little in the way of any semblance of a pre planned script. But we knew we were in the capable hands of showbiz royalty. Bruce Forsyth, consummate comedian, pianist and singer, had achieved everything that was attainable in the world of light entertainment and the Generation Game became his property, his Saturday early evening TV treasure that would last and last.
After brief flirtations with Larry Grayson and Jim Davidson, the Generation Game was never quite the same and some of us were relieved when the Generation Game was locked away in a BBC cupboard. You see the problem was that the novelty had gone, the shine had been tarnished and that aura of family friendly TV had more or less vanished.
There was no need for games that featured a potters wheel, loads of messy clay and couples valiantly trying their hands at creating some wobbly jug or plate to decorate their living room. There was no need for games that required couples to become actors or actresses in one of Bruce's stunning plays at the end of the show. And you didn't have to remember all of those dreadful prizes on the conveyor belt. To some it might have been regarded as very cheap, superficial and frothy TV but for a number of years the Generation Game did have its time and place.
This is where, you feel sure, Blockbusters may well fall into the same trap. It's rather like the cover versions of your favourite pop song where the said artist has bravely endeavoured to pump new life into the song with their very unique interpretation of the tune. So we are faced with the same scenario with Blockbusters. How to replace that very smart gentleman named Bob Holness who once read the news on the radio and was very formal on the radio. It was when Holness switched to TV that his personality became even more rounded and formality was replaced by frivolity.
With the recent 60th birthday of BBC's Blue Peter and ITV's equivalent Magpie now no more than a sad memory from a long time ago, children's TV may be about to get an injection of something fresh and familiar. Children's TV has long been the easiest audience to please and as the likes of Postman Pat, Thomas the Tank Engine, the Wombles, Play School, Jackanory and Trumpton leave their classic imprint on our schooldays this may be an opportune moment to bang the drum for Blockbusters. It was our childhood and nobody can ever take that away from us.
Sunday 21 October 2018
Chelsea managers past and present.
Chelsea managers past and present.
Deep in the bowels of Stamford Bridge the ghosts of Chelsea managers past and present hover in clandestine Dickensian corners. Occasionally you can hear the gentle whispers of Eddie McCreadie, the straight talking pronouncements of Tommy Docherty and then the philosophical utterances of the great David Sexton, a man of such wisdom and immense knowledge of the game's inner workings and rudiments that it almost seemed at times as if he were studying the game for a major academic exam.
It would have been intriguing to know what exactly either of the aforesaid managers might have thought of Jose Mourinho if indeed they thought him worthy of consideration. McCreadie would have probably told Mourinho exactly what he thought of him in no uncertain terms, Docherty would have invited him into his room for a bottle of champagne and Sexton would have given the Portuegese chapter and verse on Nietzsche or the complete works of Freud. But then Jose may well have suspected this would be the case anyway.
Yesterday Mourinho returned to his old stomping ground at Chelsea where he is still highly regarded as a saint by some but blasted as a villainous traitor by others. This time Jose Mourinho was Manchester United manager and any comparison with Tommy Docherty has to be an appropriate one. Both Docherty and Mourinho have graced the corridors of both the West London club and at Old Trafford with a unique humour and flamboyance that can never be challenged.
Now by the strangest of coincidences Mourinho is Manchester United boss and Docherty, now a long time resident in the managerial retirement home, can only cast his eyes at his modern day successor with the most wistful of smiles. Mourinho and Docherty have combined the best of both worlds, Chelsea and Manchester United coursing through their bloodstreams. But it would have been interesting to be a fly on the wall of the Docherty living room as he cast what must have been a severely critical eye over the present day Manchester United incumbent.
Yesterday lunchtime Jose Mourinho was caught up in the most unsavoury of scuffles at the end of Manchester United's 2-2 Premier League draw with Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. It was almost as if history had quite literally come back to haunt Mourinho. In the general scheme of things he would have shrugged off the whole incident as just one of those things that happen in the heat of battle. But the man from Portugal had been deeply offended by a childish taunt made by one of the Chelsea staff and just exploded.
Slowly but surely Jose Mourinho is beginning to reveal the very darkest side of his combustible character. At times it seems that he genuinely enjoys being the centre of attention and any psychologist would probably force Mourinho to lie back on a couch and talk about his childhood. Sometimes it's almost impossible to know what it is that he finds so distasteful and repugnant about life and footballing officialdom.
His almost inexplicable outburst yesterday reminded you of dearly beloved Brian Clough. In a League Cup tie against QPR, Clough's face turned an angry shade of red and purple as a couple of over exuberant supporters invaded the pitch. Clough took the law into his hands, grabbed the miscreants by the scruff of the neck and rained down a series of rabbit punches on the fans as if determined to mete out his personal retribution.
And this is where some of us find ourselves straying into parallels with Mourinho. Clough was blunt, outspoken, militant, stubborn, idealistic and very forthcoming with his opinions. Clough conducted his press conferences rather like the Spanish inquisition, as probing and at times personal questions were dealt with ruthlessly, a long lecture and full blooded reprimand ready to be delivered. Clough knew what he was doing and this is where Mourinho came in.
As the players left the pitch after the game Mourinho strode away from his dug out with a smug look on his face. He hadn't won the match which is pretty much why he always feels hard done by. But then he smirked, grinned again repeatedly before lifting up three fingers in the air, a gesture which represented the number of times his Chelsea had won the Premier League under his stewardship.
Minutes beforehand Mourinho had been ranting and raving uncontrollably, wildly flailing his arms about rather like a man whose life savings had just been stolen from him. The final whistle had just gone, both teams honourably shook each other's hands and it looked as though that was that. But the red mist descended on the Portuegese and with emotional testosterone raging, a member of the Chelsea staff went too far in the estimation of the man from Portugal.
There was almost a delayed reaction before it suddenly hit Mourinho that he'd been humiliated and disgraced. How dare you bring the game into disrepute and how satisfying that last gasp equalising goal from Ross Barkley must have been? Stick that in your pipe Jose. The flame had been lit and the smoke seemed to pouring from Mourinho's now silvery hair. Suddenly Manchester United had been viciously attacked and Mourinho was like a Spanish bull ready to charge at any moment.
For a while it looked as if the fire in Mourinho's eyes would never be doused but then sanity prevailed, everybody calmed down and then saw reason which it had to do eventually. A small gaggle of players and officials pushed and shoved their way into the fracas before things simmered down. At the end of it all none of us really knew why the Manchester United boss was so furious but then the latest episode of the soap opera that Mourinho has singularly written now finds itself beyond ridicule and parody.
Maybe Mourinho will indeed find peace within himself because at the moment there are more short fuses ready to be sparked if somebody decides that they don't like the colour of his coat and the way he walks over to his technical area. At the moment the menacing scowl is still there, the eyes still blazing like a bonfire, the face still screwed up into a twisted smile and then pained anguish leaving horrible scars on his cheeks.
Still, the Manchester United boss, although at internal war with himself, can of course justifiably point to the League titles in Portugal, Spain and three times over with Chelsea. That's what it says on his CV and few can argue with its validity. The football season is a long and punishing slog for most Premier League managers and your heart goes out to all of them. But Mourinho remains the persecuted one, the one picked out from the rest of the crowd for harsh and savage criticism.
The next weeks are still crucial for Jose Mourinho because when United so much as lose one game, Mourinho growls like a terrier, snaps off heads perhaps too abruptly and then spurts out his objections when somebody tries to damage either his ego or reputation. Mourinho is not a happy bunny at the moment and probably feels as though the only signing he was allowed to make for United, a player called Fred, would not nearly be good enough or effective enough to make United a side to be reckoned with.
The natives are restless, discord and dissension is beginning to grow, the United fans are beginning to look at their season tickets with a jaundiced eye and a nervous tension is festering away in the United camp that could never have been envisaged when Sir Alex Ferguson was in charge. There are worried glances, concerned head scratching and genuine panic at times. This is not quite the time for a revolt or uprising at Manchester United because the chances are that this particular crisis will blow over.
When the idolised Sir Matt Busby and Sir Alex Ferguson left Old Trafford there was a slanderous suggestion that United would fall off the footballing map and never re-surface again. In Busby's case that almost sentimental and unbreakable attachment to Manchester United would never be broken and although it took a man of Ferguson's managerial stature to resurrect the club again, Ferguson's record breaking Premier League titles and two European Cups speak for themselves.
When Mourinho goes to bed tonight he may be tempted to think that he can never do anything right in the eyes of those who have never believed in him. But Jose Mourinho will fight all of his fires and battles with a grim determination and a sense that he is the manager once and for all, he decides what is right for Manchester United and that independent streak in his nature will prove all the doubters wrong. It is hard to know whether Mourinho has a healthy collection of Frank Sinatra records in his collection but if he can do it his way then the world may seem a much better place for him. The Jose way has to be the right way. Of that you can be sure.
Deep in the bowels of Stamford Bridge the ghosts of Chelsea managers past and present hover in clandestine Dickensian corners. Occasionally you can hear the gentle whispers of Eddie McCreadie, the straight talking pronouncements of Tommy Docherty and then the philosophical utterances of the great David Sexton, a man of such wisdom and immense knowledge of the game's inner workings and rudiments that it almost seemed at times as if he were studying the game for a major academic exam.
It would have been intriguing to know what exactly either of the aforesaid managers might have thought of Jose Mourinho if indeed they thought him worthy of consideration. McCreadie would have probably told Mourinho exactly what he thought of him in no uncertain terms, Docherty would have invited him into his room for a bottle of champagne and Sexton would have given the Portuegese chapter and verse on Nietzsche or the complete works of Freud. But then Jose may well have suspected this would be the case anyway.
Yesterday Mourinho returned to his old stomping ground at Chelsea where he is still highly regarded as a saint by some but blasted as a villainous traitor by others. This time Jose Mourinho was Manchester United manager and any comparison with Tommy Docherty has to be an appropriate one. Both Docherty and Mourinho have graced the corridors of both the West London club and at Old Trafford with a unique humour and flamboyance that can never be challenged.
Now by the strangest of coincidences Mourinho is Manchester United boss and Docherty, now a long time resident in the managerial retirement home, can only cast his eyes at his modern day successor with the most wistful of smiles. Mourinho and Docherty have combined the best of both worlds, Chelsea and Manchester United coursing through their bloodstreams. But it would have been interesting to be a fly on the wall of the Docherty living room as he cast what must have been a severely critical eye over the present day Manchester United incumbent.
Yesterday lunchtime Jose Mourinho was caught up in the most unsavoury of scuffles at the end of Manchester United's 2-2 Premier League draw with Chelsea at Stamford Bridge. It was almost as if history had quite literally come back to haunt Mourinho. In the general scheme of things he would have shrugged off the whole incident as just one of those things that happen in the heat of battle. But the man from Portugal had been deeply offended by a childish taunt made by one of the Chelsea staff and just exploded.
Slowly but surely Jose Mourinho is beginning to reveal the very darkest side of his combustible character. At times it seems that he genuinely enjoys being the centre of attention and any psychologist would probably force Mourinho to lie back on a couch and talk about his childhood. Sometimes it's almost impossible to know what it is that he finds so distasteful and repugnant about life and footballing officialdom.
His almost inexplicable outburst yesterday reminded you of dearly beloved Brian Clough. In a League Cup tie against QPR, Clough's face turned an angry shade of red and purple as a couple of over exuberant supporters invaded the pitch. Clough took the law into his hands, grabbed the miscreants by the scruff of the neck and rained down a series of rabbit punches on the fans as if determined to mete out his personal retribution.
And this is where some of us find ourselves straying into parallels with Mourinho. Clough was blunt, outspoken, militant, stubborn, idealistic and very forthcoming with his opinions. Clough conducted his press conferences rather like the Spanish inquisition, as probing and at times personal questions were dealt with ruthlessly, a long lecture and full blooded reprimand ready to be delivered. Clough knew what he was doing and this is where Mourinho came in.
As the players left the pitch after the game Mourinho strode away from his dug out with a smug look on his face. He hadn't won the match which is pretty much why he always feels hard done by. But then he smirked, grinned again repeatedly before lifting up three fingers in the air, a gesture which represented the number of times his Chelsea had won the Premier League under his stewardship.
Minutes beforehand Mourinho had been ranting and raving uncontrollably, wildly flailing his arms about rather like a man whose life savings had just been stolen from him. The final whistle had just gone, both teams honourably shook each other's hands and it looked as though that was that. But the red mist descended on the Portuegese and with emotional testosterone raging, a member of the Chelsea staff went too far in the estimation of the man from Portugal.
There was almost a delayed reaction before it suddenly hit Mourinho that he'd been humiliated and disgraced. How dare you bring the game into disrepute and how satisfying that last gasp equalising goal from Ross Barkley must have been? Stick that in your pipe Jose. The flame had been lit and the smoke seemed to pouring from Mourinho's now silvery hair. Suddenly Manchester United had been viciously attacked and Mourinho was like a Spanish bull ready to charge at any moment.
For a while it looked as if the fire in Mourinho's eyes would never be doused but then sanity prevailed, everybody calmed down and then saw reason which it had to do eventually. A small gaggle of players and officials pushed and shoved their way into the fracas before things simmered down. At the end of it all none of us really knew why the Manchester United boss was so furious but then the latest episode of the soap opera that Mourinho has singularly written now finds itself beyond ridicule and parody.
Maybe Mourinho will indeed find peace within himself because at the moment there are more short fuses ready to be sparked if somebody decides that they don't like the colour of his coat and the way he walks over to his technical area. At the moment the menacing scowl is still there, the eyes still blazing like a bonfire, the face still screwed up into a twisted smile and then pained anguish leaving horrible scars on his cheeks.
Still, the Manchester United boss, although at internal war with himself, can of course justifiably point to the League titles in Portugal, Spain and three times over with Chelsea. That's what it says on his CV and few can argue with its validity. The football season is a long and punishing slog for most Premier League managers and your heart goes out to all of them. But Mourinho remains the persecuted one, the one picked out from the rest of the crowd for harsh and savage criticism.
The next weeks are still crucial for Jose Mourinho because when United so much as lose one game, Mourinho growls like a terrier, snaps off heads perhaps too abruptly and then spurts out his objections when somebody tries to damage either his ego or reputation. Mourinho is not a happy bunny at the moment and probably feels as though the only signing he was allowed to make for United, a player called Fred, would not nearly be good enough or effective enough to make United a side to be reckoned with.
The natives are restless, discord and dissension is beginning to grow, the United fans are beginning to look at their season tickets with a jaundiced eye and a nervous tension is festering away in the United camp that could never have been envisaged when Sir Alex Ferguson was in charge. There are worried glances, concerned head scratching and genuine panic at times. This is not quite the time for a revolt or uprising at Manchester United because the chances are that this particular crisis will blow over.
When the idolised Sir Matt Busby and Sir Alex Ferguson left Old Trafford there was a slanderous suggestion that United would fall off the footballing map and never re-surface again. In Busby's case that almost sentimental and unbreakable attachment to Manchester United would never be broken and although it took a man of Ferguson's managerial stature to resurrect the club again, Ferguson's record breaking Premier League titles and two European Cups speak for themselves.
When Mourinho goes to bed tonight he may be tempted to think that he can never do anything right in the eyes of those who have never believed in him. But Jose Mourinho will fight all of his fires and battles with a grim determination and a sense that he is the manager once and for all, he decides what is right for Manchester United and that independent streak in his nature will prove all the doubters wrong. It is hard to know whether Mourinho has a healthy collection of Frank Sinatra records in his collection but if he can do it his way then the world may seem a much better place for him. The Jose way has to be the right way. Of that you can be sure.
Friday 19 October 2018
Nick Clegg's new job at Facebook.
Nick Clegg's new job at Facebook.
It's hard to know what to make of today's news that Nick Clegg, he of the coalition government with David Cameron before Theresa May, has been appointed as Facebook's global affairs and communication team. He will be responsible for the welfare of an internationally famous corporation whose image has been ever so slightly tainted by data protection violations and is still reeling from the bad publicity and fall out which followed the revelations.
But now Facebook, that vast global social media empire whose influence can be felt in every corner of the planet, is now entrusting its affairs to a man who used to be the assistant to the Prime Minister, a man who, had he known it at the time, would probably have run for the hills. Now that assistant has been headhunted by an organisation that has truly become a world wide phenomenon, a quiet and mild mannered man who essentially did nothing wrong at all apart from being the Deputy Prime Minister.
The image of Clegg remains warmly enshrined in the memory. On the day after David Cameron became the official Prime Minister, Clegg and Cameron stood side by side rather like Morecambe and Wise, Flanagan and Allen or Abbot and Costello, all cheesy smiles and heartfelt respect for each other. And yet we all knew that there was a deeper undercurrent of suspicion and simple tolerance of each other's strengths and weaknesses.
The truth is that Clegg didn't really want to be there because he knew that he was just the lengthening shadow behind Cameron, the reluctant deputy who would much rather have been in 10 Downing Street as the leader of the country. Yet there he stood in the pretty garden in Downing Street, ambitions fulfilled to some extent but not entirely happy to be second in command.
The trouble with politicians is that when they drop out of the limelight they tend to either lose their way or find themselves at the House of Commons bar with nobody to talk to. Undoubtedly, Clegg is probably too nice and polite to upset any apple cart but you suspect that an admittedly impressive position with Facebook will hardly fill him with the joys of spring. But then it might have occurred to him that Facebook is immensely popular and it would have been silly to turn his nose up at the opportunity.
Why, you may wonder, was he overlooked by Twitter or Instagram, Snap Chat or any other respectable social media think tank? In the general scheme of things Clegg could have pursued a worthy career in some very high profile role with a bank or found himself considered for any other thriving dotcom company who would have willingly accepted him.
Still it is Nick Clegg that Facebook have turned to for his media savvy connections, his natural leadership qualities and his ability to communicate which as the nature of the job implies, would have to be one of his most outstanding qualities. So what else will Clegg bring to Facebook? Will he change the format of Facebook, will he enhance the profile of Candy Crush Saga, Farmville or those immensely amusing thumbs up and down which quite clearly determine your mood on any given day.
For as long as anybody can remember Facebook has established a seemingly lasting place in our everyday consciousness. Facebook reminds us quite frequently that it remains the only place where you can accumulate roughly 250, 000 friends and family without feeling totally bewildered by the absurdity of this knowledge. Facebook gives you emojis which is the new buzz word for human emotions naturally. It asks you to smile, wishes you well effusively, compiles impromptu friendship stories with any of your long term friends and generally drives up your ego to the highest level.
Facebook gives you up to date information of all the latest trends and developments in art, sport, fashion and the current news agenda. It is the source of an intriguing news feed which tells you all about the things you might have been interested to know but were not entirely sure why it was necessary to know in the first place.
Of course Facebook, according to those in the know has sharply divided opinion among both the chattering classes and those who simply despise it as a wretched nuisance which should have just gone away for ever because they can't stand it. Besides, what are we to benefit from a service that leaves most of us in some kind of weird parallel universe where the only reality is not reality?
Why should be subjected to this constant bombardment of information, this blizzard of friend requests from people we've never heard of let alone seen and that barrage of chat. It's enough to drive you round the twist - and yet does it actually reduce us to a quivering rage? We know that Facebook is perhaps one of the finest of all creations because it does have an undoubted capacity to bring people together. to re-unite old acquaintances and find out much more than they'd bargained for.
Perversely Facebook has opened itself to shocking abuse and misuse, an exploitation of the way in which loved ones seem to send perfectly harmless messages only to find that they've gone missing. Clegg is the man who has been snatched up by Facebook, the man to fix the ongoing behind the scene problems which refuse to go away for Facebook. Clegg is proactive, hands on, ready to step up to the plate as and when required, motivating those who may not be pulling their weight and geeing up those who might be accused of being lackadaisical.
So here we are in this whirling, whizzing high tech world of mass communication where social interaction has become a social imperative. Facebook commands a huge audience and a mind blowing set of high tech dynamics that can hardly be understood by any of us. Naturally it encompasses everything and everybody in its worldwide reach and hugely captive audience. Its revolutionary, controversial, provocative, annoying, troublesome at times but ultimately captivating and charismatic.
For what seems like an age many of us have taken Facebook to our heart because we really do love the way it keeps un in touch, living in that pretend world where everybody is our friend and nobody is an enemy. You can be sure that by the end of today Clegg will be fully acquainted with the minutiae of Facebook, its funky downloaded videos, its funny animals, our triumphant birthday parties, our moments in the sun, our tales of woe and success, our grievances and our satisfied customers.
Iti is important to point that some of us have to be careful what we say in case Facebook decides to ban us for an indefinite amount of time. We live in an age where a huge majority of our innermost thoughts are invariably analysed and intensely monitored in case we overstep the boundaries. This could well be interpreted as the age of censorship, heavily edited criticism that could re-bound on us almost accidentally.
But Nick Clegg, the former Liberal Democrat with a heart of gold has come to the rescue of one of the foremost forces in the social media community. Here we have a man who thought he'd blown it in in political circles only to discover that there was somebody out there who genuinely cared about him- apart that is from his wife, children and family who have always believed that he was the best dad in the world.
Nick Clegg has been given yet another crack, another chance to prove his pedigree, really find out quite literally who his real friends are. When he walks into work on Monday morning it may be that he'll greeted by a company who knew everything there was to know about his credentials, who knows his mind and will make the kind of decisions that he must have felt had been taken out of his hands when he was Deputy Prime Minister.
Clegg you feel sure must still keep a keen eye on the incredible turn of events in Brussels. For Clegg Brexit and its never ending whys and wherefores, this must be a continuous source of merriment and mirth at late night dinner gatherings. How on earth did his partner David Cameron manage to get it so disastrously wrong, completely misjudging his Britain and then perhaps regretting his decisions in the process?
But Mr Clegg is now back in harness with a job that detaches himself dramatically from confrontational politics and places him back much closer to the public he'd always secretly trusted. Facebook is backing Clegg and it's time to find out whether Candy Crush really is the answer to the Brexit puzzle.
Meanwhile we shall allow the children in the playground to create their mischievous mayhem, insulting each other profusely and verbally attacking each other with cold, calculating jibes laced with personal put downs. We are now in poison pen letter territory and maybe we should take our lead from that very pleasant man who used to be our Deputy Prime Minister. Stand up Nick Clegg. Facebook needs you.
It's hard to know what to make of today's news that Nick Clegg, he of the coalition government with David Cameron before Theresa May, has been appointed as Facebook's global affairs and communication team. He will be responsible for the welfare of an internationally famous corporation whose image has been ever so slightly tainted by data protection violations and is still reeling from the bad publicity and fall out which followed the revelations.
But now Facebook, that vast global social media empire whose influence can be felt in every corner of the planet, is now entrusting its affairs to a man who used to be the assistant to the Prime Minister, a man who, had he known it at the time, would probably have run for the hills. Now that assistant has been headhunted by an organisation that has truly become a world wide phenomenon, a quiet and mild mannered man who essentially did nothing wrong at all apart from being the Deputy Prime Minister.
The image of Clegg remains warmly enshrined in the memory. On the day after David Cameron became the official Prime Minister, Clegg and Cameron stood side by side rather like Morecambe and Wise, Flanagan and Allen or Abbot and Costello, all cheesy smiles and heartfelt respect for each other. And yet we all knew that there was a deeper undercurrent of suspicion and simple tolerance of each other's strengths and weaknesses.
The truth is that Clegg didn't really want to be there because he knew that he was just the lengthening shadow behind Cameron, the reluctant deputy who would much rather have been in 10 Downing Street as the leader of the country. Yet there he stood in the pretty garden in Downing Street, ambitions fulfilled to some extent but not entirely happy to be second in command.
The trouble with politicians is that when they drop out of the limelight they tend to either lose their way or find themselves at the House of Commons bar with nobody to talk to. Undoubtedly, Clegg is probably too nice and polite to upset any apple cart but you suspect that an admittedly impressive position with Facebook will hardly fill him with the joys of spring. But then it might have occurred to him that Facebook is immensely popular and it would have been silly to turn his nose up at the opportunity.
Why, you may wonder, was he overlooked by Twitter or Instagram, Snap Chat or any other respectable social media think tank? In the general scheme of things Clegg could have pursued a worthy career in some very high profile role with a bank or found himself considered for any other thriving dotcom company who would have willingly accepted him.
Still it is Nick Clegg that Facebook have turned to for his media savvy connections, his natural leadership qualities and his ability to communicate which as the nature of the job implies, would have to be one of his most outstanding qualities. So what else will Clegg bring to Facebook? Will he change the format of Facebook, will he enhance the profile of Candy Crush Saga, Farmville or those immensely amusing thumbs up and down which quite clearly determine your mood on any given day.
For as long as anybody can remember Facebook has established a seemingly lasting place in our everyday consciousness. Facebook reminds us quite frequently that it remains the only place where you can accumulate roughly 250, 000 friends and family without feeling totally bewildered by the absurdity of this knowledge. Facebook gives you emojis which is the new buzz word for human emotions naturally. It asks you to smile, wishes you well effusively, compiles impromptu friendship stories with any of your long term friends and generally drives up your ego to the highest level.
Facebook gives you up to date information of all the latest trends and developments in art, sport, fashion and the current news agenda. It is the source of an intriguing news feed which tells you all about the things you might have been interested to know but were not entirely sure why it was necessary to know in the first place.
Of course Facebook, according to those in the know has sharply divided opinion among both the chattering classes and those who simply despise it as a wretched nuisance which should have just gone away for ever because they can't stand it. Besides, what are we to benefit from a service that leaves most of us in some kind of weird parallel universe where the only reality is not reality?
Why should be subjected to this constant bombardment of information, this blizzard of friend requests from people we've never heard of let alone seen and that barrage of chat. It's enough to drive you round the twist - and yet does it actually reduce us to a quivering rage? We know that Facebook is perhaps one of the finest of all creations because it does have an undoubted capacity to bring people together. to re-unite old acquaintances and find out much more than they'd bargained for.
Perversely Facebook has opened itself to shocking abuse and misuse, an exploitation of the way in which loved ones seem to send perfectly harmless messages only to find that they've gone missing. Clegg is the man who has been snatched up by Facebook, the man to fix the ongoing behind the scene problems which refuse to go away for Facebook. Clegg is proactive, hands on, ready to step up to the plate as and when required, motivating those who may not be pulling their weight and geeing up those who might be accused of being lackadaisical.
So here we are in this whirling, whizzing high tech world of mass communication where social interaction has become a social imperative. Facebook commands a huge audience and a mind blowing set of high tech dynamics that can hardly be understood by any of us. Naturally it encompasses everything and everybody in its worldwide reach and hugely captive audience. Its revolutionary, controversial, provocative, annoying, troublesome at times but ultimately captivating and charismatic.
For what seems like an age many of us have taken Facebook to our heart because we really do love the way it keeps un in touch, living in that pretend world where everybody is our friend and nobody is an enemy. You can be sure that by the end of today Clegg will be fully acquainted with the minutiae of Facebook, its funky downloaded videos, its funny animals, our triumphant birthday parties, our moments in the sun, our tales of woe and success, our grievances and our satisfied customers.
Iti is important to point that some of us have to be careful what we say in case Facebook decides to ban us for an indefinite amount of time. We live in an age where a huge majority of our innermost thoughts are invariably analysed and intensely monitored in case we overstep the boundaries. This could well be interpreted as the age of censorship, heavily edited criticism that could re-bound on us almost accidentally.
But Nick Clegg, the former Liberal Democrat with a heart of gold has come to the rescue of one of the foremost forces in the social media community. Here we have a man who thought he'd blown it in in political circles only to discover that there was somebody out there who genuinely cared about him- apart that is from his wife, children and family who have always believed that he was the best dad in the world.
Nick Clegg has been given yet another crack, another chance to prove his pedigree, really find out quite literally who his real friends are. When he walks into work on Monday morning it may be that he'll greeted by a company who knew everything there was to know about his credentials, who knows his mind and will make the kind of decisions that he must have felt had been taken out of his hands when he was Deputy Prime Minister.
Clegg you feel sure must still keep a keen eye on the incredible turn of events in Brussels. For Clegg Brexit and its never ending whys and wherefores, this must be a continuous source of merriment and mirth at late night dinner gatherings. How on earth did his partner David Cameron manage to get it so disastrously wrong, completely misjudging his Britain and then perhaps regretting his decisions in the process?
But Mr Clegg is now back in harness with a job that detaches himself dramatically from confrontational politics and places him back much closer to the public he'd always secretly trusted. Facebook is backing Clegg and it's time to find out whether Candy Crush really is the answer to the Brexit puzzle.
Meanwhile we shall allow the children in the playground to create their mischievous mayhem, insulting each other profusely and verbally attacking each other with cold, calculating jibes laced with personal put downs. We are now in poison pen letter territory and maybe we should take our lead from that very pleasant man who used to be our Deputy Prime Minister. Stand up Nick Clegg. Facebook needs you.
Tuesday 16 October 2018
England reign in Spain in UEFA Nations League win against Spain.
England reign in Spain in UEFA Nations League win against Spain.
So it was that England overcame the matador, the picador and the toreador all at once. There, that was easy enough. After performing before the proverbial two dogs and a cat in Croatia, England showed both their feline and canine side against a Spain side who once boasted a couple of European Championship titles and a World Cup for good measure.
Last night in the place where they grow oranges, England gave one of the juiciest and appealing of UEFA Nations League 3-2 victories and then began to realise just how good that felt. Besides it isn't every day that you get to meet the former World Champions and then dismissively sweep them away like dust from the floor. This was an excellent England display and once again replicated the feelgood factor still accompanying England after the most epic of all World Cups in Russia this summer.
True, this may have been the UEFA Nations League and there are some of us who may be feeling sold down the river and desperately short changed but England have undeniably won again and that has to be good. Of course something has been lost in the translation and the UEFA Nations League still has echoes of those distant 1970s English club pre- season tournaments such as the Texaco Cup or the Watney Cup, international matches but international matches without clout and prestige. Or maybe the UEFA Nations League should be taken seriously.
Still, here we are in what feels suspiciously like dress rehearsals for the European Championship qualifiers and it all feels very strange even mundane. You're reminded of that phoney war known as the Confederations Cup, the tournament that now precedes the World Cup the year before the real thing takes place. Some of us though are still tapping our fingers on the table, searching for some kind of clarification and wondering why this is happening at all.
But onwards and upwards and we must confront the immediate future rather than a dusty, antiquated past where nothing useful can be gained. This was another incarnation of the England side who had bent over backwards and bust a gut to give the whole of England both at home and in Russia such enormous pleasure under the stern gazes of both Stalin and Lenin which couldn't have been easy given that the equally as forbidding faces of Brezhnev and Yeltsin may have well been looking on judgmentally as well.
This could have been regarded as simply a continuation of those heady, giddy and dizzy days of wine and roses which came perfectly delivered to our doorsteps like the most magnificent bouquet of flowers. Russia is now history and now Gareth Southgate's newly refreshed England side came flying out of the traps like the sleekest of greyhounds. Slight alterations and minor tweaks had been made to last night's most delectable of victories. It was as if somebody had given us the most mouth watering marzipan cake and smothered it with cherries and overflowing cream.
Against Spain, England looked once again like a stunning replica of the side who'd flattened Panama, dealt admirably with Colombia in the face of spiky and often unforgivable provocation and then slipped Sweden into their pockets like a child picking up their sweet wrapper. There were some old faces, new faces, welcome faces and faces that just fitted into the side seamlessly. England looked something close to the finished article that almost ended up in a World Cup Final, a position that must have beyond any of their wildest fantasies at the beginning of the year.
There was the return of Chelsea's Ross Barkley, an excellently creative midfield playmaker whose remarkable vision and almost extra sensory perception singled him out at Everton as one of the most refined of footballing architects. Barkley seems to weigh up his passes like one of those supermarket shoppers from yesteryear who used to insist that their meat and cheese be cut and measured to the exact amount.
Barkley once again then floated and glided around the middle of the Seville pitch, cutting inside, loitering with commendable intent and then thrusting forward into the opposition half rather like some devious impostor at a party who, quite clearly, hadn't been invited. Barkley is one of England's most complete of midfield players and, you feel sure, will inevitably be given his chance to cement his place in Gareth Southgate's flowering England side.
Next to Barkley is Harry Winks, a wet behind the ears Spurs discovery who has shown quite consistently that he too can wear the artists smock when called upon. Winks plays with the ball delicately, tenderly, easily and precisely, laying the ball into his colleague's path with pleasing economy of effort and then showing a relaxed assurance on the ball. It is impossible to know whether Winks could be the next Glen Hoddle but Winks has the most feathery and gossamer touch and could be among one of Gareth Southgate's essential fixtures and fittings.
As usual England looked rock solid and secure at the back with Eric Dier locking up the keys commandingly at the back before venturing forward into that definitive defensive holding midfield role that he seems to have made his province. The exceptionally young but superbly promising Joe Gomez, a real find for Liverpool and that formidable set piece corner exponent Harry Maguire look like human fortresses. veritable brick walls at the back through whom nothing should ever pass.
But it was the exciting contributions of Raheem Sterling, Marcus Rashford and above all World Cup skipper and record goal scorer Harry Kane who tempted us to think that one day it could all fall into place with no hesitation or deviation. Most of us know what we're going to get with England and the element of surprise could be something to work on. We can only be thankful and look back on that festival of football with the fondest of memories and an affectionate acknowledgement of what it was like to be an England football supporter without getting too sentimental.
Quite obviously the players who succeeded at every level for England during the summer are now blending in perfectly, a nicely integrated attacking unit who could yet step up to a far higher footballing platform provided nobody mentions penalty shoot outs at dinner parties across the land.
England made that all important breakthrough after, ironically a tidal wave of Spanish pressure which bore no resemblance to the Armada but did threaten English confidence and equilibrium. Raheem Sterling, running purposefully onto a neatly weighted pass rifled the ball into the Spanish net with a drilled shot which gave the Spain keeper no chance whatsoever.
Then before the Spanish could resort to sangria by way of liquid refreshment, England extended their lead. Marcus Rashford, who really does possess the potential to emerge as one of England's finest of all strikers, latched onto sharply to a deft Harry Kane lay back. Another well structured England movement, quick and clinical, resulted in Rashford barging his way into the box before steering the ball fiercely past the keeper. This was perhaps one of the most rewarding nights England have had for some time against one of the top notch, nouveau riche and classical of European teams.
Although Spain briefly rallied with what proved to be consolation goals, England were firing from all angles, constantly upsetting and troubling Spain with pacy, cuttingly penetrative football. England's attacking forward line were full of salt, vinegar and spice, a combination of controlled aggression and bullish combativeness, beefy ingredients with steak and kidney pie in one healthy serving.
After the match itself the considered opinion was that this was England's best result in recent times and one that bore comparison with that famous night when England just sliced open the Germans with a 5-1 demolition 17 years ago. This was no Munich though rather the most delicious Spanish paella with maybe a fine vintage of red wine to wash it down with.
And so it was that we move away from the international scene for a while and revert back to the toil and drudgery of the Premier League. The factory floor is still humming and the workers will be as industrious as ever. This weekend we will once again cast our eyes towards the grumpy one who goes by the name of Manchester United's Jose Mourinho, the attractively fashionable one who is Pep Guardiola at Manchester City, the new Unai Emery at Arsenal and that financial whizz kid who used to be a banker and is now Chelsea manager.
We will watch Maurizio Sarri with some interest if you'll forgive yet another pun and hope that he doesn't get quite as excitable as his predecessor Antonio Conte who loved nothing better than a good dive into the Chelsea crowd and always wore black. These are notable times in our lives and when the Premier League does get back to some semblance of order we may find that the familiar names will be ready and waiting with the same clothes and the same habits. We can hardly wait.
So it was that England overcame the matador, the picador and the toreador all at once. There, that was easy enough. After performing before the proverbial two dogs and a cat in Croatia, England showed both their feline and canine side against a Spain side who once boasted a couple of European Championship titles and a World Cup for good measure.
Last night in the place where they grow oranges, England gave one of the juiciest and appealing of UEFA Nations League 3-2 victories and then began to realise just how good that felt. Besides it isn't every day that you get to meet the former World Champions and then dismissively sweep them away like dust from the floor. This was an excellent England display and once again replicated the feelgood factor still accompanying England after the most epic of all World Cups in Russia this summer.
True, this may have been the UEFA Nations League and there are some of us who may be feeling sold down the river and desperately short changed but England have undeniably won again and that has to be good. Of course something has been lost in the translation and the UEFA Nations League still has echoes of those distant 1970s English club pre- season tournaments such as the Texaco Cup or the Watney Cup, international matches but international matches without clout and prestige. Or maybe the UEFA Nations League should be taken seriously.
Still, here we are in what feels suspiciously like dress rehearsals for the European Championship qualifiers and it all feels very strange even mundane. You're reminded of that phoney war known as the Confederations Cup, the tournament that now precedes the World Cup the year before the real thing takes place. Some of us though are still tapping our fingers on the table, searching for some kind of clarification and wondering why this is happening at all.
But onwards and upwards and we must confront the immediate future rather than a dusty, antiquated past where nothing useful can be gained. This was another incarnation of the England side who had bent over backwards and bust a gut to give the whole of England both at home and in Russia such enormous pleasure under the stern gazes of both Stalin and Lenin which couldn't have been easy given that the equally as forbidding faces of Brezhnev and Yeltsin may have well been looking on judgmentally as well.
This could have been regarded as simply a continuation of those heady, giddy and dizzy days of wine and roses which came perfectly delivered to our doorsteps like the most magnificent bouquet of flowers. Russia is now history and now Gareth Southgate's newly refreshed England side came flying out of the traps like the sleekest of greyhounds. Slight alterations and minor tweaks had been made to last night's most delectable of victories. It was as if somebody had given us the most mouth watering marzipan cake and smothered it with cherries and overflowing cream.
Against Spain, England looked once again like a stunning replica of the side who'd flattened Panama, dealt admirably with Colombia in the face of spiky and often unforgivable provocation and then slipped Sweden into their pockets like a child picking up their sweet wrapper. There were some old faces, new faces, welcome faces and faces that just fitted into the side seamlessly. England looked something close to the finished article that almost ended up in a World Cup Final, a position that must have beyond any of their wildest fantasies at the beginning of the year.
There was the return of Chelsea's Ross Barkley, an excellently creative midfield playmaker whose remarkable vision and almost extra sensory perception singled him out at Everton as one of the most refined of footballing architects. Barkley seems to weigh up his passes like one of those supermarket shoppers from yesteryear who used to insist that their meat and cheese be cut and measured to the exact amount.
Barkley once again then floated and glided around the middle of the Seville pitch, cutting inside, loitering with commendable intent and then thrusting forward into the opposition half rather like some devious impostor at a party who, quite clearly, hadn't been invited. Barkley is one of England's most complete of midfield players and, you feel sure, will inevitably be given his chance to cement his place in Gareth Southgate's flowering England side.
Next to Barkley is Harry Winks, a wet behind the ears Spurs discovery who has shown quite consistently that he too can wear the artists smock when called upon. Winks plays with the ball delicately, tenderly, easily and precisely, laying the ball into his colleague's path with pleasing economy of effort and then showing a relaxed assurance on the ball. It is impossible to know whether Winks could be the next Glen Hoddle but Winks has the most feathery and gossamer touch and could be among one of Gareth Southgate's essential fixtures and fittings.
As usual England looked rock solid and secure at the back with Eric Dier locking up the keys commandingly at the back before venturing forward into that definitive defensive holding midfield role that he seems to have made his province. The exceptionally young but superbly promising Joe Gomez, a real find for Liverpool and that formidable set piece corner exponent Harry Maguire look like human fortresses. veritable brick walls at the back through whom nothing should ever pass.
But it was the exciting contributions of Raheem Sterling, Marcus Rashford and above all World Cup skipper and record goal scorer Harry Kane who tempted us to think that one day it could all fall into place with no hesitation or deviation. Most of us know what we're going to get with England and the element of surprise could be something to work on. We can only be thankful and look back on that festival of football with the fondest of memories and an affectionate acknowledgement of what it was like to be an England football supporter without getting too sentimental.
Quite obviously the players who succeeded at every level for England during the summer are now blending in perfectly, a nicely integrated attacking unit who could yet step up to a far higher footballing platform provided nobody mentions penalty shoot outs at dinner parties across the land.
England made that all important breakthrough after, ironically a tidal wave of Spanish pressure which bore no resemblance to the Armada but did threaten English confidence and equilibrium. Raheem Sterling, running purposefully onto a neatly weighted pass rifled the ball into the Spanish net with a drilled shot which gave the Spain keeper no chance whatsoever.
Then before the Spanish could resort to sangria by way of liquid refreshment, England extended their lead. Marcus Rashford, who really does possess the potential to emerge as one of England's finest of all strikers, latched onto sharply to a deft Harry Kane lay back. Another well structured England movement, quick and clinical, resulted in Rashford barging his way into the box before steering the ball fiercely past the keeper. This was perhaps one of the most rewarding nights England have had for some time against one of the top notch, nouveau riche and classical of European teams.
Although Spain briefly rallied with what proved to be consolation goals, England were firing from all angles, constantly upsetting and troubling Spain with pacy, cuttingly penetrative football. England's attacking forward line were full of salt, vinegar and spice, a combination of controlled aggression and bullish combativeness, beefy ingredients with steak and kidney pie in one healthy serving.
After the match itself the considered opinion was that this was England's best result in recent times and one that bore comparison with that famous night when England just sliced open the Germans with a 5-1 demolition 17 years ago. This was no Munich though rather the most delicious Spanish paella with maybe a fine vintage of red wine to wash it down with.
And so it was that we move away from the international scene for a while and revert back to the toil and drudgery of the Premier League. The factory floor is still humming and the workers will be as industrious as ever. This weekend we will once again cast our eyes towards the grumpy one who goes by the name of Manchester United's Jose Mourinho, the attractively fashionable one who is Pep Guardiola at Manchester City, the new Unai Emery at Arsenal and that financial whizz kid who used to be a banker and is now Chelsea manager.
We will watch Maurizio Sarri with some interest if you'll forgive yet another pun and hope that he doesn't get quite as excitable as his predecessor Antonio Conte who loved nothing better than a good dive into the Chelsea crowd and always wore black. These are notable times in our lives and when the Premier League does get back to some semblance of order we may find that the familiar names will be ready and waiting with the same clothes and the same habits. We can hardly wait.
Saturday 13 October 2018
National Train Your Brain Day
National Train Your Brain Day.
I know what you're thinking. What will he think of next? The fact is that today is National Train Your Brain Day. What kind of topic for discussion is that? It's a kind of no brainer if you'll forgive the unintended pun. More of a brainwave. Oh, alright then this is one of those perhaps insignificant days when nothing of any real interest will be taking place apart of course from those vexing issues that really do wind us up from time to time such as Brexit, Donald Trump's leg measurements and Theresa May's innovative dancing routines.
Yes indeed. Today is National Train Your Brain Day whereby a whole nation of crossword puzzle enthusiasts, Sudoko zealots, word game fans and those who are simply partial to the most complicated mathematical equations sit down together, stare thoughtfully into their respective books or pieces of paper and wonder exactly what goes through the cerebral senses when the brain and mind clock on for another shift at the coal face on a daily basis.
So what, you may be interested to know, goes on in that grey matter of ours when we're confronted with seemingly insoluble problems that require intensive thinking and cool calculation. Isn't it interesting how the human brain takes on board so much information during the day that by the end of it, a sense of mental exhaustion probably sets in without any of us being remotely conscious of it?
Back in the 1980s there was the famous Rubik's Cube, a fascinating object that looked like a cube and had different colours on it, driving most of us to the verge of drink and sleepless nights. The Rubik's Cube required us to match up four squares on a cube without drifting into a state of complete agitation and anger. At the time though we thought it was one of those passing toy fads that would meet the same fate as any other infuriating novelty that would drive us around the bend.
But for ages the whole of world was tormented, challenged, angered and outraged by the Rubik's Cube, an object of hate, enjoyment in some quarters and then contempt by others when you just couldn't work out why it was taking an inordinate amount of time to sort it out . So it was that one day we consigned it to the dustbin of history, obliterated it from our crowded brain and just stuck to crossword puzzles.
For a while the thought of twisting around reds, blues, greens and yellows to their appropriate places must have seemed an insane waste of a day because you were never likely to achieve anything of substance by twiddling with a crazy toy that didn't really seem to prove anything. Even the Hungarian inventor got ever so slightly cross with himself at his complete inability to solve his own creation. Or so we were led to believe at the time.
For many though perhaps the most satisfying of brain challenges would have to be The Times cryptic crossword. Now here was something to get your teeth into. The Times cryptic crossword has sent most of our brightest minds into both the coldest of sweats and reaching for a Thesaurus. The fact is that the Times crossword can be completed and many a mind, both deeply contemplative and serious of thought, has found there was nothing to it and proudly owned up to the fact that it had taken them no time at all. Simple really they will tell you.
But the Times crossword would have to be much cleverer, thought provoking and cunning than the conventional and simple tea time break crossword. It sets up those obscure and convoluted statements and remarkable plays on words that look as though they were designed for professors and scientists. Suddenly, training the brain takes on a whole new meaning. This is brain training on the most gigantic scale.
Coming right up to the present day though and one brain training puzzle has gripped the world in a way that few have been able to do for quite some time. It's called Sudoko and it's a mathematical conundrum that leaves some of us desperately begging for enlightenment. For the best part of an eternity it has left me in a dizzying state of incomprehension. Maths just wasn't my thing, not my forte as they say. Sudoko, although seemingly logical and straightforward to the mind of a mathematician, is just beyond me. Maybe now this is the time though to try harder and concentrate but at the moment the inclination is not there.
For the moment though this could be the time to reflect on how much we take the brain for granted. All of those brain teasers and puzzles are all very well but is it really necessary to stress ourselves out over the most trivial questions and imponderables? Do we really have to convince ourselves that when it comes to crossword puzzles we should treat them as some inoffensive fun where it no longer matters whether you can actually solve them or not?
Still, the next time you begin to pepper questions at the most influential part of the human anatomy you may be interested to know that perhaps the brain is a delicate and vulnerable mechanism that only responds to you favourably when it knows that you're posing it inquiries that it can answer at the snap of the finger. Oh, if only I could begin to understand the Times Crossword. Still, there's always Sudoko. On second thoughts maybe not.
I know what you're thinking. What will he think of next? The fact is that today is National Train Your Brain Day. What kind of topic for discussion is that? It's a kind of no brainer if you'll forgive the unintended pun. More of a brainwave. Oh, alright then this is one of those perhaps insignificant days when nothing of any real interest will be taking place apart of course from those vexing issues that really do wind us up from time to time such as Brexit, Donald Trump's leg measurements and Theresa May's innovative dancing routines.
Yes indeed. Today is National Train Your Brain Day whereby a whole nation of crossword puzzle enthusiasts, Sudoko zealots, word game fans and those who are simply partial to the most complicated mathematical equations sit down together, stare thoughtfully into their respective books or pieces of paper and wonder exactly what goes through the cerebral senses when the brain and mind clock on for another shift at the coal face on a daily basis.
So what, you may be interested to know, goes on in that grey matter of ours when we're confronted with seemingly insoluble problems that require intensive thinking and cool calculation. Isn't it interesting how the human brain takes on board so much information during the day that by the end of it, a sense of mental exhaustion probably sets in without any of us being remotely conscious of it?
Back in the 1980s there was the famous Rubik's Cube, a fascinating object that looked like a cube and had different colours on it, driving most of us to the verge of drink and sleepless nights. The Rubik's Cube required us to match up four squares on a cube without drifting into a state of complete agitation and anger. At the time though we thought it was one of those passing toy fads that would meet the same fate as any other infuriating novelty that would drive us around the bend.
But for ages the whole of world was tormented, challenged, angered and outraged by the Rubik's Cube, an object of hate, enjoyment in some quarters and then contempt by others when you just couldn't work out why it was taking an inordinate amount of time to sort it out . So it was that one day we consigned it to the dustbin of history, obliterated it from our crowded brain and just stuck to crossword puzzles.
For a while the thought of twisting around reds, blues, greens and yellows to their appropriate places must have seemed an insane waste of a day because you were never likely to achieve anything of substance by twiddling with a crazy toy that didn't really seem to prove anything. Even the Hungarian inventor got ever so slightly cross with himself at his complete inability to solve his own creation. Or so we were led to believe at the time.
For many though perhaps the most satisfying of brain challenges would have to be The Times cryptic crossword. Now here was something to get your teeth into. The Times cryptic crossword has sent most of our brightest minds into both the coldest of sweats and reaching for a Thesaurus. The fact is that the Times crossword can be completed and many a mind, both deeply contemplative and serious of thought, has found there was nothing to it and proudly owned up to the fact that it had taken them no time at all. Simple really they will tell you.
But the Times crossword would have to be much cleverer, thought provoking and cunning than the conventional and simple tea time break crossword. It sets up those obscure and convoluted statements and remarkable plays on words that look as though they were designed for professors and scientists. Suddenly, training the brain takes on a whole new meaning. This is brain training on the most gigantic scale.
Coming right up to the present day though and one brain training puzzle has gripped the world in a way that few have been able to do for quite some time. It's called Sudoko and it's a mathematical conundrum that leaves some of us desperately begging for enlightenment. For the best part of an eternity it has left me in a dizzying state of incomprehension. Maths just wasn't my thing, not my forte as they say. Sudoko, although seemingly logical and straightforward to the mind of a mathematician, is just beyond me. Maybe now this is the time though to try harder and concentrate but at the moment the inclination is not there.
For the moment though this could be the time to reflect on how much we take the brain for granted. All of those brain teasers and puzzles are all very well but is it really necessary to stress ourselves out over the most trivial questions and imponderables? Do we really have to convince ourselves that when it comes to crossword puzzles we should treat them as some inoffensive fun where it no longer matters whether you can actually solve them or not?
Still, the next time you begin to pepper questions at the most influential part of the human anatomy you may be interested to know that perhaps the brain is a delicate and vulnerable mechanism that only responds to you favourably when it knows that you're posing it inquiries that it can answer at the snap of the finger. Oh, if only I could begin to understand the Times Crossword. Still, there's always Sudoko. On second thoughts maybe not.
Thursday 11 October 2018
International football and that anti climactic feeling.
International football and that anti climactic feeling.
So here we are four months after that famous World Cup journey for the England football team. How agonisingly close did we come after all of those helter skelter moments, those emotional highs and ultimately lows that unfolded in the space of four glorious weeks. It was a time when it seemed as if the whole of England had gathered in every market town, village square, timber beamed pub and vast, sprawling shopping mall. They were there to witness some of the most tumultuous moments of our time when blood pressures soared through the roof and plastic cups of beer were sent flying into another city.
Roll forward to early autumn in England and the sense of a shuddering anti climax may have set in. Every farmer, postman, milkman, slick City lawyer, accountant, carpenter, office worker, supermarket shelf stacker and factory hand will now be suffering that weirdly anti climactic sensation that we must have felt when England last reached a World Cup semi final in 1990.
True, on this occasion there weren't any penalty shoot outs nor disconsolate figures such as Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle to lay the blame on. But there was a very well organised and disciplined Croatia side lying in waiting for Gareth Southgate's England and at the end of an enthralling semi final which went right to the wire England once again trooped off the pitch in Russia much richer for the experience but slightly disappointed. Perhaps they were just relieved to know that they wouldn't have to deal with a rampant, youthfully irrepressible France side who would have probably taken them to the cleaners.
After having the lion's share of the possession in the opening stages and threatening to make a game of it against France Croatia were simply blown away by a rampant French side who became a side possessed, brimming over with powerful counter attacking, youthful energy and immense skill. It was as if somebody had stolen Croatia's keys to the palace only to find that the palace was a bed and breakfast hotel. From the sublime to ridiculous or so it seemed.
But this is October and England are back on the UEFA Nations League trail. Or is it the European Championship? At some point in the footballing calendar some of us have lost track of where we are. We've now discovered that somebody seems to be tampering with the international footballing diary and this is very confusing. There is still an abiding sense of bewilderment and some of us are not entirely sure whether we've any reason to get fully excited about it.
This is the problem. What is the UEFA Nations League? How to explain quantum physics or the last 500 or so pages of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace although it was a remarkably entertaining novel if a little on the long side. But what is this UEFA Nations Champions League, this new fangled competition with admittedly a League table to it but nothing to suggest that any of us will feel any sense of glowing pride even if we do qualify from a group that includes Spain and Croatia.
To the best of my recollection the international football calendar used to consist of European Championship qualifiers or World Cup qualifying campaign at roughly this time. England normally began their international campaign to a new season with a gentle friendly followed by a rigorous schedule of Euro or World Cup qualifying games.
Now we have the UEFA Nations League, some indecipherable addition to the world footballing merry go round which makes no sense whatsoever or maybe I've missed something along the way. Are we to assume that because England seemed to have led the rest of Europe up the garden path in that perhaps those in the highest circles of UEFA are determined to inflict some kind of cruel revenge on us for all the mess and inconvenience caused by Brexit.
Have England indeed been relegated from Europe's top table, excommunicated, shoved into the background and condemned to a life in some third class competition that none of us can make head or tail of. And yet it doesn't feel as though England have in any way been rejected or marginalised by the powers to be because we are playing Spain and Croatia and they're still forces to be reckoned with.
Still we mustn't grumble because England have still got Gareth Southgate and that has to be worth three points even before the start of a game. When he first appeared as manager of England many of us would have been forgiven that Southgate had just stepped out of a high street bank or just left a very important function in the City of London.
Southgate of course was the best dressed football manager at the World Cup by a several hundred country miles. He wore this very sartorially striking blue waistcoat that suggested that he'd just inquired how much the mortgage rate was or the prices of property in Kensington. But Southgate looked immaculate, a model of quite modesty, respectability, credibility, street cred, no airs or graces at all and the kind of son every daughter would have been desperate to take home and show to her parents.
And so it was that Southgate transported us to a very special place where even the wildest of optimists thought they'd never tread. They strolled to victory against Tunisia with a businesslike victory, chanced their luck against Colombia before finally cracking that hitherto impenetrable nut known as the penalty shoot out and then pickled the Swedes in a quarter final that almost seemed too good to be true.
Along the way that vast hard core of England's travelling supporters must have privately felt that finally after 52 years of humiliation, rejection, feeling sorry for themselves, self pity perhaps and shame faced degradation it was time to imagine what exactly would have been going through the minds of England supporters who followed their team during 1966.
They'd all suffered through those horribly deflating, disheartening, dispiriting years when the England football team simply fell apart, melted into oblivion, only narrowly missed out on World Cup glory and then just gave up. Maybe England were indeed banging their heads on the proverbial wall in which case they should have been wearing a protective builder's hard hat.
Then, for lengthy periods of their semi final, the ruggedly dependable Eric Dier, the free spirited Delle Ali, the floating, fast, athletic and very resourceful Raheem Sterling tried thrillingly to engineer and carve out some of England's most progressive attacking movements. Occasionally Sterling seemed to collide into a street bollard or stumble awkwardly at a critical moment. Jordan Henderson, who seemed to be criminally overlooked as captain material, was moderately effective when slowing the game down and then measuring his passes across England's midfield columns.
But the man upon whom most of England seemed to become heavily dependent for all of those crucial winning goals almost led his country into uncharted territory. 52 years earlier the nation's hearts were similarly broken upon learning that another Spurs poster boy hero Jimmy Greaves would be injured and therefore not available for the 1966 World Cup Final.
Of course Harry Kane has an indeterminate amount of time to prove himself as one of England's greatest of all centre forwards. Already Kane has smashed the records set respectively by Bobby Charlton and Gary Lineker but there remains a nagging feeling that Russia 2018 has gone and by the time of Qatar in four years the desert will be a lonely place and besides it'll be far too hot to play anyway. But hey who cares it's only the World Cup and even Montgomery found it tough at times.
Anyway it's time to get back to brass tacks and time for England to climb their way up the torturous foothills of international football. They may come up against some of the most treacherous rocks and boulders before attempting some giant leap into what they will hope become their very own Promised Land.
Following the England football team in recent years has never been easy and this could be the time for a leisurely re-assessment, repositioning and rapidly changing direction before the Satnav takes us somewhere else. Russia 2018, you feel sure felt like some tropical paradise for a while before England came up against those familiar mangrove swamps where all of those dense jungles can leave you feeling angry and frustrated.
Now though should be the time to once again salute one Gareth Southgate there's only one Gareth Southgate. Southgate was the presentable one, the estimable one, the well mannered one, a polite, proper, chatty, charming and diplomatic football manager always ready with the most well crafted quip. When Southgate went over to the England supporters and punched the air with both fists joyously and exultantly he did it not once but over and over again. It has been a jolly good year for the England football team even if the Jules Rimes Trophy World Cup didn't quite reach its intended destination. It's time to tackle that dreadful maze that is UEFA Nations League. We wish Southgate the very best of wishes.
So here we are four months after that famous World Cup journey for the England football team. How agonisingly close did we come after all of those helter skelter moments, those emotional highs and ultimately lows that unfolded in the space of four glorious weeks. It was a time when it seemed as if the whole of England had gathered in every market town, village square, timber beamed pub and vast, sprawling shopping mall. They were there to witness some of the most tumultuous moments of our time when blood pressures soared through the roof and plastic cups of beer were sent flying into another city.
Roll forward to early autumn in England and the sense of a shuddering anti climax may have set in. Every farmer, postman, milkman, slick City lawyer, accountant, carpenter, office worker, supermarket shelf stacker and factory hand will now be suffering that weirdly anti climactic sensation that we must have felt when England last reached a World Cup semi final in 1990.
True, on this occasion there weren't any penalty shoot outs nor disconsolate figures such as Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle to lay the blame on. But there was a very well organised and disciplined Croatia side lying in waiting for Gareth Southgate's England and at the end of an enthralling semi final which went right to the wire England once again trooped off the pitch in Russia much richer for the experience but slightly disappointed. Perhaps they were just relieved to know that they wouldn't have to deal with a rampant, youthfully irrepressible France side who would have probably taken them to the cleaners.
After having the lion's share of the possession in the opening stages and threatening to make a game of it against France Croatia were simply blown away by a rampant French side who became a side possessed, brimming over with powerful counter attacking, youthful energy and immense skill. It was as if somebody had stolen Croatia's keys to the palace only to find that the palace was a bed and breakfast hotel. From the sublime to ridiculous or so it seemed.
But this is October and England are back on the UEFA Nations League trail. Or is it the European Championship? At some point in the footballing calendar some of us have lost track of where we are. We've now discovered that somebody seems to be tampering with the international footballing diary and this is very confusing. There is still an abiding sense of bewilderment and some of us are not entirely sure whether we've any reason to get fully excited about it.
This is the problem. What is the UEFA Nations League? How to explain quantum physics or the last 500 or so pages of Leo Tolstoy's War and Peace although it was a remarkably entertaining novel if a little on the long side. But what is this UEFA Nations Champions League, this new fangled competition with admittedly a League table to it but nothing to suggest that any of us will feel any sense of glowing pride even if we do qualify from a group that includes Spain and Croatia.
To the best of my recollection the international football calendar used to consist of European Championship qualifiers or World Cup qualifying campaign at roughly this time. England normally began their international campaign to a new season with a gentle friendly followed by a rigorous schedule of Euro or World Cup qualifying games.
Now we have the UEFA Nations League, some indecipherable addition to the world footballing merry go round which makes no sense whatsoever or maybe I've missed something along the way. Are we to assume that because England seemed to have led the rest of Europe up the garden path in that perhaps those in the highest circles of UEFA are determined to inflict some kind of cruel revenge on us for all the mess and inconvenience caused by Brexit.
Have England indeed been relegated from Europe's top table, excommunicated, shoved into the background and condemned to a life in some third class competition that none of us can make head or tail of. And yet it doesn't feel as though England have in any way been rejected or marginalised by the powers to be because we are playing Spain and Croatia and they're still forces to be reckoned with.
Still we mustn't grumble because England have still got Gareth Southgate and that has to be worth three points even before the start of a game. When he first appeared as manager of England many of us would have been forgiven that Southgate had just stepped out of a high street bank or just left a very important function in the City of London.
Southgate of course was the best dressed football manager at the World Cup by a several hundred country miles. He wore this very sartorially striking blue waistcoat that suggested that he'd just inquired how much the mortgage rate was or the prices of property in Kensington. But Southgate looked immaculate, a model of quite modesty, respectability, credibility, street cred, no airs or graces at all and the kind of son every daughter would have been desperate to take home and show to her parents.
And so it was that Southgate transported us to a very special place where even the wildest of optimists thought they'd never tread. They strolled to victory against Tunisia with a businesslike victory, chanced their luck against Colombia before finally cracking that hitherto impenetrable nut known as the penalty shoot out and then pickled the Swedes in a quarter final that almost seemed too good to be true.
Along the way that vast hard core of England's travelling supporters must have privately felt that finally after 52 years of humiliation, rejection, feeling sorry for themselves, self pity perhaps and shame faced degradation it was time to imagine what exactly would have been going through the minds of England supporters who followed their team during 1966.
They'd all suffered through those horribly deflating, disheartening, dispiriting years when the England football team simply fell apart, melted into oblivion, only narrowly missed out on World Cup glory and then just gave up. Maybe England were indeed banging their heads on the proverbial wall in which case they should have been wearing a protective builder's hard hat.
Then, for lengthy periods of their semi final, the ruggedly dependable Eric Dier, the free spirited Delle Ali, the floating, fast, athletic and very resourceful Raheem Sterling tried thrillingly to engineer and carve out some of England's most progressive attacking movements. Occasionally Sterling seemed to collide into a street bollard or stumble awkwardly at a critical moment. Jordan Henderson, who seemed to be criminally overlooked as captain material, was moderately effective when slowing the game down and then measuring his passes across England's midfield columns.
But the man upon whom most of England seemed to become heavily dependent for all of those crucial winning goals almost led his country into uncharted territory. 52 years earlier the nation's hearts were similarly broken upon learning that another Spurs poster boy hero Jimmy Greaves would be injured and therefore not available for the 1966 World Cup Final.
Of course Harry Kane has an indeterminate amount of time to prove himself as one of England's greatest of all centre forwards. Already Kane has smashed the records set respectively by Bobby Charlton and Gary Lineker but there remains a nagging feeling that Russia 2018 has gone and by the time of Qatar in four years the desert will be a lonely place and besides it'll be far too hot to play anyway. But hey who cares it's only the World Cup and even Montgomery found it tough at times.
Anyway it's time to get back to brass tacks and time for England to climb their way up the torturous foothills of international football. They may come up against some of the most treacherous rocks and boulders before attempting some giant leap into what they will hope become their very own Promised Land.
Following the England football team in recent years has never been easy and this could be the time for a leisurely re-assessment, repositioning and rapidly changing direction before the Satnav takes us somewhere else. Russia 2018, you feel sure felt like some tropical paradise for a while before England came up against those familiar mangrove swamps where all of those dense jungles can leave you feeling angry and frustrated.
Now though should be the time to once again salute one Gareth Southgate there's only one Gareth Southgate. Southgate was the presentable one, the estimable one, the well mannered one, a polite, proper, chatty, charming and diplomatic football manager always ready with the most well crafted quip. When Southgate went over to the England supporters and punched the air with both fists joyously and exultantly he did it not once but over and over again. It has been a jolly good year for the England football team even if the Jules Rimes Trophy World Cup didn't quite reach its intended destination. It's time to tackle that dreadful maze that is UEFA Nations League. We wish Southgate the very best of wishes.
Tuesday 9 October 2018
It's still summer in October.
It's still summer in October.
Yes folks it's back by popular demand and looking better than ever. Summer is indeed back and it's hard to believe that here we at the beginning of October and the good people of North London and Manor House are still walking around the streets with T-shirts on, beach shirts, flip flops and basking in the surreally warm heat of early autumn. There's something there that doesn't seem to be quite right and yet how excessively grateful we are for this most completely unexpected of returns.
It did look as though the last few weeks or so were more or less the accepted norm for this time of the year as Britain woke to angry skies, grey, murky mists and dark, incensed clouds that were gathering together their battalions for a full frontal attack of heavy rain and blustery winds. But this was quite literally a false dawn because today most of Britain woke up this morning and was convinced that the Mediterranean had made a welcome re-appearance. We hadn't prepared for this and there were never any indications that blue skies, warm sunshine and July had popped in for a flying visit.
Still here we on this most gorgeous October day, wondering if this may be too good to last. Besides, this could be a forerunner for gale force winds, monsoons, even thick blankets of snow within the next week or so. But rest assured it's here at the moment and let us just take everything in, absorb the sheer perfection of it all, dismissing from our minds immediately that it won't last and by the end of the week we'll all be shivering with cold and freezing in which case that was merely some temporary lull before the storm.
Here in Manor House the fresh, brand new regeneration of the whole area is well and truly underway. Everywhere you look there are those towering, magisterial looking cranes soaring over our homely home from home like a giant set of Lego or Meccano. Truly, these cranes and JCBs are quite the tallest and most intimidating sight you're ever likely to see in suburban London. They hover in the air with red winking lights that go on at night just to remind you that they're still there.
But the fact is that, as my wife rightly points out, this is the biggest building site in Europe. You wouldn't believe the monumental scale of these ludicrously expensive flats and apartments, the vast immensity of it all, the monstrous cement mixers whirling, grinding, moaning and moping, forever making the most extraordinary noise. It is the sound of modern British industrialism, groaning and heavy machinery, things that go beep and sound like a constant sequence of fire drill alarms.
Most of the brand new blocks of flats behind us have now been built but behind one of our garden walls it looks as if a new city is in the process of being developed. A huge set of massive foundation stones, thick girders the size of London itself and all manner of building equipment is beginning to block out all natural light.
For as far as the eye can see there is evolution, progress and futuristic architecture that looks and feels as if the 21st century has arrived with fanfares, bells and whistles. Gone are the old blocks of flats and now in its place are the fresh, luxuriously furnished and spectacular homes with smart looking balconies and quite the most astonishing views over the beautiful Woodberry Wetlands.
That's it Woodberry Wetlands. Who knew that such a place existed years ago. But this is the Woodberry Wetlands opened up recently by the legendary Sir David Attenborough. Woodberry Wetlands is an explosion of nature at her prettiest and most natural. In fact Manor House is beginning to look irresistibly picturesque so much so that you'd be forgiven for thinking that you were indeed in the country and John Constable was still alive.
The Wetlands is now the place to go for every imaginable gathering of birds, every conceivable colour and every variety of our avian friends. There are doubtless great crested grebes, kingfishers proudly surveying their stretch of water nobly, Canadian geese strutting around imperiously as if they owned Manor House, magpies, finches tightly tucked away behind bushes and anything with feathers and a beak.
There are butterfly catching parties who stop in awed admiration, the Coal House cafe, ducks perched delicately on small islands in the middle of the water and nothing but the most idyllic silence when all is still calm and at peace with the world. People stroll around in their small knots all the while gazing into the far distance, their faces totally enraptured by the teeming wildlife. Then they stop for a while fascinated, engrossed by the spectacle around them, standing for a while and then pointing out the names of the birds to eager, receptive children.
So there you have it everybody. Summer is back in North London, healthier, fitter and stronger than ever before. October is still pinching itself because it just can't take it all in. It almost seems as if it was determined to surprise us without us noticing, catching us out suddenly and maybe deluding us into thinking that these warm, sultry days are here to stay until Christmas Day.
Perhaps it should have given us prior warning or made some grand announcement, a pleasant surprise that none of us could have expected. Sadly though you suspect that winter may be hiding covertly behind some chaotic hawthorn bush away from the hustle and bustle of the City and ready to pounce on us while we aren't watching. Still, it's time we poured ourselves a refreshing Pimms, dug out the industrial fan, opened the living room doors and then thought of sun dappled seaside resorts with their ravenous gulls.
These early October days have to be savoured and relished because you never know what might be around the corner. In a couple of weeks time the clocks will go back and a huge enveloping blanket of darkness will descend on us emphatically. Before you know it, 3.30 in the afternoon will seem like midnight, the central heating will be switched on with a decisive switch and we'll all be harking back to those bronzed, silvery and golden days when the sun shone with a handsome authority and longevity.
But for now at least we can at least kid ourselves that summer will never desert us and 2018 witnessed some of the most incredible weather since that joyfully jubilant heatwave of 1976. True this may not be a time for hose pipe bans and an abundance of ice creams but thick coats and pullovers may have to wait a while longer. This is Britain, England, still totally wrapped up in Brexit talk, still occasionally squabbling with itself and unnecessarily running itself down and still being far too modest. October in England hey. Phew what a scorcher!
Yes folks it's back by popular demand and looking better than ever. Summer is indeed back and it's hard to believe that here we at the beginning of October and the good people of North London and Manor House are still walking around the streets with T-shirts on, beach shirts, flip flops and basking in the surreally warm heat of early autumn. There's something there that doesn't seem to be quite right and yet how excessively grateful we are for this most completely unexpected of returns.
It did look as though the last few weeks or so were more or less the accepted norm for this time of the year as Britain woke to angry skies, grey, murky mists and dark, incensed clouds that were gathering together their battalions for a full frontal attack of heavy rain and blustery winds. But this was quite literally a false dawn because today most of Britain woke up this morning and was convinced that the Mediterranean had made a welcome re-appearance. We hadn't prepared for this and there were never any indications that blue skies, warm sunshine and July had popped in for a flying visit.
Still here we on this most gorgeous October day, wondering if this may be too good to last. Besides, this could be a forerunner for gale force winds, monsoons, even thick blankets of snow within the next week or so. But rest assured it's here at the moment and let us just take everything in, absorb the sheer perfection of it all, dismissing from our minds immediately that it won't last and by the end of the week we'll all be shivering with cold and freezing in which case that was merely some temporary lull before the storm.
Here in Manor House the fresh, brand new regeneration of the whole area is well and truly underway. Everywhere you look there are those towering, magisterial looking cranes soaring over our homely home from home like a giant set of Lego or Meccano. Truly, these cranes and JCBs are quite the tallest and most intimidating sight you're ever likely to see in suburban London. They hover in the air with red winking lights that go on at night just to remind you that they're still there.
But the fact is that, as my wife rightly points out, this is the biggest building site in Europe. You wouldn't believe the monumental scale of these ludicrously expensive flats and apartments, the vast immensity of it all, the monstrous cement mixers whirling, grinding, moaning and moping, forever making the most extraordinary noise. It is the sound of modern British industrialism, groaning and heavy machinery, things that go beep and sound like a constant sequence of fire drill alarms.
Most of the brand new blocks of flats behind us have now been built but behind one of our garden walls it looks as if a new city is in the process of being developed. A huge set of massive foundation stones, thick girders the size of London itself and all manner of building equipment is beginning to block out all natural light.
For as far as the eye can see there is evolution, progress and futuristic architecture that looks and feels as if the 21st century has arrived with fanfares, bells and whistles. Gone are the old blocks of flats and now in its place are the fresh, luxuriously furnished and spectacular homes with smart looking balconies and quite the most astonishing views over the beautiful Woodberry Wetlands.
That's it Woodberry Wetlands. Who knew that such a place existed years ago. But this is the Woodberry Wetlands opened up recently by the legendary Sir David Attenborough. Woodberry Wetlands is an explosion of nature at her prettiest and most natural. In fact Manor House is beginning to look irresistibly picturesque so much so that you'd be forgiven for thinking that you were indeed in the country and John Constable was still alive.
The Wetlands is now the place to go for every imaginable gathering of birds, every conceivable colour and every variety of our avian friends. There are doubtless great crested grebes, kingfishers proudly surveying their stretch of water nobly, Canadian geese strutting around imperiously as if they owned Manor House, magpies, finches tightly tucked away behind bushes and anything with feathers and a beak.
There are butterfly catching parties who stop in awed admiration, the Coal House cafe, ducks perched delicately on small islands in the middle of the water and nothing but the most idyllic silence when all is still calm and at peace with the world. People stroll around in their small knots all the while gazing into the far distance, their faces totally enraptured by the teeming wildlife. Then they stop for a while fascinated, engrossed by the spectacle around them, standing for a while and then pointing out the names of the birds to eager, receptive children.
So there you have it everybody. Summer is back in North London, healthier, fitter and stronger than ever before. October is still pinching itself because it just can't take it all in. It almost seems as if it was determined to surprise us without us noticing, catching us out suddenly and maybe deluding us into thinking that these warm, sultry days are here to stay until Christmas Day.
Perhaps it should have given us prior warning or made some grand announcement, a pleasant surprise that none of us could have expected. Sadly though you suspect that winter may be hiding covertly behind some chaotic hawthorn bush away from the hustle and bustle of the City and ready to pounce on us while we aren't watching. Still, it's time we poured ourselves a refreshing Pimms, dug out the industrial fan, opened the living room doors and then thought of sun dappled seaside resorts with their ravenous gulls.
These early October days have to be savoured and relished because you never know what might be around the corner. In a couple of weeks time the clocks will go back and a huge enveloping blanket of darkness will descend on us emphatically. Before you know it, 3.30 in the afternoon will seem like midnight, the central heating will be switched on with a decisive switch and we'll all be harking back to those bronzed, silvery and golden days when the sun shone with a handsome authority and longevity.
But for now at least we can at least kid ourselves that summer will never desert us and 2018 witnessed some of the most incredible weather since that joyfully jubilant heatwave of 1976. True this may not be a time for hose pipe bans and an abundance of ice creams but thick coats and pullovers may have to wait a while longer. This is Britain, England, still totally wrapped up in Brexit talk, still occasionally squabbling with itself and unnecessarily running itself down and still being far too modest. October in England hey. Phew what a scorcher!
Sunday 7 October 2018
Doctor Who- the first woman doctor.
Doctor Who - the first woman doctor.
It's hard to imagine what HG Wells would have made of Doctor Who. Would he have sighed reflectively, raged disapprovingly or just harrumphed his disgust at the sheer nerve of using an old blue police box as the main headquarters of an imaginary time travelling machine in some remote century from way back when?
But tonight BBC One welcomes back one of its old friends from its black and white days. Doctor Who is back on our TV screens and for the first time in its escapist science fiction history a woman will become the new Doctor. As the trailer for the programme has repeatedly told us this is not before time, the implication being that men have had it their way for too long and it's about time that the female sisterhood had a go.
For the first time in the lifetime of Doctor Who those stuffily conservative and sexist barriers are about to come crashing down and a woman will step into the academic boots of the good Doctor Who. If this is to be seen as a dramatic breakthrough then so be it because the days of the Old Boys Network are long gone and now the time is right for an sharp injection of feminine glamour, flirtatious fluttering of eye lashes and girl power with a very robust Yorkshire charm.
The new Doctor Who is one Jody Whittaker, who just happens to come from Yorkshire, a woman who will presumably take no nonsense, asserting her presence almost immediately and making sure that nobody will ever get the better of her. Whittaker, who recently appeared in the ITV drama Broadchurch, is the latest in a long and celebrated line of Doctor Whos and will undoubtedly have been informed and swotted up on the traditions of a TV institution that stretches back to 1963.
From its earliest days of scary shock horror monsters, weird and wonderful creatures to some of the most richly memorable action scenes Doctor Who was, and still is, compulsive watching for those who love to be scared witless and subsequently hide behind the sofa. From those peculiar looking figures known as the daleks to the more recent cybermen there is something about Doctor Who that demands you suspend your belief and pretend that you simply bite your fingernails or cover your hands over your eyes, quivering with fear and hoping that you won't be afflicted with nightmares.
The first doctor was William Hartnell, a rather lofty and upper class doctor who seemed to find the whole idea of being a science fiction doctor perhaps beneath him. Hartnell of course had the audacity to appear in Doctor Who rather than celebrate my first birthday so the benefit of the doubt will certainly be given to him. Hartnell, so it seems, looked as though he belonged in some aristocratic BBC period drama- perhaps the Forsyte Saga or a Dickensian adaptation.
When Patrick Troughton took over several years later some of us were running around their parents garden and riding on our bikes around our neighbourhood. So Troughton remains outside any of my personal recollections but he did look a rather sinister and suspicious character full of cleverly devised schemes to take his assistant back to Victorian or Georgian times and then wondering how to get back to the present day.
My first distinct memories of Doctor Who were those of Jon Pertwee's making. For somebody who wouldn't have known one tardis from another and thought daleks were strange, alien creatures from another planet, Pertwee explained everything to the totally uninitiated. Pertwee had that wild thatch of curly blond hair that seemed to be engaged in a permanent fight with itself. Pertwee wore that very expensive velvet mauvish coat and always seemed to be running away from something or somebody.
But Pertwee was my first window on the TV family tea time Saturday favourite that eventually established a very warm spot in our hearts. Pertwee was posh, quintessentially English, spoke with that very cut glass 1950s English accent and always had that air of distinction about him that almost defined him as Doctor Who.
In later years the good Doctor took on us the most magical mystery tour of Doctors. There was the wonderfully eccentric Tom Baker who presented the nation with one of the dottiest but enchanting of scarves which seemed to go on for ever. There was Sylvester McCoy another science lab boffin who scuttled around restlessly. forever goofy but eternally lovable. Peter Davidson was rather more laid back and sedate, well intentioned, presentable, always calm and restrained even if under attack from the daleks.
Briefly there was Colin Baker or at least it seemed that way and then suddenly the good Doctor Who packed away his stethoscope and crazy sci fi instruments, leaving the country for far too long. The days of travelling through time and crash landing in some bizarre location, had now passed their sell by date. Doctor Who had now left our TV screens for what must have been an eternity but one day.... well, who knew it at the time?
And then as if by some miracle Doctor Who, after a considerable and unaccountably lengthy absence from BBC1, landed its tardis on our telly screens at the beginning of the new 21st century which in retrospect sounds like an irony in its own right. It was rather like a very old college friend had moved in down the road and had amiably shaken our hand. The reconciliation was now complete and Saturday tea times would feel like some nostalgic reunion.
Christopher Eccleston was the first Doctor of the new century but the Doctor Who theme and its content had remained intact and allowed to flourish like a springtime tulip. Eccleston embraced the whole Doctor Who brand name with open arms and an equally as open mind. Eccleston was superbly organised, witty, splendidly snobbish and hilariously haughty into the bargain. Once again Eccleston tackled and conquered the daleks, cybermen and any other abstract obstacle that fell across his path.
Then there followed my personal favourite from recent Doctor Who vintage. David Tennant was a fresh faced Scotsman who spoke flawless English. Tennant captured the essence of what Doctor Who and his distinctive role as the character, represented. Tennant was smooth, suave, intelligent, humorous and unflappable, a doctor who took on all of the responsibilities of being Doctor Who seriously but not that seriously. He was both cool and diplomatic but never arrogant.
And so it is that the nation holds its breath for the welcome return of Doctor Who. After Matt Smith and Peter Capaldi did complete justice to the doctor, now we await Jodie Whittaker. It does seem that the programme may continue for as long as it possibly can. Of course there is a demand for spinning old police boxes that swirl around in the ether and land quite suddenly on Henry the Eighth's banqueting table. Of course we need an imaginary Doctor to battle the Roundheads and Cavaliers and we must insist that he nip into the Battle of Hastings if only as an interested observer.
After a 56 year residence on our TV screens Doctor Who is ready to take its place comfortably in the living rooms of Britain and eventually the world. It still seems strange that after all that time new generations have discovered and re- discovered something that may never lose its appeal or lustre to all families and of course children.
Later this evening a woman will become the first female Doctor Who and millions of girls who could only have dreamt that the nation's most familiar doctor should be female is now both strongly identifiable and imprinted on their memories for years to come. Some of us though are still cowering behind the sofa because years ago we were traumatised by Doctor Who's take on John Wyndham's The Day of the Triffids. It left us shocked and stunned for many years and we'd like to know whether we can come out of our hiding place. Maybe this long running classic should perhaps should be known as Doctor Why. Those daleks have a lot to answer for.
It's hard to imagine what HG Wells would have made of Doctor Who. Would he have sighed reflectively, raged disapprovingly or just harrumphed his disgust at the sheer nerve of using an old blue police box as the main headquarters of an imaginary time travelling machine in some remote century from way back when?
But tonight BBC One welcomes back one of its old friends from its black and white days. Doctor Who is back on our TV screens and for the first time in its escapist science fiction history a woman will become the new Doctor. As the trailer for the programme has repeatedly told us this is not before time, the implication being that men have had it their way for too long and it's about time that the female sisterhood had a go.
For the first time in the lifetime of Doctor Who those stuffily conservative and sexist barriers are about to come crashing down and a woman will step into the academic boots of the good Doctor Who. If this is to be seen as a dramatic breakthrough then so be it because the days of the Old Boys Network are long gone and now the time is right for an sharp injection of feminine glamour, flirtatious fluttering of eye lashes and girl power with a very robust Yorkshire charm.
The new Doctor Who is one Jody Whittaker, who just happens to come from Yorkshire, a woman who will presumably take no nonsense, asserting her presence almost immediately and making sure that nobody will ever get the better of her. Whittaker, who recently appeared in the ITV drama Broadchurch, is the latest in a long and celebrated line of Doctor Whos and will undoubtedly have been informed and swotted up on the traditions of a TV institution that stretches back to 1963.
From its earliest days of scary shock horror monsters, weird and wonderful creatures to some of the most richly memorable action scenes Doctor Who was, and still is, compulsive watching for those who love to be scared witless and subsequently hide behind the sofa. From those peculiar looking figures known as the daleks to the more recent cybermen there is something about Doctor Who that demands you suspend your belief and pretend that you simply bite your fingernails or cover your hands over your eyes, quivering with fear and hoping that you won't be afflicted with nightmares.
The first doctor was William Hartnell, a rather lofty and upper class doctor who seemed to find the whole idea of being a science fiction doctor perhaps beneath him. Hartnell of course had the audacity to appear in Doctor Who rather than celebrate my first birthday so the benefit of the doubt will certainly be given to him. Hartnell, so it seems, looked as though he belonged in some aristocratic BBC period drama- perhaps the Forsyte Saga or a Dickensian adaptation.
When Patrick Troughton took over several years later some of us were running around their parents garden and riding on our bikes around our neighbourhood. So Troughton remains outside any of my personal recollections but he did look a rather sinister and suspicious character full of cleverly devised schemes to take his assistant back to Victorian or Georgian times and then wondering how to get back to the present day.
My first distinct memories of Doctor Who were those of Jon Pertwee's making. For somebody who wouldn't have known one tardis from another and thought daleks were strange, alien creatures from another planet, Pertwee explained everything to the totally uninitiated. Pertwee had that wild thatch of curly blond hair that seemed to be engaged in a permanent fight with itself. Pertwee wore that very expensive velvet mauvish coat and always seemed to be running away from something or somebody.
But Pertwee was my first window on the TV family tea time Saturday favourite that eventually established a very warm spot in our hearts. Pertwee was posh, quintessentially English, spoke with that very cut glass 1950s English accent and always had that air of distinction about him that almost defined him as Doctor Who.
In later years the good Doctor took on us the most magical mystery tour of Doctors. There was the wonderfully eccentric Tom Baker who presented the nation with one of the dottiest but enchanting of scarves which seemed to go on for ever. There was Sylvester McCoy another science lab boffin who scuttled around restlessly. forever goofy but eternally lovable. Peter Davidson was rather more laid back and sedate, well intentioned, presentable, always calm and restrained even if under attack from the daleks.
Briefly there was Colin Baker or at least it seemed that way and then suddenly the good Doctor Who packed away his stethoscope and crazy sci fi instruments, leaving the country for far too long. The days of travelling through time and crash landing in some bizarre location, had now passed their sell by date. Doctor Who had now left our TV screens for what must have been an eternity but one day.... well, who knew it at the time?
And then as if by some miracle Doctor Who, after a considerable and unaccountably lengthy absence from BBC1, landed its tardis on our telly screens at the beginning of the new 21st century which in retrospect sounds like an irony in its own right. It was rather like a very old college friend had moved in down the road and had amiably shaken our hand. The reconciliation was now complete and Saturday tea times would feel like some nostalgic reunion.
Christopher Eccleston was the first Doctor of the new century but the Doctor Who theme and its content had remained intact and allowed to flourish like a springtime tulip. Eccleston embraced the whole Doctor Who brand name with open arms and an equally as open mind. Eccleston was superbly organised, witty, splendidly snobbish and hilariously haughty into the bargain. Once again Eccleston tackled and conquered the daleks, cybermen and any other abstract obstacle that fell across his path.
Then there followed my personal favourite from recent Doctor Who vintage. David Tennant was a fresh faced Scotsman who spoke flawless English. Tennant captured the essence of what Doctor Who and his distinctive role as the character, represented. Tennant was smooth, suave, intelligent, humorous and unflappable, a doctor who took on all of the responsibilities of being Doctor Who seriously but not that seriously. He was both cool and diplomatic but never arrogant.
And so it is that the nation holds its breath for the welcome return of Doctor Who. After Matt Smith and Peter Capaldi did complete justice to the doctor, now we await Jodie Whittaker. It does seem that the programme may continue for as long as it possibly can. Of course there is a demand for spinning old police boxes that swirl around in the ether and land quite suddenly on Henry the Eighth's banqueting table. Of course we need an imaginary Doctor to battle the Roundheads and Cavaliers and we must insist that he nip into the Battle of Hastings if only as an interested observer.
After a 56 year residence on our TV screens Doctor Who is ready to take its place comfortably in the living rooms of Britain and eventually the world. It still seems strange that after all that time new generations have discovered and re- discovered something that may never lose its appeal or lustre to all families and of course children.
Later this evening a woman will become the first female Doctor Who and millions of girls who could only have dreamt that the nation's most familiar doctor should be female is now both strongly identifiable and imprinted on their memories for years to come. Some of us though are still cowering behind the sofa because years ago we were traumatised by Doctor Who's take on John Wyndham's The Day of the Triffids. It left us shocked and stunned for many years and we'd like to know whether we can come out of our hiding place. Maybe this long running classic should perhaps should be known as Doctor Why. Those daleks have a lot to answer for.
Friday 5 October 2018
My books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes, Autism, Aspergers Syndrome
My books No Joe Bloggs and Joe's Jolly Japes, Autism and Aspergers Syndrome.
It's time to press the play button yet again. I know I've mentioned this on more than one occasion and you're probably wondering if this author will ever stop singing the praises of his books but here I go and this is, unashamedly. my chance to indulge in some shameless book promotion.
Firstly I'd like to highlight once again how deeply proud I am of both my memoir No Joe Bloggs and my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes. Both books were just a constant source of pleasure to write and if you like rapturously lyrical description, a festival of words and stories from my heart then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you.
No Joe Bloggs is of course- or at least I think it is - funny, moving, nostalgic, very lyrical, heartwarming, uplifting, and, I think, a poetic journey around my life. It is full of rich language, vividly nostalgic tinted prose, an all singing, all dancing story about my life, the joyous childhood, the teenage angst, the triumphs and disasters, the difficulties that adolescence confronted me with and the arrival in the land of adults when it all came right for me and gloriously so.
I feel duty bound to put the record straight here. My teenage years were almost impossibly hellish and I'm quite to happy to clarify some important points here. I was embarrassingly shy and immature, nervous of my own shadow, terrified in fact. I had no social interaction with the kids of my age and feared on more on more than one occasion that I'd never be to mix with my peers at any time.
Before I go any further I feel I have to point out here that I'm not looking for the sympathy vote but what I would like to tell everybody in this blog is that my teenage years were wasted, lonely and terribly frightening at times. So here goes the confession. It was a difficult and traumatic adolescence. In fact I hadn't a clue what I was doing and it's only now that I can be perfectly frank and admit to shortcomings and deficiencies as a teenage lost soul.
So here we go. I was diagnosed several years ago with Autism and have Aspergers Syndrome. There you are. I've said it and I've admitted to chronic vulnerability. I'm flawed, very sensitive at times, human, at times very perplexed, almost certainly totally baffled by the everyday events around me at times and unreasonably petrified by the speed of change around me. I admit here and now that I have a very unconventional approach to decision making that may come naturally to those who find life much easier to cope with than me.
I admit it. I didn't do the kind of things that should have been simple and straightforward. I was afraid that 11 or 12 year old kids would laugh at me, hurl ridicule and derision at me almost incessantly and just make life almost unbearable. But this was never the case. When my late and wonderful dad pleaded with his very young son to join in with the fun at a Jewish youth club in Barkingside, Essex it represented, quite singularly, the most terrifying experience of my life.
I don't think anybody will ever be to appreciate the severity of my fear or terror, the tearful trepidation that racked every bone in my body. But that's how it felt and as much as I would like to admit that it was just a part of my teenage mindset I can't deny that one September evening in 1974 will not live on as one of my finest moments.
There I stood there with my lovely dad, shaking and trembling, trying desperately to escape from the youth club and not really knowing why. I can still see the rabbi in his immaculately white shawl(talit) smiling very sympathetically at this nervous as a kitten kid who just wanted to run for the hills and never ever be seen again by anybody. There was a very real confusion and bewilderment about that whole period that I now recognise and fully understand why it happened.
So there you have it folks I have Aspergers Syndrome and although the whole subject of mental health has never been more widely discussed than it is now, I still find myself caught up in a world of misunderstanding, where there still seems to be a stigma attached to people with autism. For whatever reason society, or so it would seem, simply can't get its head around this very modern day condition.
Of course I look away when I'm being spoken to and that complete lack of eye contact has now rendered any future employment a no go area. I can assure you it was never deliberate and intentional and I make no apologies at all because that's the way I am. Yes of course I'm hard wired differently but I'm not ashamed at all about who I am and where I've come from.
Six years ago I had the most enormous of all breakdowns. It was a complete mental meltdown and I vowed there and then that it would never happen again. So it was that I reluctantly decided that retirement from the world of employment on obvious mental health grounds was the logical choice. It was with a heavy heart that I'd resolved that I had enough and wanted to follow an entirely new path in my life.
Now I turned my hand to something I'd always loved doing albeit in the pre digital, pre computer age when pen, pencil and A4 paper seemed to be my only means of expression, But once I'd got going again I knew that the appetite to write had never really deserted me, that my love of the English language and grammar was still there and hadn't left me.
Then it was that I slowly, but surely, but gradually and lovingly pieced together my life story to the present day. No Joe Bloggs is the realisation of that dormant ambition, illuminated into life on the written page and finally I knew I was onto something. The construction period was very deliberate but by the time I'd finished No Joe Bloggs, my mind had reached its peak of clarity.
No Joe Bloggs is my life story, growing up in Ilford, Essex, my parents and grandparents, a deeply heartfelt and affectionate homage to my wonderful and late dad, my favourite movies, my favourite radio stations, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70, the celebrities of the time, the movers and shakers, the brilliant TV programmes from Britain and the USA, a fictitious but I think amusing story about my dad's visit to Las Vegas, my dad schmoozing and fraternising with Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald, Sammy Davis Junior, my favourite football teams and funny pen portraits on Arsenal, Aston Villa, Everton, Ipswich Town, Spurs, Liverpool, Leeds United, Chelsea, Wolves and Ipswich Town, Manchester United and Manchester City, very lyrical descriptions about the West End of London that my dad introduced to me at a young age.
Then I talk about my favourite pop stars, the thriving music scene, the bands and artists who entertained me, made me feel good about me, galvanised me to such an extent that I genuinely felt that the 1970s had been one of the greatest decades for popular music. There are those who will understandably disagree with me but that's what it felt like for this rather solitary nebbish, almost by way of compensation for those frightening times in that cold wilderness.
I'd completely alienated a generation that had no idea who I was and of course were determined to enjoy the kind of activities that I should have taken part in without any prompting: table tennis, badminton, football, going to the cinema and generally having the time of their lives. But this was a completely different world for me. Regrets? Not at all.
I have now the most loving, loveliest, brilliantly supportive and beautiful family, a beautiful wife, two wonderful kids who I adore and the most perfect family support network who have always been there for me and I can never thank them enough. I love you all deeply and always will.
So there you have it. No Joe Bloggs, my world, my words, my descriptions and my outlook on life. It which provided me with the happiest and creative outlet at a time when things could have spiralled out of control and gone disastrously haywire. No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online. This is what I think is my brave admission. I have Aspergers Syndrome and I have Autism. I would like to think that one day I can try to explain and make people understand that I can still smile, laugh, crack silly jokes, still play sport, read, cry in soppy, sentimental movies, watch some of the most stunning West End musicals in town and glow with elation afterwards. I know that I have complete acceptance from my family but I'm not sure whether the rest of society can fully get their head around my Autism. Still, I'll always respect you, I didn't snub you and you're all the best.
As for my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes, that's still available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books- A-Million online. This is my take on England, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, the England football team at the World Cup, the players and managers, the victories and defeats, British seaside resorts and West End department stores in the heart of London.
If you're the reminiscing type and would find a very descriptive take on the past then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you, Oh of course if you'd like to find out about my social commentary perspective then you'll also enjoy Joe's Jolly Japes.
Thanks everybody.
It's time to press the play button yet again. I know I've mentioned this on more than one occasion and you're probably wondering if this author will ever stop singing the praises of his books but here I go and this is, unashamedly. my chance to indulge in some shameless book promotion.
Firstly I'd like to highlight once again how deeply proud I am of both my memoir No Joe Bloggs and my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes. Both books were just a constant source of pleasure to write and if you like rapturously lyrical description, a festival of words and stories from my heart then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you.
No Joe Bloggs is of course- or at least I think it is - funny, moving, nostalgic, very lyrical, heartwarming, uplifting, and, I think, a poetic journey around my life. It is full of rich language, vividly nostalgic tinted prose, an all singing, all dancing story about my life, the joyous childhood, the teenage angst, the triumphs and disasters, the difficulties that adolescence confronted me with and the arrival in the land of adults when it all came right for me and gloriously so.
I feel duty bound to put the record straight here. My teenage years were almost impossibly hellish and I'm quite to happy to clarify some important points here. I was embarrassingly shy and immature, nervous of my own shadow, terrified in fact. I had no social interaction with the kids of my age and feared on more on more than one occasion that I'd never be to mix with my peers at any time.
Before I go any further I feel I have to point out here that I'm not looking for the sympathy vote but what I would like to tell everybody in this blog is that my teenage years were wasted, lonely and terribly frightening at times. So here goes the confession. It was a difficult and traumatic adolescence. In fact I hadn't a clue what I was doing and it's only now that I can be perfectly frank and admit to shortcomings and deficiencies as a teenage lost soul.
So here we go. I was diagnosed several years ago with Autism and have Aspergers Syndrome. There you are. I've said it and I've admitted to chronic vulnerability. I'm flawed, very sensitive at times, human, at times very perplexed, almost certainly totally baffled by the everyday events around me at times and unreasonably petrified by the speed of change around me. I admit here and now that I have a very unconventional approach to decision making that may come naturally to those who find life much easier to cope with than me.
I admit it. I didn't do the kind of things that should have been simple and straightforward. I was afraid that 11 or 12 year old kids would laugh at me, hurl ridicule and derision at me almost incessantly and just make life almost unbearable. But this was never the case. When my late and wonderful dad pleaded with his very young son to join in with the fun at a Jewish youth club in Barkingside, Essex it represented, quite singularly, the most terrifying experience of my life.
I don't think anybody will ever be to appreciate the severity of my fear or terror, the tearful trepidation that racked every bone in my body. But that's how it felt and as much as I would like to admit that it was just a part of my teenage mindset I can't deny that one September evening in 1974 will not live on as one of my finest moments.
There I stood there with my lovely dad, shaking and trembling, trying desperately to escape from the youth club and not really knowing why. I can still see the rabbi in his immaculately white shawl(talit) smiling very sympathetically at this nervous as a kitten kid who just wanted to run for the hills and never ever be seen again by anybody. There was a very real confusion and bewilderment about that whole period that I now recognise and fully understand why it happened.
So there you have it folks I have Aspergers Syndrome and although the whole subject of mental health has never been more widely discussed than it is now, I still find myself caught up in a world of misunderstanding, where there still seems to be a stigma attached to people with autism. For whatever reason society, or so it would seem, simply can't get its head around this very modern day condition.
Of course I look away when I'm being spoken to and that complete lack of eye contact has now rendered any future employment a no go area. I can assure you it was never deliberate and intentional and I make no apologies at all because that's the way I am. Yes of course I'm hard wired differently but I'm not ashamed at all about who I am and where I've come from.
Six years ago I had the most enormous of all breakdowns. It was a complete mental meltdown and I vowed there and then that it would never happen again. So it was that I reluctantly decided that retirement from the world of employment on obvious mental health grounds was the logical choice. It was with a heavy heart that I'd resolved that I had enough and wanted to follow an entirely new path in my life.
Now I turned my hand to something I'd always loved doing albeit in the pre digital, pre computer age when pen, pencil and A4 paper seemed to be my only means of expression, But once I'd got going again I knew that the appetite to write had never really deserted me, that my love of the English language and grammar was still there and hadn't left me.
Then it was that I slowly, but surely, but gradually and lovingly pieced together my life story to the present day. No Joe Bloggs is the realisation of that dormant ambition, illuminated into life on the written page and finally I knew I was onto something. The construction period was very deliberate but by the time I'd finished No Joe Bloggs, my mind had reached its peak of clarity.
No Joe Bloggs is my life story, growing up in Ilford, Essex, my parents and grandparents, a deeply heartfelt and affectionate homage to my wonderful and late dad, my favourite movies, my favourite radio stations, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70, the celebrities of the time, the movers and shakers, the brilliant TV programmes from Britain and the USA, a fictitious but I think amusing story about my dad's visit to Las Vegas, my dad schmoozing and fraternising with Frank Sinatra, Tony Bennett, Ella Fitzgerald, Sammy Davis Junior, my favourite football teams and funny pen portraits on Arsenal, Aston Villa, Everton, Ipswich Town, Spurs, Liverpool, Leeds United, Chelsea, Wolves and Ipswich Town, Manchester United and Manchester City, very lyrical descriptions about the West End of London that my dad introduced to me at a young age.
Then I talk about my favourite pop stars, the thriving music scene, the bands and artists who entertained me, made me feel good about me, galvanised me to such an extent that I genuinely felt that the 1970s had been one of the greatest decades for popular music. There are those who will understandably disagree with me but that's what it felt like for this rather solitary nebbish, almost by way of compensation for those frightening times in that cold wilderness.
I'd completely alienated a generation that had no idea who I was and of course were determined to enjoy the kind of activities that I should have taken part in without any prompting: table tennis, badminton, football, going to the cinema and generally having the time of their lives. But this was a completely different world for me. Regrets? Not at all.
I have now the most loving, loveliest, brilliantly supportive and beautiful family, a beautiful wife, two wonderful kids who I adore and the most perfect family support network who have always been there for me and I can never thank them enough. I love you all deeply and always will.
So there you have it. No Joe Bloggs, my world, my words, my descriptions and my outlook on life. It which provided me with the happiest and creative outlet at a time when things could have spiralled out of control and gone disastrously haywire. No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online. This is what I think is my brave admission. I have Aspergers Syndrome and I have Autism. I would like to think that one day I can try to explain and make people understand that I can still smile, laugh, crack silly jokes, still play sport, read, cry in soppy, sentimental movies, watch some of the most stunning West End musicals in town and glow with elation afterwards. I know that I have complete acceptance from my family but I'm not sure whether the rest of society can fully get their head around my Autism. Still, I'll always respect you, I didn't snub you and you're all the best.
As for my latest book Joe's Jolly Japes, that's still available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books- A-Million online. This is my take on England, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, the England football team at the World Cup, the players and managers, the victories and defeats, British seaside resorts and West End department stores in the heart of London.
If you're the reminiscing type and would find a very descriptive take on the past then No Joe Bloggs is definitely the book for you, Oh of course if you'd like to find out about my social commentary perspective then you'll also enjoy Joe's Jolly Japes.
Thanks everybody.
Tuesday 2 October 2018
Tories at war or is Theresa May a safe pair of hands as PM?
Tories at war - or is Theresa May a safe pair of hands as PM.
This week the Conservative Party in Britain are fighting battles on so many fronts that it's hard to see who's winning and who simply doesn't care anymore. The ammunition has been fired, the artillery are moving in with a bristling snarl of menace and the foot soldiers are just getting their feet stuck in the mud. Who on earth would be a British politician?
The Tories are digging in both collectively and physically in the hope that should it all go perilously wrong they can still say they've been to Birmingham for the week which in the first week of October is probably very pleasant and desirable. Party political conferences are always worth the entrance money alone if only because they reinforce all of those stereotyped notions of politicians and how they should conduct themselves before their devoted followers.
Years ago all of the three mainstream British political parties would think nothing of rolling up their trousers, grabbing a deckchair, sticking knotted handkerchiefs on their heads and tucking into the customary plate of fish and chips when the sun had gone down on their yearly seaside visits. It was all very exciting, bracing and completely fascinating. But there was always something of the end of pier about these perennial shouting matches that nobody could ever hear let alone comment upon.
All three parties including the Conservatives, Labour and Lib Dems or- Liberals, as they used to be known, would get up on a platform at either Bournemouth, Brighton and Blackpool and spout their respective ideologies until some rational thinking stage director would whip them off their platform, switch off the lights and tell them that it was time to go home. Then the Punch and Judy show moved on and the party political conferences took themselves off to some of Britain's most important cities.
After the horror show that was the Labour Party debacle, the Tories have now travelled to Birmingham for their yearly conference. And this is where it gets serious for the government of the day because if the Tories are to survive perhaps the most tempestuous week in their recent history then they might be advised to strap themselves in, close their eyes and just hope that nobody gets hurt. There is a good deal of huffing and puffing, sighing and gritting of teeth to be negotiated and by the end of the week Prime Minister Theresa May may have to summon all her reserves of defiance just to get through it all.
Because this is the story so far. Britain is now into the kind of territory that it may have wished it had never got involved in the first place. The dominant issue of course is, as we've been repeatedly reminded since the Crimean War, is Brexit. Oh yes it's a gross exaggeration and total hyperbole but to those who remain impartial on such matters Brexit has to be the most appallingly, revoltingly and dreadfully irritating news agenda since the beginning of time. If we haven't heard or seen the same word over and over and over again then it's safe to say that we have.
But new buzzwords, phrases and peculiar uses of the English language are being deployed with such annoying frequency that at times it's rather like listening to some crazy, made up and garbled narrative that even a tourist from another country would have to ask questions. First Brexit entered our consciousness and we had no idea what that meant. So we looked up the word in the Oxford English Dictionary and we were none the wiser.
Recent additions to the mad, crazy world of political vocabulary are Brexit with a million variations and inflections on the word itself. Suddenly the great British public have been confronted with hard Brexit and soft Brexit, Brexiteers accompanied by hard Irish borders and soft Irish borders. Then ladies and gentlemen we give you Chequers, Custom House, Remainers and Remoaners with just a small pinch of some completely incomprehensible word that has rendered the English language a nightmarish complexity.
Night after night, day after day the radio, TVs, Smartphones and Tablets of modern society have been bombarded us with constant references to a political agenda that would probably have driven Churchill completely bonkers. In the general scheme of things Brexit may well come to be regarded as one of those passing and faddish pains in the neck. It could be that, rather like one of those transient Christmas Day toys that the kids get, Brexit will simply lose its batteries and get broken by Boxing Day.
But for what seems like the best part of two decades, Brexit is here to stay until one day everything will be settled agreeably and we can all find something else to talk about. For the time being British radio phone in stations of every description will be filling their airwaves with the kind of conversations and boring rhetoric that none of us could ever have imagined.
We are now, or so it would seem, required to know that if we don't clinch a deal with our EU neighbours on our withdrawal from the EU next March then the consequences could be very damaging. Then we are told that it has to be the right deal and if it's the wrong one with strings attached then that could be curtains for Britain. Whether the fairground carousel will ever stop remains one of the most pertinent questions of our time or any time for that matter.
Now though another sub plot has emerged in the first couple of days of the Conservative Party conference. Just when the Tories thought it was safe to swim a formerly leading light in the party has jumped out of his hiding place ready to claim his revenge on Theresa May. His face is red with loathing, burning with anger, champing at the bit, and boiling over with furious indignation. He's determined to upset the proverbial apple cart, push over everybody in his sight and, above all, create a terrible scene into the bargain.
His name of course is Boris Johnson, probably one of Britain's cleverest and most idiosyncratic politicians of all time. The Boris Johnson CV could best be described as both varied and barely credible at times in the light of recent events. Johnson has been the Mayor of London, constituency member for Uxbridge and, most recently, the Foreign Secretary. Sadly though the Johnson juggernaut has come flying off the road and now his eventful career in the limelight has reached a crossroads.
We may be on Tuesday but the growling grizzly bear that is the blond bombshell of Boris Johnson is on the warpath. Yesterday he launched his first attack on the Prime Minister if attack it was. Johnson, in a comical dig at Theresa May, went galloping through a cornfield in a satirical swipe at May's occasionally stated ambition to run through a field. It had to be seen to be believed.
Then Philip Hammond, another Cabinet minister got stuck in as well with well aimed venom at Johnson. You're reminded of another famous Tory Prime Minister whose leadership qualities were severely tested to the full. When Margaret Thatcher was in full flight during the 1980s none dared to get anywhere near her ego or all conquering aura. It was all very bloody and very messy, sloppy and very unsavoury. The sight of Thatcher weeping quite openly as she ducked into her car at 10 Downing Street for the last time is engraved on the mind for ever. It was time to go for Margaret Thatcher.
It is hard to believe that Theresa May would never welcome any comparison with her Prime Ministerial predecessor but things could get very nasty for the Tories if Boris has his way. There are malicious whispers to be heard in wine scented Tory back rooms, petty in fighting, gallows humour, knockabout innuendo and perhaps unnecessary back biting. Voices are being raised, the verbal exchanges sometimes close to threatening absolute pandemonium and, quite possibly, bouts of childish bickering will follow. Then long held, deeply entrenched grudges will be exposed for everybody to see.
And yet we've all been here before. This is the pantomime season known better as the party political conference circuit. If things turn out the way they normally do then it'll go off without any major international incidents. Reputations will be battered, insults will just bounce off walls and ceilings in the main hall and we'll all wonder why they bothered in the first place.
Still, all the traditional Tories will go back to their base camps ready to prepare for a General Election which Theresa May will call when she's ready and not before then. For the time being her immediate task is to tackle the minefield that is Brexit. She will gather her troops together, pull on her helmet, charge forward with all bloody minded courage and gritty determination, while acutely aware that by the end of next March she could still be in the land of indecisiveness and muddled thinking.
So here we go then. It's that classic confrontation between a mild mannered, prim and proper lady and and a fearsome, fiery firebrand man with a score to settle. Theresa May against Boris Johnson does sound a fairly meaningless contest between two politicians who are quite civilly agreeing to disagree. By the end of this strangely surreal week for British politics we may find a good deal of bruising and sore heads. Then Judy will produce another string of sausages to hit Punch over the head with and Britain will stifle another belly laugh. Oh what a circus.
This week the Conservative Party in Britain are fighting battles on so many fronts that it's hard to see who's winning and who simply doesn't care anymore. The ammunition has been fired, the artillery are moving in with a bristling snarl of menace and the foot soldiers are just getting their feet stuck in the mud. Who on earth would be a British politician?
The Tories are digging in both collectively and physically in the hope that should it all go perilously wrong they can still say they've been to Birmingham for the week which in the first week of October is probably very pleasant and desirable. Party political conferences are always worth the entrance money alone if only because they reinforce all of those stereotyped notions of politicians and how they should conduct themselves before their devoted followers.
Years ago all of the three mainstream British political parties would think nothing of rolling up their trousers, grabbing a deckchair, sticking knotted handkerchiefs on their heads and tucking into the customary plate of fish and chips when the sun had gone down on their yearly seaside visits. It was all very exciting, bracing and completely fascinating. But there was always something of the end of pier about these perennial shouting matches that nobody could ever hear let alone comment upon.
All three parties including the Conservatives, Labour and Lib Dems or- Liberals, as they used to be known, would get up on a platform at either Bournemouth, Brighton and Blackpool and spout their respective ideologies until some rational thinking stage director would whip them off their platform, switch off the lights and tell them that it was time to go home. Then the Punch and Judy show moved on and the party political conferences took themselves off to some of Britain's most important cities.
After the horror show that was the Labour Party debacle, the Tories have now travelled to Birmingham for their yearly conference. And this is where it gets serious for the government of the day because if the Tories are to survive perhaps the most tempestuous week in their recent history then they might be advised to strap themselves in, close their eyes and just hope that nobody gets hurt. There is a good deal of huffing and puffing, sighing and gritting of teeth to be negotiated and by the end of the week Prime Minister Theresa May may have to summon all her reserves of defiance just to get through it all.
Because this is the story so far. Britain is now into the kind of territory that it may have wished it had never got involved in the first place. The dominant issue of course is, as we've been repeatedly reminded since the Crimean War, is Brexit. Oh yes it's a gross exaggeration and total hyperbole but to those who remain impartial on such matters Brexit has to be the most appallingly, revoltingly and dreadfully irritating news agenda since the beginning of time. If we haven't heard or seen the same word over and over and over again then it's safe to say that we have.
But new buzzwords, phrases and peculiar uses of the English language are being deployed with such annoying frequency that at times it's rather like listening to some crazy, made up and garbled narrative that even a tourist from another country would have to ask questions. First Brexit entered our consciousness and we had no idea what that meant. So we looked up the word in the Oxford English Dictionary and we were none the wiser.
Recent additions to the mad, crazy world of political vocabulary are Brexit with a million variations and inflections on the word itself. Suddenly the great British public have been confronted with hard Brexit and soft Brexit, Brexiteers accompanied by hard Irish borders and soft Irish borders. Then ladies and gentlemen we give you Chequers, Custom House, Remainers and Remoaners with just a small pinch of some completely incomprehensible word that has rendered the English language a nightmarish complexity.
Night after night, day after day the radio, TVs, Smartphones and Tablets of modern society have been bombarded us with constant references to a political agenda that would probably have driven Churchill completely bonkers. In the general scheme of things Brexit may well come to be regarded as one of those passing and faddish pains in the neck. It could be that, rather like one of those transient Christmas Day toys that the kids get, Brexit will simply lose its batteries and get broken by Boxing Day.
But for what seems like the best part of two decades, Brexit is here to stay until one day everything will be settled agreeably and we can all find something else to talk about. For the time being British radio phone in stations of every description will be filling their airwaves with the kind of conversations and boring rhetoric that none of us could ever have imagined.
We are now, or so it would seem, required to know that if we don't clinch a deal with our EU neighbours on our withdrawal from the EU next March then the consequences could be very damaging. Then we are told that it has to be the right deal and if it's the wrong one with strings attached then that could be curtains for Britain. Whether the fairground carousel will ever stop remains one of the most pertinent questions of our time or any time for that matter.
Now though another sub plot has emerged in the first couple of days of the Conservative Party conference. Just when the Tories thought it was safe to swim a formerly leading light in the party has jumped out of his hiding place ready to claim his revenge on Theresa May. His face is red with loathing, burning with anger, champing at the bit, and boiling over with furious indignation. He's determined to upset the proverbial apple cart, push over everybody in his sight and, above all, create a terrible scene into the bargain.
His name of course is Boris Johnson, probably one of Britain's cleverest and most idiosyncratic politicians of all time. The Boris Johnson CV could best be described as both varied and barely credible at times in the light of recent events. Johnson has been the Mayor of London, constituency member for Uxbridge and, most recently, the Foreign Secretary. Sadly though the Johnson juggernaut has come flying off the road and now his eventful career in the limelight has reached a crossroads.
We may be on Tuesday but the growling grizzly bear that is the blond bombshell of Boris Johnson is on the warpath. Yesterday he launched his first attack on the Prime Minister if attack it was. Johnson, in a comical dig at Theresa May, went galloping through a cornfield in a satirical swipe at May's occasionally stated ambition to run through a field. It had to be seen to be believed.
Then Philip Hammond, another Cabinet minister got stuck in as well with well aimed venom at Johnson. You're reminded of another famous Tory Prime Minister whose leadership qualities were severely tested to the full. When Margaret Thatcher was in full flight during the 1980s none dared to get anywhere near her ego or all conquering aura. It was all very bloody and very messy, sloppy and very unsavoury. The sight of Thatcher weeping quite openly as she ducked into her car at 10 Downing Street for the last time is engraved on the mind for ever. It was time to go for Margaret Thatcher.
It is hard to believe that Theresa May would never welcome any comparison with her Prime Ministerial predecessor but things could get very nasty for the Tories if Boris has his way. There are malicious whispers to be heard in wine scented Tory back rooms, petty in fighting, gallows humour, knockabout innuendo and perhaps unnecessary back biting. Voices are being raised, the verbal exchanges sometimes close to threatening absolute pandemonium and, quite possibly, bouts of childish bickering will follow. Then long held, deeply entrenched grudges will be exposed for everybody to see.
And yet we've all been here before. This is the pantomime season known better as the party political conference circuit. If things turn out the way they normally do then it'll go off without any major international incidents. Reputations will be battered, insults will just bounce off walls and ceilings in the main hall and we'll all wonder why they bothered in the first place.
Still, all the traditional Tories will go back to their base camps ready to prepare for a General Election which Theresa May will call when she's ready and not before then. For the time being her immediate task is to tackle the minefield that is Brexit. She will gather her troops together, pull on her helmet, charge forward with all bloody minded courage and gritty determination, while acutely aware that by the end of next March she could still be in the land of indecisiveness and muddled thinking.
So here we go then. It's that classic confrontation between a mild mannered, prim and proper lady and and a fearsome, fiery firebrand man with a score to settle. Theresa May against Boris Johnson does sound a fairly meaningless contest between two politicians who are quite civilly agreeing to disagree. By the end of this strangely surreal week for British politics we may find a good deal of bruising and sore heads. Then Judy will produce another string of sausages to hit Punch over the head with and Britain will stifle another belly laugh. Oh what a circus.
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