Oh for the blissful cold and lovely Manor House.

Oh for the blissful cold and lovely Manor House.

So here we are on the final day of the first month of January and most of us are probably settling in for the January freeze. Yes folks, it's cold out there although perhaps not quite as cold as it was last year. Last year it was perishingly cold, excruciatingly cold, shiveringly cold and at times too much to bear by anybody's standards. Yours truly went down with the most horrendously violent, hacking cough that was so draining and debilitating at times that there were times when you were just tempted to go back to bed. You simply wanted to go to sleep for three or four months and not emerge from hibernation until the first cuckoos and crocuses of spring.

But winter is still with us and the weather forecast is distinctly ominous so much so that even the Manor House birds have gone all quiet. During the summer you normally see them in full and majestic flight, swaying and swooping together in balletic formation, rather like some ritualistic dance, sweeping across the houses, roofs and chimneys which act as some kind of theatrical set.

Now though the circumstances are markedly different. The temperature has dropped rapidly, the snow, or so they tell us, is on its way and around Britain, millions of us will be digging out our cheerily familiar coats, thick fur coats, a hundred layers of jumpers and pullovers, scarves tightly wrapped our necks and then we'll look forward to either excitement or worried, panicky trepidation in case we go flying head over heels on the snow and ice. It is a prospect some of us will either dread or just accept with a quiet resignation.

Last year it seemed to snow for ever, that long, awkwardly and seemingly indefinite period of torrential snow that just seemed to keep falling and falling out of the sky, dropping limply onto the ground before being replaced by yet another white carpet whose nerve shredding intensity did get to you after a while. There was no let up in Manor House last year from the end of January and by the beginning of March a sense of weary battle fatigue had set in. Some of us felt trapped and marooned, fearing that the snow would just continue for the rest of the year.

Thankfully though it did stop but not before the Beast from the East had announced itself with an unsettling ferocity. Here in Britain we are now used to the meteorological ups and downs of the weather. Even so the Beast from the East did catch us unawares. Bitter winds, sleet, snow and rain all conspired to demoralise us when we might have thought we'd seen the back of it all. Thankfully, it did pass and what followed in complete contrast was the most stunning, balmy and beautifully warm summer for many a year.

Still, here we are on the verge of February and such are the fluctuating uncertainties of the British climate that a vast majority of us haven't a clue what to expect. Do we just try to second guess the snow or do we hope against hope that the mild weather most of us have been experiencing recently will just return and stick around for the duration of the winter solstice?

Meanwhile, here in Manor House the builders and labourers are still hammering, chopping, drilling, tightening up and strengthening the foundations of vast blocks of new apartments, new commercial developments that simply take the breath away. This is the Woodberry Down regeneration, a radical housing transformation that could yet take several centuries to finish.

Everywhere you look there are impossibly tall cranes, huge mechanical monstrosities that look as if they belong on some futuristic science fiction movie set. They soar into the air and then just remain there for what seems like an eternity. Every so often you'll hear a grinding, creaking sound that leads you to believe that those poor old machines are in permanent pain. So you sympathise for a moment before realising that at times your patience may be at  breaking point. Then you laugh at your own bemusement and just pretend that it isn't really happening.

Sooner or later though, you suspect that the snows, snow drifts, gritters and children chucking snowballs will follow in that sequence but it's hard to tell when. Rest assured though, those hardy labourers will just carry on regardless, whistling merrily, laughing at each other blithely with the rudest jokes and just getting on with the job in hand. It is one of the most incredible sights you're ever likely to see.

In the far distance you can still see the Wigwam, a children's playground structure that at first baffled me and then the Berkeley building partnership hoardings which stretch as far as the eye can see. The hoardings sing the praises of the lovely walking paths in the Woodberry Wetlands, the heavenly tranquillity of this now very rural setting, the abundant birdlife and the hordes of butterfly spotting parties who gather together regularly if the summer sunshine peeks its head out of the clouds.

Everything is changing and evolving with almost ridiculous speed and you find yourself wondering if they'll ever finish what they've already started. There is though, a widespread acceptance of the onward march of time, a sense that none of us should ever stand in the way of progress because this is the way it's going to be. Around us is a feeling of 21st century modernity, 21st century architecture, 21st century science and 21st century art. Everything and everywhere is moving forward rapidly and startlingly.

New families are moving into those blocks of flats and the landscape has undergone a dramatic sea change. Suddenly there is a realisation that we must embrace the new age because if we don't we may be left behind. The technology has arrived with a vengeance and the time has come to forget about England's once idyllic age when the Industrial Revolution was alive with belching chimneys, noisy factories and a thriving productivity.

In  a sense those far off days of the past have never gone away because now Britain now founds itself on the brink of some global, financially lucrative, high tech breakthrough where Europe may become a thing of the past. Britain will tell us that we don't need our European neighbours for the one and simple reason that they just keep telling us what to do and that's the wrong kind of mood music. Europe, we may tell ourselves, is surplus to requirements and that's final.

Anyway, here we are poised for another Ice Age and the snow that was promised on Monday looks as if might materialise. Of course there is a natural beauty about the white stuff and besides the kids love it and always will. So it is that we'll all turn on the heating to full blast, huddle together for warmth, slap our arms together and wait for the right moment to go out when the snow either stops or starts depending on your point of view. Winter has taken up its familiar residence once again and it may be with us for who knows how long. Now where there's that 2,000 piece jigsaw piece puzzle? Anybody for Scrabble? It's probably at the back of the cupboard somewhere.   

Holocaust Day memorial service.

Holocaust Day memorial service.

Yesterday the good and upright citizens of Ilford, Essex turned out in their commendable numbers to mark the yearly commemorative tribute to the Holocaust, quite simply the most abhorrent and unforgivable criminal act of  genocide the world has ever seen. It was the one most historical event that has now left now innumerable generations cold, aghast, stunned and totally devastated. The tears of heartache, private suffering and grief have been shed every single year since the end of the Second World War. But the pain may never subside, the mental rawness is still there and the lessons it has certainly taught us have been regrettably ignored. 

But at Valentines Park yesterday we took our places in the warm marquee specially erected for the occasion, sat reflectively, collected our thoughts and tried to rationalise, understand the vast magnitude of it all, gazing around at the sombreness, the unspeakable tragedy that seemed to surround them. We looked at each other knowingly, barely able to grasp at any kind of emotion that would soften the bitter blow.  

There were the officials and dignitaries, the local mayor and mayoress and above all the memory of the loved ones who were not only deprived of their voice and life in the years after the War but were horribly robbed of their dignity. This was not the way it was meant to be and yet that's how fate dictated the course of events. We bowed our heads, chanted our prayers, counted our blessings and gave enormous thanks for the richness of our own lives.

 We questioned, analysed, wondered why and then came to the conclusion that those who scorn and mock the Holocaust should go away for a long time and just examine their consciences. For the Holocaust deniers seem to multiply by the day, the week, month and year. We simply cannot face those whose minds have been so pathologically twisted and bent out of shape by those who believed that the whole Holocaust was a tissue of lies, distortions and  gross exaggerations that have been so shamefully peddled since the end of hostilities in 1945. But yesterday those naysayers were privately dismissed from our minds, as we hoped they would never darken our corridors again.  

How on earth to explain the outrageous individuals who insist that the Holocaust was just a figment of the imagination, that it was something that never actually happened, that it was something they would rather not believe or discuss because there was no proper scientific evidence to prove this. Or that the most evil of all dictatorships could willingly sanction such bloodthirsty barbarism, the gas chambers, the killing fields which provided the ugly setting to those endless rows of concentration camps, the barbed wire of Auschwitz and sickening murder on a gigantic scale.  

And yet over 70 years since the end of the Second World War the hollow echoes of gunfire, bombs, explosions and man's inhumanity to man still resonate powerfully throughout the ages. Still we are reminded of the historians who steadfastly refuse to believe that all of the subsequent TV documentaries were just a sham, a fake, totally blown out of proportion and were just made up facts and figures. 

The blunt truth is of course entirely different. How dare they, in their ignorance, refuse to believe the piles of dead bodies, the huddled groups of men, women and children led achingly to their death, the crying and sobbing families pleading for help, the frail and gaunt figures who were pushed, shoved and jabbed in the back because Hitler despised them! 

Oh for the humiliation, the utter degradation, the vile wickedness of it all. As a grandson of a Holocaust survivor words just fail me. There can be no legal recourse or recompense for the lives wiped out so distressingly and heartrendingly with such merciless intent. We are those whose grandparents witnessed it all, the grandchildren who will always be grateful and respectful, never allowing the sacrifices they made to be obliterated from our minds because we will always love them. 

Still though the images continue to haunt us perhaps because they should and will always do so. How can we forget the labour camps, the now ghostly and haunting railway track that transported hundreds and thousands to the gas chambers for the last time?  How we can possibly erase from our memories the deafening screams of agony from children and adults alike, the dehumanisation of the Jews, the relentless slaughter, the arrogant shouting and stern commands which emanated constantly from the Nazi stormtroopers, the hysterical rantings of Hitler and the mass loss of life? 

Even so for just a morning Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex sat and then stood in silence, contemplating all the while the traumas, the psychological scars, the almost endless senselessness and futility of war. We remembered the ones who would never come back again. But we were there because we had to and we knew in our heart of hearts that they were still there in spirit. It was good to be there and quiet, to be deep in reminiscence, together and united by who we were and why we were there. Lest we ever forget the Holocaust. Never ever.         

Everton's Toffees come to a sticky end in FA Cup defeat against Millwall.

Everton's Toffees come to a sticky end in FA Cup defeat against Millwall.

The FA Cup just keeps getting you there. It has to catch you out when least expected, the element of surprise its most predominant feature. One day it will produce its most astonishing result and we'll all gasp with both relief and delight because that was never meant to happen. Six years ago little and unfairly unfashionable Wigan Athletic, guided by the jovial chairman Dave Whelan, produced one of the great shocks of modern times with a last minute winner against a Manchester City team who had yet to be introduced to Pep Guardiola and the mesmeric tika taka of Guardiola's joyous short passing game.

Last night though the location for another minor FA Cup shock could hardly have been further removed from the palatial glamour of the Nou Camp and Barcelona. Ladies and gentlemen let me give you the New Den, home of Millwall whose rather unfortunate reputation for thuggish hooliganism on the terraces of Cold Blow Lane, their old and now grimly dilapidated ground, did so much to drag English football through its most sleazy and disreputable past.

Still, the dreadful and shameful events that took place so frequently at Cold Blow Lane can still send a cold shiver down the spine. It was football's dark age where much of the 1970s was scarred and terribly disfigured by football fans with flick knives, threatening fists, notorious punch ups in the stands, hate, frightening pitch invasions, broken beer bottles, blood, stabbings and attempted murder.

If sociologists were to analyse the gratuitous violence and appalling behaviour which the Millwall bovver boys were so intent on perpetrating on more or less every Saturday afternoon then they'd have probably struggled desperately. It was football's forgettable age where the fans behaved so disgracefully that some of us never really thought it would ever end. But then along came the terrible tragedies of  Hillsborough and Valley Parade. From that point onwards football took its collective heads out of the sand and realised that something had to be done and quickly.

For Millwall the change of ground to a modern and infinitely more comfortable stadium does seem to have done them the world of good. No longer are those freezing open stands at Cold Blow Lane exposing most of their supporters to lengthy bouts of flu and the chilly draughts coming no doubt from Bermondsey are just a thing of the past. We are now in the 21st century and the dawning of the new Den may not be quite as iniquitous as it might seem at first. There's much more room to manoeuvre and the standard of catering is more cappuccino than soggy meat pie.

The mind can still vaguely recall the exploits of the Millwall players who will now be fondly remembered during the 1970s. There was Barry Kitchener, a strong, bustling and lively player who often gave as good as he got. How could anyone forget the tireless Terry Hurlock and the vastly prolific striker Teddy Sheringham who began his career at Millwall? Then Millwall had Jimmy Carter, Derek Possee and a whole variety of tough, seasoned battlers and professionals who must revel in the memories of Millwall's halcyon days.

Sadly, last night's New Den looked more like Hackney Marshes after a good, old fashioned downpour, a muddy, boggy, rutted quagmire that made you wonder if football had briefly stepped back in time. What we had in consequence was a shapeless, scruffy and scrappy first half that just seemed to sink without trace. The mud became the ultimate hindrance and both teams were at a loss as to what exactly what they were supposed to do with the ball.

For Millwall, the likes of Mahlon Romeo, Shaun Hutchinson, Jake Cooper, Ryan Tunnicliffe , O' Brien and of course the winning goal scorer Murray Wallace strove purposefully to move the ball around the central midfield areas and the 18 yard boxes but at times you almost felt sorry for them. There were occasional flashes of skill and invention but these were few and far between.

Everton of course are having one of those typical seasons where glass is never half full. One day they resemble building site labourers while the next they dress in their smart pin stripe suits for a day of trading on the City floor. Michael Kane still  looks fresh faced and adventurous, Idrissa Gheye scuttled and drove forward positively, Ademola Lookman was sharp and neat on the ball while Gylfi Sigurdsson is still a class act, perhaps the one player of any vision in the Everton side to see things that his colleagues had failed to pick up. But this was not the Everton of Harvey, Kendall and Ball although that might have been wishing for too much.

The game finally creaked open with Everton's first goal, a Richarlison low, drilled shot that gave Everton the advantage they had to work for. Immediately, Millwall struck back with some haste. A high, hanging free kick was nodded on for Lee Gregory whose nicely placed header floated over Everton and England goalkeeper Jordan Pickford who seemed to paw at thin air. Even stevens at half time and much more to come.

Half way through the second half and with Everton penning Millwall deeper and deeper into their defensive shell it looked as if the Premier League club's superior know how and more subtle approach would work in their favour. True to their plan Everton, for what had to be the hundredth time in the match, set Sigurdsson free, now commanding the midfield as if it was his sole property, craftily slipping the ball through the narrowest gap on the edge of the 18 yard box and Tosun then steered the ball sweetly into the net.

Once again Millwall hit back with a second equaliser. Jake Cooper, causing what turned into an international incident, seemed to nudge the ball into net with both shoulder and, most crucially, hand.  Uproar followed and Everton were red with anger. Referee Taylor was surrounded by livid Everton players.  Now an FA Cup tie, full of twists and turns, was beginning to ignore any conceivable script as Millwall, sensing Everton frailties at the back, pushed forward, pestered and inched their way into the Everton half as if their lives depended on it.

Then, with the last kick of the game and the 90 minute mark going beyond the call of duty, Millwall sent forward all of their big battalions, quite literally stretching every muscle in their body. With the referee's whistle for full time about to blow, another Millwall long distance free kick from deep found its head with almost uncanny accuracy and the ball fell almost too invitingly at the feet of Murray Wallace who, from a flicked on header, slammed the ball into the back of the net. The Millwall crowd were almost besides themselves with delight. Whole generations of supporters could hardly hold back their elation.

Now Everton had justifiable cause for complaint. They were still boiling over in high dudgeon over Millwall's second equaliser. It was guided in by hand and nothing would pacify them. Almost the entire Everton team charged over to referee Anthony Taylor who, for a moment, seemed to freeze on the spot. Mayhem and confusion ensued as Everton insisted the ball had hit an Everton hand on the way into the net. But the goal remained and Millwall had reached the fifth round of the FA Cup, an injustice it seemed had been seen to be done. Not for the first time Millwall had toppled a Premier League giant. This is becoming something of a regular occurrence for the Lions of Millwall.

And so the down to earth and full throated throng of Millwall fans sung their colourful songs deep into the South London evening air. Many decades ago the local dockers who toiled so industriously from morning through to early evening, seemed to thrive on their persecution complex. Nobody ever did like Millwall but then nobody seems to have a good word for Jeremy Corbyn. It is hard to see them reaching what would only be their second FA Cup Final after the 4-0 thrashing by Manchester United in 2004 but for Millwall stranger things have been known to happen. Watch this space. 

Hugh Mcilvanney- a literary genius with a love of sport.

Hugh Mcilvanney - a literary genius with a love of sport.

Hugh Mcilvanney, who died today at the age of 84, was not only one of the finest and greatest of sports writers but he took sports journalism to a whole new dimension. For Mcilvanney, writing had to be measured and designed, carved and sculpted, illustrated and lovingly presented. He brought poetry to each and every sentence and paragraph, a heightened sense of drama to every line, while also bringing an almost Dickensian lyricism to every newspaper column. His was the richest Scottish voice in the sporting world.

Born in Kilmarnock, Scotland, Mcilvanney cut his early journalistic teeth on the Express newspapers before moving on to the Observer and in latter years with his equally as gifted colleague Brian Glanville who'd already made his name at the Sunday Times at the beginning of the 1960s. But for Mcilvanney the construction and execution of his art work on the written page was something to be meticulously refined and polished rather than unnecessarily rushed and hurried.

By the time he'd reached the Observer, Fleet Street, as it was then rightly called, had already prepared a special place for this wonderfully husky voiced Scotsman. Once the typewriter had been opened up to him, there flowed a unstoppable torrent of purple prose soaked thoroughly in the sweetest wine of description. The words came tumbling down the mountainside before becoming tablets of stone that would entertain and inform quite brilliantly. His readers couldn't get enough of him.

In a modern context it is hard to put the man from Kilmarnock into any one specific category because, quite simply, he defies any kind of classification. He described football matches, players, managers, grounds, international teams, World Cups, European Championships and football at all levels with a detached authority and extensive knowledge that may never be seen again.

Mcilvanney brought a rare craftsmanship and, some might say, a draughtsmanship to his profession that very few could come anywhere near to matching. He treated words like smooth pieces of wood in upholstery where any remnants of a rough surface would be rubbed down and then fashioned into a beautiful mahogany table.

The sentences may have been lengthy and elaborately detailed, words that waltzed gracefully off the page, delectable words that reminded you of long, winding country roads or cosy tea shops where everything was idyllic, a land of serene, sun lit uplands and gentle twilight brought a perfect conclusion to the day.

So it is that both race courses, boxing rings and football grounds will fall silent as they take an afternoon to reflect on the literary excellence of this wonderful sports writer. For Mcilvanney loved his horse racing, thrilled to the thunderclap hooves of a thousand horses, galloping together harmoniously to the finishing line at Aintree, Ascot, Epsom, Kempton Park, Sandown Park and Ayr which was somehow conveniently situated not a million miles from his birthplace.

Then there was the bloody brutality of the boxing ring where the man from Kilmarnock would crouch by the ringside, phone clamped faithfully to his ears before pouring impeccably delivered words to the copy desk at the Observer who must have been convinced they were listening to the first chapter of 'A Tale of Two Cities'.

In more recent years Mcilvanney turned his attentions to TV. Here he was responsible for some of the most entertaining football documentaries, shedding a fascinating light on the legends of the game. His trips down memory lane took us on a lovely journey where both Sir Matt Busby and Bill Shankly were, quite understandably, fondly recalled. It seemed at times that Mcilvanney was almost awe struck and completely entranced by his subjects, permanently grateful for their presence in the game.

But in one of those tumultuous periods for boxing during the giddy 1960s and the balmy 1970s, the boy from Kilmarnock found himself mixing it with the very elite of boxing company. A man known Muhammad Ali, who'd been running rings around those who ever doubted him, suddenly came head to head with one of the most eloquent wordsmiths Scottish sports writing had ever given us. In the middle of a jungle in what was then referred to as Zaire, Ali and Mcilvanney became lifelong friends.

Today marked the passing of a journalistic colossus, a giant of sports writing scribes, a man whose delicate management of the written word, whose carefully minted phrases and remarkable homages to the English language will keep a warm spot in our hearts by countless wintry log fires. There was a rightness and elegant precision about Hugh Mcilvanney that transcended the sport he so enriched.  Kilmarnock will never forget him and nor will we.

England in the West Indies.

England in the West Indies.

The English cricket team has often found itself in paradise but once again they find themselves up against the one cricketing nation who always used to leave them trembling with fear. The West Indies, in the past tense, were, at one time, one of the most formidable cricketing sides in the world. Not any more or so it would seem. But who knows they may just decide to turn on the style once again in the hope of a resurgence that might be just around the corner.

For the time being the beaches of  Barbados, Trinidad and Tobago, and Jamaica, St Kitts and a whole string of purple pearled islands may have to content themselves with a steady improvement and a gradual return to peerless greatness. But no longer are those islands singing happily to the sound of the sweet crack of willow on red ball.

 The kids want to play football perhaps and cricket is of secondary importance although there has to be a small core of young, emerging West Indian cricketers who would just love to emulate the feats world class gentlemen who so proudly adorned the exotic Caribbean jersey. It almost seems as if the heartbeat of West Indies cricket is no longer throbbing quite so powerfully as it used to. It's as if somebody has deliberately ripped the plug out of the Windies electrical socket.

And yet the England team arrived in Barbados to be greeted with the rich smell of rum and coconut juice and a private conviction that maybe this time they can emerge triumphant. Amid those swaying palm trees and the stirringly melodious sounds of the steel drums in their ears, England will be doing their utmost to putting behind them the woes and troubles of yesteryear.

The fact is that during the 1970s the West Indies were simply unbeatable, a force of nature, a side of boldness, bravery, class and brazen flamboyance. The West Indies possessed some of the most lethal and destructive batsmen in the world of cricket would ever witness. They would hook the ball for innumerable sixes and fours that would invariably end up in local high streets or bouncing off cars and buses before ending up in a shop doorway far, far away. They would slog, punch, cover drive and sweep the ball off back and front and back foot with gleeful enjoyment and not a single moment's hesitation.

Those players were the remarkably gifted Viv Richards, a batsman with savagery and callousness in that bat, a bat that swung like a metronome and a man who timed the ball to perfection. Richards would hook delightfully and drive the ball to all four corners of a cricket ground as if determined to lose it. He would hunch those broad, muscular shoulders which reminded you of solid rock and then take up residence as, frequently, opening batsman before blasting and slogging the ball with merciless power.

Then there was captain Clive Lloyd, pantherine and with legs that seemed to go on for ever. Lloyd was a brilliant strategist and thoughtful captain who would lope across from gully or deep with the majesty of a leopard. There was Gordon Greenidge and Roy Fredericks, Alvin Kallicharran, the studious Rohan Kanhai, players with a definitive match winning temperament, cricketers of steel, nerves of steel, showboating, grandstanding brilliance. They would skip out of the pavilion on an early sun kissed morning at Trent Bridge, noble emperors, stunning practitioners of their craft and full of witty expressions at the crease.

Then there were the bowlers, the quickies, the catapult slingers, the men who delivered those ruthless missiles that flew past opposition batsmen as if they were propelled by some supernatural force. There was Andy Roberts. Malcolm Marshall, Michael Holding and Joel Garner who was so tall that he looked as if he would have been better employed as a weatherman. All four men were silent cricketing assassins. silent at first but then intense and explosive, as noisy and stentorian as a steam train hurtling into a railway station.

Now though the West Indies have Jason Holder as the West Indies skipper, Carlos Brathwaite, Fabian Allen, Samuel Badree, Darren Bravo, Devendra Bishoo and Sunil Ambris and Kraiss Brathwaite, the modern today generation, the new buds on the rosebush, wet behind their ears quite possibly and wondering if their predecessors would still swell with pride if only they could do half as well as they did in their heyday.

You see the problem is that the infrastructure of West Indian cricket is not nearly as sound as it used to be and there are those out there who doubt whether we'll ever see another Sir Garfield Sobers, another set of Worell, Weeks and Walcott, the classically built Learie Constantine or any of those magicians and conjurors who turned every cricketing match into a musical carnival.

The mind tenderly takes you go back to the wondrous Sobers and that famous Sunday John Player League six fest against Glamorgan during the late 1960s. It may have been just like any ordinary Sunday afternoon for Sobers but when he planted that final six of six sixes into some far distant corner of an English meadow the rest of cricket knew that it had almost certainly set eyes upon the greatest cricketer they'd ever seen.

But now the England of Joe Root, a natural leader of men, Ben Stokes and Stuart Broad, bowlers of strength and resourcefulness, powerful and admirable consistency, men who can so readily rise to the occasion whatever the day, month or week. They will stroll into a bright Caribbean winter sun, drink in the spice of a Test match atmosphere and just have the time of their lives.

 With Johnny Bairstow always ready to be assertive and richly productive when the mood takes him, Jos Buttler, full of fluent and captivating strokes and the promising Jake Ball, primed and ready to go, this could be the winter to remember for English cricket. We feel sure that Jimmy Anderson will bowl with all the enthusiasm of  the youngster in the playground who just loved to play cricket all day and deep into the evening. Will the roles though be completely reversed this time and for once will English cricket finally emerge from a West Indian field with a victory rather than that sinking feeling again? It remains to be seen and we can but hope.     

National Squirrel Appreciation Day.

National Squirrel Appreciation Day.

It does seem like the daftest excuse for a National Appreciation Day but this is perfectly true. I've checked my sources and it is National Squirrel Appreciation Day, those sneaky and quick witted creatures who always look as if they're operating undercover with a hidden agenda. Squirrels are lightning fast on their feet and look as though they could probably give Usain Bolt a run for his money but that's never likely to happen since the now all time great sprinter Bolt has now retired. Still, it's a fond thought.

But now is the time to celebrate the lifestyle and existence of the grey or brown  squirrel, whose everyday life seems to be wholly dependent on the accumulation and consumption of as many nuts they can gobble up as quickly as possible. You're never entirely sure what to make of a creature who spends most of its time permanently looking up at you as if slightly wary of the human race and suspicious of your every move. At times it looks as if they're terrified of an all out war on them where the only course of action is to either scamper for their life or just get out of the neighbourhood.

Squirrels are quite obviously mischievous, covert, cheeky and audacious. They leap across parklands with so much subtlety and cunning that it is nigh on impossible to track them or find out what it is  they believe is so irresistible. They scurry up walls and over fences with the kind of dashing flair that only squirrels are capable of performing.

 They jump out of communal bins with a sparkling agility that only they can muster. They hide in corners, forever shifty and scheming, foraging for more food quite naturally and then giving up the chase because night may be falling and you never know who might be around. They dart out of bushes and trees with extraordinary speed and must feel, in their heart of hearts, this may be the only place that might offer blissful sanctuary when all else fails.

Then there are the crafty breed of squirrels who just wait for the right moment to plot some ingenious way out of the undergrowth in the fervent hope of  seeking out a warm bed for the night.Their eyes, as wide as saucers, are forever staring and peering just looking to see whether the coast is clear. You see a squirrel's  intentions are always honourable and they're just looking for a decent night's supper at the Savoy. Now here they might encounter a problem because squirrels aren't welcome at swanky five star hotels.

But seriously, you never know what the average squirrel may be thinking. Presumably, there are extrovert and introvert squirrels, wise and all knowing squirrels, squirrels who are holding back the inner pain, emotional squirrels who just can't control their tears and just tireless squirrels who simply approach life with an infectious zest for living.

So there are you folks. It's time to take our hats off to our friendly squirrel always restless, bursting with energy, always pursuing some elusive goal, persistently flying up drain pipes at the rate of knots and climbing up trees with the very distinctive air of the hunter predator. Now it is that the squirrel finds time to weigh up its options. Do they make a decisive run for it, escape into the wilderness where nobody can possibly find them again or just lie low in case there are just a few hungry animals ready and waiting to pounce?

A squirrel's life it seems is very much the classic case of the survival of the fittest, where only the strongest flourish. Spare a thought indeed for your community minded squirrel who may just be going about their business always seeming to keep itself to itself but never deterred when their backs are against the wall. Of course they're nosy and inquisitive because that's what they probably do best, fiercely protective of their food and always on the lookout for something deeply appetising. This is our personal tribute to the squirrel since we may have taken you for granted.

Marko Arnautovic- money grabber or just a classic piece of China.

Marko Arnautovic - money grabber or just a classic piece of China.


For those of us with claret and blue sensibilities this is normally the point when West Ham stumble and stagger painstakingly towards the finishing line of a Premier League season. It used to be the case that the East London club would always come down with the Christmas decorations, plummeting down the division with that customary flop on their faces that would somehow characterise the club's fortunes during the second half of the season.

This season though, with the notable exception of their first four games of this season when it all looked very bleak and humiliating for West Ham, new West Ham manager Manuel Pellegrini has finally established the club on a firm footing. The Chilean, a dour and businesslike man who looks at times as if he hasn't slept for ages, takes the Hammers to the south coast where Bournemouth, in the corresponding game at the Vitality Stadium last season, engaged in a remarkable 3-3 draw with  West Ham over the Christmas holidays.

At the beginning of the season, when West Ham were still finding their bearings, Bournemouth beat West Ham 2-1 at a time when most of West Ham's most passionate fans were still sunbathing in the late summer heat and probably wishing they hadn't bothered to turn up in the first place.

 But after a superb smash and grab 3-1 win at Everton, a hard fought goal-less draw at home to Chelsea and a classical 3-1 victory at home to Manchester United, West Ham have now fully recovered  from their early season drowsy torpor and now find themselves at a much higher altitude, a ninth position which would have been regarded as barely possible back in September. It is the kind of territory where men in claret and blue fear to tread at their peril but still believe they can conquer.

Sadly though, the man who has single handedly become the club's new pin up boy and worshipped all over East London has now turned his back on the club quite abruptly and will never ever be welcomed back beyond the London Stadium's hallowed portals. In fact he may well be accused of treason, taken to the Tower of London and never spoken to again. He'll be forcefully driven out of Stratford and, quite possibly, be locked inside the Westfield shopping centre.

His name is Marko Arnautovic and this is the man who has consistently proved to be one of the best goal scorers for many a season. But now Arnautovic has decided that the grass on the other side of the fence is much greener and wants to leave for the club for the mystical Far East. In the last week or so we've been reliably informed that Arnautovic's brother has taken it upon himself to dangle a huge financial carrot in front of the Austrian international's face in an effort to persuade him that his immediate future lies in Chinese football. Lest we forget Arnautovic is desperate to win trophies in China which has to be the ultimate ambition of any player. You simply couldn't make it up.

Now there are those within the footballing fraternity who are convinced that Arnautovic has just lost the plot, that the man has lost his marbles and is utterly potty. The thought occurs to you that the man from Austria is just the latest in another disturbing list of money grabbing mercenaries who just want to retire with a mammoth amount of money in their bank account without the slightest consideration of the adoring fans he might have left behind.

A couple of seasons ago most West Ham fans must have thought their world had come to an end when French playmaker Dimitri Payet got all restless and agitated after a season and a half at the club. Payet insisted that it had nothing to do with the club more a case of settling his family down in London which never really worked out for him. So the Frenchman reluctantly returned to his homeland and all was forgotten.

Now though English football's recent and alarming tendency to allow its finest players to jump onto the Chinese and American gravy train is beginning to leave most football fans growling with discontent. With the likes of Wayne Rooney now feathering his pre- retirement nest with a fistful of dollars it's hardly surprising that the vast majority of hard core supporters are beginning to feel that nobody likes their club at all.

We all know of course that loyalty is almost a swear word, football's most ghastly of all profanities, something that went out of fashion with trams and trolleybuses, post war rationing and Johnny Haynes boots. The fact is that binding, five year footballing contracts have almost become yesterday's fish and chip paper, a farcical irrelevance that just looks very cheap and meaningless to the millions of fans who just want to see their team do fantastically well regardless of who's in their team.

But now in an age where beards and tattoos have become very much de rigueur and this year's fashion statement, today's generation of footballers will perhaps take a moment to think about what exactly it is that prompts them to leave a club where their inherent connection to their team counts for nothing. In the case of Arnautovic the kissing of the badge and the so called dedication to the cause can only be regarded as a futile gesture.

You're reminded of a certain Sir Trevor Brooking, whose lifelong relationship with West Ham has to be seen as a salutary example to the rest of the footballing world of just what it means to remain with your boyhood club through thick and thin. Brooking, who joined the club as a youngster and lived within cheering distance of Upton Park, can only hope that one day such warm hearted affinity to one club for their entire career can once again be richly demonstrated.

And yet Marko Arnautovic continues to bide his time on the sidelines, kicking his heels frustratingly hoping against hope that the good fairy can arrive in time to spirit the Austrian away to some remote corner of the Orient where all that glisters is the currency of the yuan. It is though one of the more baffling of footballing transfers- or seemingly inevitable transfers in recent seasons.

Here we have on the one hand one of the game's most natural goal scorers with a hunger for goals, a bite and aggression to his game that must be the envy of the Premier League and still he is attracted to the land of rice and chop suey. Still, it is important to wish the former Stoke City striker well in his genuine pursuit of League titles, Champions League glory and much adoration from the whole of Chinese football. Maybe he might stop to think of Sir Trevor Brooking just for a minute or two. It does seem highly unlikely. 

D-Day for Theresa May.

D-Day for Theresa May.

The lady in white faced her audience defiantly and wished she could disappear into a hole in the ground. She just wants to flee the country perhaps and, quite possibly, take a sabbatical where nobody could find her. Perhaps she just needed time to gather her confused thoughts because this is turning into some comical feud where nothing can be achieved and the only people who end up any the wiser are the ones who convinced that the whole subject in hand is both easy to understand and simple as the multiplication table or the alphabet.

Prime Minister Theresa May glared across at her Labour and Lib Dem opponents rather like some stern and incensed school headmistress who is so mortally offended that anybody should challenge her authority that she just stares them out as if determined to get her way. It all looks like some horrendous shambles reminding you of a storage cupboard full of dust, dirt and old board games cluttering up your room.

Today Mrs May faces the ultimate judgment on our withdrawal from the EU. Does she stick or twist? Does she keep a poker face and call her European counterparts bluff? Here we now have the vitally important terms and conditions which could either make or break May. It is hard to know what exactly it all means, those long term implications for our departure from the battleground that is the rest of Europe.

We have now reached the point where everything is becoming so wearisome and complex that we may be tempted to switch off  all our means of communication with the outside world for ever. Wherever we go we seem to be surrounded by this awful noise, this baffling double speak, this piffling silliness and absurdity, these grammatical mysteries, the insults to our intelligence and the unbearable references to the same words over and over and over again. When on earth are they going to put a sock in it?

At this point in the proceedings today could be the end of the road for Theresa May which does seem  a crying shame because to all intents and purposes she does seem a nice, decent and friendly Prime Minister. In fact Theresa May is a woman of both of the highest integrity and principle. Essentially, she hasn't really done anything wrong as such but to her increasingly vocal critics she has dropped so many clangers that you wouldn't know where to start.

For the last couple of weeks or so we have been bombarded with threats of a civil war on the streets of London if things simply get out of control. Blood will be spilled and men will take up rifles, flintlocks and blunderbusses if they don't get what they want. The military will be called in and the British army may well have their work cut out.

 There  will be mutiny, rebellion and then a good, old fashioned bust up in the heart of London. Banners and placards will be unveiled with messages of hatred and hot headed bitterness. People will tell us that they just  can't stand it any more and then they'll refuse to to be told what to do. They will stomp up and down Oxford Street, faces twisted with anger, shouting and bawling, fist pumping, gesticulating forcefully at the tops of their voices, outraged and emotionally at the end of their tether.

So this is what has happened to British society. We are now at war with ourselves, internalising our hurt and then blaming each other for something we can no longer understand. Brexit is rather like the worst of our nightmares, a lingeringly rancid smell that keeps hanging about us which we simply cannot remove. We keep using the same old disinfectant but it keeps coming back over and over again. The voices of dissent and discord are rising to deafening levels and sooner rather than later we may have to stuff the thickest cotton wool to our ears.

We begin to count down the hours and scratch our collective heads because very few of us can shed any new light on the one political issue that seems to destined to just go on and on indefinitely regardless of what the British think. The likelihood is of course that once we wake up tomorrow morning all the hullabaloo and kerfuffle will all amount to nothing in particular.

All of the rather strange vocabulary that we've been burdened with for the last two and half years will once again be repeatedly aired for the mouth watering delectation of those who just love new words and phrases. In the far corner we have those seasoned Brexiteers, a growing army of working, middle and upper class men and women who just keeping making what appear to be ill informed or well informed comments about all those cliches and hot air platitudes they may have heard a million times either on the radio or TV.

Then there are the self righteous ones who are absolutely convinced that the country is about to fall off the map of the world if a proper agreement can't be found. In the very red corner are those ruddy faced, fuming Remainers who for the last two years have been demanding second referendums every week and every month since David Cameron fell on his sword.

Now though it seems though Noel Edmonds has been drawn into this most long winded of arguments. Would it possible to reach a deal or maybe a deal with strings? Perhaps we'll have to settle for a no deal because the other one isn't nearly convincing enough for our liking? Or do we go back to the drawing board and, quite possibly, draw lots or even as a last resort, toss a coin? This is all very inconclusive and terribly incoherent, a loud slanging match  where nobody can either hear themselves think let alone make any rational decisions without somebody telling us that we have no right to be thinking along those lines.

But perhaps most importantly there is the eternally thorny issue of the backstop which sounds as though it belongs at an American baseball match. We've been told quite emphatically that the backstop is the insurance policy that may be needed in Ireland if hard and soft borders can't be found. Are you with me at the back? Are we any the clearer or is another explanation required?

The peculiarities of the modern day political system have never been so embarrassingly self evident. At this rate they may well have to compile a completely new set of dictionaries, maybe a new thesaurus or two just to keep pace with the new influx of new verbal variations on a theme. We could always invent a completely different language to make matters even more complicated than they already are.

Still, here we are on the verge of yet another political meltdown. Fingers are being bitten to the quick, the Palace of Westminster could be about to explode and all of those flags and banners could be the catalyst for a full scale street riot. Then again, we could always set a competition to decide which flag or banner is the most striking or well designed. Then the cyclists, who look as though they may be in  full training for the Tour De France later on this summer, continue to pedal up and down the road as if clocking up the miles necessary for such a punishing schedule. Somebody really ought to tell them that this is the Houses of Parliament and not a French country lane.

With an hour or tow the lights are blazing away in those small, private rooms where the politicians will be huddling together in a kind of secretive hideaway where only those in the know have any real clue about the result or why they've been summoned here in the first place. The conspiratorial whispers are getting louder and louder, the Tory gang leaders clicking their fingers and bunching their knuckles. Slowly but surely Brexit is turning into that last memorable scene in West Side Story when the Jets and Sharks prepare themselves for warfare.

Anyway by the end of the evening we should have a clearer picture of where we might be going or maybe not. The chances are though that we may have to look each other in complete bemusement because this is not the way we should be going and we're just delaying the inevitable. In the pre life Brexit we all seemed to know exactly where we stood, life was simpler, the sun always shone during the summer and the moon was always in the right place at the right time. But now the air has a sharper edge and things are not the way we'd like them to be.

And yet we'll just keep going because we always have and always will. We'll rush down our breakfast at an electrifying speed, grab an apple, sprint towards the bus stop or railway station for our daily workaday wage and then fix our eyes on a computer that keeps beeping and flashing at us like some ancient Space Invader machine. Life has to go on and besides there has to be something else to talk about.

 The fact is though that we can't get enough of Brexit. We may be gluttons for punishment and actually enjoying it all. In which case some of us would love nothing better than a huge nationwide street party just to celebrate that last day in March. Surely, we deserve something else. It's two years too many and some of us need to find a Brexit alternative. Our ears are beginning to ring and we can only take so much. Roll on April.

Stan and Ollie- it certainly was.

Stan and Ollie - it certainly was.

Yesterday saw the long awaited film premiere of Stan and Ollie, two of the funniest, knockabout and lovable comedy men the world has ever seen and the like of whom we may never see again. Quite simply the chemistry between Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy was so perfect that it could only be described as almost telepathic, the right combination.

In a deeply touching, sad but uplifting story, the career of this often blundering and bumbling duo is one that may well have been well documented but can only now be fully re-examined once again for much younger audiences. For today's generation the names of Stan and Ollie are almost as alien to them as the Beatles and Stones would be to the 1960s or Elvis Presley and the Platters would have been to the 1950s. This though was Stan and Ollie as seen through the eyes of the movie industry.

For those who can still hold affectionate memories of Stan and Ollie through the medium of old BBC archive footage this was a gently rewarding trip down memory lane. We thought we were familiar with their backstory but underneath the surface there was much more to Stan and Ollie than some foolhardy comic act whose sole object was to make families and children giggle and chuckle heartily out of the cinema.

Against the backdrop of the Great Depression in the USA, Laurel and Hardy were a huge tonic to a nation that must have felt they were sliding into a calamitous black financial hole. But Stan and Ollie was the perfect pick me up, a face saving antidote to a people who they would have presumed had deserted them.

Stan and Ollie follows the idiosyncratic antics of two utterly contrasting comics whose quirky personalities made them box office stars overnight. For those who might have thought this was a straightforward and light hearted account of two hilarious men Stan and Ollie might have provided a sobering shock. For Stan and Ollie revealed quite clearly the harder and more ruthless side to their characters.

Forever exploited and sent down the river by their demanding director Hal Roach both Stan and Ollie are seen angrily stalking the corridors of a movie set, fiercely criticising Roach for taking Stan and Ollie for granted, refusing to pay them the commensurate amount of money for the work they were doing. Quite clearly the whole studio system in early Hollywood was not to either man's liking and in one telling sequence Stan took Roach to task for letting both he and Ollie down quite severely.

Stan and Ollie followed the paths of two very business savvy and pragmatic men who just wanted to entertain their devoted fans and always leave them laughing. Stan was a surprisingly blunt and outspoken comedian who felt the studio had betrayed him, often resorting to loud slanging matches without ever being tactless.

Our story takes us to Stan and Ollie's trip to England in the early 1950s. Landing in Newcastle on a dark night in the middle of nowhere, Stan and Ollie roll up to what appeared to be a pub-cum hotel. With a minimum of fuss Stan sidles up to the receptionist who promptly tells him that everybody is talking about Stan and Ollie. Eventually both Stan and Ollie settle in to what must have seemed totally unglamorous surroundings.

Then the funny man from a remote town in Lancashire and the warm man from America cement their friendship even further with classic appearances in a local Newcastle music hall before wowing audiences around Britain. The act was a simple one. Ollie, with neat moustache and big stomach, twiddles his well knotted little tie and Stan does likewise with his hair, grinning perhaps childishly and then playing to the camera with the smallest of smiles.

Of course behind every great comedy duo there have to be the strong women guiding and supporting their tireless husbands in the pursuit of the pavements of gold. Stan's wife, sassy and feisty, is no nonsense but realistic, a proper driving force behind Stan's slightly vulnerable persona while Ollie's wife, smitten and clearly in love with her husband, is a sweet and endearing soul, just happy to be Ollie's wife and always lending a sympathetic shoulder to Ollie in his moments of weakness.

In one glorious scene Stan and Ollie, after a petty argument over each other's specific role in the act, are now invited to a seaside resort to drape the winning sash over a beauty queen. While Stan proudly delivers the winner her crown, Ollie, waiting in the wings, begins to sweat anxiously before collapsing.

Under strict doctor's instructions Ollie is told to retire from the stage and take a complete break from performing. Naturally, poor Stan is left distraught and finds it impossible to believe that he could ever function without his dearest friend and partner. For Ollie this must have felt as if he'd have to survive without his much loved colleague. Life though would never be the same for a now very solitary Stan who begins to understandably mope and then pine for the man who always seemed the right fit for him.

Throughout we are now introduced to the great theatrical and showbiz impresario Bernard Delfont whose beneficial influence on the West End scene would flourish much later on. Delfont is the wheeler and dealer, constantly schmoozing, scheming and perhaps manipulating those who felt they could place their trust in him. Delfont would become a renowned ducker and diver, looking after the boys and forever promising them one final, lucrative pay day if they could only hold out for it.

With Ollie now permanently resting, Stan and Ollie finally agree to appear for one more time. Against all the best wishes of his doctor they finally team up emotionally for one last hurrah on an English stage. Now nervous and in some distress Ollie and Stan dance to an old song in perfect harmony. Privately though, Ollie must have known that he hadn't long to live but soldier on he did to the end with both grace and honesty.

For most of us Stan and Ollie will forever be associated with everything that goes wrong with either Ollie being soaked to the skin, falling helplessly over planks of wood, being covered in the most ridiculous of old fashioned mess and then being slapped on the face with thick handfuls of comic cream. The famous piano sketch where Laurel and Hardy manfully heave a piano up a seemingly endless flight of steps is now etched into comedy folklore. There were innumerable pratfalls, awkward accidents and stumbles that could only define them for who they were.

At the end of Stan and Ollie you found yourself privately wondering if some of those other early 20th century capers and comics could also be immortalised on the silver screen. You thought of Robert Downey's superb depiction of Charlie Chaplin a number of years ago. Your thoughts turned to the crazy Keystone Cops who never knew exactly where they were going on film but were nevertheless admired the world over. Then there was the equally as versatile Buster Keaton who once allowed a house to topple over him knowingly fully well that no harm had been done to him.

But above all Stan and Ollie was a very touching film about two lovely comedians who just wanted the world to love them- which they did with some style. By the same token though we were reminded once again of those difficult and challenging moments throughout their career when everything could have finished before it had even started.

Although Ollie died in 1957 and Stan in 1965 the comic legacy would be preserved for ever more. There was the 'Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia, that legendary country and western number one hit for the boys, those delightful pushing and shoving routines where both amusingly blame each other and much silly tomfoolery that never disappoints.

 We salute Laurel and Hardy because theirs was gentle and simple humour, two men who were totally unaffected by the fame and celebrity that both would enjoy for the rest of their lives. Maybe none will ever replace these carefree charmers.  We must assume that Stan and Ollie will always have a special place in our hearts. Stan always told us that they certainly would. Ollie would have rightly referred to the fact that the current state of the world is nothing but a fine mess. Maybe he would have been right. 

Andy Murray announces retirement.

Andy Murray announces retirement.

We feared it would happen sooner rather than later. We knew about the horrendous injury problems and we sympathised. When Andy Murray announced his retirement from the very high profile world of tennis we knew that Murray's body had taken more than enough punishment. It almost felt like the most cruel deterioration, a sharp downward decline that couldn't be stopped no matter how hard he tried. And he certainly tried of that there can be no doubt.

But surely this is the right time to now acknowledge the size of his outstanding achievement within the game and acclaim him rightly as two time Wimbledon champion when it seemed as though Britain would have to wait at least another two centuries before singing the praises of another Wimbledon men's singles champion.

Sadly though, Murray listened to the creaks, snaps and twinges that have so often completely destabilised him, bothered him, irritated him and ultimately defeated him. There are some battles in the life of sportsmen and women that are destined to be lost, wearying and tiring ordeals on the treatment table that just refuse to go away. Murray though, always the fighter and never the quitter, finally decided that he just couldn't go on and that the only memories he'll leave behind were by far the most precious ones.

So it is that we bid farewell to perhaps the greatest and most sublime talent British tennis has ever produced by a thousand country miles. Not only did Murray win Wimbledon twice he slammed the cynics and naysayers with one heck of a ferocious serve from a green Wimbledon baseline. He dismissed out of sight those who believed that Murray lacked the nerve, the bottle, the sheer bloody mindedness, the absolutely focused, narrow eyed determination, aggressive intent and an admirable desire to be the best as soon as possible.

In an age where Murray found himself surrounded by the remarkable Roger Federer,  the peerless genius of  Novak Djokovic and the handsome gifts of Rafael Nadal, he brought his own very unique brand of fearless daring, powerful, high energy and a relentless will to win that some of us thought we'd never see again on British soil.

Murray's game was based quite unmistakably on an insatiable will power and abundant stamina that maybe Murray himself didn't think he could ever summon when the chips were down. The body language was revealingly moving and inspiring. There were the endless pulls on his shirt, the slow winding up of supple arms and shoulders hardened by dedicated training, that bullishly belligerent growling and snarling, that cold and calculating steeliness that some of his peers must have envied.

Then the trunk of Murray's body would gradually uncoil before throwing the ball into the air and cracking the ball with his racket rather like a sniper in warfare. Murray would hurl the whole weight of his body forward so that the trajectory of the ball would be whipped away from him like a missile. The forehand serve could be regarded as perhaps a tennis player's most offensive weapon but for Murray it seemed to travel with the speed of a bullet.

Murray would then grow into the most important matches and ruthlessly wear down the resistance of his opponents. There would follow a whole succession of explosive returns down both tramlines, swinging, heaving miraculous shots delivered with lethal, uncompromising accuracy and a blase effortlessness that very few of us could ever believe.

The man from Dunblane, who had overcome some of the most personal anguish from a young age was now moving, chipping and charging, racing from one side of the court to the other and then blasting the ball with a merciless brutality that felt as though he was letting go of years of pent up frustrations. You probably thought Murray had the needle to the ball, that there was an unspoken animosity burning away inside his heart that had to come out at the right time and place.

Then there were the immensely gratifying cross court returns, the pitch perfect almost strategic placement of the ball into particular areas, the brilliantly judged backhands that flew past his opponents, the gritty resolve and those swinging forehands, overhead swipes that gloriously turned into unstoppable shots that were hit sweetly and often musically.

But now Murray has made it clear that he can no longer subject his tired body to yet more demanding five set exertions, more agonising contests on both clay and grass. This year, Murray has told us that this will be his last Wimbledon ever and that the final swansong for a now richly decorated Olympian gold medal hero is now only a matter of months away.

Today, in front of an emotional and tear stained press conference Murray pulled on all tightest of heart strings with the brave admission that Murray could go no further. He'd accepted that the hip and back injuries that had so scarred his career with increasing frequency. Regrettably though those self same injuries had left him almost helpless eventually overwhelming him from all sides.

Still, we can still remember this magnificent athlete as the winter nights make us long for a hot summer, reminding Britain once again that they'll always have one of its finest and most lustrous tennis stars. And so it is a nation will recall, cherish fondly and never ever forget Andy Murray, a man whose hunger for success, rampaging ambition and clearly visible appetite for tennis will live long. This could be the ideal moment to send out search parties for yet another Andy Murray. His legacy is set in stone and we wish our bonny Scotsman the happiest retirement. You feel sure he deserves it. 

Wolves roll back the years in shock Cup win against high flying Liverpool.

Wolves roll back the years in shock Cup win against high flying Liverpool.

There was a moment before last night's third round FA Cup tie against Premier League leaders Liverpool when Molineux, the historic ground of Wolves, must have felt like the Molineux of the 1950s. The white flames were shooting up into the night sky, the Wolves light show reminded you of a modern heavyweight boxing match and the dramatic, high voltage electricity of the occasion sent goose bumps down your spine, as darkness and light met head on and Wolves powered their way into the fourth round of the FA Cup.

For those whose memories go back to those pioneering nights at Wolves when the club became one of the first English clubs to play under floodlights, this was a moment when the whole subject of time travel had a certain tang and flavour about it. There were no doctors or tardises around but for much of the match you were taken back to those halcyon days when Wolves used to win things.

 Sadly, the 1960 FA Cup victory against Blackburn Rovers is no more than a distant blur on Wolves footballing horizon. But on a night when Wolves legendary giant and gentlemen Bill Slater was remembered after Slater's passing recently, Wolves came out of the traps all guns blazing and Premier League leaders Liverpool were knocked out of the FA Cup, dumped on the ground unceremoniously and left to rue what might have been had they actually bothered to turn up on the night.

For make no mistake about it this was not the night when anybody expected to Liverpool to tread carefully and hope against hope that something would turn up eventually. This was a pale shadow of the Liverpool who have swept all before them in the Premier League season so far. When Manchester City finally brought Liverpool's unblemished unbeaten record to an end at the Etihad Stadium, some of us suspected that nerves and the jitters had caught up with them.

But this was a Liverpool side in drag, in caricature, the lonely actor in his dressing room who once they take off their make up, just become very maudlin and melancholy. For much of the first half of this tale of two halves, Wolves showed both tooth and claw to show streetwise savvy, a complete air of assurance on the ball and promised significantly more to offer in the final third of the pitch. Around the stadium the old gold wolves imagery dotted graphically around the ground reminded you of Guy Fawkes night.

Liverpool, for their part, were awkward, slovenly, slow, too cautious and, above all, clumsy in possession. They dawdled and dithered on the ball as if it were a hot potato and generally looked dreadfully out of sorts. The likes of James Milner, Dejan Lovren, Curtis Jones, even the very clever Fabinho seemed distracted by something indefinable, perhaps wrongly assuming that all they had to do on the night was just turn up on the evening and thrash the living daylights out of Wolves.

You felt sure that up in heaven Bill Slater, Denis Willshaw, Billy Wright, with Jimmy Mullen and Johnny Hancocks on their respective wings were all looking down approvingly on the proceedings. Wolves this season have been the loveliest surprise, a revelation, a refreshing discovery, the proverbial breath of fresh air and for the club who once found themselves trapped at the bottom of football's lowest tier this was a night for extraordinary derring do, get up and go and utter devil may care dynamism.

Finally, the side that chairman Jack Hayward so lovingly built when disaster loomed, have found stable bearings back in the Premier League. Under the wonderfully salt and pepper bearded Nuno Espirito Santo, the Premier League can hardly believe that they have in their possession one of the most agreeable and charming managers, a man who always practises what he preaches, a purist rather than spoiler. a man of art rather than pretension which may or may not be a good thing.

For long periods last night those of a 1950s mindset found themselves back on those early floodlit nights when Honved of Hungary and Dynamo Moscow graced the English game. The current day Wolves seemed to have re-captured the same attitudes and cultural habits of  both Honved and Dynamo Moscow, full of neat, one and two touch spontaneity and gloriously spreading the ball around the pitch like the first seeds of spring.

In Reuben Neves Wolves had the player of the night constantly jinking, darting and threading passes long and short with the kind of knowhow and maturity of a man years ahead of himself, slipping in and out of the wide open pockets of space that Liverpool had given him. The wonderful thundercrack of a shot from way outside  Liverpool's penalty area flew past a helpless Signolet, a Liverpool keeper who must have wondered what had happened to the rest of his team mates. The Neves winner and goal was a thing of beauty.

Regrettably, the first half itself belonged in some forgettable video out take that should never ever be shown again at any time. It was rather like watching two sets of crabs inching their way painstakingly towards the shore and then sinking into the sand. Both Liverpool and Wolves spent much of the first half jabbing at each other and shuffling around as if wary of the final outcome. Wolves were marginally more skilful, quicker on the ball but still found themselves in a rut when the ball became a bar of soap, a throwback to Peter Sellers fizzing bomb in the Pink Panther. Still, it was pleasant to watch even if it didn't really amount to much.

So it was that both teams lunged forward achingly towards the break with little to choose between the two. But just before half time a Liverpool attack broke down almost meekly, the red shirts carelessly losing the ball in the last place they would have wanted it to do. Wolves, sensing a wide open gap, surged over the half way line and Divock Origi burst forward on his own and, homing in on the Liverpool goal, the alert Mexican striker Raul Jimenez set himself coolly and brilliantly before stroking the ball softly and nonchalantly past Liverpool keeper Mignolet.

This was the blue touch paper for a brief Liverpool recovery. Jurgen Klopp, their warmly dressed manager with the German pop star glasses and fashionably thick beard for comfort, stared daggers at his team. You could almost see the fury rising up to his anguished face, as Liverpool huffed and puffed in that strangely lumpen and pedestrian style so totally out of character with everything that had gone before. It almost felt as if somebody had given them an ill fitting set of trousers and suits and then expected them to wear them on the night.

Still the visitors did enjoy a temporary purple period of good, clear thinking possession, carving out the kind of goal that has become so typical of who Liverpool are at the moment and Bill Shankly would have swooned over when he was boss. A sharp interchange of play on the edge of the Wolves penalty area led to Shaqiri tucking the ball into Milner who looked as though he'd lost it for the moment. Then Divock Origi shifted the ball smartly from one foot to the next in the blink of an eye lid before drilling the ball low and hard past the former Norwich keeper John Ruddy.

Wolves though were not to be disheartened and after another period of leaden footed Liverpool uncertainty, the home side climbed back onto the bandwagon and pushed Liverpool deeper and deeper back into the darkest of holes. From this point onward Liverpool cowered back into their defensive retreat as if not quiet realising just how outplayed they'd been on the night. Eventually, the old gold of Wolves strung together their sparkling set of passes and Liverpool finally crumbled sadly. It was rather like watching an impressive collection of old gold footballing pearls, resulting in a  goal of utter purity.

A long diagonal pass over the heads of now terrified Liverpool defenders dropped perfectly at the feet at Reuben Neves who checked back inside his defender, cut inside beautifully and sent a magnificent dipping, swerving shot that seemed to nestle in the net before Signolet had had the chance to even move. Wolves were in complete command of the game and smothered everything Liverpool could offer.

When the final whistle went it was hard to believe that Liverpool had been so poor and submissive. Wolves were into the fourth round of the FA Cup and Liverpool were literally clutching at straws. For the time being the season seems to have taken its toll on Liverpool's well equipped resources. At no point had Liverpool looked as though the football they had embroidered the Premier League season with would ever be suitably replicated on an FA Cup stage.

 Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool's always jolly boss looked like a man who'd lost a treasure chest of money if perhaps consoled by the knowledge that the Premier League title would now become an overriding priority. It is now 29 years since the Anfield club last won the old First Division so maybe some of the Kop might be entitled to think that a sea change in fortune may be moving in their direction.

Some of us thought back to the mid 1970s when Liverpool met Wolves at Molineux on the last day of the League season. With the lethal strike force of Kevin Keegan and John Toshack leading the Wolves defence a merry dance, Liverpool beat Wolves with the three decisive goals that won the old First Division.

Now though the boot was firmly on the foot and the old gold of Wolves were howling with some authority and menace. It's been a long time since Wolves were even remotely close to the most famous old trophy and the long suffering supporters may be harbouring private ambitions about planting another FA Cup trophy in their cabinet. Sometimes it pays to be hopeful because you never know what you're going to get. The pre match flames may still be flickering.   

Yet more murder on the streets of Britain.

Yet more murder on the streets of Britain.

The year is but six days old an already the dark evils of murder are terrorising the streets, roads, back alleyways and troubled inner city council estates of Britain. It hardly seems a year ago now since similarly deadly attacks stalked the country like a repulsive smell that refuses to go away. It almost feels like some horrible contamination that seems to be spreading across Britain like some rampant disease and yet none of us seem any closer to definitive, long term solutions in the foreseeable future.

The tragic death of a honest and law abiding father on a train in Surrey in front of his horror stricken 14 year old son can only serve to underline once again the social illnesses that still continue to eat away at the once rich fabric of a British society that used to be completely at ease during the 1960s- or so we thought.

But this is just one incident in a whole sequence of murders, stabbings and deeply abhorrent acts of violence and aggression that seem to usher in the beginning of every New Year. Sociologists and seemingly deeply academic social commentators have immediately condemned such wicked acts of despicable genocide as the by product of broken homes, neglectful parenting and a lack of love.

Quite what possessed a group of clearly bored youngsters to set out one morning with the intention of barbarically attacking and then stabbing an innocent father to death seems utterly beyond any comprehension. True, we have been here before on a painfully familiar basis with almost unreasonable regularity but still the forces of law and order seem helpless to stem this bloody tide.

And yet here we are again in the first couple of days of 2019 and most of us are mourning and grieving the loss of a gentle and loving father who adored his family and who simply asked for nothing more than a quiet and civilised beginning to the year in London with his son. How on earth now can a youngster apparently free from the cares of the world who just wanted to get on with his life be so cruelly robbed of a father who now unwittingly found himself at the centre of an unnecessary argument and then fall prey to a savage knife attack?

With an ever increasing fatality list of knife attacks now becoming an almost common occurrence it is hard to know where to go from here? We know the underlying causes of these brutally disgraceful assaults. these sick and  criminally disturbed minds who  continue to make their presence felt at any time of the year. It is easy to point accusing fingers and hold up to account such sick and revolting behaviour but how to root out once and for all these vicious outrages.

On New Year's Day another young life was taken in the early hours of a New Year's Eve party for something he could never have imagined would happen to him.  Of course we are horrified, of course we shudder with fear when our civil liberties continue to be violated by man's senseless inhumanity to man. There are now though the almost standard reactions; the endless police investigations, the questioning of those who have now been arrested and the inevitable post mortems. How much longer are we prepared to tolerate this ugly blight that shows little sign of stopping or simply disappearing?

But how much closer are we to finding some deeper insight into the twisted minds of those whose only aim in life is to kill innocent people without any hint of remorse? Of course we will now be subjected to a deafening cacophony of voices from those who would insist that corporal punishment be meted out at once, that Death Row is the only place where these youngsters belong. Some would advocate the return of hanging or ultimately the electric chair and this can only be considered a perfectly valid punishment for these monstrous and random killings that will surely leave only lifelong scars on the poor affected families.

These are troubling times for Britain although if you were listen to some well meaning folk this is just yet another symptom of a deeply rooted and destructive malaise that is slowly eating away at all levels of society. They blame gang warfare on dimly lit street corners, the humorous exchange of drugs, the rap language now frequently employed on now dangerous streets. Then there are  the foul obscenities, the careless disregard for the rules and regulations, the arrogance, the open threats and then yet another outbreak of disillusionment because there's nothing for them to do and nowhere to go.

It is easy to be judgmental under the circumstances since we all know what we'd like to do these with these wild children, these angry young men without conscience or shame. We would stick them in a rotten prison cell for the rest of their lives and hope that the key will be thrown away  and that we can simply wash our hands of them for the duration of their lives. How some of us would like to line them up and then let them die at the hands of a firing squad. There could be no more fitting punishment.

Sadly. we are also told that the our prisons are still over populated, out of control and no longer capable of accommodating the kind of criminals who are no longer in charge of their mind or senses. The statements of the obvious are beginning to sound like the ramblings of a demented killer who quietly cowers away on a stand, ludicrously defending their innocence because they didn't mean to do it.

The fact remains though that a young 14 year old on just another train journey with his father is suffering and will continue to suffer the loss of a man who he must have idolised. He will be painfully traumatised, always be lavished with care and compassion. But nothing will bring back his doting father with a university degree and the warmest of hearts. We can never imagine what exactly will be going through his mind at the moment but we hope that his life will return to some semblance of normality.

This is not the way we would have like the New Year to follow its natural order but it has and this has to be the time when the nation comes together and tries to find a way out of its collective state of shock and numbness. In an ideal world justice will be seen to be done and the British courts will administer a life sentence that means life and not just a temporary five year slap on the wrists in a musty cell. Our thoughts will always be with this heartbroken young man. Of course he will be lonely and of course he'll be in severe pain but we must hope that time will almost certainly be the healer.       

The world awaits the FA Cup third round.

The world awaits the FA Cup third round.

This weekend the footballing communities will gather in their hundreds and thousands - nay less millions- to dig out their trusty scarves, dust down their FA Cup memorabilia from yesteryear and pretend that Wembley Stadium will undoubtedly be their final destination in May. The local shops and markets will be alive with fondly held fantasies and just a few delusions. They'll pin their rosettes firmly to their coats, indulge themselves helplessly in just a moment or two of optimism and then wake up on Sunday morning with just a hint of a sore head.

The FA Cup third round is that gold plated moment in the footballing calendar where the upper class bourgeoisie come face to face with the working class proletariat on the most level of playing fields. Never are the class distinctions and snobberies more clearly highlighted than on this first January weekend of the football season. But then this has become more or less the accepted norm for a number of years.

Tonight though marks the end of the first cycle of Premier League matches with the monumental head to head meeting of the two table topping giants. Current Premier League champions Manchester City have been rocked back on their feet with a series of potentially soul destroying defeats that may have dealt a severe blow to their retention of the Premier League. In fact it must have felt as though somebody had punched them in the stomach and then unforgivingly left them flat out on the ground. Liverpool, their opponents, may be feeling like that bloodthirsty heavyweight who can't wait to tuck into the carcass.

But away from all the thrills and spills and the fun of the fair at the top of the Premier League you're left with the distinct impression that both City and Liverpool would give anything for a decent Cup run if only to leave them with a welcome distraction from the blood and thunder of the Premier League's bubbling cauldron where the temperature must be at boiling point.

And yet here we are on the verge of another FA Cup weekend of heartbreaking misses, pulsating cliff hangers between the little minnows and the giant sharks while not forgetting a healthy dose of action packed excitement. From the rural farming hinterlands of Norfolk and Suffolk, to the lush green pastures of Middle England, football will hold its breath once again. This is that time of the year when David and Goliath slug it out with another slice of fiercely competitive commitment from both sides.

Now the FA Cup presents us with that familiar gallery of warehousemen from Gateshead, milkmen and postmen from Blyth Spartans and a varied mixture of the small and tall, the great and those who are just glad to be involved in the most famous competition in the footballing calendar. It is not asking a lot for the occasional Cup shock or upset because this is after all the essence and raison d'etre of the FA Cup.

It's hard to believe that the FA Cup did have its starting point and here in the depths of a dark winter of January most of us may have conveniently overlooked the first qualifying rounds of the FA Cup on balmy, swelteringly hot afternoons back in early August. We may have forgotten those snooker top green pitches when the last of the heatwave tanned parklands began to look remarkably like rustic hayricks, tufts of straw slowly turning a pristine green.

Then again, the FA Cup was all about local pride, heroic gallantry, embracing the magic of the FA Cup fully even if they knew that in their heart of hearts that Wembley would only remain a North London suburb and their only realistic objective is a place in the fifth round of the Lancashire League Cup. But still there will come a moment this weekend when the men from the Vanarama and Evo Stick League will enjoy their Parisian dalliance with the FA Cup where the love struck non Leaguers will blow the briefest of kisses from the distant Champs Elysees.

Across the country football chairmen and women from every level of the game will be packing out their clubhouses with feverish football fans with raucous voices and many a clinking glass of beer. For these are the people who remain the throbbing heartbeat of the game, the ones who stand bravely on storm tossed terraces with corrugated iron roofs, who shiver stoically as the rains sweep across them and then bob up and down in the hope that something miraculous might happen.

Sadly though, the FA Cup may be lacking in its customary sentimentality because in recent years those famous non League stalwarts may have been conspicuous by their absence. Only Wigan Athletic, who beat the now the world beating Manchester City  both surprisingly and shockingly in 2013 have been the Cup giant killers of note. Before then of course the FA Cups gave us the lovable Ipswich and Sunderland who wondrously toppled Arsenal and Leeds respectively in 1978 and 1973.

Even more unfortunately there are no more Bob Stokoes with their beige coats and hats, galloping onto the Wembley pitch like the youngest of ponies. There are, even more tragically, few who will even fall into the same category of  Sir Bobby Robson who stopped the world when his vastly entertaining Ipswich Town beat the seemingly glamorous Arsenal.

 When the final whistle went that day, Robson smiled widely, spun delightfully on the tips of his toes, rolled his shoulders from side to side and then danced immaculately. This was the FA Cup in a nutshell, a microcosm of what the FA Cup meant to Robson. This was the day that became Robson's wish fulfilment, the days when those school playground contests had to culminate in a boyhood FA Cup win, with Robson charging around the old Wembley Stadium with the Cup in his hand.

The image of a suited and booted Bobby Robson at an Ipswich town hall balcony beaming from ear to ear with the most infectious smile can never be erased. He emerged onto the balcony hardly able to comprehend the magnitude of his achievement. He thrust the FA Cup into the air with that thoroughly deserved air of triumphalism and then jigged for a while without caring for not a moment that millions were watching him.

And so we salute the men who week after week play their football for perhaps a pittance and then realise where they are and who they were playing. They play their game against a regular backdrop of tiny refreshment kiosks, eternally picturesque fields with waving trees and a full complement of cows and sheep dotting the richly incomparable landscape. This is the FA Cup with its lovely characters, its hardened professionals, its wonderful non League amateurs, its earthy authenticity, its giggling, chuckling understatement and its humorous belly laughing in the face of adversity.

We can only hope that by Monday morning somebody from the most unfashionable corner of England will be celebrating as if there were indeed no tomorrow. They will return to their day jobs of fitters and mechanics, welders and steeplejacks, engineers and dedicated factory workers. They will roll up their sleeves not because they have to but because at the end of the day football will become their one and only single preoccupation. The FA Cup will always be on their mind.

 For them the FA Cup will represent the highest point of their careers, the day they made the headlines, the ones who were just determined to defy the odds when none thought the improbable would ever happen. They've struggled and toiled to come this far and they weren't ready to give up now. These are men of spirit, verve and joie de vivre, have a go determination. We will remember you all and rightly salute you. May the FA Cup always have its honourable heroes.   

Happy New Year.

Happy New Year.

So it is that we fall headlong into another New Year. It only seems like yesterday since we were reflecting on the stunningly historic events of 2018 when everything seemed to be in a state of limbo although ironically there was a joyful jubilation when we discovered that we'd just set fire to almost the entire contents of every firework box in the land. Here beginneth the first page of 2019 everybody and happy new year to you all. You all thoroughly deserve it. Your behaviour has been exemplary. Go on, pour yourself another glass of something pleasing to the palate- perhaps a swift rum punch.

Last night though London did itself enormously proud with its yearly spectacular firework display beside the River Thames. It was time for a riot of colour, powerful patriotism and stylish pageantry that London seems to excel at on the big occasion. With every passing year we gather in our thousands by a shivering Embankment in the fond hope that something will leave us both astonished and breathless, that childish wonderment which always seems to lift our heart when things go wildly wrong.

What we were treated to once again was London doing things the way London always wanted as its given right. There were once again those massed crowds tightly packed into the most concentrated and confined area you could possibly cram into one space. Jammed solid together like the proverbial tin of sardines they stood there waiting shoulder to shoulder, breathlessly expectant but perhaps wishing that all that hanging around for hours may not have been the best idea.

And yet London felt like the centre of the universe, the headline act, launched into prominence as one of the chief movers and shakers of the world and all of its inhabitants. From now on Europe and the rest of the world will come to expect much more of Britain and London because of its brand new political and financial stance, a position that has now been thrown into the most dramatically stark relief by events it may or may not be prepared for.

For a while last night at least nothing seemed to matter that much- if only for a while. Everybody sang 'Auld Lang Syne' with that marvellous air of self congratulation that only Britain knows how to do. They counted down the minutes to the beginning of a New Year rather like that noble band of men and women on those famous Apollo space missions from way back when.

Then, at a heavily scaffolded Big Ben the midnight hour passed and that portentous bell rang almost sadly and regretfully perhaps pondering on what might have been if time had been kinder. A thick white sheet hangs loosely around the stomach of Big Ben, its body swathed in what look like convalescent bandages. But ring it did for the last time until the maintenance workers get cracking on a vast repair project that could take years.

Still though, the good people of London gazed across the Thames, the London Eye once again observing everything and everybody around it with a sternly critical but approving look. At midnight the spectacle began, a massive explosion of boisterous colours, an extraordinary art installation on quite the most unbelievable scale, twenty solid minutes of theatre, drama and immensely detailed brushwork.

Here we had the most remarkable complexity of shapes and patterns that the London Mayor Sadiq Khan could only have dreamt about many years ago. There were fireworks that reminded you of huge silver birch trees, sea waves crashing and clashing furiously into each other like cymbals in the traditional orchestra, overlapping, leaping over each other, fireworks that looked like the nearby London bridge, horizontal and vertical displays of light that swirled and spun ever increasingly and mesmerically without pausing for breath.

So it was that the BBC now delighted us all with that gifted ska band who called themselves Madness who this year celebrate their 40th year in the big time. There was the eternally magical House of Fun, the infinitely sing a long My Girl's Mad at Me, the hugely popular Embarrassment and a whole host of the band's now extensive repertoire.

Now seemed the right time to make those inexplicable New Year's Resolutions, to stop eating so much, to stop drinking too much, to spend the whole of the year in sweat stained gyms driving your body towards the point of collapse and then devoting the rest of the year to seemingly pointless diets. It all seems as if we've been through this same rigmarole since time began but if you're still recovering in some warm corner of your living room then you might be considering a repeat performance all over again this time at the end of this year. It makes sense if you think about it.