The Oscars.
Deep in the heart of Los Angeles they were doing what they normally do at this time of the year. They were posing, posturing, preening themselves and grinning gleefully for the cameras. They pulled the inevitable faces, slapped each other's back in a blizzard of self congratulation, they pouted, blew kisses, wallowed in self aggrandisement and then just sat back to enjoy the evening.
Once again the Hollywood film industry took off its hat, bowed courteously to all its leading stars and star makers and indulged itself in another round of egotistical selfies, that modern trend where you hold a phone in front of your face, smile cosmetically with a group of fellow actors and actresses and pretend that you're the best thing since sliced bread. This was Tinsel Town at its very best, LA showing off outlandishly and garishly, Hollywood flaunting all of its glittering wealth and then boasting both its self image, its weird sense of hierarchy and its abiding air of overwhelming vanity.
For night of the year the cream of the show business fraternity gets all over excited about the one event of the year that brings them all together under one huge umbrella of glamour and glad handing. This is LA recognising the finest in cinematic achievement and an occasion like none other. Suddenly, the red carpet is given the full vacuum cleaner treatment and everybody goes wild in that lovey lovey world of thespian self indulgence where the applause never seems to fade.
Once again the Oscars were back again rather like some social gathering which always seems to get slightly out of control. For one night only the conceited and pretentious came face to face with the big, bold and the unforgettable. Actors and actresses rubbed shoulders with famous directors and producers, cameramen and camerawomen shook hands with lighting and sound technicians while those who were rather less well known may have decided to stand back from all of the fuss and palaver.
On the night itself the biggest surprise came with the Oscar for best film, once the preserve of the great, good and legendary where Clark Gable once shared the smartest of dinner suits with James Stewart and the drinks flowed like a never ending fountain. Last night Green Book shocked all of the experts and movie analysts. A film based at a time of disturbing racial segregation in America, it featured a promising black pianist and a white chauffeur with all of the unfortunate developments that rocked the USA to its foundations at the time.
But then there was one Olivia Colman, as British as steak and kidney pie and red post boxes, a lady easily amused, a glorious sense of humour and who was almost shell shocked at the adulation she seemed to be receiving from her contemporaries. Colman, oozing eccentricity and a very British air of modest understatement, reflected the sentiments of many of us when she claimed, quite accurately, that the whole night had been quite hilarious.
For her role in the very royal film the Favourite, Colman could hardly hold back her stunned disbelief and then thanked both her ever supportive family, friends, the cat and dog, the goldfish, the postman and the local pub landlord. Strange how good news spreads. A story about Queen Anne and her courtiers, Colman blew raspberries and then proceeded to behave like a young girl at her first end of year school prom. Good for you Olivia!
Then and quite deservedly there was an affectionate nod to one of the greatest rock bands of the 1970s and 1980s. Starring in the wonderful Bohemian Rhapsody, Rami Malek won the best actor Oscar for his glorious portrayal of the great Freddie Mercury. Bohemian Rhapsody although one of the most powerful and moving films of the year so far, hadn't quite the box office power to claim the big prize which did seem a crying shame but who are we to pass judgment?
Once again Green Book was the flavour of the night with Mahershala Ali taking the best actress gong while the ever controversial Spike Lee snatched the Oscar with a collaborative role for best adapted screenplay in the making of Green Book. Wherever you looked there were warm homages to both the Green Book, the Favourite and Bohemian Rhapsody, films of beautiful photography, class and immaculate execution.
Meanwhile behind the scenes, the stars certainly came out on the night in question. Lady Gaga looked suitably outrageous, shoulders and arms emblazoned with fashionable tattoos. Bradley Cooper, her co star in that now third incarnation of A Star is Born was bearded, white shirted and bow tied. Cooper, sadly, looked nothing like James Mason but did look respectable and sartorially elegant.
There was Helen Mirren who turned up for the Oscars in the full knowledge that she was never in contention for any Oscar of any description and merely came along for a good, old fashioned party. Film stars love to be the centre of attention and Mirren was perhaps living proof. Dressed all in red and just glad to be where all of the rest of the showbiz world was, the very British Mirren, clinked glasses of champagne and remembered when she was the Queen- the film that is.
And now we realised what the whole of the Oscars was all about and always will be. It's that one time of the year when Hollywood gets all soppy and sentimental, ludicrously appreciative and grateful for making and starring in movies, perhaps saying far too much in their acceptance speeches and then staring at a bottle of booze at three in the morning in a state of bleary eyed regret. We would never want it any other way because we think the Oscars should always be celebrated.
The stars and celebrities drifted slowly away from their late night parties, still punch drunk and deliriously happy but not quite sure what possessed them to behave in a way that might have seemed as perfectly acceptable at first. Los Angeles has now cleared up after another heavy night of Hollywood smiling and hand shaking but then your thoughts turned back to Olivia Colman who seemed convinced that it was her birthday when quite clearly it wasn't. If only Donald Trump had been invited to this lavish shindig. On second thoughts maybe not.
Monday 25 February 2019
Saturday 23 February 2019
The Welsh rugby dragons breathe fire and blow out England.
The Welsh rugby dragons breathe fire and blow out England.
It had to happen. You could sense something in the Welsh air. The wind of change was blowing a gale force of some ferocity and at long last Welsh rugby had something to go stir crazy about. For the older fans of the oval ball game Wales have only those lump in the throat moments of nostalgia to draw on during dark wintry nights.
Wales can still fondly recall Phil Bennett, Gareth Edwards and JPR Williams from those emotional 1970s Saturday afternoons when the Welsh skipped, hopped, side stepped and generally bewitched England because they'd been extremely well educated in the finer points of the game. England were frequently bamboozled, breathless, confused and not even within touching distance of a Welsh prop, fly half or dazzling centre. Wales were masters of the hand to hand game, swapping passes and flinging the ball across the old Cardiff Arms Park as if it were a Christmas present.
But over 40 years later in the 21st century Wales were very much a side of evolution and revolution, a side on a steep learning curve and not quite the magnificent foot soldiers of yesteryear. Still, they are getting there. And yet back in the handsome 1970s, Wales could boast one Mervyn 'The Swerve' Davies, dodging, dropping shoulders, weaving, ducking and diving, plunging into heavy breathing scrums with derring do daring and then coming back for more of the same.
Then their loyal colleagues would turn on the swaggering style. There was Phil Bennett, full of dashing individuality who would eagerly join forces with the hop scotching brilliance of Gareth Edwards who in turn promptly palmed the ball off for the onrushing doctor JPR Williams diving over for the most outrageously perfect of tries. It was a Welsh rugby team with an almost instinctive understanding of how the game should be played, telepathic thought processes and a lovely premonition of when exactly their next try would come. Wales were untouchable, immovable and above all unbeatable.
However, after a temporary lull, the present day side came out of the tunnel for this latest instalment of the Six Nations Championship, fired up, fully revitalised and ready to throw the kitchen sink at one of their fiercest rivals in one of the oldest confrontations that British rugby could offer. This was a proper game of rugby, a contest of two delightfully contrasting halves where Wales were convinced they could impose their free wheeling, running game only to find that the bully boys in white England shirts had alternative plans up their sleeves.
This was though one of those nerve shredding, pulsating and genuinely thrilling Six Nations matches that had most of us on the edge of our seats. It was a game that gave you heart thumping palpitations, an ebbing and flowing game full of raw physicality, simmering violence at times and no quarter given. Players crashed and smashed into each other, swarming over each other like red and white bees, tackling like tigers and dragging each to the ground with uncompromising force and menace before barging, grabbing, pulling and gouging.
England began brightly pinning the Welsh back with grinding and driving rugby designed to completely unsettle the Welsh. Still though there was the blood and thunder, the fearsome pushing and shoving grudge matches, the menacing eye balling at close quarters, the frightening, blood, curdling collisions and all the ingredients of a classic Wales- England Six Nations dust up.
With full back Elliot Daily covering and protecting his colleagues with the sharpest of eyes, Jack Nowell bobbing and scheming around the scrums and rucks, Johnny May enjoying one of his most outstanding of games on the wing and skipper Owen Farrell directing operations smoothly, England were using the ball constructively while never entirely at ease.
When Farrell broke the deadlock with a penalty after a collapsed scrum, England seemed to be rolling back the years. They were beginning to shift the ball quickly and effectively, winning back possession decisively after Wales dropped theirs in vital areas. A thick muscular wall of white locked arms with a red Welsh commando unit that didn't quite know to handle them.
For a while those huge, meaty England brick houses with shoulders the size of boulders and legs as thick as rubber tyres, steam rollered forward, off loading the ball with the sweetest skill and heartwarming dynamism. Large battalions of white shirts would launch their impressive kicking game all the while keeping their hosts at a respectful arms length.
Then the Cardiff multitudes, now in full song and harmony as you would expect from those rousing male voice choirs, erupted. Wales took full advantage of English sloppiness and |Gareth Anscombe kicked the Welsh level with a penalty. At that moment the open roof of the Principality Stadium simply exploded with joy. Wales were back in the game and threatening briefly to sweep England aside with the dragon's breath of fire. The timelessly passionate Welsh crowd were in full voice.
Suddenly, fortunes swung away from a temporarily vibrant Wales team and England muscled their way back into a now intriguing match. After a breathless spell of hand to hand passes, the ball was smartly moved through to the ever willing Tom Curry who carved open the Welsh defence, swooping down and touching down for an epic try. England thought they were in cruise control mode but were to spend the second half in a web of delusion. After Farrell had kicked over another penalty, Wales retreated into a nervous shell and must have thought the game had drifted away from them.
Little did they know that England came out for the second half like drunken sailors being thrown out of the pub quite unceremoniously. England had forgotten all of those fundamental ball winning techniques that had served them so well in the second half. They began to find themselves inextricably caught up in needle matches, slanging matches, loose, slovenly ball that fell out of their hands like bars of soap. The uptempo game plan and stirring intensity of England's first half withered on the Welsh breeze.
Gareth Anscombe stepped forward again. A moment of naive incompetence at the base of a scrum, ended with another Anscombe penalty which brought Wales one point away from England. Wales, sensing English weaknesses like a dog sniffing a bone, pounced back with wave after wave of attack, breaking vividly and powerfully towards the English try line. The Welsh were now winning the kind of the ball they were carelessly squandering during an even first half.
Then with ten minutes to go Wales lunged forward at English throats with the most reckless sense of adventure. There were gaping cracks and faultlines in an English side who thought they had the Welsh exactly where they wanted them. Now the superbly balanced George North, the marvellous Jonathan Davies, the brave and tireless Josh Adams, the ever skilful Rob Evans, Tomas Francis, the permanently enterprising and advancing Ross Moriarty and the irresistible Cory Hill were punching all kinds of destructive holes in the English defence.
With the game still in the melting pot though Wales had to find renewed reserves of courage and stamina. But it now came gloriously right for the red of Wales. A beautifully judged long kick towards a hungry Welsh attacker found the right spot. Cory Hill, snappy and spritely, must have thought his birthday had come very early when England fumbled the ball and Hill gleefully pouched the ball, slamming the oval ball down for the winning Welsh try.
And so it was that England could only console themselves with the memories and match heroes from decades before. What exactly must have going through the minds of Will Carling, once skipper supreme, Sir Bill Beaumont. also leader of the pack, David Duckham and Dusty Hare from the now far off 1970s, mud spattered and battle hardened warriors, the Greenwood brothers and, more recently, the World Cup drop kicking victor Jonny Wilkinson?
Essentially England have much to offer and could potentially win another World Cup. And yet today there were one or two loose screws, cogs and wheels that need to be oiled quite urgently. The aggression is still there and there is an overwhelming desire to snatch back the World Cup again.
Meanwhile back at Cardiff the lights were flashing, the valleys were almost certainly singing at the tops of their voices and the whole of Wales had found a perfectly valid reason to celebrate. You suspected that in the watering holes of Llanelli, Glamorgan, Swansea and Aberystwyth the lagers were flowing and the Men of Harlech were belting out their dulcet tones. It was a day to never ever forget for fathers, grandfathers, mothers and grandchildren, for today's generation of children to look back and think that this was indeed their day of days. Now for the Grand Slam. What a prospect.
It had to happen. You could sense something in the Welsh air. The wind of change was blowing a gale force of some ferocity and at long last Welsh rugby had something to go stir crazy about. For the older fans of the oval ball game Wales have only those lump in the throat moments of nostalgia to draw on during dark wintry nights.
Wales can still fondly recall Phil Bennett, Gareth Edwards and JPR Williams from those emotional 1970s Saturday afternoons when the Welsh skipped, hopped, side stepped and generally bewitched England because they'd been extremely well educated in the finer points of the game. England were frequently bamboozled, breathless, confused and not even within touching distance of a Welsh prop, fly half or dazzling centre. Wales were masters of the hand to hand game, swapping passes and flinging the ball across the old Cardiff Arms Park as if it were a Christmas present.
But over 40 years later in the 21st century Wales were very much a side of evolution and revolution, a side on a steep learning curve and not quite the magnificent foot soldiers of yesteryear. Still, they are getting there. And yet back in the handsome 1970s, Wales could boast one Mervyn 'The Swerve' Davies, dodging, dropping shoulders, weaving, ducking and diving, plunging into heavy breathing scrums with derring do daring and then coming back for more of the same.
Then their loyal colleagues would turn on the swaggering style. There was Phil Bennett, full of dashing individuality who would eagerly join forces with the hop scotching brilliance of Gareth Edwards who in turn promptly palmed the ball off for the onrushing doctor JPR Williams diving over for the most outrageously perfect of tries. It was a Welsh rugby team with an almost instinctive understanding of how the game should be played, telepathic thought processes and a lovely premonition of when exactly their next try would come. Wales were untouchable, immovable and above all unbeatable.
However, after a temporary lull, the present day side came out of the tunnel for this latest instalment of the Six Nations Championship, fired up, fully revitalised and ready to throw the kitchen sink at one of their fiercest rivals in one of the oldest confrontations that British rugby could offer. This was a proper game of rugby, a contest of two delightfully contrasting halves where Wales were convinced they could impose their free wheeling, running game only to find that the bully boys in white England shirts had alternative plans up their sleeves.
This was though one of those nerve shredding, pulsating and genuinely thrilling Six Nations matches that had most of us on the edge of our seats. It was a game that gave you heart thumping palpitations, an ebbing and flowing game full of raw physicality, simmering violence at times and no quarter given. Players crashed and smashed into each other, swarming over each other like red and white bees, tackling like tigers and dragging each to the ground with uncompromising force and menace before barging, grabbing, pulling and gouging.
England began brightly pinning the Welsh back with grinding and driving rugby designed to completely unsettle the Welsh. Still though there was the blood and thunder, the fearsome pushing and shoving grudge matches, the menacing eye balling at close quarters, the frightening, blood, curdling collisions and all the ingredients of a classic Wales- England Six Nations dust up.
With full back Elliot Daily covering and protecting his colleagues with the sharpest of eyes, Jack Nowell bobbing and scheming around the scrums and rucks, Johnny May enjoying one of his most outstanding of games on the wing and skipper Owen Farrell directing operations smoothly, England were using the ball constructively while never entirely at ease.
When Farrell broke the deadlock with a penalty after a collapsed scrum, England seemed to be rolling back the years. They were beginning to shift the ball quickly and effectively, winning back possession decisively after Wales dropped theirs in vital areas. A thick muscular wall of white locked arms with a red Welsh commando unit that didn't quite know to handle them.
For a while those huge, meaty England brick houses with shoulders the size of boulders and legs as thick as rubber tyres, steam rollered forward, off loading the ball with the sweetest skill and heartwarming dynamism. Large battalions of white shirts would launch their impressive kicking game all the while keeping their hosts at a respectful arms length.
Then the Cardiff multitudes, now in full song and harmony as you would expect from those rousing male voice choirs, erupted. Wales took full advantage of English sloppiness and |Gareth Anscombe kicked the Welsh level with a penalty. At that moment the open roof of the Principality Stadium simply exploded with joy. Wales were back in the game and threatening briefly to sweep England aside with the dragon's breath of fire. The timelessly passionate Welsh crowd were in full voice.
Suddenly, fortunes swung away from a temporarily vibrant Wales team and England muscled their way back into a now intriguing match. After a breathless spell of hand to hand passes, the ball was smartly moved through to the ever willing Tom Curry who carved open the Welsh defence, swooping down and touching down for an epic try. England thought they were in cruise control mode but were to spend the second half in a web of delusion. After Farrell had kicked over another penalty, Wales retreated into a nervous shell and must have thought the game had drifted away from them.
Little did they know that England came out for the second half like drunken sailors being thrown out of the pub quite unceremoniously. England had forgotten all of those fundamental ball winning techniques that had served them so well in the second half. They began to find themselves inextricably caught up in needle matches, slanging matches, loose, slovenly ball that fell out of their hands like bars of soap. The uptempo game plan and stirring intensity of England's first half withered on the Welsh breeze.
Gareth Anscombe stepped forward again. A moment of naive incompetence at the base of a scrum, ended with another Anscombe penalty which brought Wales one point away from England. Wales, sensing English weaknesses like a dog sniffing a bone, pounced back with wave after wave of attack, breaking vividly and powerfully towards the English try line. The Welsh were now winning the kind of the ball they were carelessly squandering during an even first half.
Then with ten minutes to go Wales lunged forward at English throats with the most reckless sense of adventure. There were gaping cracks and faultlines in an English side who thought they had the Welsh exactly where they wanted them. Now the superbly balanced George North, the marvellous Jonathan Davies, the brave and tireless Josh Adams, the ever skilful Rob Evans, Tomas Francis, the permanently enterprising and advancing Ross Moriarty and the irresistible Cory Hill were punching all kinds of destructive holes in the English defence.
With the game still in the melting pot though Wales had to find renewed reserves of courage and stamina. But it now came gloriously right for the red of Wales. A beautifully judged long kick towards a hungry Welsh attacker found the right spot. Cory Hill, snappy and spritely, must have thought his birthday had come very early when England fumbled the ball and Hill gleefully pouched the ball, slamming the oval ball down for the winning Welsh try.
And so it was that England could only console themselves with the memories and match heroes from decades before. What exactly must have going through the minds of Will Carling, once skipper supreme, Sir Bill Beaumont. also leader of the pack, David Duckham and Dusty Hare from the now far off 1970s, mud spattered and battle hardened warriors, the Greenwood brothers and, more recently, the World Cup drop kicking victor Jonny Wilkinson?
Essentially England have much to offer and could potentially win another World Cup. And yet today there were one or two loose screws, cogs and wheels that need to be oiled quite urgently. The aggression is still there and there is an overwhelming desire to snatch back the World Cup again.
Meanwhile back at Cardiff the lights were flashing, the valleys were almost certainly singing at the tops of their voices and the whole of Wales had found a perfectly valid reason to celebrate. You suspected that in the watering holes of Llanelli, Glamorgan, Swansea and Aberystwyth the lagers were flowing and the Men of Harlech were belting out their dulcet tones. It was a day to never ever forget for fathers, grandfathers, mothers and grandchildren, for today's generation of children to look back and think that this was indeed their day of days. Now for the Grand Slam. What a prospect.
Tuesday 19 February 2019
Manchester United claim FA Cup revenge over Chelsea.
Manchester United claim FA Cup revenge over Chelsea.
In the end revenge was indeed sweet for Manchester United. That now far off day in last year's FA Cup Final now seems like some very bad dream for Manchester United. Chelsea beat United 1-0 of course, but history can play tricks with the mind and for Manchester United this must have been just an optical illusion which didn't really happen. Now the roles had been reversed and this time it was Manchester United who gave Chelsea a bitter gulp of their own medicine.
Chelsea were knocked out of this year's FA Cup and now face the rest of the season like somebody in a bewildered trance, neither here nor there. True, they do have one straw of the Carabao Cup to cling onto but this is rather like telling a lost child that help won't be forthcoming until the following morning. Poor Chelsea looked like a team chasing a tangled ball of cotton wool. This was one forlorn cause too far for Chelsea and the grumbling growlers among the Stamford Bridge faithful are in gallows humour mood.
Last night Chelsea reminded you, particularly in the second half, of a roller coaster dipping and swooping thrillingly before grinding to a halt when all the fun had gone. For almost the whole of the second half , Chelsea circled and surrounded Manchester United like the local police cordoning off a neighbourhood in the hope that the hardened criminal will eventually come out with their hands in the air.
But for the first half of this heavyweight contest between these famous football cruiserweights it was Manchester United who held the superior upper hand. It's hard to believe that since caretaker manager Ole Gunnar Solskjaer took over from the not so lamented Jose Mourinho, |United have turned into quite the most astonishingly unbeatable side who, apart from the Champions League setback recently, are still on fire, a fusion of the brilliant and at times almost breathtaking.
With Sir Alex Ferguson watching on from high, this was a Manchester United made in a remarkably similar mould. Against Chelsea, United snuffed out and stifled their hosts with a wonderful display of defensive discipline and superb self preservation that left Chelsea in a drunken stupor. Every time a blue army of Chelsea players started playing and then over thinking with the ball, United brought down the red curtain. This was an exercise in containment on quite the most heroic scale.
For all of Chelsea's patient, methodical and pretty passing triangles, the ball invariably ran out of space and a red United shirt was waiting to snatch and grab. Chelsea, for their part, after going two goals down in the first half, did look as though the second half would be the ultimate challenge they would meet successfully.
The likes of Jorginho, N'Golo Kante, Marcus Alonso, Mateo Kovacic and Antonio Rudiger swung the ball around with firmly accurate passes in diamond formations. But then the attacking movements would end up in a draughty courtyard or a frustrating cul de sac. Slowly but surely Chelsea began to run out of ideas with a distressing regularity. Now United could smell the sweetest fragrance of victory in their noses.
Suddenly United re- discovered the pace, the energy and the urgency that had been so sorely missing under Mourinho. Now it was one player who, now securely fixed in the England team, emerged as, quite possibly, the man of the match. Once again Marcus Rashford, United's tall and willowy striker stole the show for the red shirts of Manchester United. Rashford is now in his youthful prime and at frequent intervals showed an almost scintillating turn of pace and athleticism that ran Chelsea ragged.
From a broken Chelsea attack, Rashford once picked the ball up in his own half and ran like the wind. It was quite the most stunning cameo of this whole FA Cup match. In the space of a couple of seconds Rashford was off like a whippet, reminiscent of a hare at a greyhound track, sprinting powerfully through a crumbling Chelsea defence and leaving a string of blue Chelsea shirts gasping for air. On this occasion Rashford was unsuccessful in his endeavours but there were times when Chelsea must have thought they were chasing a red cheetah.
Back in the first half United took the lead and shocked the life out of a Chelsea side who have recently been walking a tightrope with no safety net to catch them. Chris Smalling and Luke Shaw were mopping up comfortably at the back, stalking the Chelsea front line and then hustling the blue shirts out of their stride. Victor Lindelof and Ander Herrera were manoeuvring the ball into dangerous areas, Ashley Young, although now at the veteran stage of his career, was still laying off simple passes into open spaces and Paul Pogba was just upright and domineering as if he was the leader of the pack and nobody else.
So it was that on the half way line that United tricked their way cunningly into the Chelsea half. Juan Mata, still lively and visionary as ever, picked an intricate path into the Chelsea half with a series of quick one twos, flicking the ball neatly in between a cluster of Chelsea players. Then a lightning quick break found Paul Pogba tearing down the flank and the French maestro checked the ball back onto his favoured foot before clipping a cross for the onrushing Ander Herrera who headed the ball cleverly past the Chelsea keeper Kepa Arrizabalaga.
Moments before half time of this uplifting FA Cup fifth round tie, United piled on the agony and rendered Chelsea's task impossible. After Chelsea had once again fumbled possession in the wrong parts of the pitch. United somehow won the ball back from a series of clumsy headers which were going nowhere and then that man Rashford turned on the afterburners near the touchline. His splendidly weighted and floated cross was perfectly directed for Pogba whose tremendous header flew past the Chelsea keeper for United's second goal.
The second half was largely uneventful with Chelsea huffing and puffing, straining and testing the United defence to the limit. But United were resolute, admirably composed, never flinching from important interceptions and tackles and always following every blue shirt with eagle eyed vigilance. By the time the referee had blown for full time Chelsea were out on their feet quite literally. Even Eden Hazard, surely one of the most intelligent players in Europe, kept running into red brick walls, threatening as always but never quite finding the right key
And so it is that Manchester United go through to the quarter finals of the FA Cup where their opponents will be high flying Wolves, now transformed under their likeable manager Espirito. Maybe United's season will have a happy ending after the traumas experienced under Jose Mourinho. The ball remains favourably in their court and who knows where their season may be taking them now?
As for Chelsea this is not the way the script was intended to pan out. Our Italian friend Maurizio Sarri looked extremely puzzled and stressed out at times. You fear the worst for him. The Chelsea board are not renowned for their tolerance at the best of times and the chairman looks like one of those quiet assassins who always have unsavoury plans at the back of his mind.
Chelsea only have Manchester City at the Carabao Cup Final for any chance of silverware and at the moment at least that seems like wishful thinking. Sarri isn't quite a condemned man but it doesn't look good for our friendly former bank manager. The natives are restless in West London and the paying season ticket holders who patronise the harbour and village at Chelsea may want to look away now. Sarri ball is beginning to look like sorry ball at the moment. It would be interesting to be a fly on the wall of Roman Abramovich's office. Russian roulette was never the most appealing of games and Chelsea may be thinking that Sarri was too much of a calculated gamble. Next Chelsea manager please.
In the end revenge was indeed sweet for Manchester United. That now far off day in last year's FA Cup Final now seems like some very bad dream for Manchester United. Chelsea beat United 1-0 of course, but history can play tricks with the mind and for Manchester United this must have been just an optical illusion which didn't really happen. Now the roles had been reversed and this time it was Manchester United who gave Chelsea a bitter gulp of their own medicine.
Chelsea were knocked out of this year's FA Cup and now face the rest of the season like somebody in a bewildered trance, neither here nor there. True, they do have one straw of the Carabao Cup to cling onto but this is rather like telling a lost child that help won't be forthcoming until the following morning. Poor Chelsea looked like a team chasing a tangled ball of cotton wool. This was one forlorn cause too far for Chelsea and the grumbling growlers among the Stamford Bridge faithful are in gallows humour mood.
Last night Chelsea reminded you, particularly in the second half, of a roller coaster dipping and swooping thrillingly before grinding to a halt when all the fun had gone. For almost the whole of the second half , Chelsea circled and surrounded Manchester United like the local police cordoning off a neighbourhood in the hope that the hardened criminal will eventually come out with their hands in the air.
But for the first half of this heavyweight contest between these famous football cruiserweights it was Manchester United who held the superior upper hand. It's hard to believe that since caretaker manager Ole Gunnar Solskjaer took over from the not so lamented Jose Mourinho, |United have turned into quite the most astonishingly unbeatable side who, apart from the Champions League setback recently, are still on fire, a fusion of the brilliant and at times almost breathtaking.
With Sir Alex Ferguson watching on from high, this was a Manchester United made in a remarkably similar mould. Against Chelsea, United snuffed out and stifled their hosts with a wonderful display of defensive discipline and superb self preservation that left Chelsea in a drunken stupor. Every time a blue army of Chelsea players started playing and then over thinking with the ball, United brought down the red curtain. This was an exercise in containment on quite the most heroic scale.
For all of Chelsea's patient, methodical and pretty passing triangles, the ball invariably ran out of space and a red United shirt was waiting to snatch and grab. Chelsea, for their part, after going two goals down in the first half, did look as though the second half would be the ultimate challenge they would meet successfully.
The likes of Jorginho, N'Golo Kante, Marcus Alonso, Mateo Kovacic and Antonio Rudiger swung the ball around with firmly accurate passes in diamond formations. But then the attacking movements would end up in a draughty courtyard or a frustrating cul de sac. Slowly but surely Chelsea began to run out of ideas with a distressing regularity. Now United could smell the sweetest fragrance of victory in their noses.
Suddenly United re- discovered the pace, the energy and the urgency that had been so sorely missing under Mourinho. Now it was one player who, now securely fixed in the England team, emerged as, quite possibly, the man of the match. Once again Marcus Rashford, United's tall and willowy striker stole the show for the red shirts of Manchester United. Rashford is now in his youthful prime and at frequent intervals showed an almost scintillating turn of pace and athleticism that ran Chelsea ragged.
From a broken Chelsea attack, Rashford once picked the ball up in his own half and ran like the wind. It was quite the most stunning cameo of this whole FA Cup match. In the space of a couple of seconds Rashford was off like a whippet, reminiscent of a hare at a greyhound track, sprinting powerfully through a crumbling Chelsea defence and leaving a string of blue Chelsea shirts gasping for air. On this occasion Rashford was unsuccessful in his endeavours but there were times when Chelsea must have thought they were chasing a red cheetah.
Back in the first half United took the lead and shocked the life out of a Chelsea side who have recently been walking a tightrope with no safety net to catch them. Chris Smalling and Luke Shaw were mopping up comfortably at the back, stalking the Chelsea front line and then hustling the blue shirts out of their stride. Victor Lindelof and Ander Herrera were manoeuvring the ball into dangerous areas, Ashley Young, although now at the veteran stage of his career, was still laying off simple passes into open spaces and Paul Pogba was just upright and domineering as if he was the leader of the pack and nobody else.
So it was that on the half way line that United tricked their way cunningly into the Chelsea half. Juan Mata, still lively and visionary as ever, picked an intricate path into the Chelsea half with a series of quick one twos, flicking the ball neatly in between a cluster of Chelsea players. Then a lightning quick break found Paul Pogba tearing down the flank and the French maestro checked the ball back onto his favoured foot before clipping a cross for the onrushing Ander Herrera who headed the ball cleverly past the Chelsea keeper Kepa Arrizabalaga.
Moments before half time of this uplifting FA Cup fifth round tie, United piled on the agony and rendered Chelsea's task impossible. After Chelsea had once again fumbled possession in the wrong parts of the pitch. United somehow won the ball back from a series of clumsy headers which were going nowhere and then that man Rashford turned on the afterburners near the touchline. His splendidly weighted and floated cross was perfectly directed for Pogba whose tremendous header flew past the Chelsea keeper for United's second goal.
The second half was largely uneventful with Chelsea huffing and puffing, straining and testing the United defence to the limit. But United were resolute, admirably composed, never flinching from important interceptions and tackles and always following every blue shirt with eagle eyed vigilance. By the time the referee had blown for full time Chelsea were out on their feet quite literally. Even Eden Hazard, surely one of the most intelligent players in Europe, kept running into red brick walls, threatening as always but never quite finding the right key
And so it is that Manchester United go through to the quarter finals of the FA Cup where their opponents will be high flying Wolves, now transformed under their likeable manager Espirito. Maybe United's season will have a happy ending after the traumas experienced under Jose Mourinho. The ball remains favourably in their court and who knows where their season may be taking them now?
As for Chelsea this is not the way the script was intended to pan out. Our Italian friend Maurizio Sarri looked extremely puzzled and stressed out at times. You fear the worst for him. The Chelsea board are not renowned for their tolerance at the best of times and the chairman looks like one of those quiet assassins who always have unsavoury plans at the back of his mind.
Chelsea only have Manchester City at the Carabao Cup Final for any chance of silverware and at the moment at least that seems like wishful thinking. Sarri isn't quite a condemned man but it doesn't look good for our friendly former bank manager. The natives are restless in West London and the paying season ticket holders who patronise the harbour and village at Chelsea may want to look away now. Sarri ball is beginning to look like sorry ball at the moment. It would be interesting to be a fly on the wall of Roman Abramovich's office. Russian roulette was never the most appealing of games and Chelsea may be thinking that Sarri was too much of a calculated gamble. Next Chelsea manager please.
Friday 15 February 2019
February thinks it's April and the EU rumbles on.
February thinks it's April and the EU rumbles on.
You had to blink twice because you felt sure that February thought it was in the middle of April. But then you wiped the sleep from your eyes and the dawning realisation hit you. This is indeed the middle of February and the weather has once again caught you out. Surely the whole issue of global warming has to come under the microscope because at this rate we'll all be descending on Britain's sizzlingly salubrious seaside resorts and strolling along the prom, prom, promenades in the immediate future rather than waiting for May.
We awoke this morning to blue skies, soft, soothing winter sunshine, bright and bracing breezes and a a feeling that we were witnessing something that maybe we hadn't been expecting. Spring is smiling warmly on a country riven and torn by Brexit, tormented by a political record that is so objectionable and annoyingly cracked that some of us are praying that one day we will eventually be released from this tortuous tyranny of potty language, wretched drivel and agonising repetition.
Outside the House of Commons people from all walks of life are fluttering EU flags, bawling and bellowing their dissatisfaction, spouting and posturing their anguished commentaries, fiercely accusing with loud voices, holding up the British Government to account and then ranting for the sake of ranting. But suddenly the weather has taken a turn for the better, the birds hovering on Westminster rooftops with a mellifluous song in their hearts.
In these final weeks leading up to Britain's withdrawal from the European Union the weather is showing its kindest and most benevolent face. However, the warmth and cordiality has yet to reach the innermost sanctum of the Brussels hothouse. Here the climate is distinctly lukewarm and in fact rather nasty. There is an edginess and some would say anarchy in the air. Our most officious of high ranking EU officials are getting hot under the collar and fit to burst with anger.
Here we are stuck in the most boring game of political table tennis since the beginning of time and all they can do at Westminster is keep up this infernal din of argumentative silliness and counter productive name calling, simultaneously scratching each others eyes out and then indulging in another session of character assassination.
And yet last night on BBC's Question Time, hosted by the smooth, new and equable Fiona Bruce, one man sat there as if oblivious to time and decade, blissfully content to roll out his polished English vowels and hoping that by the end of the programme a 1950s trolley bus would be ready and waiting to pick him up from the studio.
For this man is one Jacob Rees Mogg, a man so richly conservative and principled that you feel sure that a huge portrait of Harold Macmillan still hangs in his hallway. Mogg is quite the most notable exception, so far removed from the conventional image of the modern politician that if you were tell him that rationing had finally been phased out in Britain, he'd never believe you.
Last night Mogg was once again in cracking form. Wearing a smart dark suit and stern of appearance, Mogg looked for all the world as if he was still sitting through another dull Parliamentary committee meeting or yawning insufferably through yet more references to laws and legislation. Here is a man who quietly goes about his business, answering questions with the most liquid fluency and then observing the etiquette of the occasion with an elegant burble.
Mogg of course is desperate to leave the EU as quickly as possible if only to escape those loathsome Europeans who keep telling us to do it their way. According to Mogg the sooner we set out on the road to global freedom the better. Far more preferable to strike up long term successful trade agreements with the Japanese, the far off but infinitely more lucrative corners of the Far East before popping into China for a cup of ginseng. This is so wonderfully exciting that Mogg can't quite believe Britain hadn't thought of this decades ago.
Amusingly Mogg dug out a bulky copy of the EU withdrawal agreement, a massive 650 page document that has to be rushed out and bought in the full knowledge that if you take to it bed you'll be asleep within seconds. But Rees Mogg briefly flicked through this nondescript piece of literature and still came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth the paper it was written on.
Two years on from the make or break referendum which shaped our future in the EU, Mogg was still muttering angrily to anybody prepared to listen to him that Theresa May, the Prime Minister had better get her act together if only because time is running out. Stop dilly dallying, Mogg must have privately felt, stop procrastinating, beating about the bush, make up your mind one way or another.
And yet Ms May, not entirely sure which way to go or what decision to make in the best interests of her country, ducks into her chauffeur driven car outside 10 Downing Street, smiles obligingly for the cameras, clutches to hope and then wonders whether the Caribbean wouldn't be the worst idea. There has to be a way out of this shambles and who knows what'll happen next?
After another bloody nose from her allegedly loyal backbenchers on another EU vote, there is a sense here that even her closest Tory allies are beginning to lose patience with her. Still, our Theresa is nothing if not a doughty fighter and she'll dig in valiantly as the sighs of impatience grow louder and louder. We are not quite in Margaret Thatcher territory yet where stubbornness can be your only weapon.
Thankfully, it's Friday and it's the end of the week so even Prime Ministers deserve a rest, a quiet brandy and a time for reflection. It must be hellish out there and besides she may think she has to unwind. Things are hotting up, the screws are being tightened and the pressure is being ratcheted up to fever pitch. There is a hint of psychological warfare in Westminster's corridors and outside the masses are ganging up menacingly, demanding their ounce of flesh and blood.
But hey come on everybody the sun is shining out there, the tulips are poised to make their yearly presence felt and before you know it somebody will broach the subject of Easter. Surely not though. February has rarely looked so good and healthy and who cares about the confusion. A day by the British seaside is long overdue. Keep calm and carry on everybody.
You had to blink twice because you felt sure that February thought it was in the middle of April. But then you wiped the sleep from your eyes and the dawning realisation hit you. This is indeed the middle of February and the weather has once again caught you out. Surely the whole issue of global warming has to come under the microscope because at this rate we'll all be descending on Britain's sizzlingly salubrious seaside resorts and strolling along the prom, prom, promenades in the immediate future rather than waiting for May.
We awoke this morning to blue skies, soft, soothing winter sunshine, bright and bracing breezes and a a feeling that we were witnessing something that maybe we hadn't been expecting. Spring is smiling warmly on a country riven and torn by Brexit, tormented by a political record that is so objectionable and annoyingly cracked that some of us are praying that one day we will eventually be released from this tortuous tyranny of potty language, wretched drivel and agonising repetition.
Outside the House of Commons people from all walks of life are fluttering EU flags, bawling and bellowing their dissatisfaction, spouting and posturing their anguished commentaries, fiercely accusing with loud voices, holding up the British Government to account and then ranting for the sake of ranting. But suddenly the weather has taken a turn for the better, the birds hovering on Westminster rooftops with a mellifluous song in their hearts.
In these final weeks leading up to Britain's withdrawal from the European Union the weather is showing its kindest and most benevolent face. However, the warmth and cordiality has yet to reach the innermost sanctum of the Brussels hothouse. Here the climate is distinctly lukewarm and in fact rather nasty. There is an edginess and some would say anarchy in the air. Our most officious of high ranking EU officials are getting hot under the collar and fit to burst with anger.
Here we are stuck in the most boring game of political table tennis since the beginning of time and all they can do at Westminster is keep up this infernal din of argumentative silliness and counter productive name calling, simultaneously scratching each others eyes out and then indulging in another session of character assassination.
And yet last night on BBC's Question Time, hosted by the smooth, new and equable Fiona Bruce, one man sat there as if oblivious to time and decade, blissfully content to roll out his polished English vowels and hoping that by the end of the programme a 1950s trolley bus would be ready and waiting to pick him up from the studio.
For this man is one Jacob Rees Mogg, a man so richly conservative and principled that you feel sure that a huge portrait of Harold Macmillan still hangs in his hallway. Mogg is quite the most notable exception, so far removed from the conventional image of the modern politician that if you were tell him that rationing had finally been phased out in Britain, he'd never believe you.
Last night Mogg was once again in cracking form. Wearing a smart dark suit and stern of appearance, Mogg looked for all the world as if he was still sitting through another dull Parliamentary committee meeting or yawning insufferably through yet more references to laws and legislation. Here is a man who quietly goes about his business, answering questions with the most liquid fluency and then observing the etiquette of the occasion with an elegant burble.
Mogg of course is desperate to leave the EU as quickly as possible if only to escape those loathsome Europeans who keep telling us to do it their way. According to Mogg the sooner we set out on the road to global freedom the better. Far more preferable to strike up long term successful trade agreements with the Japanese, the far off but infinitely more lucrative corners of the Far East before popping into China for a cup of ginseng. This is so wonderfully exciting that Mogg can't quite believe Britain hadn't thought of this decades ago.
Amusingly Mogg dug out a bulky copy of the EU withdrawal agreement, a massive 650 page document that has to be rushed out and bought in the full knowledge that if you take to it bed you'll be asleep within seconds. But Rees Mogg briefly flicked through this nondescript piece of literature and still came to the conclusion that it wasn't worth the paper it was written on.
Two years on from the make or break referendum which shaped our future in the EU, Mogg was still muttering angrily to anybody prepared to listen to him that Theresa May, the Prime Minister had better get her act together if only because time is running out. Stop dilly dallying, Mogg must have privately felt, stop procrastinating, beating about the bush, make up your mind one way or another.
And yet Ms May, not entirely sure which way to go or what decision to make in the best interests of her country, ducks into her chauffeur driven car outside 10 Downing Street, smiles obligingly for the cameras, clutches to hope and then wonders whether the Caribbean wouldn't be the worst idea. There has to be a way out of this shambles and who knows what'll happen next?
After another bloody nose from her allegedly loyal backbenchers on another EU vote, there is a sense here that even her closest Tory allies are beginning to lose patience with her. Still, our Theresa is nothing if not a doughty fighter and she'll dig in valiantly as the sighs of impatience grow louder and louder. We are not quite in Margaret Thatcher territory yet where stubbornness can be your only weapon.
Thankfully, it's Friday and it's the end of the week so even Prime Ministers deserve a rest, a quiet brandy and a time for reflection. It must be hellish out there and besides she may think she has to unwind. Things are hotting up, the screws are being tightened and the pressure is being ratcheted up to fever pitch. There is a hint of psychological warfare in Westminster's corridors and outside the masses are ganging up menacingly, demanding their ounce of flesh and blood.
But hey come on everybody the sun is shining out there, the tulips are poised to make their yearly presence felt and before you know it somebody will broach the subject of Easter. Surely not though. February has rarely looked so good and healthy and who cares about the confusion. A day by the British seaside is long overdue. Keep calm and carry on everybody.
Tuesday 12 February 2019
Gordon Banks - The Banks of England dies.
Gordon Banks- The Banks of England dies.
Gordon Banks, who has died at the age of 81, was by far the most memorable and finest of England goalkeepers always remembered for that famous 1966 World Cup Final day at the old Wembley Stadium and, four years later in the World Cup of Mexico, most remarkably for that miraculous save, a classic downward header from surely the greatest footballer of all time, Pele. Banks just happened to be in the right time and place so would no doubt have regarded it as just another day at the office.
Banks, who started his career at Chesterfield, went on to find greener pastures at both Leicester City and notably Stoke City performing with comfortable distinction. But it was when he was elevated to the England squad in Sir Alf Ramsey's then very youthful team that Banks began to flourish as one of the most acrobatic, flexible, elastic and athletic goalkeepers England had ever produced.
Before Banks, Ron Springett had kept goal with both a reliable consistency and unfussy modesty but when Banks took over three years before the 1966 World Cup England knew they'd found somebody who could not only do his country proud but do so quite spectacularly. To this day none of us can quite fathom how Banks managed to fling his whole body from one side of his goal to the other before clawing the ball over the bar from Pele's seemingly goal bound header. It defied the law of gravity and physics.
The truth was of course that Banks was 'The Banks of England', quiet, humble, thoughtful, never the trouble maker or loose cannon, never complaining, quarrelling, bickering or hounding referees because an injustice had been perpetrated. Banks was tall, commanding, a formidable presence in goal, almost impenetrable at times and never outwardly flustered.
Banks belonged to a whole generation of excellent goalkeepers who were equally as positionally sound and authoritative at the back for their club and country. At Spurs there was Pat Jennings, who, taking over from the hugely competent Bill Brown, had some of the biggest hands in English football. Jennings was an outstanding keeper, flying across his goal with an incredible agility to stop shots or catching the ball with consummate ease when the Spurs defence looked as though it was about to disintegrate. Jennings was coolness personified.
Then there were England's two most consistent keepers who were towering ambassadors for their sport. Ray Clemence, a tall, gangling goalkeeper who began at Scunthorpe, became a deckchair attendant during the summer holidays before hitting the big time at Liverpool. At Liverpool Clemence was supremely dependable, forever organising his defenders at free kicks, shouting reprimands when he felt the time was right and then saving quite brilliantly when goals looked inevitable.
Peter Shilton of course was Clemence's fiercest contender for the England number one spot and although both were friends off the pitch, the rivalry was still intense. Shilton, rather like Banks, served his formative years at Leicester and did so with immense maturity. The story went that, as a kid, Shilton, in an effort to improve his reflexes, would stretch and pull his arms on his parents staircase but later on in a now blossoming career Shilton's more high profile years would come at both Nottingham Forest and Stoke City.
For Gordon Banks though football and the art of goalkeeping came so naturally to him that it came as a shock one day when the game didn't come quite so easily to him for the wrong reasons. Tragically, Banks was involved in a horrific car accident which would leave him completely blind in one eye. Sadly, Banks, although he made a full recovery, would never be quite the same keeper again but he did continue to play.
Back in the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Banks became an unfortunate victim of circumstances. On the day before England's vital quarter final against West Germany, he went down with food poisoning and Peter Bonetti, the Chelsea keeper had to fill Banks boots. When Franz Beckenbauer's harmless looking shot crept embarrassingly under Bonetti's body for one of the German's winning goals, Banks must have felt even worse than he already was. If only the standard of Mexican catering had been better.
In recent years Banks had been one of the many amusing after dinner speakers when the 1966 and 1970 World Cup reunions were in full flow. Now though, with the sad passing of the likes of Ray Wilson, Alan Ball and the heartbreaking loss of captain Bobby Moore, English football mourns another of its gentle giants. The Banks of England has lost its most valuable asset.
Gordon Banks, who has died at the age of 81, was by far the most memorable and finest of England goalkeepers always remembered for that famous 1966 World Cup Final day at the old Wembley Stadium and, four years later in the World Cup of Mexico, most remarkably for that miraculous save, a classic downward header from surely the greatest footballer of all time, Pele. Banks just happened to be in the right time and place so would no doubt have regarded it as just another day at the office.
Banks, who started his career at Chesterfield, went on to find greener pastures at both Leicester City and notably Stoke City performing with comfortable distinction. But it was when he was elevated to the England squad in Sir Alf Ramsey's then very youthful team that Banks began to flourish as one of the most acrobatic, flexible, elastic and athletic goalkeepers England had ever produced.
Before Banks, Ron Springett had kept goal with both a reliable consistency and unfussy modesty but when Banks took over three years before the 1966 World Cup England knew they'd found somebody who could not only do his country proud but do so quite spectacularly. To this day none of us can quite fathom how Banks managed to fling his whole body from one side of his goal to the other before clawing the ball over the bar from Pele's seemingly goal bound header. It defied the law of gravity and physics.
The truth was of course that Banks was 'The Banks of England', quiet, humble, thoughtful, never the trouble maker or loose cannon, never complaining, quarrelling, bickering or hounding referees because an injustice had been perpetrated. Banks was tall, commanding, a formidable presence in goal, almost impenetrable at times and never outwardly flustered.
Banks belonged to a whole generation of excellent goalkeepers who were equally as positionally sound and authoritative at the back for their club and country. At Spurs there was Pat Jennings, who, taking over from the hugely competent Bill Brown, had some of the biggest hands in English football. Jennings was an outstanding keeper, flying across his goal with an incredible agility to stop shots or catching the ball with consummate ease when the Spurs defence looked as though it was about to disintegrate. Jennings was coolness personified.
Then there were England's two most consistent keepers who were towering ambassadors for their sport. Ray Clemence, a tall, gangling goalkeeper who began at Scunthorpe, became a deckchair attendant during the summer holidays before hitting the big time at Liverpool. At Liverpool Clemence was supremely dependable, forever organising his defenders at free kicks, shouting reprimands when he felt the time was right and then saving quite brilliantly when goals looked inevitable.
Peter Shilton of course was Clemence's fiercest contender for the England number one spot and although both were friends off the pitch, the rivalry was still intense. Shilton, rather like Banks, served his formative years at Leicester and did so with immense maturity. The story went that, as a kid, Shilton, in an effort to improve his reflexes, would stretch and pull his arms on his parents staircase but later on in a now blossoming career Shilton's more high profile years would come at both Nottingham Forest and Stoke City.
For Gordon Banks though football and the art of goalkeeping came so naturally to him that it came as a shock one day when the game didn't come quite so easily to him for the wrong reasons. Tragically, Banks was involved in a horrific car accident which would leave him completely blind in one eye. Sadly, Banks, although he made a full recovery, would never be quite the same keeper again but he did continue to play.
Back in the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Banks became an unfortunate victim of circumstances. On the day before England's vital quarter final against West Germany, he went down with food poisoning and Peter Bonetti, the Chelsea keeper had to fill Banks boots. When Franz Beckenbauer's harmless looking shot crept embarrassingly under Bonetti's body for one of the German's winning goals, Banks must have felt even worse than he already was. If only the standard of Mexican catering had been better.
In recent years Banks had been one of the many amusing after dinner speakers when the 1966 and 1970 World Cup reunions were in full flow. Now though, with the sad passing of the likes of Ray Wilson, Alan Ball and the heartbreaking loss of captain Bobby Moore, English football mourns another of its gentle giants. The Banks of England has lost its most valuable asset.
Monday 11 February 2019
Manchester City and Liverpool locked together in battle.
Manchester City and Liverpool locked together in battle.
It is both geographically, psychologically, emotionally and, quite possibly, one of the most spiritually intriguing Premier League title races in years and seasons. The pulses are racing, the mercury is rising to boiling point, nails are being bitten to the quick and this season Manchester City have got proper challengers, genuine threats to their Premier League title. This has been in complete contrast to last season when the contest was effectively over by Christmas Eve which, from a neutral viewpoint, is a blessed relief.
Now though City, who thought they might have sleepwalked their way into winning the Premier League title again, now find one of their oldest rivals rearing up in their wing mirrors, honking their horns and revving up their engines. In the old days City used to be pestered by their noisy neighbours United in the days when gloating rights were the exclusive preserve of the Old Trafford club. To some extent the name of Sir Alex Ferguson must still stick in City's craw but now the feeling is markedly different.
City are the ones who play at a posh new stadium with vast open spaces, possessing a massive global appeal and a fanbase who can barely believe what's happened to the club in the last 10 years or so. No longer do they have to contend with the smaller but compact Maine Road and that supporter who kept up that persistent ringing bell. Gone also are the days of farcical music hall comedy when the club almost slipped off the Football League radar before tumbling into the old Third Division.
Now of course City have rich Arab owners, a firmly established pedigree and seemingly top flight status guaranteed for the foreseeable future. And yet who could have seen that coming during the good, old, bad old days of Rodney Marsh, Colin Bell and Francis Lee, when those giant defensive rocks known as Mike Doyle and Tony Book hovered in opposition penalty areas like lighthouse beacons.
City are slick, modern, mainstream, excessively stylish, wonderfully easy on the eye and pass the ball as if it were on some continuous conveyor belt. The ball travels often independently and magnetically from feet to feet in a dizzying blur. Players like Leroy Sane, Raheem Sterling, Fernandinho and Sergio Aguero insist that the game of football belongs in the art gallery rather than some wild and inhospitable ghost town where nobody wants to know you.
This season though the journey has been fraught with several bumpy roads, isolated cul-de-sacs and just a few steep hills. The poetry that City so beautifully delivered in both stanzas and verses last season has now been reduced to some slightly incoherent tale that might have been lost in the translation.
Still, Manchester City are back on top of the Premier League after demolishing and ransacking a Chelsea team 6-0, a team who not only flatter to deceive but may never re-capture their Jose Mourinho salad days when the Premier League was once won on a back to back basis. Now their ex banking boss Sarri seemed to have the right template for success earlier on in the season but then discovered that it was just a rusty shade of grey.
But here we are in the second week of February and the chances are that this one could go all the way to the wire in early May. The Premier League has often been won at critical stages of the season, those pivotal, strategic moments when somebody either blunders, slips awkwardly and then presents their rival with an open goal.
Several seasons ago Liverpool thought that those golden days of the 1970s and 1980s had once again smiled righteously on them. But then in a crucial, end of season game against, ironically, Chelsea, the one and only Steven Gerrard stumbled like a young foal and Chelsea broke forward like hungry tigers and scored the winning goal. Liverpool had to be content with the runners up spot and the grumbling dissenters on the Kop sighed their understandable displeasure.
Of course we all know that Liverpool have never won the Premier League but still proudly boast over 18 old First Division titles. It is now 29 years since the Merseysiders last pot of gold and although FA Cups and a Champions League trophy have since softened the blow somewhat even Sir Jimmy Tarbuck must be wondering whether his local team can give him something to brag about on the after dinner circuit.
The sun lit days of Kevin Keegan, John Toshack, Ian Callaghan, Ray Kennedy, Terry Mcdermott, Steve Heighway and Kenny Dalglish are rather like Olympian echoes from the past. But the decades have passed and Liverpool have found themselves in a lengthy state of limbo where first gear refuses to move into fifth gear. This is not to suggest that Liverpool are sinking in the quicksand but the double messiahs of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley are no longer around to exert that unique charisma.
Now though Liverpool's manager, probably by his own admission, bears more of a resemblance to a member of a German heavy metal band rather than the classical standards set by both Shankly and Paisley. Liverpool now have at the helm one Jurgen Klopp, a mass of chaotic hair, beard and recklessly disobedient glasses that occasionally seem to end up somewhere in Salford when it all gets a bit too much for him.
Klopp is admirably enthusiastic, often over effusive at times and then swept away by the occasion as if events were somehow just completely out of his control. When Liverpool recently beat Crystal Palace at Anfield 4-3 recently you'd have thought he'd just been announced as the new director of a reputable oil company. He leapt into the air, fist pumped like a man who'd just been given his first million pounds and then kept punching the air over and over again, face now overcome with glee.
The German has at its disposal the brilliant Sadio Mane, the superbly destructive Mo Salah up front, the equally as lethal Brazilian Firminho, the now experienced veteran including James Milner, the ever secure Virgil Van Dyjk, the ever threatening Andrew Robertson roaming and stomping down the flank and a team of show stoppers and sweet passing specialists who know how to pass, move and interchange with the most fluid fluency.
At the London Stadium last Monday Liverpool looked as though they were in desperate need of a thorough service and MOT. Their engines were overheating, the carburettor looked as though it needed a good rest and some of the gaskets had obviously blown. West Ham tore into Liverpool, damaging and disrupting the normal rhythms that Liverpool's football had grown accustomed to up until now. When Michal Antonio equalised Liverpool's opening goal, another set of worried frowns had appeared on Klopp's face.
Still after Liverpool's hugely impressive 3-0 victory over Bournemouth at Anfield we are now back at football's famous square one. At the moment there can be no way of telling of who may lose their nerve first but for the sake of football maybe these palpitations are good for its soul. Manchester City look like one of those flustered boxing heavyweights who may have been jolted back with a hit to the chin from a threatening jab. You can see that they haven't been affected at all by this setback because they're still dancing on their feet and remain unscathed.
Liverpool though do look as though they're ready to take City all the way to the finishing line without any signs of tiredness or sagging spirits. Theirs is a renewed sense of ambition, a healthy sense of adventure, feisty doggedness and a bloody minded perseverance that won't let it go. Klopp is desperate to be acclaimed as a latter day incarnation of Shankly or Paisley, Bill or Bob. He hasn't that tight grey jacket which Shankly once applauded the idolatrous Kop after winning the League championship and he doesn't have that deeply knowledgeable air of Bob Paisley who once came to work in his slippers.
So here we have what seems to be an authentic two horse race between two footballing thoroughbreds. Champing at the bit behind Liverpool and City are Spurs who can only hark back to that season when they almost pipped Leicester City to the Premier League. But the odds now realistically favour either City or Liverpool.
The Premier League season has now reached that very interesting point when the only fittest may survive and only the faint hearted can look now. It is a time for emotional sighs, melodramatic pauses for breath and then a collective gasp of wonderment. Nobody has forgotten their lines yet but by the middle of late March and the middle of April we may well all be on tenterhooks. It looks as if the final curtain may well be some way off. The plot is thickening too quickly. Pass the chocolates somebody please.
It is both geographically, psychologically, emotionally and, quite possibly, one of the most spiritually intriguing Premier League title races in years and seasons. The pulses are racing, the mercury is rising to boiling point, nails are being bitten to the quick and this season Manchester City have got proper challengers, genuine threats to their Premier League title. This has been in complete contrast to last season when the contest was effectively over by Christmas Eve which, from a neutral viewpoint, is a blessed relief.
Now though City, who thought they might have sleepwalked their way into winning the Premier League title again, now find one of their oldest rivals rearing up in their wing mirrors, honking their horns and revving up their engines. In the old days City used to be pestered by their noisy neighbours United in the days when gloating rights were the exclusive preserve of the Old Trafford club. To some extent the name of Sir Alex Ferguson must still stick in City's craw but now the feeling is markedly different.
City are the ones who play at a posh new stadium with vast open spaces, possessing a massive global appeal and a fanbase who can barely believe what's happened to the club in the last 10 years or so. No longer do they have to contend with the smaller but compact Maine Road and that supporter who kept up that persistent ringing bell. Gone also are the days of farcical music hall comedy when the club almost slipped off the Football League radar before tumbling into the old Third Division.
Now of course City have rich Arab owners, a firmly established pedigree and seemingly top flight status guaranteed for the foreseeable future. And yet who could have seen that coming during the good, old, bad old days of Rodney Marsh, Colin Bell and Francis Lee, when those giant defensive rocks known as Mike Doyle and Tony Book hovered in opposition penalty areas like lighthouse beacons.
City are slick, modern, mainstream, excessively stylish, wonderfully easy on the eye and pass the ball as if it were on some continuous conveyor belt. The ball travels often independently and magnetically from feet to feet in a dizzying blur. Players like Leroy Sane, Raheem Sterling, Fernandinho and Sergio Aguero insist that the game of football belongs in the art gallery rather than some wild and inhospitable ghost town where nobody wants to know you.
This season though the journey has been fraught with several bumpy roads, isolated cul-de-sacs and just a few steep hills. The poetry that City so beautifully delivered in both stanzas and verses last season has now been reduced to some slightly incoherent tale that might have been lost in the translation.
Still, Manchester City are back on top of the Premier League after demolishing and ransacking a Chelsea team 6-0, a team who not only flatter to deceive but may never re-capture their Jose Mourinho salad days when the Premier League was once won on a back to back basis. Now their ex banking boss Sarri seemed to have the right template for success earlier on in the season but then discovered that it was just a rusty shade of grey.
But here we are in the second week of February and the chances are that this one could go all the way to the wire in early May. The Premier League has often been won at critical stages of the season, those pivotal, strategic moments when somebody either blunders, slips awkwardly and then presents their rival with an open goal.
Several seasons ago Liverpool thought that those golden days of the 1970s and 1980s had once again smiled righteously on them. But then in a crucial, end of season game against, ironically, Chelsea, the one and only Steven Gerrard stumbled like a young foal and Chelsea broke forward like hungry tigers and scored the winning goal. Liverpool had to be content with the runners up spot and the grumbling dissenters on the Kop sighed their understandable displeasure.
Of course we all know that Liverpool have never won the Premier League but still proudly boast over 18 old First Division titles. It is now 29 years since the Merseysiders last pot of gold and although FA Cups and a Champions League trophy have since softened the blow somewhat even Sir Jimmy Tarbuck must be wondering whether his local team can give him something to brag about on the after dinner circuit.
The sun lit days of Kevin Keegan, John Toshack, Ian Callaghan, Ray Kennedy, Terry Mcdermott, Steve Heighway and Kenny Dalglish are rather like Olympian echoes from the past. But the decades have passed and Liverpool have found themselves in a lengthy state of limbo where first gear refuses to move into fifth gear. This is not to suggest that Liverpool are sinking in the quicksand but the double messiahs of Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley are no longer around to exert that unique charisma.
Now though Liverpool's manager, probably by his own admission, bears more of a resemblance to a member of a German heavy metal band rather than the classical standards set by both Shankly and Paisley. Liverpool now have at the helm one Jurgen Klopp, a mass of chaotic hair, beard and recklessly disobedient glasses that occasionally seem to end up somewhere in Salford when it all gets a bit too much for him.
Klopp is admirably enthusiastic, often over effusive at times and then swept away by the occasion as if events were somehow just completely out of his control. When Liverpool recently beat Crystal Palace at Anfield 4-3 recently you'd have thought he'd just been announced as the new director of a reputable oil company. He leapt into the air, fist pumped like a man who'd just been given his first million pounds and then kept punching the air over and over again, face now overcome with glee.
The German has at its disposal the brilliant Sadio Mane, the superbly destructive Mo Salah up front, the equally as lethal Brazilian Firminho, the now experienced veteran including James Milner, the ever secure Virgil Van Dyjk, the ever threatening Andrew Robertson roaming and stomping down the flank and a team of show stoppers and sweet passing specialists who know how to pass, move and interchange with the most fluid fluency.
At the London Stadium last Monday Liverpool looked as though they were in desperate need of a thorough service and MOT. Their engines were overheating, the carburettor looked as though it needed a good rest and some of the gaskets had obviously blown. West Ham tore into Liverpool, damaging and disrupting the normal rhythms that Liverpool's football had grown accustomed to up until now. When Michal Antonio equalised Liverpool's opening goal, another set of worried frowns had appeared on Klopp's face.
Still after Liverpool's hugely impressive 3-0 victory over Bournemouth at Anfield we are now back at football's famous square one. At the moment there can be no way of telling of who may lose their nerve first but for the sake of football maybe these palpitations are good for its soul. Manchester City look like one of those flustered boxing heavyweights who may have been jolted back with a hit to the chin from a threatening jab. You can see that they haven't been affected at all by this setback because they're still dancing on their feet and remain unscathed.
Liverpool though do look as though they're ready to take City all the way to the finishing line without any signs of tiredness or sagging spirits. Theirs is a renewed sense of ambition, a healthy sense of adventure, feisty doggedness and a bloody minded perseverance that won't let it go. Klopp is desperate to be acclaimed as a latter day incarnation of Shankly or Paisley, Bill or Bob. He hasn't that tight grey jacket which Shankly once applauded the idolatrous Kop after winning the League championship and he doesn't have that deeply knowledgeable air of Bob Paisley who once came to work in his slippers.
So here we have what seems to be an authentic two horse race between two footballing thoroughbreds. Champing at the bit behind Liverpool and City are Spurs who can only hark back to that season when they almost pipped Leicester City to the Premier League. But the odds now realistically favour either City or Liverpool.
The Premier League season has now reached that very interesting point when the only fittest may survive and only the faint hearted can look now. It is a time for emotional sighs, melodramatic pauses for breath and then a collective gasp of wonderment. Nobody has forgotten their lines yet but by the middle of late March and the middle of April we may well all be on tenterhooks. It looks as if the final curtain may well be some way off. The plot is thickening too quickly. Pass the chocolates somebody please.
Thursday 7 February 2019
Charles Dickens was born today.
Charles Dickens was born today.
For those who have followed and revered him, today represents the perfect opportunity to say thank you and give immense gratitude to a man who, within the space of a mere 58 years of living, single handedly revolutionised English literature so influentially that 149 years after his passing the name is still held up as the very definition of literary brilliance and genius. His name was, - and still is- to those who believe that he's very much with us in spirit, Charles Dickens.
Today, on what was presumably a very cold and quite nippy day in 1812 in the coastal town of Portsmouth Charles Dickens was born into the dirt and squalor of early 19th century England. To say that Dickens didn't have it easy when he was young would be the grossest understatement. His father John was in prison and it was only when his son Charles achieved the heights of literary greatness that the son was able to dig his father out of a heap of debt, trouble and embarrassment. It was hardly the most auspicious start for the boy who would later find himself in a blacking factory with very little hope of any kind of social progression.
Some of us though just happened to stumble upon Dickens without really knowing why which does sound very strange. After a poor education and nothing else to do with my time, burying myself in the local library during the 1980s seemed like the ultimate escape. Of course as a youngster we all had our reservations about the subject of reading because reading was boring and besides who wanted to genuinely improve themselves when there was so much else to do apart from reading? Now my curiosity would be instantly satisfied.
But then you discovered those big Secker and Warburg novels that seemed to be packed with big, lyrical descriptions, glorious story lines, wonderful characters and words that leapt from the page almost magically. You started with Joseph Conrad, moved through HG Wells, DH Lawrence, George Orwell, James A. Michener, Rudyard Kipling and then noticed out of the corner of your eye that name that beckoned you seductively towards him. Of course you were aware of the man's stature, his remarkably elevated stature, a household name, one of the leading celebrities of the day and still discussed in thousands of literary salons throughout the world.
After being honoured with the stunningly poetic prose of Thomas Hardy and reading all of his novels and short stories. Dickens must have seemed like a very a pathetic anti climax. But then you carefully picked up the first of Dickens novels with a nervous pair of hands not entirely sure what to make of it all. You knew Dickens wrote with a great sense of style and a decorative flourish but you didn't know that he could write like a dream.
Then you realised why this literary lion, this all conquering composer of words would change our thinking, astound us with the elegance of his rich grammar and vocabulary. Here was a man who would so effortlessly create memorable word pictures, painting the most whimsical characters, bringing the whole landscape of Victorian society to life with vivid imagery while at the same time inventing new settings and environments without any prompting at all.
Of course we'd heard all of the familiar stories about Dickens setting out very late night to wander through the piazza of Convent Garden, listening out intently for the last cries of boisterous barrow boys on the fruit and vegetable market stalls. We knew that Dickens was helplessly fascinated with the sounds, sights and smells of the West End, the haunting quietness of the City, the bell of Big Ben, the back streets, the winding alleyways. All had their story to tell and Dickens was the man to tell it.
Now you found yourself swept along with the vibrancy of the prose, the action packed narrative, the light and shade of the story, the darkness and the lightness, the Victorian lanterns sputtering and flickering, the tramps, the drunks, the scruffy, filthy urchins on street corners, the complicated relationships and the poverty stricken families who were barely managing to get by. Then, in contrast, there were the filthy rich and the aristocrats in their ivory towers who Dickens probably had very little time for.
So this was the essence of Dickens, the reason for your fascination with an author who never failed to disappoint at any level. You see the truth is that Dickens highlighted all of the social divisions and inequalities deeply rooted and festering within the decaying underbelly of society. Dickens though sympathised, empathised, understood, made fun of and then lampooned figures of authority with relentless derision. He knew what it was like to strive and struggle, scrimp and save and he made sure that people knew exactly how he was feeling at the time.
The novels themselves are like the sweetest box of chocolates, a magnificent concoction of all the good things that any novel should possess. In no particular order of merit there was Hard Times, Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield, Dombey and Son, Martin Chuzzlewit, Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of Two Cities, Oliver Twist and Christmas stories galore.
And so it that today we celebrate the birth of one of England's greatest wordsmiths if not the greatest. True, there are those out there who genuinely believe that Dickens was ever so gloomy, critical, too opinionated for their liking. Dickens was too wordy, too flashy, over elaborate, too quick to judge and analyse, out of touch and not really their kind of author. They will tell you that most of the aforesaid novels were too long, verbose, perhaps vastly confusing and they would be wrong.
But as somebody who recently enjoyed BBC2's recent series on 20th century icons it would be remiss of me not to add Dickens to that esteemed list of explorers, activists, scientists, artists, pioneers and sportsmen and women. Dickens spoke for the people, he posed endless questions without ever really getting the response he may have been looking for and then became one of the great social commentators of his time and perhaps for ever more. Yet who's to say though that his enormous body of work is still being read.
When Dickens died halfway through Edwin Drood which subsequently turned into the Mystery of Edwin Drood it must have seemed like a whole set of Victorian street lamps had gone out, the life force of English literature had vanished for ever and would never ever return again. But then you look at the legacy which can still be found in millions of libraries across the world just waiting to be browsed at inquisitively, thoughtfully and then happily.
In retrospect I find myself wondering why I took the time to read as much as I possibly could because the sceptics would say that no good would ever come of reading a 19th century author whose language could only be properly grasped by the generation of the day. They would say that it was just a pointless exercise and that all of those fancy expressions and utterances, those snobbish characterisations, the intensely detailed descriptions and the endless acres of words would drive anybody mad.
In my defence it has to be said that are very few people whose novels are still being lavishly adapted for the movie screen, still immortalised on TV and still recognised on the back of a 10 pound note. Of course Dickens private life was immensely turbulent and nobody really knew him better than his adoring public.
He pulled himself out of the gutter, dragged himself forcefully out of muddy obscurity and wrote because the necessity was an urgent one. The words and sentences flowed like honey, the language as cultivated as an agricultural paradise at Harvest time. Wherever you are at the moment Charles Dickens, Happy Birthday and it's time to raise a glass. Have a good one Charlie.
For those who have followed and revered him, today represents the perfect opportunity to say thank you and give immense gratitude to a man who, within the space of a mere 58 years of living, single handedly revolutionised English literature so influentially that 149 years after his passing the name is still held up as the very definition of literary brilliance and genius. His name was, - and still is- to those who believe that he's very much with us in spirit, Charles Dickens.
Today, on what was presumably a very cold and quite nippy day in 1812 in the coastal town of Portsmouth Charles Dickens was born into the dirt and squalor of early 19th century England. To say that Dickens didn't have it easy when he was young would be the grossest understatement. His father John was in prison and it was only when his son Charles achieved the heights of literary greatness that the son was able to dig his father out of a heap of debt, trouble and embarrassment. It was hardly the most auspicious start for the boy who would later find himself in a blacking factory with very little hope of any kind of social progression.
Some of us though just happened to stumble upon Dickens without really knowing why which does sound very strange. After a poor education and nothing else to do with my time, burying myself in the local library during the 1980s seemed like the ultimate escape. Of course as a youngster we all had our reservations about the subject of reading because reading was boring and besides who wanted to genuinely improve themselves when there was so much else to do apart from reading? Now my curiosity would be instantly satisfied.
But then you discovered those big Secker and Warburg novels that seemed to be packed with big, lyrical descriptions, glorious story lines, wonderful characters and words that leapt from the page almost magically. You started with Joseph Conrad, moved through HG Wells, DH Lawrence, George Orwell, James A. Michener, Rudyard Kipling and then noticed out of the corner of your eye that name that beckoned you seductively towards him. Of course you were aware of the man's stature, his remarkably elevated stature, a household name, one of the leading celebrities of the day and still discussed in thousands of literary salons throughout the world.
After being honoured with the stunningly poetic prose of Thomas Hardy and reading all of his novels and short stories. Dickens must have seemed like a very a pathetic anti climax. But then you carefully picked up the first of Dickens novels with a nervous pair of hands not entirely sure what to make of it all. You knew Dickens wrote with a great sense of style and a decorative flourish but you didn't know that he could write like a dream.
Then you realised why this literary lion, this all conquering composer of words would change our thinking, astound us with the elegance of his rich grammar and vocabulary. Here was a man who would so effortlessly create memorable word pictures, painting the most whimsical characters, bringing the whole landscape of Victorian society to life with vivid imagery while at the same time inventing new settings and environments without any prompting at all.
Of course we'd heard all of the familiar stories about Dickens setting out very late night to wander through the piazza of Convent Garden, listening out intently for the last cries of boisterous barrow boys on the fruit and vegetable market stalls. We knew that Dickens was helplessly fascinated with the sounds, sights and smells of the West End, the haunting quietness of the City, the bell of Big Ben, the back streets, the winding alleyways. All had their story to tell and Dickens was the man to tell it.
Now you found yourself swept along with the vibrancy of the prose, the action packed narrative, the light and shade of the story, the darkness and the lightness, the Victorian lanterns sputtering and flickering, the tramps, the drunks, the scruffy, filthy urchins on street corners, the complicated relationships and the poverty stricken families who were barely managing to get by. Then, in contrast, there were the filthy rich and the aristocrats in their ivory towers who Dickens probably had very little time for.
So this was the essence of Dickens, the reason for your fascination with an author who never failed to disappoint at any level. You see the truth is that Dickens highlighted all of the social divisions and inequalities deeply rooted and festering within the decaying underbelly of society. Dickens though sympathised, empathised, understood, made fun of and then lampooned figures of authority with relentless derision. He knew what it was like to strive and struggle, scrimp and save and he made sure that people knew exactly how he was feeling at the time.
The novels themselves are like the sweetest box of chocolates, a magnificent concoction of all the good things that any novel should possess. In no particular order of merit there was Hard Times, Great Expectations, Nicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield, Dombey and Son, Martin Chuzzlewit, Barnaby Rudge, A Tale of Two Cities, Oliver Twist and Christmas stories galore.
And so it that today we celebrate the birth of one of England's greatest wordsmiths if not the greatest. True, there are those out there who genuinely believe that Dickens was ever so gloomy, critical, too opinionated for their liking. Dickens was too wordy, too flashy, over elaborate, too quick to judge and analyse, out of touch and not really their kind of author. They will tell you that most of the aforesaid novels were too long, verbose, perhaps vastly confusing and they would be wrong.
But as somebody who recently enjoyed BBC2's recent series on 20th century icons it would be remiss of me not to add Dickens to that esteemed list of explorers, activists, scientists, artists, pioneers and sportsmen and women. Dickens spoke for the people, he posed endless questions without ever really getting the response he may have been looking for and then became one of the great social commentators of his time and perhaps for ever more. Yet who's to say though that his enormous body of work is still being read.
When Dickens died halfway through Edwin Drood which subsequently turned into the Mystery of Edwin Drood it must have seemed like a whole set of Victorian street lamps had gone out, the life force of English literature had vanished for ever and would never ever return again. But then you look at the legacy which can still be found in millions of libraries across the world just waiting to be browsed at inquisitively, thoughtfully and then happily.
In retrospect I find myself wondering why I took the time to read as much as I possibly could because the sceptics would say that no good would ever come of reading a 19th century author whose language could only be properly grasped by the generation of the day. They would say that it was just a pointless exercise and that all of those fancy expressions and utterances, those snobbish characterisations, the intensely detailed descriptions and the endless acres of words would drive anybody mad.
In my defence it has to be said that are very few people whose novels are still being lavishly adapted for the movie screen, still immortalised on TV and still recognised on the back of a 10 pound note. Of course Dickens private life was immensely turbulent and nobody really knew him better than his adoring public.
He pulled himself out of the gutter, dragged himself forcefully out of muddy obscurity and wrote because the necessity was an urgent one. The words and sentences flowed like honey, the language as cultivated as an agricultural paradise at Harvest time. Wherever you are at the moment Charles Dickens, Happy Birthday and it's time to raise a glass. Have a good one Charlie.
Monday 4 February 2019
My first children's book called Ollie and His Friends.
My first children's book called Ollie and His Friends.
Calling all parents and grandparents! My first children's book called Ollie and His Friends is now available at Lulu publishing and shortly on an Amazon page near you. I can't say anything about Ollie and His Friends because it's a lovely surprise and besides I'd be spoiling it for everybody else. Suffice it to say that Ollie and His Friends is cute, charming and happy ever after but then you'd hardly expect me to say anything else.
So here it is folks my first venture into the world of the children's book, a simple tale about musical instruments with human emotions going out with their family on a day out to the local village fete where they get up to all kinds of fun. It was a book that had to be written because all of us dwell on our childhood and summon all kinds of memories. Inwardly, we hark back to those nostalgic days of bike riding, favourite childhood TV programmes, eating loads of sweets and then perhaps regretting it, generally believing that we were somehow invincible and nothing would hurt us.
Childhood was great because most of us thought it would last forever and everything would be the same regardless of circumstances. You could play football in the back streets until summer evenings eventually turned dark. We all have wistful reminiscences about our very young years and Ollie and His Friends is designed for those toddlers and little people who loved to be told a bedtime story by mum and dad, grandma and grandpa, auntie and uncle, cousin and niece.
So here is Ollie and His Friends, a story for the children who, before they lay their head on the pillow at night, wait eagerly for their happy ever after story. Story telling to children, before they shut their eyes, is so vitally important because this is their world, their pleasant introduction into the world of make believe.
Oh before I forget to go, a quick reminder of my other books. You probably know what I'm going to say but here goes.
There's No Joe Bloggs, my life story about my parents, grandparents, my favourite movies, pop music stars, bands and singers, descriptions of London, pen portraits of football clubs such as Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchester United, Manchester City, Everton, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Leeds United and Spurs. It's about my childhood growing up in Ilford, Essex, my dad's fictitious journey to Las Vegas where he met Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack, famous TV celebrities and programmes from the 1960s and 1970s. No Joe Bloggs is still available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online.
Then finally there's Joe's Jolly Japes, my social commentary book where I give you my take on England, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, the England World Cup football team, the players and managers, the victories and defeats, British seaside resorts and West End department stores in the heart of London. Joe's Jolly Japes is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online.
But Ollie and His Friends is a children's book that I think you'll love. I heartily recommend it to your children and grandchildren. I'm sure they'll thank you a million times because it's a great read. Happy reading everybody.
Calling all parents and grandparents! My first children's book called Ollie and His Friends is now available at Lulu publishing and shortly on an Amazon page near you. I can't say anything about Ollie and His Friends because it's a lovely surprise and besides I'd be spoiling it for everybody else. Suffice it to say that Ollie and His Friends is cute, charming and happy ever after but then you'd hardly expect me to say anything else.
So here it is folks my first venture into the world of the children's book, a simple tale about musical instruments with human emotions going out with their family on a day out to the local village fete where they get up to all kinds of fun. It was a book that had to be written because all of us dwell on our childhood and summon all kinds of memories. Inwardly, we hark back to those nostalgic days of bike riding, favourite childhood TV programmes, eating loads of sweets and then perhaps regretting it, generally believing that we were somehow invincible and nothing would hurt us.
Childhood was great because most of us thought it would last forever and everything would be the same regardless of circumstances. You could play football in the back streets until summer evenings eventually turned dark. We all have wistful reminiscences about our very young years and Ollie and His Friends is designed for those toddlers and little people who loved to be told a bedtime story by mum and dad, grandma and grandpa, auntie and uncle, cousin and niece.
So here is Ollie and His Friends, a story for the children who, before they lay their head on the pillow at night, wait eagerly for their happy ever after story. Story telling to children, before they shut their eyes, is so vitally important because this is their world, their pleasant introduction into the world of make believe.
Oh before I forget to go, a quick reminder of my other books. You probably know what I'm going to say but here goes.
There's No Joe Bloggs, my life story about my parents, grandparents, my favourite movies, pop music stars, bands and singers, descriptions of London, pen portraits of football clubs such as Arsenal, Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchester United, Manchester City, Everton, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Leeds United and Spurs. It's about my childhood growing up in Ilford, Essex, my dad's fictitious journey to Las Vegas where he met Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack, famous TV celebrities and programmes from the 1960s and 1970s. No Joe Bloggs is still available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online.
Then finally there's Joe's Jolly Japes, my social commentary book where I give you my take on England, the Chelsea Flower Show, the Henley Regatta, Polo on the playing fields of England, the England World Cup football team, the players and managers, the victories and defeats, British seaside resorts and West End department stores in the heart of London. Joe's Jolly Japes is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Books-A-Million online.
But Ollie and His Friends is a children's book that I think you'll love. I heartily recommend it to your children and grandchildren. I'm sure they'll thank you a million times because it's a great read. Happy reading everybody.
Autism- oh for those words
Autism- oh for those words.
I'm not really sure how to pitch this blog but I do know about its subject matter. As somebody with Autism and Aspergers Syndrome, I do know it does have its problems and complications. You can never be sure how or why things happen in the way they do and there are times when it does genuinely terrifying. And then you begin to hear voices inside your head and imagine things that you know for a fact don't exist but are very much there.
If there's anybody out there with my Autistic condition who can identify I'd really like to hear from you. Because I'm Autistic I'd prefer somebody male. This is not because I'm a outrageous sexist but I'd really like talk to another guy with the same kind of Autistic symptoms as myself.
I know I have bizarre, irrational thoughts about words and grammar and because I now blog extensively and write books this may have something to do with it. These are just random words that keep hammering away at my mind. For some reason I begin to think that these words shouldn't be used and I have this now alarming tendency to look up the meaning of these words in online dictionaries and then do it repeatedly as if looking some kind of confirmation.
I know what's going on inside me but I can't seem to make sense of these intrusive thoughts. Privately I try to think of why this may be happening to me but its all very confused and confusing. Of course you think you may be going completely mad and that there is something very wrong with me. But the brain is a strange mechanism and it does things that people with Autism have no way of controlling or managing.
But come on I hear you say. Just chill out and keep drinking coffee. Keep calm, man. Go with the flow. Don't panic. It'll pass. I wish it was as simple as that. And yet there can be rational explanation for this weird and for me, frightening condition. I know this isn't right or normal but I would like to read any comments from you as a result of this blog from people with Autism or Aspergers Syndrome. I know I'm not unique but I would like to know if anybody feels like me at times.
Of course mental health is a widely discussed and frequently stigmatised subject. Now though I find myself confronted by the kind of thoughts that ordinarily I would have shrugged aside but now believe to be very real and distressing.
So if there's anybody out there reading this blog I'd really like to hear from you if you have Aspergers. I cherish my health and mental health because my health is my wealth. Life is very sweet. precious and beautiful.
I'm not really sure how to pitch this blog but I do know about its subject matter. As somebody with Autism and Aspergers Syndrome, I do know it does have its problems and complications. You can never be sure how or why things happen in the way they do and there are times when it does genuinely terrifying. And then you begin to hear voices inside your head and imagine things that you know for a fact don't exist but are very much there.
If there's anybody out there with my Autistic condition who can identify I'd really like to hear from you. Because I'm Autistic I'd prefer somebody male. This is not because I'm a outrageous sexist but I'd really like talk to another guy with the same kind of Autistic symptoms as myself.
I know I have bizarre, irrational thoughts about words and grammar and because I now blog extensively and write books this may have something to do with it. These are just random words that keep hammering away at my mind. For some reason I begin to think that these words shouldn't be used and I have this now alarming tendency to look up the meaning of these words in online dictionaries and then do it repeatedly as if looking some kind of confirmation.
I know what's going on inside me but I can't seem to make sense of these intrusive thoughts. Privately I try to think of why this may be happening to me but its all very confused and confusing. Of course you think you may be going completely mad and that there is something very wrong with me. But the brain is a strange mechanism and it does things that people with Autism have no way of controlling or managing.
But come on I hear you say. Just chill out and keep drinking coffee. Keep calm, man. Go with the flow. Don't panic. It'll pass. I wish it was as simple as that. And yet there can be rational explanation for this weird and for me, frightening condition. I know this isn't right or normal but I would like to read any comments from you as a result of this blog from people with Autism or Aspergers Syndrome. I know I'm not unique but I would like to know if anybody feels like me at times.
Of course mental health is a widely discussed and frequently stigmatised subject. Now though I find myself confronted by the kind of thoughts that ordinarily I would have shrugged aside but now believe to be very real and distressing.
So if there's anybody out there reading this blog I'd really like to hear from you if you have Aspergers. I cherish my health and mental health because my health is my wealth. Life is very sweet. precious and beautiful.
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