Anyone for tennis at the end of April.

Anyone for tennis at the end of April.

So here we on the last day of April and we can already smell the strawberries and marvel at the effervescence of the middle class champagne fizzing and sparkling away in that familiar bucket. Shortly, the ivy clad walls will also be suitably festooned with all of England's prettiest flora, resplendent roses, vibrant violas no doubt, majestic magnolias and dainty dahlias just to complete the summer picture.

Every year the annual grunt and groan soundtrack that is Wimbledon fortnight will once again display its eye catching, alluring charms. The world of tennis will once again resound to its hugely gifted players, a scene of timeless sporting magnificence, splendid eccentricity and an endearing English gentility where the brash and temperamental collide with the funny and occasionally foolhardy.

On the night before the public are allowed to flood through the gates onto Centre Court, Number 1 and 2 court, the atmosphere will of course be one of lively anticipation. Sleeping tents will be ready and prepared, flasks will be heated in readiness for a long night of tea and coffee and someone will laugh at their sheer dedication to their cause, that ludicrous willingness to sleep out on the pavements of South West London rather than the more cosy comforts of their own bed.

Then on a late June afternoon when the sun may yet be at its most obliging and compliant, the crowds will file onto the courts in that most orderly fashion, giggling uncontrollably at the ball boys and girls and then chuckling at the umpire who every year climbs heroically up to that high chair. We'll undoubtedly cast our discerning eye on that well manicured grass which before the tournament looks flawlessly green and gets all patchy on the baseline by day two.

Some of us will feel like privileged guests at a royal garden party because essentially that's what Wimbledon reminds us of. It is English lawn tennis at its most traditional, formal, prim and proper, civilised and respectable. It is sport at its most serene, elegant and presentable. It is sport observing all of the courtesies of the summer season, the rigid protocol, the bowing and curtseying of the ladies when the singles trophy is held aloft, the men who have barely broken sweat in a gruelling five setter and that explosion of noise when the champions are regally celebrated.

Today though it was announced by the Lawn Tennis Association that as from next year the ticket allocation which determines who gets to sit in the most comfortable seats will be at the mercy of an online ballot where those who are particularly lucky will be first come first served. This time you won't need a post card or letter to hasten the whole process along but simply the right password and the right postcode. But that would be grossly unfair and besides Wimbledon is for the people regardless of where they come from or their home address.

We were also told that both the men and women will both be the happy recipients of something in the region of £2.35 million. It just seems the most criminally astronomical amount of money for a sport that always divides opinion on just how pampered tennis players are. They train incessantly of course they do. They get up at the crack of dawn to hammer down their high velocity first serves and frequent aces, swinging their arms joyfully at impossibly powerful forehand returns and then cursing themselves self reproachfully when their shots end up at Court 15.

But how the world has changed since the likes of Ken Rosewall and Rod Laver, Pancho Gonzales and Lew Hoad, Maria Bueno and Billy Jean King served up their rich repertoire of breathless cross court backhands and forehands with barely a thought of the imminent pay cheque for their exertions. Of course they played to win and earn their rightful pay but the telephone directory figures they can confidently expect to help themselves to somehow sends the most chilling of shudders down  our spine.

For the less fortunate and disadvantaged the millions swilling around the global sporting village still seems to rankle with those who can only dream of aspiring to such exalted heights. Still, when the likes of Roger Federer, Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic step onto the Centre Court it seems certain that they will not be asking for a rise from their boss nor are they likely to go on a strike if the boss refuses to accept such an unreasonable request.

Still we are on the verge of May and you can forget about dusting down your tennis rackets because Wimbledon is some way off and most of us are still emotionally exhausted after the nine month Premier League football marathon where the inevitable end of season feeling almost feels as if you have been here a hundred times. This could be a good time to think of a lovely gulp of Pimms. Oh, for the wondrous joys of Wimbledon!

Spurs - West Ham local derby and a marvellous Premier League title race.

Spurs - West Ham local derby and a marvellous Premier League title race.

Now why can't every Premier League title race be like this every season?  There's everything to play for, two games of the season remaining and the top two refuse to give an inch. We've been here before of course but this season things are different and this is just the finest, most exciting finish to a Premier League season since, quite possibly, Arsenal's last gasp, final seconds winning goal that pipped Liverpool to the old First Division title in 1989 when Michael Thomas swept through almost theatrically to clinch victory and lift the championship.

But with one of the most remarkable of ironies it is Liverpool who find themselves within tantalising distance of the Premier League title with only Manchester City in the way. If  City can once again edge ahead and closer to retaining the Premier League title then all that huffing and puffing may be in vain. This time Liverpool have no Steve Mcmahon or John Barnes in their ranks and the sense of deflating anti climax that hung over Anfield that evening 30 years ago must still leave a bitter taste in the mouths of the Kop faithful.

Today Manchester City go to Turf Moor where another workmanlike Burnley side will slump over the finishing line in a couple of weeks time just glad to be where they are in the Premier League. The Lowry mills and old factories which provide the backdrop to Turf Moor are rather like a suitable metaphor for the kind of football Burnley's supporters have been subjected to this season, grey and sometimes bleak but not necessarily ugly.

Their manager Sean Dyche increasingly reminds you of one of those 1970s working men's clubs comics where Bernard Manning and Frank Carson battled out bragging rights for the funniest joke. Dyche's gravelly voice is reminiscent of those gag tellers who cough their way through a fog of cigarette smoke and then lean on their microphone as if it were an extended member of their family.

On Friday though Liverpool trod on Huddersfield as if they were some annoying obstacle in their way. Poor old Huddersfield, now relegated back to the Championship after one fantasy season in the top flight, were beaten 5-0 by a Liverpool side boasting one of the cleverest finishers in Mo Salah, a hugely impressive Sadio Mane and a collective team ethos that maybe Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley would have heartily approved of. Even a new and refurbished Anfield would have left both Shankly and Paisley glowing with happiness.

Meanwhile back in North London Spurs, who are still settling into their new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, may be in need of either a commercial sponsor or just some heavy editing. White Hart Lane just seemed to trip off the tongue and besides there are too many consonants and vowels. Still, after their first defeat at their new ground against their so called sworn enemies and London neighbours West Ham, the new soft furnishings may take some getting used to and the sound system could do with some re- adjustment and tweaking.

We all know about the good natured if rather spicy rivalry between both Spurs and West Ham. But after all the hullabaloo which accompanied their move into their spick and span, stunning new home Spurs, having now played their first couple of matches in their new stadium, must have felt like lodgers or sitting tenants. West Ham may never have been welcomed with the warmest of greetings at the old White Hart Lane but they could at least have had the decency to put out a bowl or two of crisps and some tasty vol au vents in their new home.

Spurs will now have to prepare for the first leg of their eagerly anticipated Champions League tie against Ajax next week just a tad shell shocked and little uncertain on their feet. This was not meant to happen. West Ham were supposed to roll over and have their stomachs tickled by Spurs. This was personal, a spiteful grudge match, loathing at its most local and the kind of game Spurs were expected to take in their stride. But West Ham were just awkward, stubborn and determined to re-write the prepared script.

For much of the first half Toby Alderweireld, Ben Davies, Danny Rose and Eric Dier, although constantly ambitious and full of good intentions, never really found the right lock and key to pierce open the West Ham defence. Spurs looked both fluent and cohesive while in possession of the ball but once the 18- yard box had been discovered Spurs were rather like one of those holiday makers at an English seaside resort who forget about the time and find that the hotel manager has already gone to bed. The doors were locked and they'd have to find alternative accommodation.

Still, there was always the permanently creative bright spark in Christian Eriksen, the sweetest of Danish pastries and a midfield playmaker extraordinaire. Surely Eriksen would come to Spurs rescue, igniting a light, creating and inventing, fashioning and manufacturing something out of nothing, guiding and coaxing his team forward, making space where none had thought previously possible. Sadly, this was not the classy Dane's day and while Spurs struggled and banged their heads against the  proverbial brick wall, West Ham grew in confidence and stature.

By the middle of the second half Spurs were beginning to think this would not be the lunchtime that they might have envisaged. Somebody should have remembered to get the chutney for the cheese sandwiches. All of their routes had been blocked and gradually West Ham picked up the baton and ran with it. Spurs star studded passing game had been banished to the sidelines and West Ham's pacy and imaginative breakaway football was beginning to cut the luncheon mustard.

With Felipe Anderson scurrying down the flanks with the most graceful loping style, captain Mark Noble controlling and steadying the ship in midfield, Declan Rice, smartly intercepting any loose ball he could find, Robert Snodgrass at his most professional and grittily purposeful and  Michail Antonio bursting away on lung bursting runs through the heart of the Spurs defence, West Ham looked as if their lengthy away day drought would finally come to an end.

Finally after providing their supporters with some of the eye catching and attractive football they'd seen for some time, West Ham scored the only goal of the game and what a peach it was. Moving the ball quickly through the gears and a succession of lightning passes, Marko Arnautovic, who may still be longing for China, chipped the ball beautifully into the path of Antonio who, seemingly from nowhere, darted towards the near post and cracked the ball fiercely past Spurs keeper Hugo Lloris.

Spurs were now drained of energy and gave every impression of the kind of team who have played so many matches that something had to give. They were passing the ball cleanly and truly but without the threat or menace that most of their fans thought  would come so easily to them- particularly against West Ham. Unfortunately, Spurs were now completely out on their feet, grinding to a standstill and wondering if they'll ever see Manchester City or Liverpool in their rear view mirror.

Back on the managerial padded seats Spurs manager Mauricio Pochettino was sharing notes with his staff and compiling some wondrous hi tech game that would amaze all of us. He seemed to be chatting endlessly and pointing at a screen that nobody would ever see. Over 40 years ago any game against Ajax of Amsterdam would have represented a much more daunting task than the one Spurs will face on Tuesday. Cruyff and Neeskens though are no longer Ajax's plate spinners and the feeling persists that if Tottenham get it right on the night then the flying Dutchmen may find themselves grounded. It's over to you Mauricio.

Manor House- a hive of activity.

Manor House - a hive of activity.

Here in Manor House, North London all is a hive of activity. It reminds you of one vast outdoor factory but without the panel beaters hammering away incessantly at pieces of metal, drills punching the same metal and things being sent mechanically along never ending conveyor belts. What we have here is something equally as industrial and just as practical. This is the future, the next generation and the next chapter of the lives of those who work and live in the thriving suburbs of London.

We are now half way through one of the most painstaking and astonishing housing projects of modern times. It's been a labour of love and work in progress for some time now and for some of us it does feel like a huge invasion of our privacy, a permanently noisy disruption of our everyday lives. Still, we've had plenty of time to get used to it so maybe we shouldn't really complain. This should be the time to just bite your lip, endure it all with perfect stoicism, welcoming it with open and hospitable arms and just appreciating the radical evolution of  Woodberry Down in London suburbia.

All around us here is a buzzing, shrill whistling, the almost constant hum of machinery, sawing, cutting, lifting, soaring, swinging and at times a deafening crescendo of drills and hammers competing against each other for being much louder than the rest. This almost feels like the re-invention of the Industrial Revolution for today's society rather than those difficult times when extremely industrious Victorians worked all day and deep into the early evening in what must have felt like the most impossibly spartan conditions.

Now though the environment is entirely different and the circumstances could hardly be more removed from those grim and back breaking days of hard labour and drudgery. The labourers and construction workers who now earn their living  wear yellow high viz jackets, very prominent hard hats and think nothing of walking around the building site next to us at least a hundred times a day.

Clearly, they're making considerable headway but it's hard to know why they have to keep wandering around like lost souls. Are they looking for Roman treasure and potentially valuable artefacts? We may never know. But up and down, around and around they go, pausing for a brief period of examination, scrutiny and assessment. They stop for a while, gazing fondly at the foundations then move off to another parcel of land where nothing exists but Portacabins, railings and whirling cement mixers.

 There are times when the whole area resembles Hampton Court maze, a strange and bewildering network of small, muddy ditches and trenches where a great deal of  note and significance has, to all outward appearances, been achieved but the end result is still years from completion. Slowly but surely everything seems to be taking shape but then it's hard to tell what stage our hod carriers and builders have got to.

Behind our garden is what can only be described as a darkly oppressive prison block, a mass of concrete, glass and steel that stares out balefully across our car park like some sinister armed bank robber with a balaclava over their head. Then there's the scaffolding, masses of white sheets draped limply over the structure, grey columns solidly holding everything together. We've been told and promised another set of luxurious flats and apartments but at the moment it does look like some grotesque afterthought.

There is a recurring theme of hard work, diligence and passionate commitment to the cause. Once all all of the bricks and mortar have been fitted into place, we may begin to see the first signs of roofs, living rooms, kitchens and bathrooms. The cranes are still swinging away quite happily and the diggers are still scooping up prodigious lumps of metal, wood and sand. This is turning into a military operation but thankfully without the guns and tanks of warfare.

Meanwhile back at the building site next to us the men in yellow continue to plough their lonely furrow and you get the impression that they could be running out of original routes to walk down. Besides, there can only be  so many ways you can get to a certain place without wondering why.  You wonder whether all of the builders may be playing off against each other for a major prize. It all looks extremely mystifying but at the same time a most compelling watch.

Then this labyrinthine game of Snakes and Ladders goes on and on, small huddles of architects, engineers, plasterers, electricians, arty creatives, all shouldering arms and sweating rivers for their country. The Berkley Partnerships hoardings with their soothing images of swans and geese are like some idyllic advertisement for all the good and most natural things in life.

You can't help but believe that eventually we can finally look at the whole of our part of North London and just admire the final splendour of it all. There is indeed a long way to go but when the last brick is ultimately dropped into its right and proper place some of us will let out a small whoop of delight. Phew at last! We were beginning to think they'd never finish. Meanwhile, the weekend is upon us and you all deserve a refreshing drink. It's time to take it easy and put your feet up.

St George's Day- Shakespeare- a literary lion who died today.

St George's Day- Shakespeare - a literary lion today.

He may have died in 1616 but the legacy he left behind may never fade into the neat stitches of the English fabric of our lives. There is something about this day that will always resonate with everything the English hold so dear; of course there is the rightful patriotism which most Brits should always feel but never seem to truly acknowledge as a given. Then there is the school of thought which would have us believe that we shouldn't really need one day in the year to wave the Union Jack or the St. George Cross flag.

The fact is that perhaps only a small corner of England will get all excited and animated about St George's Day and we'll all forget about today as if it was a passing thought. Truly, there can be no rational explanation as to why we so persistently overlook April 23rd. It should be the catalyst for street parties up and down the land, early Maypole dancing, just a complete day of celebration and finally a huge concert in Hyde Park as the evening shadows begin to lengthen.

Sadly, though there are no wild drinking binges in the pubs, no stunning bacchanalia, none of the knees up parties in those watering holes where everybody gathered around the piano, guzzled down huge quantities of the seemingly irresistible alcohol and the pub landlord simply joined in. Then for those who had lost track of time, it was time to be chucked out quite emphatically and banned from the said public house for at least a week or two.

Still, we could always remember that old Shakespeare anniversary. Of course William Shakespeare! He's the bloke who wrote all those very literary plays all those hundreds of years ago when there was no TV, no radio, nor that Internet technology where we all participate in one massive global chat about everything and anything. Shakespeare was of course one of the greatest revolutionaries of any time because he was the man who largely shaped and influenced the future development of the English language in a way that almost feels miraculous now.

But how do we show our heartfelt gratitude to the Bard? Of course the Royal Shakespeare Company has been around for as long as anybody can remember and we'll always have our Stratford Upon Avon but you can probably count on the fingers of your hand the number of times the name of William Shakespeare will crop up at dinner parties across the length and breadth of Britain. They may well quote both the plays, comedies and tragedies but then the conversation will probably turn to Donald Trump, Brexit or those eccentric eco warriors who seem to have taken up permanent residence on the streets of London. And that's the point when we'll quite possibly mention St George's Day.

There is a nagging feeling though that nobody really cares about Shakespeare. He was the man who gave us Othello, Macbeth, Midsummer Night's Dream, Henry the Fifth, Romeo and Juliet, The Merchant of Venice and innumerable compositions that most of us can only dream of emulating. So what if he was the most articulate wordsmith until Dickens tried to muscle in on the Bard's sacred territory? Anybody can jot down poetic thoughts but it couldn't have been that easy surely.

Think of those endless evenings by the dimmest candlelight, quill pen in one hand and a glass of something reasonably potent in the other. How Dickens must have hunched over his davenport desk, agonising over every word, phrase and sentence, pining all the while for fame and celebrity. Think of those elaborately constructed plays on words, those newly invented phrases, the mind blowing creativity raging through his mind, the thought patterns and the vastly engaging turns of phrase.

So here we are well over 400 years after his death and still we think of Shakespeare as some distant, historical figure who the English will always revere but never understand. Some of us have always struggled with the knotty intricacies of his language and will never know why the Bard had to be quite so melodramatic about the kind of issues that most of us would shrug off. Besides, things do happen from time to time and you have to put everything into some kind of perspective.

It's hard to imagine what exactly Shakespeare would have made of the 21st century. Maybe he would have taken a strange kind of  pleasure in the current activities at the House of Comedy or perhaps that should be the House of Commons. You feel sure that some of the characters in this daftest of all plots would have been rich pickings for an outright satire written by the Bard's lily white hands. Then again Shakespeare never crossed paths with Nigel Farage. Now that's a comedy ready and waiting to be produced.

The cricket season- an English summer stunner.

The cricket season - an English summer stunner.

Is it really that time of the year again? How time flies. It hardly seems like yesterday since the snooker table green of football's opening day back in August, seemed to go on for eternity for those who thought those muddied football folk would never take any kind of break. Now though the absorbing Premier League title race between Manchester City and Liverpool looks as though it could go right to the last day of the season and  those whose blood pressure can hardly take any more may want to look away now.

Meanwhile the latter stages of April, apart from its blissful suggestions of summer and those subtle hints of warmer days and gentle breezes, also brings it with that lovely tapestry of summer cricket, men in billowing white shirts, white trousers, snazzy helmets, agile catching hands, silly mid offs, three slips, mid on, deep square legs, tiny clusters of slips, gully fielders, backward square leg, third man and above all that charming umpire who every summer never fails to tickle our funny bone.

The County Championship cricket season is well under way but across Britain, chocolate box village greens will be alive with the sound of sharp, piercing cries for leg before wicket and howzat from permanently optimistic bowlers who love the sound of their deafeningly vociferous voices. It is England at her most dignified and polite, England behaving with utter decorum, moving sedately through those measured routines without ever disturbing the peace of orderly Sunday church services.

Across the playing fields of England, Sussex, Essex, Hampshire, Lancashire and Yorkshire, Kent, Worcestershire, Glamorgan, Middlesex, Durham, leafy Gloucestershire, cricketers will be clattering down the pavilions of a thousand clubhouses. They will swing those beefy shoulders, crouch on their haunches, flourish their bats, exercise reluctant limbs, stretch sluggish calf muscles before mentally and physically preparing themselves for a day in what today seems like shimmering Easter Sunday heat.

Then they'll skip out onto an immaculate green batting and bowling pitch which looks so fresh and pristine that you could easily eat your Sunday roast lunch on it. The well manicured blades of grass have been mown thoroughly and before you know it, the men who play their cricket on a Sunday will be crashing their lofted sixes into the clubhouse bar thereby interrupting countless games of dominoes and cards played by elderly gentlemen smoking nostalgic pipes.

Further out into the patchwork quilt of England's rolling and tumbling hills, its inviting and beckoning rivers and its handsome waterfalls, yet more batsmen dig their bats religiously into the crease, looking fondly at the Mendips and Quantocks, the Lake District and the Pennines dreaming of centuries and half centuries or perhaps congratulating themselves on just how conscientious they've been in an enthralling run chase.

In the final closing overs of the local village derby the men with those sturdy caps on their head and the protective helmet that always looks ever so slightly intimidating will lift up their well worn bats for one last cavalry charge. The batsmen, sensing that this could be their time, dance out of their crease and thump the red ball violently and brutally over the top of a crumbling score board. The ball invariably drops into either a sheep's pen or perhaps next to a group of fiercely judgmental and highly critical cows who were just beginning to enjoy their Sunday afternoon nap.

Hundreds of years ago cricket used to be the preserve of wealthy landowners, the landed gentry, irate shepherds, furious farmers but perhaps that was totally untrue and merely an urban myth. And yet cricket is, was and will continue to be one of those timeless summer recreations where at the end of the day the church bells will ring out inevitably across rows of neatly symmetrical terraced houses.

Then the bowler at the sheep pen end will roll up his sleeves, heaving aching limbs for one last whirl of his arms and driving himself almost desperately towards the stern and phlegmatic last batsman. The ball goes flying through the air like a school playground catapult and the world stops for a second or two. There is a sharp intake of breath, as the last six balls of the over are fierily delivered and the tea time sandwiches are prettily arranged.

The first ball seems to nip back off the seam and end up locked in the batsman's pad. The second ball must have ended up in the hedgerows of somebody's back garden. The third ball gets the full and vigorous treatment landing quite accidentally in somebody's cider or maybe some quaint timber beamed pub. The fourth ball is rudely dismissed with an arrogant reverse sweep and the fifth ball was surely intended for the Scottish Highlands. The last ball of the over of the match must have been so wide that it was probably last seen in a farmer's market or some remote allotment site.

And so the game draws to a close and the game of cricket has once again been paraded in its most stunning cloth and fabric. The red April sun now falls slowly but beautifully over the distant horizon, shivering in shades of now vivid orange and peach. The local batsmen, who work as well muscled blacksmiths or fishermen spending their free time beside sweetly tinkling river banks, now clobber the red ball over long on with a businesslike air about them.

Cricket will never fade from the public consciousness because the summer in England would feel lost without it. The first crack of ball against a willow bat is one of the most recognisable sounds ever heard in England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. It is English as fish and chips, steak and kidney pies, Sunday roasts, vicars kindly greeting their parishioners, warm beer and vicars once again cycling down beloved country lanes. Cricket will always be an integral part of English life and it would be hard to imagine the game as anything else. That's six and they'll never get that one.
    

Pesach and Passover meet up with Easter.

Pesach and Passover meet up with Easter.

The cherry blossom is in full bloom, temperatures are rising by the hour and Britain finds itself once again in the loving embrace of its springtime festivals. Tomorrow marks the first night of the Jewish passover or Pesach and tomorrow Christianity heralds the dawn of Good Friday and Easter. It is the birth of a new season, the emergence of spring from its long, dark wintry hibernation and everything looks decidedly healthier looking, ecstatically more colourful and pleasingly brighter.

Personally tonight is the first night of Pesach where the Jews of the world crack and snap their way through vast quantities of matza and small portions of bitter herbs, charoset and other mouth watering delights, this has to be the right time to look forward rather than backwards. Pesach or Passover is of course a time for families, family gatherings around tables heaving and groaning with food, drink, indulgence and guilty pleasures where the overwhelming emotion has to be one of gentle innocence.

The symbolism and imagery that is now such an essential part of the seder night table is as old as the Bible and the Torah, a memorable tale of Egypt, Moses and the Ten Plagues, escaping slavery and finally tucking into endless boxes of Rakusens matzos. It is about drinking from the cup of Elijah, singing songs with whole hearted fervour and conviction, exchanging happy stories from Pesachs of yesteryear and remembering those who we never stopped loving.

For some of us it is all about the joyous recollections of my parents and grandparents, sitting around a dining room decorated with the crispest white linen cloth and gasping with wonder at the traditional bliss engendered on these happiest of seder nights. I can still see and hear my formidable grandfather chanting, mumbling and muttering his way through this most stirring of Jewish nights, the prayers and blessings recited at breathtaking speed.

It has to be said that my grandfather was the most learned and venerable scholar of Hebrew, a man who was cruelly deprived of an education but still gloried in the richly diverse prose of the Haggadah, the Hebrew prayer book for Pesach. Even now the memories are as amusing and light hearted as they should be. He presided proudly over the seder night table, hurt deeply by the Second World War but nonetheless upbeat, buoyant and full of the joys of Pesach.

To this day I've no idea why he chose to speed read through the whole service without ever thinking for a minute that anybody would ever understand the finer points of the Hebrew in front  of them. It was a whirlwind, record breaking rendition of the Pesach story, a fast and frenetic interpretation of everything that had happened so many hundreds and thousands of years ago.

But then he would lean over towards me with that most knowing of smiles, re-assure us that everything was just as it should be and that whatever he'd chanted carried with it a strong statement of triumphalism and feelgood euphoria. He would point to notable passages in a book by now stained with Palwin's Pesach red wine, a very contented man on this night of leaning and wishing to be nowhere else but with his family and grandchildren.

And then halfway through the Pesach feast my wonderful grandmother would emerge almost relieved from her kitchen cooking duties with that lovely waltz into the living room. She would insist that the cup of Elijah had been drunk from and that the ripple of wind that we could see meant that Elijah had had his yearly drop of booze. It all made perfect sense.

The festival of Pesach this year has fallen on the same weekend as Easter with all of its overtones of eggs, chocolate eggs and rabbits merrily jumping through those lush green acres of the English countryside. Like Pesach, Easter is a time for new seasons,  warmer days, warmer nights, sweet flavours and spices and that overriding sense that this is the time for seizing the day and taking full advantage of new opportunities. It has to be the best of all times. A time to feel good about life and for ever.

Tiger Woods roars again.

Tiger Woods roars again.

After all the thunderstorms, the turmoil, rain and turbulence the sun finally came out for Tiger Woods. Now the chances are that there was never a more popular winner of the US PGA Masters in Augusta. You could almost hear a pin drop as Woods made that final, clinching putt of the day on a day that was somehow fated to be Woods. Around Augusta, the traditional azaleas were blooming almost appropriately. the pine trees seemed to stand in a wondrous show of respect and a man who must have thought his career was over found it may have just been resurrected.

Today of course the comparisons have been made to those sporting giants from yesteryear who have similarly trodden the comeback kid trail. Of course there was Muhammad Ali, boxing's greatest who, when he was toppled by his contemporaries, just kept coming back for more when the eyes were swollen seemingly beyond repair, the body had been battered into submission and the brain had more or less been blown to smithereens by the sheer volume of punches to the head.

But when the man with the red shirt, casual trousers and blue sponsored cap threw his arms into the air with the most obvious relief and joy it was clear to see that here was a man who'd come a long way when all seemed hopelessly lost. Tiger Woods used to be yesterday's man, the sportsman who used to be one of  the most immensely gifted golfers the sport had ever produced. But then he wantonly threw it all away, engulfed by scandal, overwhelmed by bad publicity and then left to hang out to dry.

Tiger Woods last won the Masters in Augusta in 2008 and then discovered that somebody had foolishly blocked the road. There were the drunken antics, the reckless crashing of cars, the love triangles, the scorned women, the petty misdemeanours, the mood swings and then the mental confusion when everything seemed to go disastrously wrong. Time though was a great healer and yesterday Woods celebrated another glorious PGA Masters Green Jacket in the rural idyll of Augusta.

Once again everything seemed to fall into place with the most precise timing. The Woods swing from first to 18th hole was rather like a well oiled piece of machinery, the shoulders stronger than ever before and that remarkable eye on the ball from the moment it left his golf club. The smoothness was still there, the concentration barely disturbed and the mind as clear as the sound of a bell. Woods has been this way on innumerable occasions but this time it was for real. There were no false starts, no tears and tantrums, none of the tetchiness and petulance that may have characterised the man in recent years.

Behind Woods there was the British darling Ian Poulter who should have sensed that this was not to be his day. Woods birdied from impossible angles, the most treacherous rough and just dismissed them as Kipling's impostors. He chipped delicately, measured his shots with all the calculated precision of a master craftsman and then simply swept down the fairway as if he'd walked down the same path a thousand times in his memory.

It's often said that the true mark of a sporting champion can always be found in the way they prepare themselves for the big occasion. Nerves can often be either make or break the greats but Woods seemed to have everything under control. The composure was certainly there, the right irons or woods were cunningly employed and the whole of America had fallen back in love with him. It was a good day for Woods. It was a day that seemed to mature like wine before suddenly the cheering, bubbling crowd offered their biggest bottle of champagne.

There must have been times when this particular golfer would have been forgiven for throwing in the towel. surrendering helplessly to private suffering and anguish. Woods, you feel sure, would have briefly thought of those golfing geniuses, the men who once took it all in their stride, the men who were classy, cool, outstandingly stylish and never unsettled by anything that could ever be described as a major distraction.

How Woods would have dwelt on Jack Nicklaus, the late and great Arnold Palmer, the cheeky and impudent Lee Trevino who played the game like a dream and never took golf seriously. Of course Trevino, the now distinguished veteran may still be striding down the fairways with that familiar twinkle in his eye but Woods, in his moment of victory, may well have been pondering how easy golf had come to him.

And so it was that a watery sunshine shone down kindly on Tiger Woods. Sometimes you know when greatness has fallen on a major sporting occasion. There is a hushed reverence in the gallery, the birds gaze down from their lofty branches and then sigh admiringly, the crowd now on their feet. The champion walks up to the 18th hole rather like a famous conductor onto the podium. They survey their audience, wave to them and then there is a dawning realisation that a kind of perfection might have been achieved.  The Tiger has been released and the roar is a resounding one. The victory is sweeter than ever.

Tommy Smith- a Liverpool legend.

Tommy Smith- a Liverpool legend.

On a warm and sultry evening in Rome 42 years ago Tommy Smith achieved legendary status, immortality and the ultimate recognition from  Liverpool fans who had always worshipped him. Football supporters love to fit their Saturday heroes into neat categories rather like rock musicians who would prefer to be remembered for their big stadium performances rather than the more smaller and more intimate arenas where the acoustics are entirely different.

For Tommy Smith though , who yesterday sadly died at the age of  74, the impression is that Smith could never forgotten because he was both visible and audible. When Tommy Smith made his debut for Liverpool it must have felt as though a bulldozer had arrived at Anfield. You would have thought that a cautionary warning had been announced on Merseyside. Move away now because Smith is about to be introduced to an expectant Anfield crowd and a wrecking ball was about to demolish everything in its sight.

To say that Tommy Smith was as hard as a rock would be the grossest understatement. British football had already come to hold its hard men, its hatchet men, in the highest esteem. The likes of Leeds United's Norman Hunter and Billy Bremner along with Spurs Dave Mackay had already established themselves in football supporters good books. But Smith was famous for being infamous, notorious for his brutal tackling, fierce will to win and steely eyed remorselessness.

Smith undoubtedly took no prisoners, a powerful central half, rugged, immovable, indestructible and determined to make the opposition forwards tremble with fear. Throughout the 1970s Smith often reminded you of one of those no nonsense nightclub bouncers who would fix you with a murderous stare, disregard you completely and just tell you in no uncertain terms that you were forbidden to go in and never darken their corridors ever again.

Tommy Smith was a frighteningly imposing centre half who, although starting his career as a midfield player at Liverpool, was dropped back into a much deeper defensive role because Liverpool boss Bill Shankly felt that Smith's presence at the back would be of far greater benefit to Liverpool. So it was that this fiery, abrasive and mercilessly uncompromising defender would assert himself in most of those great Liverpool sides, breathing the fire of the proverbial dragon and just stopping any forward  who came anywhere near him.

And so we return to that celebrated night in Rome when Liverpool became only the third British team to win the European Cup in 1977. A Steve Heighway corner was swung dangerously into a static  Borussia Monchengladbach penalty area and Smith rose commandingly with a posse of players, heading the ball into the German's net with absolute certainty and force.

 Liverpool would go on to beat Monchengladbach because Berti Vogts couldn't cope with the speed of Kevin Keegan and the subsequent penalty, when Keegan was brought down in the area, was somehow a fitting climax to the game. For Tommy Smith it would be a night when sheer bloody mindedness would scare the living daylights out of the Germans. Smith was steadfast, mean, moody and menacing, glaring at his adversaries as if they'd committed a vicious crime and then rolling up his sleeves for another ferocious confrontation.

Smith was never one for revenge or retribution but he did like to stamp an almost sinister authority on any game that Liverpool were involved in. The feeling was that none would cross paths with him because the after match consequences would have been, shall we say, rather unsavoury. Most of the great 1970s playmakers must have known what to expect when Smith was prowling, snarling, sneering and threatening. It was the moment Smith's opponents had to  keep a very respectful and tactful silence.

Smith, who won four old First Division League championships, two FA Cups, one European Cup and two UEFA Cups was quite naturally prone to lengthy spells out with injury. Then again he was  nonetheless incredibly fearless and full of red blooded virility at the back. When the boots were flying in penalty areas Smith neither flinched nor fussed, forever wagging aggressive fingers at players who he felt had unforgivably crossed the disciplinary line.

When Liverpool beat Newcastle United quite comprehensively 3-0 in the 1974 FA Cup Final Smith must have felt like a privileged guest at some very posh gathering of aristocrats. That afternoon Smith floated around the old Wembley pitch rather like some gleaming cruise liner and when he lifted the Cup later on that afternoon there would be no room for argument as to who had made it all possible for Liverpool.

Regrettably though Smith was on the losing side for Liverpool. Several days before their scintillating European Cup victory against Monchengladbach in 1977, Liverpool would be meekly overcome by Manchester United in the FA Cup Final. Under the wise cracking  Tommy Docherty United were hellbent on denying Liverpool the Double of League and Cup. Smith, although devastated and distraught by defeat to United, came out fighting from his corner and the European Cup probably felt much more satisfying anyway.

In his later years Smith's career would wind down and after a brief spell at Swansea, Smith would retire with most of his bones either broken or then repaired with stitches or bandages that would never properly heal. The last year of Smith's life would be painful and perhaps too hard to bear at times. When dementia set in with a vengeance Smith would take his final step out of the limelight. But none who ever watched Smith could ever fail to express their fully deserving compliments for a man who always took the rough with the smooth. The hard as nails defender who hated losing has earned his place in the Liverpool Hall of Fame. Few would ever begrudge him the honour. 

The Keeper- film about the brave German goalkeeper Bert Trautmann.

The Keeper- a film about the brave German goalkeeper Bert Trautmann.

We all know about those movies where the hero or heroine wins the day, rags become riches and  triumph in the face of adversity remains the most heartwarming end to any Hollywood blockbuster. But the Keeper had nothing to do with Hollywood and what's more nobody seemed to bother anyway. We were in tear jerking territory here but those essential emotions were very much in evidence and the story of the Keeper was just as powerful and moving as we thought it might be.

The Keeper is all about the remarkable career of Manchester City's German goalkeeper Bert Trautmann, the man who heroically thwarted Birmingham City in the 1956 FA Cup Final. But this was no ordinary act of heroism because Trautmann broke his neck while not only jeopardising his own health and welfare but defying the aggressive boo boys who tried to drive him out of City. But undaunted, Trautmann carried on selflessly and although clutching his neck, picked up his FA Cup winners medal- all in the line of duty.

The opening scene though, quite apart from its chilling undercurrents of war and murder, still held the attention reminding us once again that the Second World War was a horrendous and life changing time for the entire planet. The savagery and man's inhumanity to man, woman and child has now been visited so many times by Hollywood directors over the years that perhaps we've been hardened to the ghastliness of it all.

Running through bullet ridden forests we are shudderingly shocked by all of those harshly familiar  wartime realities. German and English soldiers are shot, killed, blown to pieces and eventually end up hating each other. Dodging and ducking the bullets and bombs they sacrifice everything before falling to their inevitable death in action.

After all the nastiness and brutality of war had subsided, we are then introduced to the labour camps which housed those who survived the conflict as well as the central characters of the film. This is an uplifting wartime film where everything ended up happily ever after but not without its sobering tragedy and a large element of sadness along the way.

The Keeper follows the bittersweet career of a German prisoner of war named Bert Trautmann. Trautmann emerges from the unbearably chaotic mayhem of the Second World War with both the physical and psychological scars that seemed destined to ruin him. Initially Trautmann is put to the rigorous demands of hard labour before finding salvation in football.

Trautmann, played brilliantly by David Kross, wanders into St Helens, a Northern England town more famous for its rugby league than the round game of football. In a leisurely kick about Trautmann volunteers his services in goal and leaves the English soldiers, who have now developed a deep seated loathing of the German soldier, shivering with naked fear.  But Trautmann, now flinging himself across a makeshift goal with astonishing agility, can only muddle his way bravely through the minefield of humiliation and vile comments, smiling awkwardly and then just getting on with it.

Driven to the local St Helens Town football club by the wonderfully down to earth and pragmatic John Henshaw aka the manager Jack Friar, Henshaw delivers some painfully hard truths, ramming them firmly down Trautmann's throat. Jack Friar is a ruthless, shouty, hard disciplinarian manager who wants blood, sweat and tears, barking out orders with consistent outspokenness and constantly warning his team about the ever present threat of relegation.

Then a German soldier with no airs and graces presents himself to the Friar family and then- guess what - falls helplessly in love with the daughter Margaret. After another bout of world weary scepticism and  the most personal of grudges, Trautmann throws off  his army uniform, grabs hold of one of those hard as a rock leather footballs, throws the ball against the wall and flies through the air to catch the ball with amazing accuracy.

Soon Trautmann would become a permanent fixture in the St Helens first team, single handedly ensuring that St Helens would win games they would normally have expected to lose without a goalkeeper of Trautmann's calibre. The big, amiable German now wins the hearts of not only the fans but Margaret who slowly falls for the charms of a man who had now become the unwitting victim of circumstances.

Of course Trautmann woos Margaret and they get married because romantic lovebirds usually walk down the aisle when they're in love. Married life seemed to suit both Bert and Margaret despite the ongoing hostility and bad blood in St Helens. By now Jock Thompson, played by Gary Lewis, is an eagle eyed Manchester City scout keeping his eyes open for potential signings at City. Thompson snaps up Trautmann immediately and City sign a giant of a goalkeeper with the biggest of hearts.

When things appeared to be going smoothly and happily in  Trautmann's cosy domestic life, their first son is horrifically killed after running out into the road for an ice cream. Both Bert and Margaret, naturally heartbroken, are now traumatised. They blame each other angrily because both believe they were responsible for not being there. Self recrimination is then forgotten and Bert and Margaret would later have two sons they would never forget.

And then Trautmann would carve out his most memorable achievement. Picked for Manchester City in the 1956 FA Cup Final Trautmann would produce one of those valiant performances that almost resulted in disaster before it had had a chance to blossom. Crashing into Birmingham's Peter Murphy, Trautmann falls to the ground in agony clasping his neck in excruciating pain. He now winces in obvious discomfort but battled on to the bitter end.

But the story doesn't end there. During the war Trautmann would find himself on the wrong end of some viciously vitriolic tongue lashing from Sergeant Smythe played by the outstanding Harry Melling. In one of the most touching scenes of the film, both Smythe, in civvies and Trautmann looked as though they've resolved their differences as Trautmann puts flowers on his son's grave. The two though, far from reconciled, brawl with each other before just allowing bygones to be bygones.

The Keeper then is one of those feelgood, beautifully crafted films with a proper and coherent story line featuring one man who stubbornly refuses to give in to those who see him as the evil villain of the piece. Throughout the illustrious history of film making we have always been subjected to those sensitive themes that none of us are keen to discuss and try to shy away from.

The blunt truth is of course that the grotesque images that were left behind in the Second World War will never fade for so many millions around the world. Perhaps though, one man showed with the most magnificent defiance what can be done if you pull on a thick goalkeeper's jersey, break your neck in your team's FA Cup Final and still laugh  when all the odds are fiercely stacked against you. Good old Bert Trautmann. What excellent judges of talent Manchester City are.

Manchester City leave Brighton in a spin after passing festival in an FA Cup semi final victory.

Manchester City leave Brighton in a spin after passing festival in an FA Cup semi final victory.

In the end it was almost too comfortable for words although the score line would suggest otherwise. Sometimes this season Manchester City have been so good that anything other than an emphatic victory against any opposition would have constituted abject failure. But the slender margin of their FA Cup semi final victory against Brighton still has a meaning and resonance that goes beyond what they to think goes a long way in proving that the Quadruple of FA Cup, the Carabao Cup already acquired, the Premier League and Champions League is well within their capabilities.

As the noisy blue and white flags and banners of both Manchester City and Brighton fluttered almost ceremoniously in the stiffening winds of a packed Wembley Stadium, the immediate thoughts turned to a City side who could still be caught in the Premier League title by Jurgen Klopp's superbly disciplined and gracefully incisive Liverpool and a Brighton side who just want to be beside the seaside.

Occasionally Brighton's more wistfully regretful supporters must have gone back to that agonising FA Cup Final in 1983 when only Gary Bailey and Manchester United stood between Gordon Smith and near certain victory. Sadly, Smith's rush of blood to the head may continue to haunt their every waking moment. With only Bailey to beat from a couple of yards, Smith scuffed the ball and a Cup Final winning goal would remain out of the Scotsman's reach.

At Saturday tea time Chris Houghton's well drilled and plucky Brighton side were almost undone before they'd had time to get their feet under the table. How can a team who have been so outrageously and technically superior for the last two seasons make a potentially awkward FA Cup semi final against a well balanced Brighton side  look like a walk in the park?

By the first quarter of an hour of this first FA Cup semi final the game was all but over. Manchester City had scored the only goal of the game, Brighton looked slightly ruffled but looked at once as though they'd been covered in chloroform or had just taken a very sleepy sedative. City, without ever looking imperially imperious, still showed us their most royal purple when it looked as though they'd got fed up with just passing the ball between themselves.

There were moments in this match when the contest itself assumed the air of a training exercise, a frivolous five a side match, a fun packed exhibition that just fizzled out in no time at all. In fact here was a match between a side who had privately resigned themselves to defeat and one convinced that all they had to do was turn up on the day and just win the game with their eyes closed.

When Gabriel Jesus stooped to head home a low cross from the left after some quick, quick slow passing, Manchester City took hold of possession and conducted some of football's most melodious of attacking symphonies. The game now seemed to drift into a daydream. Once Manchester City had the ball at their beck and call, this FA Cup semi final lost both its shine and polish.

 City were arrogant, dismissive, boastful and totally relaxed. They, metaphorically at least, seemed to put their feet up on the chaise longue, smoked a languid cigar, opened up the Financial Times to check up on the current financial health of their Arab owners and then swigged back their cognac with the most disdainful air. How dare Brighton challenge their obvious supremacy when the whole world knows that not even Watford can beat them in this year's FA Cup Final?

Pep Guardiola, City's Spanish emperor-cum boss, still looks like a man who quietly believes in the impossible, still demanding more from his team even when it looked as if his team had refused to move out of first gear. The job had been done and there had been no need whatsoever to do any more. The grey stubble on Guardiola's chin looked so suitably chic that had somebody told him to go out and buy another Armani suit for the FA Cup Final he'd have probably agreed with them.

With Nicholas Otamendi striding and swanning around the central areas of Wembley in complete control of Manchester City's defence and midfield, City retained an almost vice like grip on the game. Once Benjamin Mendy and the constantly inventive Benjamin Mendy had tipped the balance City's way, City were a model of dapper sophistication.

Then City's tormentor in chief and most majestic string puller Kevin De Bruyne began to cast a spell on the ball as if at some point he was about to hypnotise it. De Bruyne was at his most bewitching and when the game seemed to be beneath him, he just stopped to gather his thoughts. De Bruyne appeared at times to glide and float into space almost angelically. Throughout the game De Bruyne's influence was spiritual, forever hovering around the centre circle without ever playing the harp.

Once the exceptional Aymeric Laporte and Ilkay Gundogan had demonstrated a model display of strength and robust athleticism, Manchester City were easing themselves into the remainder of the game as if it would have been rude of us to ask them to take any further part in this match. City swaggered and strolled, picking their moments to attack, slowing the game down when it felt right for them and then reeling Brighton in like a prize trout near a river bank.

Now it was Bernardo Silva who began to run rings around a failing, tiring and faltering Brighton team, cutting inside from the flank, jabbing passes correctly and accurately all the while. Meanwhile the now veteran David Silva, always composed and ever available for any ball that came his way, became a re-assuring presence whenever City needed the experienced touch on the ball.

And then Raheem Sterling, surely the most exemplary role model in recent times, gave football another shot in the arm. Sterling was everywhere, dribbling the ball with unerring cleverness and waltzing his way in and out of the Brighton defence as if they were simply thin air. Sterling  danced and pirouetted his way through the Seagulls defenders, darting and dashing, pausing and scheming, a confounded nuisance. At times he reminded you of another City legend Peter Barnes who would shuffle and body swerve his way past players without so much as another thought.

So it was that we reached the final stages of the game with City blissfully content to play keep ball and draining the life force out of this FA Cup semi final. At times Manchester City looked like those kids from the 1950s who would kick that huge leather ball around in the road until late into the evening oblivious to their parents. Brighton reduced to launching desperate attempts to picking City's pockets only to find that City had already snatched the ball back and taken it home.

The one blot on the day was the booking of England defender Kyle Walker who locked horns viciously with his opponent and had to be visibly restrained from any further punishment. But Brighton had now lost their way and only sporadically ventured into the City half with any real intent. Antony Knockaert toiled industriously for the South Coast club but looked as if he simply couldn't find the nimble feet that for City had come so naturally.

But it's Watford against Manchester City in this year's FA Cup Final showpiece. Memories of Sir Elton John, boater hat on head, sobbing his heart as the raw emotion of Cup Final day took its toll, still linger in the mind. Watford, who had come back from two goals down against surely one of the teams of the season in Wolves, will return to Wembley 35 years after Howard Kendall's Everton had beaten them quite conclusively.

For those of a neutral disposition this is one of those FA Cup Finals where your heart tells you that the team who should win quite easily are bound to encounter one or two problems. Realistically Manchester City should treat an FA Cup final as a state occasion. You somehow expect the gold carriages to turn up on the day but if Watford can remember the example set by Graham Taylor then anything may be possible. We can only hope that the Watford Gap doesn't become a massive chasm. Manchester City would do well to remember the Wigan pier.

The Grand National - The Boat Race and the FA Cup semi final.

The Grand National - The Boat Race and the FA Cup semi final.

Surely we'll be spoilt for choice this weekend. We'll be breathing the richly sweet air of England and wondering whether the country will know of anything more stimulating, eye catching and more rousingly enjoyable than the three sporting occasions that are about to set before the sporting connoisseurs. This is the time when they'll be getting their teeth into horse racing, football and university rowing. It's enough to whet anybody's appetite.

Around a million breakfast tables this morning the good people of Britain will pick up a pin, open up the Racing Post or the national newspapers hoping that maybe this could be their day to pick the winner of the Grand National. It is one of those ritualistic, fateful and cherishable sporting days when any result is possible and the ones who have a feeling in their gut, find that a harmless gamble on our stately looking horse of choice could be both profitable and emotionally rewarding.

In bookmakers across the country, the punters and experts, the aficionados and the impartial observers will be crowding around the TV screens, betting slips perched precariously between their fingers, one eye on the race and the other nervously eyeing the possibility of substantial riches. We do this every year and it's part of the British DNA, our glorious sporting heritage, our colourful history and the way in which Britain celebrates its traditional springtime events.

Springtime in England means the Grand National, the rumbling, thundering, galloping, gallivanting, at times almost evidently terrifying horse racing spectacular, where thousands of hardened race goers will pin themselves against the Aintree railings in the way they've always done. They'll jump up and down with effusive excitement, clutching onto their hats in eager anticipation and then breathlessly flinging their trilbies into the air as if they simply didn't care.

The Grand National, now deep into its 160th year, will open up its best vantage points and the students of the steeplechase will do what the fine, upstanding citizens of Liverpool have always done because you can't beat a good, old fashioned punt on the most famous meeting of equine minds. They will nod knowingly at each other and then traipse around the paddocks and hospitality areas of that grand old racecourse. It will be rather like re-visiting an old friend because that's what happens when familiar faces and life time acquaintances meet up and catch up with each other.

So it is that the Grand National , in all its smartly dressed glory and splendour, will set out the ultimate challenge to man,woman and horse. It is four miles of some of the most testing and demanding fences in British horse racing. It is that gripping cavalry charge, a gruelling and breathtaking occasion where stamina and endurance find themselves up against the most dangerous obstacles of them all. It is the most unenviably daunting of all horse races, where the height of Beecher's Brook and the Chair have long been feared and dreaded for as long as any of us can remember.

Today's favourite at Aintree is Tiger Roll, heavily fancied to win back to back Grand Nationals. And we all know who the last horse to do that was. It is never easy to back the winner in the National if only because this is the one race of the year where the most improbable odds on the unlikeliest of horses can leave you unexpectedly healthier in the wallet than you ever thought you would be.

But one horse though captured the hearts and minds of every neutral onlooker. Back in the early 1970s Red Rum, with an almost effortless nonchalance, won two successive Grand Nationals without so much as a desperate pant or gasp for breath. You see Red Rum was the most beautifully groomed and admirably trained horse ever to step onto Aintree's vast acres. Red Rum had class, a perfect temperament and instinctively knew when to hit the front and just sprint to the winning line. We adored Red Rum because he made everything look so easy, a horse with genuine animal magnetism, an infectious personality and the most gentle temperament you could wish to see.

In 1973 both Red Rum and a horse called Crisp were neck and neck, streaking away from the rest of the field and approaching the final fences of the Grand National as if their lives depended on it. Then Crisp made that daring breakaway towards the winning line. We were convinced that Crisp would eventually stretch away in  convincing style and win by a country mile. Coming up to that make or break last fence though, Crisp looked as though it had wrapped up the Grand National. He was so far ahead of Red Rum that we'd have probably required the services of a search party to find Red Rum.

Then Crisp, in a heart rending display of exhaustion, literally ran out of steam, almost limping and staggering, slowing and tiring, seemingly unable to find anything in the tank. What we witnessed next was sporting drama at its most moving. Poor Crisp almost ground to a halt while Red Rum heroically thrust out its neck, nose flaring and ears seriously primed for the most popular Grand National victory for many years to come. It was sport at its most raw, intense and thrillingly unforgettable.

Meanwhile at Wembley, both Manchester City, Brighton, Wolves and Watford will be battling gallantly for a place in this year's FA Cup Final. For those of us who still retain a soft spot for the underdog an FA Cup Final between Watford and Brighton has resounding echoes of the FA Cup Final between Portsmouth and Cardiff City when Portsmouth recalled the Pompey chimes of the Second World War.

Sadly and realistically the chances are that this will not be the case. If all goes according to pre match plan Manchester City, now an almost supernatural force, will return to Wembley for an FA Cup Final six years after relegated Wigan had shocked the life out of them with a last gasp Ben Watson winning goal. This may well come to be regarded as a pivotal turning point for City for since then City have swept aside all comers with some of the most delightfully intuitive football ever seen in modern day football.

Brighton,for their part will have bitter memories of the FA Cup Final. When Gordon Smith, in front of goal, fluffed his lines and missed an open goal for Brighton against Ron Atkinson's high flying Manchester United in the 1983 FA Cup Final, they may have resigned themselves to the fact that never would they get remotely as close to lifting an FA Cup. And yet they have. The irony is that the other half of Manchester is lying in wait for them so maybe the Seagulls will have to wait a while  longer.

And then finally there's the Boat Race. Now here is what England used to do at Saturday tea time just before the football classified results and the pools coupon check. Once again the intellectual powerhouses of Cambridge and Oxford will line up by the side of the River Thames trying hard to  outwit and use every psychological trick in the book. When two of our most decorated universities go head to head on the rowing waters of London, you can be sure that there will be no love lost.

This year that former Olympic shining light and all time great James Cracknell will be climbing into a boat again, bones possibly aching but still willing. His predecessor Sir Steven Redgrave once declared that if you ever saw him taking part in another Olympic last hurrah four years later, you would have his permission to tell him exactly what you thought of him. Cracknell has stepped out of retirement though and back into the Boat Race as the oldest ever oarsman. It is hard to believe though that this is the last time you'll see Cracknell in a rowing race.

Tomorrow the respective boats of Oxford and Cambridge will lock oars by Putney and Hammersmith, the flag will go up, ancient grudges and rivalries renewed and off they'll go. They'll heave and ho, push and pull, thrashing and splashing the churning waters with all their heart and soul. Their faces will be twisted with pain, etched with suffering, cheeks red with the sheer effort of it all. Two boats will go ploughing through the Thames, often level pegging but then either Oxford and Cambridge will stretch every sinew, every muscle snapping and cracking privately before one of the crews makes one grandstanding spurt for the winning line. Oh for this sporting springtime in England.   

Ollie and His Friends - my first children's book.

Ollie and His Friends - my first children's book.

Gather around everybody. To all mums, dads, uncles, aunties, cousins and grandparents, this is the best investment you'll make for your children and grandchildren. You've read David Walliams, JK Rowling, Enid Blyton, Julia Donaldson and thousands of books for children and about children.

You've joyfully flicked through those memorable childhood adventures, books about heroes, kings, queens, fairies, garden gnomes, tea pots that whistle incessantly, fantasy worlds of chocolate trees, flowers, golden tickets and all those swashbuckling knights in armour from long ago who swept fair maidens off their feet  and where everybody lived happily after ever. You've seen Jungle Book and the right up to date Dumbo, all of those superb cartoons in which Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and Pluto once so brightly illuminated our movie screens and Walt Disney was the creator of childhood magic.

Now ladies and gentlemen it's time to introduce you to my first children's book called Ollie and His Friends. Your children and grandchildren will love Ollie the Oboe and his musical instrument friends will be their friends for life. There's Harry the Harp, Vince the Violin, Glenda the Guitar, Penny the Piano, Beau the Banjo and so much more.

 Ollie and His Friends is now available to buy at Amazon, Lulu.com. and Barnes and Noble online. It's designed for children who love to giggle, chuckle, laugh and guffaw, pointing delightedly at the kind of childhood characters who may have lit up their parents life. They'll be rolling around on the carpet with gushing laughter, happiness and ecstasy. They'll be pleading with you to read Ollie and His Friends over and over again because that's the kind of Oboe Ollie is. He's lovable and adorable, warm hearted, big hearted, kind and generous and never lets anybody down.

Now there may be a part of you who's heard of all this before. You've probably told the same kind of story to your children loads and loads of times. You know the one I'm talking about. It's the one where all the main characters go off on a great big, tremendous adventure where the sun always shines and everybody has fun. It's a simple format and it's old as time itself. Everybody smiles, whoops triumphantly, jumps into the air, somersaults athletically and- wait for it- eats jam sandwiches.

Ollie and His Friends is no ordinary children's story. It's an extraordinary story about musical instruments who just love life, sharing jokes, being inoffensively silly and generally enjoying life. Your children's eyes will sparkle, their belief suspended and their imaginations will go on a magical fairground ride.

So there you have it folks. This is my first children's book Ollie and His Friends and if you like your children's books that are funny, easy to read and easily identifiable then you've definitely come to the right place.  So calling all parents, grandparents and the whole family. In fact this is for all children's story tellers who can't wait to tell their children about Ollie the Oboe and his friends. They're in for the biggest surprise because Ollie is one amazing musical instrument.

April Fools Day.

April Fools Day.

Come on admit it, you've been fooled, hoodwinked, caught out, misinformed, made to look foolish or maybe just glad to be a victim of the funniest day of the year. For as long as any of us can remember April Fools Day is the one day where the element of surprise and shock no longer seems to be quite the day it should be. Most, if not all of us, do check the calendar in the full knowledge that somebody has got a trick up their sleeves and is determined to leave us giggling on the floor.

It can only be assumed that April Fools Day was the one day when, long ago, the medieval court jesters would get up to all kinds of tomfoolery while Henry the Eighth and his motley mob greedily devoured giant sized portions of chicken, beef, lamb and whatever else was on the menu during the Middle Ages. But dear old Henry must have had a wicked sense of humour given his wild and debauched lifestyle. Still, it's probably safe to say that the old King must have shared just a few belly laughs with his delighted guests. Besides, there was no Master Chef in ye olden days and TV would have represented an irritating distraction to Henry.

In more recent years TV of course has done its utmost to give us more than its fair share of  light hearted entertainment. TV remains one of those last bastions of silliness and frivolity where the people who make us laugh when we weren't expecting it are often the ones who can hardly believe the incredible impact they've had on our lives for that day alone.

It doesn't seem like it now but over 50 years ago one BBC programme deliberately took full advantage of their viewers April Fools susceptibilities. Panorama, that ever so serious current affairs programme with a flair for brilliantly probing investigations, dared to tread where no other TV programme had even thought of going. Sensing that April Fools Day was about to arrive it sent out its cameras to some remote Italian farming area. Nothing wrong with that or so it seemed at the time.

But the BBC viewers that night, knowing full well that something wasn't quite right, were rightly alarmed by the programme they were about to see. Richard Dimbleby, the authoritative voice of the BBC, had now convinced the British viewers that a yearly crop of spaghetti was once again ready to be picked from its trees. It remains one of the most bizarre and peculiar April Fools pranks any TV channel has ever pulled off with a straight face.

Today of course you'd be forgiven for thinking that after all that preposterously endless Brexit dithering somebody would come out and tell us that it had all been some stupid April Fools joke. The sad reality is that Brexit is far from being the April Fools it should be. Those Westminster gag professors  are sweating profusely under the collar, threatening to hurl eggs and tomatoes at the first politician who so much as utters the different textures of soft and hard Irish borders. You really couldn't make this one up.

And yet every year we subject ourselves to the same humiliations and red faces. We do like to be tickled under the ribs, laugh heartily at the absurdities of every day life then go away and hide in a corner because there can be nowhere else to go when somebody tries to leave you speechless. All of us do like to have an innocent spot of fun and there can be no harm in just a brief spell of larking around mischievously. There are though few who would have known it when Panorama was having a laugh at our expense.

So there are you comedians, comediennes and mirth makers out there. This is your day to act out those ridiculous routines where everybody quite literally ends up with egg on their faces. Mind you, you have to wonder at times whether any of our esteemed members of Parliament have had the last laugh at us. This is the one April Fools Day where those sharp suited politicians who ply their trade in the House of Commons really do believe that the people who they so allegedly serve, are both foolhardy and gullible. One day, quite possibly Brexit will quite definitely mean Brexit. Or so we hope it will.

In the meantime it's time for those court jesters to ring their bells and the office comics to produce their yearly whoopie cushions on seats in the hope that nobody will be offended. Much hilarity and amusement will ensue all over the land, as April Fools provides a welcome diversion from the earnestness and wretched tedium of to Brexit or not Brexit. What on earth would William Shakespeare have made of it all? We can only wonder.