Glastonbury and Janet Jackson

Glastonbury and Janet Jackson.

In the normal scheme of things the name of Janet Jackson would have left most of the Glastonbury aficionados scratching their heads in complete bewilderment. Besides, Glastonbury has always been a predominantly open air rock festival where a vast majority of the hundreds and thousands of fans can still remember the likes of  UB40, The Boomtown Rats, Joe Cocker and  Hawkwind leaving most of their followers in a drunken stupor but deliriously happy.

Last night in a quaint corner of Somerset the once very private piece of farmland known as Glastonbury opened its gates to one of the most famous British outdoor rockfests. Returning after a one year break for major refurbishment, it was business as usual. The old traditions had been maintained, the camp sites were spread far and wide while in the distance a vast majority of the British rock population were doing what you would normally expect them to do at Glastonbury; chilling out, drinking copiously and smoking to their hearts content.

For as far as the eye could see there was a vast expanse of everything that has somehow become synonymous with Glastonbury. There were conical shaped tents, something that looked like the Taj Mahal in miniature, huge platforms, spiritual gardens, hundreds of stages both small and large, smoking barbecues, the astonishing sight of the wandering multitudes, people of all ages simply savouring the unique atmosphere of another Glastonbury.

Wherever you looked there were flags from all over the world, girlfriends bobbing precariously on boyfriends shoulders, every conceivable T- shirt ever worn by any human being, men and women shaking themselves into the happiest frenzy, mouthing the words to their favourite band or singer in silent homage or just digging the beat as they used to say during the 1970s. Whatever may be happening in the rest of the world, Glastonbury just likes to distance itself, not get involved, become totally oblivious to and, above all, ignore.

Glastonbury is one of those great cultural events where the great, good, the eccentric and the richly appreciative gather together for that one occasion where they know for sure that they can express their individuality in such a way that nobody will mind what they do as long as they do it in moderation. They can drink to their hearts content, eat as much as they want and just relax in one massive show of communal harmony and kinship. They love their music at Glastonbury and this is the binding force that keeps them all together, their common love and passion.

Suddenly though  from the most unlikely of directions there was Janet Jackson. It was rather like placing Stevie Wonder or Earth, Wind and Fire at a heavy metal gig. But Janet Jackson, the celebrated sister of  the late and sadly missed Michael, strutted her stuff flamboyantly  It was Glastonbury's preferred choice for a Saturday night and by the end of the evening most of us were still thinking back to Michael's moonwalk, his brilliantly choreographed dance routines and those fabulous videos that remain works of art.

And yet on this Saturday the highly energetic Janet Jackson gave Glastonbury complete value for money. She looked for all the world as if she'd dropped into the wrong kind of musical environment but then realised that there was a big crowd to work and that she did superbly. Dressed all in black and moving with all the effortless grace of a natural dancer, Jackson went through her familiar party pieces. There were the sharp, jerky hip movements as hips, arms and legs were given the whole treatment. There was a distinct air of the disco queen diva about Jackson, as she robotically wiggled and gyrated across the stage, oozing stamina and flexibility all the while.

To rapturous applause from the spellbound multitudes, Janet Jackson had the Glastonbury great and good, grooving, getting on down, reminiscing perhaps on the legacy that her extraordinary brother had left behind. Jackson, sister Janet, was sexy, largely naughty, suggestive, provocative and formidably entertaining. Her backing dancers wore the ragged and torn clothes that reminded you of a Robin Hood convention. There was something of Andrew Lloyd Webber's Cats about their expressive arms and legs followed by quick fire squats, pure theatre.

Jackson then proceeded to fly through her 1980s classic repertoire. There was the excessively funky 'What Have You Done Lately', a disco dance floor favourite, full of verve and vitality. Who could have possibly forgotten 'Nasty' a teasing, spicily flirtatious record that had all the boys in a spin? Then she gave us the electrifying 'Control' classically funky and smooth as butter. 'Escapade' is somehow quintessentially Janet Jackson, irresistible and right on the button, one of the classiest soul numbers in the Jackson back catalogue.

But it was still the improbable nature of Janet Jackson appearing at Glastonbury that caught us unawares. Glastonbury still has that old rockers, hippie vibe about it that almost adds to its perennial charm. The youngsters in the crowd seemed to drift into a world of their own, jumping up and down, clapping their hands in a kind of mystical trance and lapping up the mind blowing events around them. Some could be seen almost overawed by what they were witnessing, barely comprehending that they were all in the same place, the same time and genuinely enjoying every single moment.

It was now that you began to sympathise with them when Glastonbury is all over for another year. You felt for them because once night falls and Kylie Minogue flounces off the stage tonight, mountains of lager cans, empty bottles of wine in some cases and masses of food packets are reluctantly collected and dumped gratefully into bins.

When the hundreds and thousands have loaded up their blankets, camp stoves and all the accoutrements you would normally find at Glastonbury, camper vans, vans, cars and mini buses will slowly crawl away out of one of the biggest and most loved of rock music festivals. An air of religious reverence will hang over this gigantic piece of English countryside. Next year Glastonbury celebrates its 50th birthday. The cake and candles are now being prepared and the celebrations could go on for ever.   

Toy Story 4 - oh what joy.

Toy Story 4 - oh what joy.

Oh what joy this was. It was rather like your first day at primary school. You've no idea what you're supposed to be doing nor do you know anybody. You stare around at that terrifying assembly hall, look around at those beautifully painted classrooms, run out into the playground for the first time, sprint down the corridors and then settle down for those introductory lessons in English, Maths and Science. Then the headmaster or headmistress issues a firm and stern reprimand, a shouty telling off and the express order to walk rather than run.

This is pretty much where Toy Story 4 came in. Toy Story 4 is the latest and typically hilarious creation to come out of Disney and Pixar studios. You know the story now. A young child's toys come tumbling out of the cupboard and the toys come to very vivid and charming life. The rest is rather like that huge, themed amusement park in Florida where all your dreams literally come true.

 In keeping with the previous editions of this wonderful Disney fantasy, Toy Story 4 is another slice of Disney brilliance, an ingenious masterpiece that was so sumptuous that any other descriptive term would never do it any justice. The plot and characterisation are now legendary, the toys have now stolen our hearts and it all ends up in a slushy, gooey, delightful love affair. Ah!

But there was no marshmallow sentimentality in Toy Story 4 because this Toy Story had sinister villains, giggly villains but villains that you could identify with and boo at the same time.  Half way through the film, movie stardust was liberally sprinkled all over the screen. Suddenly, an army of dastardly dummies spring out of nowhere in particular and threaten havoc wherever they go. Their intended target is Woody and his pals. Now they seem to multiply for what seems like an indefinite period of time. It puts you in the mind of some surreal horror spoof movie designed to leave you jumping out of your seat for just a minute or two but without any real malice at all.

The central location for Toy Story 4 though is a dusty old antique shop where you can almost smell the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling. Here Sheriff Woody, the always outstanding Tom Hanks, set out on one of their famous missions. Their task here is to reunite the cute little girl Bonnie with her new friend - wait for it- Forky. Yes Forky folks. Now, in the entire history of cinema there have been gallant heroes, romantic classics, delectable cartoon characters, action packed war movies and sci fi futuristic sheer escapism. Film has transported us to wild, rugged mountain scenes, cliff top fights between the baddies and tear jerking scenes that never fail to move us. And then there was Forky!

Yes folks there was Forky. You heard it correctly. Forky is the new movie superstar, a legend in our lifetime, a giant of the silver screen and barely believable. But there's nothing of the pampered prima donna about him, there are no airs and graces about Forky, no tears and tantrums, failing to turn up for certain scenes, no confrontations with the directors or producers. Forky is your real Fork, a genuine plastic fork who escaped from the Hollywood canteen just in time for the film.

Forky has a strange eye, pipe cleaners for hair and is very humble. One day Bonnie wakes up to find that her new cutlery friend has gone and this is where Woody the Sheriff, with that unmistakable stetson on his head and badge firmly pinned to his waistcoat, joins in with the hunt to save Forky from a fate worse than somebody's dinner plate.

Then Woody's most loyal ally Buzz Lightyear aka Tim Allen heroically accompanies Woody, Little Bo Beep and Mr and Mrs Potato Head on hair raising adventures to fairgrounds and intrepid, daring escapades over all of the obstacles they find in the antique shop. They plot their cunning manoeuvres to far flung places before finally rescuing Forky from a grotesque fate at the hands of the evil dummies.

And then there was Little Bo Beep, another cutesy, winsome but brave and fearless nursery fairy tale character who is both feisty and determined. Then Little Bo Beep finds her female match in Gabby Gabby, a potty mouthed and outspoken doll who speaks her mind in no uncertain terms. Now Gabby Gabby is far from being a radical feminist but she does make her opinions abundantly clear before jokingly winding herself up in another laugh out loud moment.

Now we find Woody and his toy chums at the fairground again. By the most unusual sequence of events Buzz, our friendly astronaut, is picked up accidentally by some geeky guy and then pinned to one of those targets where you normally win either a goldfish or some cuddly bunny. The sight of a toy astronaut struggling desperately to extricate himself from target practice will be hard to forget. Bunny, the voice of Jordan Peece and Ducky, the voice of Michael Key, sound like the gangsters in a James Cagney blockbuster. Superb.

And then there was the slippery Slinky Dog, the ultimate Hollywood icon Keanu Reeves as Duke Caboom, the daredevil Canadian stunt rider, former Bond man Timothy Dalton as the stupendously named Mr. Pricklepants, Jessie, the ya hee American cowgirl and a magical cast of characters who you simply can't help but warm to. This is the kind of movie magic to take you right back to your nostalgic childhood when most of us would have quite happily spent a lifetime on the swings, slides and roundabouts of our youth.

So go on treat yourself. In the current era of high tech Computer Generated Imagery, Toy Story 4 has to be on your cinema go to list because it's gentle, kind and immensely funny. There is a heartwarming and childlike innocence about the movie which almost sounds as if it should be made  compulsory for your children's school summer holiday. Infinity and beyond, or so Buzz confidently proclaims, is the destination that only Woody and the gang have got tickets for. Let's hear it for Woody.

Andy Murray is back and firing on all cylinders.

Andy Murray is back and firing on all cylinders.

It was good to see Andy Murray back on a tennis court. For a while we feared the worst. It almost felt as if the tennis landscape had lost something vitally important. There was an anguished almost heartbroken Scotsman lying on a treatment table just bursting to get out there and prove once again that you can't keep an excellent tennis player down when the odds are so heavily stacked against him.

For the best part of a year or so Murray has been gently recuperating after perhaps one of the most horrendous hip problems he's ever faced. There was even speculation at one point that Murray would have to pack it all in, retiring from the sport he'd so illuminated with those famous double whammy men singles Wimbledon titles and the Olympic title at the London Olympics in 2012. But they're made of sterner stuff in Dunblane and who said anything about imminent retirement? There's plenty of life in this Scottish human dynamo.

Yesterday Andy Murray re-introduced himself to that genteel paradise that is Queens. While the picnic hampers were being readied for action and the Pimms was ready to be drunk in huge quantities, the tennis fraternity threw out its welcoming arms to a man they'd so idolised and so easily sympathised with when the hip almost broke the man. But now the smiles were back, the adoring fans were back in harness and finally Murray was revived and revitalised.

The word is that he may not be quite fit enough for the white hot cauldron of ultra competitive tennis since a full comeback may be some way off. So for all the Murray faithful who have fretted and worried for so long about his health and continued involvement in tennis, yesterday must have come as something of a relief. |Somewhere out there in the crowd of course, had to be the two women who'd provided such blissful re-assurance and guidance when it all looked as if everything was coming to an end.

Judy Murray, Andy's mum and wife Lucy have of course provided the two time Wimbledon champion with an emotional cushion to fall on when the going became really tough. Theirs was a stabilising influence when all Murray could see was a world that looked as if it was falling apart. The Murray injuries were becoming increasingly more frequent as the years passed by and it seemed as if he'd never find a way out of the darkest of holes.

But then son Andy presumably harked back to those sun lit days at Wimbledon and thought of that triumphant fist pump which accompanied his first Wimbledon victory. Then there was the moment when the Murray knees leapt up in unison as if he could hardly believe what had just happened to him. Then the Scotsman dropped gleefully to the ground before it hit him. There was a slow realisation that for the first time in well over 70 years Britain had discovered a tennis phenomenon. He looked to the skies, stared in some bemusement at what had just happened and then smiled lingeringly.

Then Murray did it all again and Wimbledon had to wipe its disbelieving eyes in case this wasn't really happening because surely that Fred Perry victory during the 1930s could never ever be emulated nor surpassed. How wrong they were. Murray had beaten the very cream of world tennis with those unforgettable victories over Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic in the Wimbledon men's singles finals. British tennis was, and still is, in the rudest health.

Meanwhile back at Queens Andy Murray had treated his discerning audience to something new and entirely unexpected. Murray teamed up in a doubles partnership with one Feliciano Lopez and then promptly won the trophy which in a way we always knew he would. There were no hysterical fanfares and very little fuss which is probably how Murray would prefer things to be. Wearing the dark blue of Scotland and a satisfied smile, he stood next to Lopez, privately wondering whether another momentous Wimbledon victory on Centre Court may not be wishful thinking after all.

For most of us of course the two time Wimbledon champion may always be remembered whatever happens to him. There is the wound up aggression, the fiercely driven baseline player who prowls around like a leopard ready to pounce. There is the incessant shirt adjustment, the almost entrancing finger blowing, the spinning of the racket, the intense concentration, the rolling of the shoulders and then that loud thudding of the racket. We are now privileged spectators at a Murray showcase.

Before the umpire can declare the first serve, Murray gave the Queens observers an exhibition of the man in full flow. There is that thunderbolt first service which whistles past his opponent as if shot out of a cannon. Who could fail but to marvel at those fizzing, destructive returns of serve, the clumping forehand winners that seemed to fly down the tramlines like bullets, the rolled wrists that propel delicate drop shots and the miraculous back hand, cross court shots that somehow defy description?

We may not see the resurrection of Andy Murray's career this year but there's always another tournament, another month and week. If the hip and back can prevail then who knows what the future may hold for the most outstanding British men's singles title winner in the history of the game? If Judy and Lucy have anything to do with it then a full recovery may come around much sooner than we think. Come on Andy.

Our daughter's graduation ceremony.

Our daughter's graduation ceremony.

So it was that our wonderful daughter received her just desserts. Amid the pomp and ceremony of the Bournemouth Pavilion, all of that dedicated commitment, all those hours of relentless endeavour and all of those precious hours of study, swotting, contemplation, worry, panic and a good deal of sweaty trepidation had been deservedly  rewarded. Our daughter got there in the end because we knew she would.

In front of a huge audience of parents, grandparents, friends and families, the students of Bournemouth university held their heads up high and showed to the rest of the world the full extent of their vast capabilities. Here before us was a new generation of youngsters who would bring their fulsome talents, their wide breadth of knowledge and infectious personalities to the people who knew from the start that they'd succeed. Of course it was a sometimes long and punishing journey but we were fully confident that they would never ever disappoint us.

Wherever you looked there was the familiar sight of those very academic caps and gowns, a hall dripping with centuries of tradition and a very marked formality. But this was a fundamental recognition of our girl, a daughter whose vast intellectual achievements were now being rightly acclaimed, properly acknowledged and now she was shaking hands with eminent professors.

Looking right to the very back of the auditorium you craned your neck to see a seemingly interminable procession of young students, carefully inching forward to a most theatrical stage. They were polite, well mannered naturally and bursting with elation, a happiness that could never be defined because this was their day and how determined they were to enjoy it, milking as they did so the rapturous applause which seemed to dominate the whole day quite understandably.

But we were far more concerned about our daughter, the lady we'd lovingly nurtured, warmly encouraged, nagged, coaxed, persuaded and convinced. She was told repeatedly that she could reach the pinnacle and she knew she could make the grade. And so it was that the longest queue you're ever likely to see moved forward, our delicate offspring stepping gingerly into the spotlight. The inevitable smile lit up her face, her eyes dancing with the sheer thrill of the moment before phone cameras were suitably adjusted for the best possible picture.

One after the other they came, walked the walk, long, black, flowing gowns of academia billowing behind them, the very personification of tomorrow, the epitome of everything that is so healthy and good about the future, an exciting glimpse of what the British education system can still produce. There were endless textile students, art students, design students, photography students, students of wit and massive intelligence, constantly inquiring, lively minds who were now the centre of our attention.

And here is the telling observation. Almost the whole of the graduation ceremony was a predominantly female celebration. Now for the fathers and grandfathers this was undoubtedly one of their greatest days. But as the hours ticked by inexorably,  some of us were beginning to feel rather outnumbered and in the minority. When all was said and done though this wasn't just about female solidarity. It was about revelling in the glow of the moment, taking enormous pleasure in your children's most significant achievements. And how we loved every single minute and hour.

After all the honours were performed and the trumpeters blasted their most resounding of classical themes, we retired to the outside of the complex, where we were showered with endless flutes of champagne and initially elusive cake. The band played on melodiously and for those now wandering around the pleasure gardens of Bournemouth it almost seemed too good to be true. Outside on a high and very imposing terrace, parents, grandfathers, and grandmothers laughed and smiled, joked and giggled in much the way that our children once had.

Because we do think back to those far off days of the past when our children abandoned themselves to hours of play in shrill, excited playgrounds, jumping around uninhibitedly on Pontins ball ponds, swinging about ecstatically on ropes, climbing intrepidly onto soft, colourful, yet padded playthings, before plunging quite magnificently over each other and screaming with joy for the umpteenth time.

We still remember how they slid onto those Pontins evening entertainment disco floors, showing off their latest dance techniques. Then we recalled how they once all sat down in very disciplined rows as if knowing that if they did that, one of the blue coated entertainers would invariably ask them to join them on stage for a magic trick or to sing one of those appropriately childlike songs.

For now we looked at our daughter by Bournemouth beach and thought how very lucky we were. The waves were lapping at their most leisurely pace, the sea providing a vaguely nautical backdrop to the day. Phone cameras were now being continuously flashed for fun, toasts were raised, back slapping exchanged at a fairly rapid rate and yet more yahoo congratulations filling the salty air. It's only when you become a parent that you realise that the sweet scented bouquet of life has to be taken in and that the children you bring into the world are both beautiful, cherishable, our flesh and blood and the very best.

Eoin Morgan, England's World Cup cricket six specialist.

 Eoin Morgan, England's World Cup cricket six specialist.

It was cricket at its most spectacular. It was cricket at its most mind blowing and it was cricket at its record breaking best. Old Trafford has rarely seen cricket like this since the likes of Harry Pilling, the inimitable Clive Lloyd, the always reliable Jack Bond, the permanently amusing David Lloyd and the immensely assured Farokh Engineer held court for Lancashire in years gone by.

Yesterday though the English cricket World Cup team held their breath as a gentleman from Ireland, blew away Afghanistan with perhaps the most destructive spell of batting ever seen at Old Trafford. It is easy to put England's rampaging 150 run win over Afghanistan into sober perspective because quite frankly the Lancashire under 18s would have taken England's helpless opponents apart and left them well and truly seeing stars.

But the Old Trafford faithful may have privately been looking forward to a riotous rout and that's exactly what they got. What they couldn't have foreseen though was that one of England's own would take up residence at the crease, take up squatting rights and simply inflict the most bloodthirsty attack on an Afghanistan team who must have wondered why they'd taken up the sport in the first place. And then there was Eoin Morgan, a man trusted with the ultimate responsibility and how he responded to the challenge.

In the space of goodness knows how many overs Morgan piled up the runs hungrily, ambitiously, ruthlessly and ferociously before releasing so many immaculate shots that if he'd been given the licence to do so, would probably have spent the best part of  next month still there and still feasting himself greedily on a run glut. Morgan though created some kind of history at any level of the game  and yesterday the purists were still rubbing their eyes in wide eyed astonishment.

Morgan blasted - wait for it- 17 sixes to all parts of Greater Manchester and even the Arndale shopping centre must have been forewarned in case the clothing department at Primark had to be cleared. Morgan scored 17 sixes high into the cricketing stratosphere, high, wide and handsome, soaring aerodynamically into the air, over roofs, terraces, seating and perhaps into the local vestry of a church where it may well have settled for the duration of this extraordinary match.

And yet it was the manner of Morgan's subsequent century from an amazing 57 balls that quite left many of us speechless, open mouthed and just delighted that somebody in an England cricket team had so recklessly thrown caution to the wind, smashed a cricket ball to all parts of the ground, enthusiastically disregarded convention and then deliberately humiliated a team who perhaps shouldn't really have been on the same field as the host country.

So this is the point when we begin to ask questions about the participation of a country whose cricketing credentials have to be closely analysed. We have to be respectful here because whatever we say could be taken down as evidence and held against us. Of course Afghanistan were entitled to be part of this global festival of cricket if only because no country at any level of world sport should ever feel excluded. Surely though this was not a competitive cricket match. But this was a World Cup and everybody deserves a chance.

By the time though Morgan had classically hooked a whole barrage of sixes to long on and off, over  the bars and taverns, arrowing over the score-boards and just beyond the reach of any citizen living in a Salford council estate, their befuddled opponents must have been desperate for the sanctuary of the pavilion where very few would have sympathised with their plight. Afghanistan were just overwhelmed, demolished, driven into the ground, made mincemeat of and made to look very silly.

England, with the likes of charismatic Joe Root, the fiercely committed Liam Plunkett, the dependable Mark Wood, the potentially match winning Jonny Bairstow and the new kid on the block Jofra Archer ready to fire explosive missiles as part of England's bowling armoury, are now gearing themselves up for and licking their lips in anticipation of the upcoming Ashes series against Australia in July. Strap yourselves in everybody. This could be quite a sporting summer. 

Tyson Fury wins heavyweight contest against Schwartz.

Tyson Fury wins heavyweight contest against German Tom Schwarz.

In one of the great gambling casinos of the world, a man from Manchester won his own personal game of roulette against a German prizefighter by the name of Tom Schwarz. Las Vegas has had more than its fair share of celebrity and showbiz glamour over the years. This time though a certain Tyson Fury did a remarkable impersonation of Rocky's Apollo Creed and suddenly the whole ring was transformed into a sea of red, white and blue stars and stripes. It was wonderfully gaudy, outlandish and very American.

But by the end of the second round of this bruising and painfully brief world heavyweight dust up, some of us were beginning to think of this fight as the ultimate mismatch. On the one hand there was a very colourful British boxer with an alarming tendency for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time and on the other a German punch bag with all the vulnerability of a six year old child who fears that his parents had forgotten their birthday. It was, needless to say, all over in a flash. Crash, bang, wallop and Schwarz was out on the canvas, staggering, wobbling and ready for an early night nursing his bleeding eyes and face.

The truth though is that Tyson Fury had posted another announcement to the rest of the boxing world that he means business and isn't messing around. Fury has all the necessary ingredients to be one of the sport's most respected fighters of all time. He's brash, outrageous, completely lacking in any kind of diplomacy, tough as old boots, brutal, unashamedly aggressive, some would say arrogantly abrasive and merciless in his punishment of any opponent who drops either their guard or glove.

Some of us still fondly remember the great and good of British boxing from days of yesteryear. There was the lovably memorable Henry Cooper or our 'Enery who once left Cassius Clay, later to become Muhammad Ali, gasping at thin air and curled up on a Wembley canvas like the proverbial hedgehog, a man who, albeit temporarily, believed that he'd got the better of a man who would later grace some of boxing's finest arenas.

Then there was the endearingly big hearted and admittedly thick waisted Joe Bugner, a Hungarian bulldozer who would batter his opponents into submission because they quite obviously deserved it. Bugner once came up against Cooper and it wasn't pretty. But Bugner had ring craft, stage craft and never flinched away from those boxers who were supposed to present the most daunting threat. He rumbled and rolled with the punches and occasionally attracted both the comics and music hall jokers while never losing any of his dignity.

During the 1980s a lovely man by the name of Frank Bruno eventually fell from grace and then vanished in an embarrassing puff of smoke. Bruno was big and beautifully proportioned, all muscular grace and innate boxing skills. For a while he became one of Britain's housewives favourites, an adorable entertainer, supremely humorous, charming in the extreme, delightful box office, foolhardy and foolish at times but notably sensitive and gullible at others.

Bruno though was a 1980s sporting microcosm. Fame, greatness and wealth seemed to be thrust upon him very quickly before reality knocked him out remorselessly with the most wicked punch. Vital fights were won on the biggest of boxing nights but then fights were lost and that must have hurt. Soon Bruno found himself on the downward spiral and heading for the basement of anonymity.

Suddenly, the huge affection and esteem he was held in by mums, grandmothers and children began to ebb away before Bruno hit rock bottom. Soon he was visited by chronic mental health issues, depression set in with a vengeance and before you could blink Bruno was out on his own wondering sadly if it had all been worth all that worry and aggravation.

In more recent years there was Lennox Lewis whose star once shone in the ascendant before bowing out of the big time. Lewis was Canadian which would suggest that he had the physique and power of a lumberjack but here was a man who was determined to make his millions in no time  at all before just leaving out of the tradesman's entrance without so much as wink or shrug. Lewis had flair, showmanship and undoubted class but not perhaps the longevity of his predecessors.

And so amid the increasingly tasteless surroundings of a Las Vegas boxing ring, Tyson Fury detained Tom Schwarz for only two rounds. There were the warlike, red, white and blue, air raid searchlights swaying around the ring as if something infinitely more unsavoury was about to happen. Then there were the Churchillian speeches, the sinister undertone of the whole occasion and still Fury lived up to his surname.

By the first minute of the first round Fury was all show, bravado and impudence, dancing and prancing, walking and taunting, holding up one insolent and disrespectful fist in the air, challenging and beckoning his German opponent towards him rather like a man who should have settled his  differences with Schwarz in a back alley.

Firstly there were the cruel jabs, the destructive body blows to the midriff, the rabbit punches to the head, the lethal hooks that connected with the head and could almost be heard in Atlanta. Fury kept walking, then skipping quite happily. probing for Schwarz weak points, cautious and cagey for much of the fight but quite content for Schwarz to simply tire under a vicious bombardment of punches.

Occasionally Schwarz did rock Fury back on unsteady feet but this was just a token gesture. With the punters of Las Vegas now baying for blood, this was turning into private war without the guns. Fury swung his arm around with the kind of windmilling action that a certain Mick Channon from Southampton would produce as a footballing centre forward during the 1970s. Then the Manchester mean and moody boxing machine fired another damaging artillery of punches. Ultimately there were the comprehensive haymakers that would eventually send Schwarz toppling to the floor.

After a brief intervention from an understandably concerned referee in the second round, Schwarz was checked, the savage ambush had been completed and Fury had won yet another extremely important world heavyweight fight as if it had  just been another day at the office. Schwarz winced as a torrent of blood came pouring down reddened cheeks before shuffling awkwardly for a minute or two, then realising where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. Then defeat came crashing in and the realisation that it was indeed Goodnight Vienna although this was Las Vegas.

Meanwhile back in London one Anthony Joshua is waiting patiently for Tyson Fury perhaps questioning the legitimacy of Fury's achievement. Here are two very finely balanced heavyweights who simply want to inflict something horrible on each other,  just desperate to put each other out of their misery. But the future of British boxing has much to offer and has rarely been healthier if that can ever be the case in boxing. But the man with the American stars and stripes on his hat and coat wants more of the same and there can be no more intriguing sight than that of a hungry heavyweight boxer who just believes that he can't be beaten. Fury and ferocity at the same time perhaps.   

How good it is to be a parent.

How good it is to be a parent.

There are days in every parents life when it simply doesn't get any better. How enormously proud can we have felt on this of all days? It was the week before our daughter's graduation ceremony at university and here we were gathered to see a truly breathtaking exhibition of her work at Bournemouth university.

In  a deliciously rural corner of Southern England our daughter succeeded in stirring all of those wonderful emotions that can only be heightened by actually being there to see the fruition of those years and admire the results of all that hard work. Pride is something that can only be felt at the core of our being, a warm sensation that can only be found deep in our soul when clearly there can be no other feeling than joyous exhilaration, a sense that your daughter has done so much to make you feel the greatest parents in the world.

For the last three years our daughter has toiled industriously for her textiles degree and achieved a 2:1, a figure so highly symbolic and significant that even for those who attended the University of Life this sounded pretty special. But here we were gathered in the inner sanctum of Bournemouth's most notable of academic grounds with a daughter who had passed her course with flying colours and a daughter of distinction.

Yesterday at the vast Bournemouth university campus, we were treated to some of the most hugely imaginative and innovative art work in the country, textiles and fabrics of the highest quality completely dedicated to the cause of creativity, far sighted vision and the most powerful ambition. Prominently displayed were a cross section of brilliantly executed designs, finely layered textures and a whole variety of richly decorated wallpapers, beautifully adorned curtains and an admirable homage to the special worlds of photography and art.

As a parent my wife and I were just blown away by the sheer magnificence of our daughter's three year course. Parents are always worried about their children from that memorable day when their children climb up onto their feet to the moment they start walking, a natural anxiety that never really goes away even when they drive away in their first car. But to those who have been there and have proudly worn the T- shirt the sense of overwhelming achievement that they must be feeling can only be matched a million fold by yours.

Our daughter gave us the complete tour of all of her hugely exquisite wallpaper hangings. There were  images of  new Woodberry Downs blocks of flats wonderfully depicted and incorporated into the main body of her work. There were mathematical shapes of varying styles and shapes, rectangular and triangular creations that the likes of Andy Warhol would have given his wholehearted appreciation to and everything that made you glow with happiness inside.

So it was that were taken around the whole of the exhibition including one very notable room including an eye catching video of a fashion catwalk with most of the students coats and dresses included in the video. There were innumerable sketch books, hundreds of  stylish prints, bright and bold colours and sweeping brushstrokes at the desk of some of the most fertile young minds in the country. This was an exhibition to savour, one to make you so immensely grateful that you'd spent so much of your children's earliest and formative years just telling them that they were the best.

Then when you walked away from Bournemouth university, reminding yourself once again that all of that nurturing, developing, coaxing and encouraging had been so worthwhile. You thought of the days when your daughter was utterly lacking in confidence, terribly self critical and too modest for words. You remembered the floods of tears, the defeatist mode, the temptation to just give up and throw in the towel.

But then came maturity and you remain convinced that eventually your daughter would slowly convince herself that she could do it rather than meekly accept failure. This would never be an option and by the time our daughter had reached voting age she knew she could do it and no obstacle could ever be so insurmountable. We knew she could fulfill her dreams because we had unwavering confidence in her abundant gifts.

Our daughter left university for the last time and walked out into a world that will hopefully be hospitable, helpful and co-operative, a world that will reach out for her prodigious talents and reward her superlative endeavours. All parents instinctively know that their children will never ever get it wrong, that they'll never stop loving their children wherever they go and whatever they do with their lives.

Together we all went as a family with our daughter, her boyfriend and our daughter's friend for a quiet, celebratory pizza nearby. It was one of those evenings when you just can't stop pinching yourself because you've brought up the most beautiful daughter who will always be perfect. And here's the thing. Nobody could possibly ask for anything more. We're deeply proud of you.

The runners and riders for the great Tory leadership race.

The runners and riders for the great Tory leadership race.

And they're under starters orders and they're off. The great Tory leadership steeplechase is under way and there's no telling who might win this race. The seasoned thoroughbreds are not in the best of form, the geldings at the back are just struggling to find their feet and the favourites have been revealed to have taken cocaine. You simply couldn't make this one up.

When Theresa May left 10 Downing Street little did she know that just a couple of feet away from her there were a hungry bunch of power crazy, ambitious politicians just waiting for the right moment to feast on the remnants of an ex Prime Minister. Politicians can be both cruel and heartless at times but surely we couldn't have seen this one coming. No sooner was Mrs May out on her ear than a pack of devouring wolves have got hold of their prey and are now taking a sadistic delight in her departure.

But really how could they? The runners and riders, as they've now been affectionately called, are jockeying for position, knowing full well that one or several of them will fall quite heavily at a forbidding fence. Some of them, as has now been well documented, are not quite the squeaky clean, pure and puritanical cabinet ministers we might have thought them to be. In a previous chapter of their lives, a whole gallery of the great and good have now confessed to drug taking. Shock, horror!

So here we are in the early half of the enlightened 21st century and the British government have once again been exposed as charlatans, spivs, opportunists and now under chemical influences. This is not entirely unprecedented since in previous generations, both Tories and Labour parties have done their utmost to exorcise their demons, to unveil the rattling skeletons in their cupboards. And yet here we are in 2019, still saddled with deviousness, rank with corruption and up to our eyeballs with politicians who, in their defence, have now bravely confessed to their misdemeanours.

In recent days the Honourable - or perhaps that should be not so honourable - Michael Gove has admitted quite sheepishly that he did take cocaine when he was younger and much more naive. But, honestly, how on earth have we come to this? We knew that the likes of Gove, Boris Johnson, Jeremy Hunt were only interested in the outright occupation of 10 Downing Street but these seedy, lurid drug taking revelations have now dragged the whole of the government down to the lowest common denominator.

It is easy now to just express disgust and condemnation since this is the common reaction to something so sickening and repulsive. We may hold up our hands in indignation at the sheer breakdown of moral standards within society. We may wonder whatever happened to decency and good, old fashioned honesty in the highest echelons of the political elite. What happened, above all, to the truth, the assurance that before they go to bed at night, the politicians of Westminster can go to sleep with a clear conscience rather than wrestle with it?

Now though we are faced with a group of politicians who can only squirm with embarrassment at their youthful misdeeds. We can only imagine the opium dens, the free and easy availability of weed and goodness knows only what narcotic substances that must have been exchanged at wildly hedonistic 1960s parties. Then we bury our heads again at the sheer sleazy decadence of it all, the overwhelming regret they may have carried with them for all these years and the acknowledgement that they shouldn't have done it but did.

In the final closing stages of this political story of shame, Jeremy Hunt and Rory Stewart have also shown their credentials and now their true colours. Hunt looks like the kind of building society manager who can't tell you anything about the fluctuations of the interest rate or where exactly Brexit might take us. He looks presentable and well intentioned but the hidden agenda is still there and you wonder where he might be going with his long term plans for the country.

Rory Stewart is similarly easy going and articulate but once again gives the impression of somebody who just wants to get his hands on the keys to 10 Downing Street. He spins his well crafted phrases and then assures us that if he does become Prime Minister he'll do all the right things such as keeping his promises before realising that that may not be a realistic objective at all. We've all been here before with leadership candidates for the role of Prime Minister and we're all familiar with that well known procedure.

Which brings us nicely back to where Boris Johnson came in. How do we know that the careerist, fiercely egotistical Boris would somehow be up for the job of Prime Minister? All along, the blond bombshell from Uxbridge in suburban London, would be heaving and pushing his way past photographers, grinning like a Cheshire cat and vowing to wave a magic wand should he become the chosen one as Prime Minister.

From the moment Theresa May rang the bell for this most heavyweight of contests, Boris has been behaving like one of those comic book heroes who everybody loves and then showers with praise when things go right. The problem is that Johnson is no Dan Dare and those bravura exploits may not be so readily appreciated.

For the rest of us Johnson is still that scruffy, rumpled, dishevelled character who charges around on his bikes as if he were totally in control of everything around him. The blond hair still looks as if it may have to become better acquainted with a comb and the shirt needs to be tucked neatly into his trousers. Somewhere out there is a sit com TV script writer just aching to dig out their laptop. They will undoubtedly have a field day with Boris Johnson because somehow he invites hooting derision. The man is quite literally designed for a comedy club in London's bustling West End.

The chances are that at some point Boris will show his hand and explain quite what he intends to do to make sure that Britain is run properly and efficiently. Already, he has meekly admitted to his penchant for that illegal pill that everybody knew he was taking. Still though, the image of the bumbling buffoon which he may have harshly been tarred with, refuses to go away. The Latin quoting, multi lingual, Churchill biographer may think that he deserves to be favourite We know that he's a  towering intellectual and that may work in his favour when final decisions are made. But the doubts are still nagging and Boris may still think the best is yet to be seen of him.

So there you are Ladies and Gentleman. This is the leadership contest for the most unenviable job in the land. They're coming up to the final furlong and in some imaginary part of your mind you can hear the dulcet tones of Peter O' Sullevan, the BBC voice of horse racing, cheering Kempton Park's finest to the finishing post. The voice will reach a rich crescendo and the crowds will throw their hats into the air. Is it Hunt, will it be Stewart, Gove quite possibly or will Esther Mcvey try to spoil it for the old boys network? If there are any bookmakers who may be scratching their heads out there, you'd be well advised to take a holiday. This could get very nasty. 

England women beat Scotland in opening World Cup meeting.

England women beat Scotland in opening World Cup meeting.

So there you were thinking understandably that the football season was well and truly over. In a sense it has but not before the ladies tell us and besides men would never dare to argue the point. Here was conclusive evidence that far from being at an end the season is once again doing a spot of overtime. We are now here in early June and England women's footballers have showed us quite impressively that anything the men can do they can do just as well.

In England's  businesslike 2-1 victory over a brand new Scotland team, the signs were both encouraging and positive but not without the traditional jitters for the England football team. When was it ever easy for either the men or women at a football World Cup although for the men last year there was a radical departure from the norm. But there was the failure to reach a World Cup Final for the first time in 53 years which still sticks in a disappointing craw?

For the England Lionesses, as they should be rightly called, we were once again treated to another very competent demonstration of the game's finer arts. Although still in its relative infancy, the giant strides that the English girls have now made can only bode well for the future. In fact there was a technical correctness and an adherence to all of the game's forward thinking theories. For the male chauvinists who still believe that women should never be allowed anywhere near a training pitch this was the most emphatic kick in that part of the anatomy which really hurts.

In the heart of France at a time when the vineyards are producing their sweetest grapes for their wine and the boulevards of Paris are beginning to open up their cafes for cafe au lait with the best in baguettes, football is still making its grand pronouncements. Most of France is still in a state of mild ecstasy after that unforgettable footballing masterclass and 4-2 World Cup Final victory over Croatia last year. You can hardly blame them of course but for the England women this had to be the perfect chance  to claim their moment of one upmanship over their cross Channel rivals.

The current World Champions are of course the USA which almost seems barely believable given the comparative newness of the game in the country. You're almost reminded of that ill fated World Cup men's match 69 years ago when a Haitian forward named Joe Gaetjens scored the only goal of the game against an England team for whom the captain Billy Wright must have been as shocked and dumbfounded as the whole of the England team. How on earth did it come to pass that America had beaten England at English soccer? It would never be allowed to happen again but it has happened from time to time and even now an air of incredulity hovers over the result.

But now the England Lionesses were far more concerned with the brass tacks of victory in a game that had much more than fierce local rivalry with their famous Scottish foes at stake. Here there were no grandiose claims that Scotland would win the World Cup and nobody even as remotely delusional as one Ally Macleod whose haggard features will live long in the memory. Poor Ally. Somebody should have told him that Scotland were never likely to win the Jules Rimet Cup even if he thought they certainly would.

These are far more restrained times and there were never likely to be any broken Wembley crossbars or huge divots of ripped up grass as seen in England's Home International finale against the Scots in 1977. Now Scotland would appear to be far more philosophical about their current fortunes and it could never be forgotten that England boss Don Revie did once jump onto the Saudi Arabia gravy train eventually.

The England ladies though did take an enormous scrap from the male copybook with a clever and adventurous approach which often left the Scots running into cul-de-sacs. Their football had a breezy co-ordination and easy on the eye fluidity which may have taken the men by complete surprise. The passing was crisp, sharp, quick witted and almost worldly. At times you began to think that the ladies had been closely watching the likes of Jessie Lingard, Dele Alli, Harry Kane, Jordan Henderson and John Stones.

Once England had taken the lead with a penalty from the eternally spritely and nippy Nikita Parris, they were never likely to pull on the brakes because Scotland are still serving their international apprenticeship, novices and tyros with perhaps a great deal to learn about the game. Once Lucy Bronze, Millie Bright, Keira Walsh, Alex Greenwood, Jill Scott and Fran Kirby had all established a tight grip on the game with their bright and attractive passing patterns, Scotland could never really make any kind of headway back into the game.

Come the second half and the Scottish collective of  Sophie Howard, Rachel Corbie, Jennifer Beattie, Nicola Docherty, Christie Murray, Caroline Weir, goal scorer Claire Emslie, Kim Little and Erin Cuthbert bravely took the game to England. Sadly the roads were blocked, the middle of the pitch now no more than a desolate wasteland for Scotland and the match increasingly England's property if only just in the end. Scotland imposed themselves much more assertively on the game but had no way of penetrating a well equipped English defence.

Just before the end of the first half England extended their lead when Helen White picked up the ball from the neatest and most intricate of build ups just outside the Scottish penalty area. White turned, shifted the ball smartly onto her other foot and slotted the ball smoothly past the Scottish keeper.

During the second half Scotland proceeded to show the more dangerous side of their attacking character with movements that were much more threatening and constructive. And yet it was never quite good enough. Claire Emslie did finish off with a firmly struck shot that almost seemed to be passed into the net. For Scotland though the bagpipes were not skirling, there were none of those glorious flourishes of Jimmy Johnstone, Tommy Gemmell, Bobby Murdoch, Joe Jordan, Archie Gemmill or Kenny Dalglish if only because these were the Scottish ladies and the sisters were undoubtedly doing it for themselves.

But seriously this is not the place for any patronising comments because women's football is now firmly on a level playing field with their male colleagues. Still, the sight of a former Manchester United and England defender in charge of the England women's game does appear slightly amusing. You began to wonder what Phil Neville's boss Sir Alex Ferguson would have made of one of his former charges as manager of an England women's team. You could only imagine.

England once again overcome in the UEFA Nations League.

England once again overcome in the UEFA Nations League.

As if last year's World Cup wasn't heartbreaking enough England had do exactly the same thing at the semi final stage of a tournament, which while lacking the status and prestige of a World Cup or European Championship still meant the world to a Holland side still re-building and in transition after missing the World Cup in Russia last year.

It is hard to know what to make of the UEFA Nations League since this new fangled European competition has still to make it firmly into the public consciousness. Somehow this feels like some in between, interim football tournament which looks as it may have been tagged onto the end of the season rather like some poor excuse to leave Gareth Southgate's men even more desperately out on their feet.

After that wretchedly dull and disappointing Champions League final where Liverpool seemed to simply shut out Spurs following Mo Salah's hotly disputed penalty in the third minute it was time to make the briefest return to the international scene. England, for their part, were no lightweights against Holland and did offer sporadic attacking threats in this first UEFA National League semi final. At times though it must have felt like England were simply idly watching windmills without concentrating on the immediate task at hand.

Recent history might have suggested that this could have been England's turn to hit the jackpot against the Dutch. The sight of Teddy Sheringham and Alan Shearer terrorising the Dutch defence in Euro 96, still sends a glow of pleasure through the body. But eight years earlier the richly skilful and versatile Marco Van Basten who scored that sensational volley for the Dutch in the Euro 88 final, joined forces with the sumptuously stylish Ruud Gullit to clinch Holland's first major trophy.

It is now 26 years since Holland once again denied England at the final hurdle. In 1993, the late but appallingly reviled Graham Taylor could only look on in horror as England came a cropper against Ronald Koeman's beautifully struck free kick. Taylor hung his head in his hands, shocked at the injustice of the defeat before lecturing the linesman on how the said official had confirmed his sacking in the morning. It was one of football's most raw and poignant moments, one Channel Four were there to highlight quite dramatically.

Now of course Holland were back in contention for a major trophy, one they may begin to believe will never come their way again. But all good things come to those who wait and Holland, while never scaling the heights achieved when the Johans Cruyff and Neeskens were picking defences apart quite brutally during the 1970s, felt much better about themselves after scrambling around in the icy wilderness of football's hinterland.

England though did look much the livelier and hungrier for a large part of the opening stages and once Kyle Walker, still revelling after winning the domestic treble with Manchester City, the impeccable John Stones, Leicester's Harry Maguire and the wet behind the ears Ben Chilwell had erected the strongest of defensive barriers, Holland may have felt tempted to believe that this was going to be a long, hard and gruelling evening for them.

When Marcus Rashford gave England the lead with a penalty on the half hour, Gareth Southgate could have been forgiven for thinking that he was re- living the World Cup semi final against Croatia last year. Sadly, the outcome of last night's game would bear a remarkable similarity to the Croatia game. When Matthijs De Ligt had levelled up the match and Kyle Walker had scored a most unfortunate own goal for the Dutch, England began to look back to those two previous encounters between these two teams and wish longingly that they could suddenly re-capture the spirit of Euro 96.

Now England's defence began to creak and groan like some old fashioned listed building and some of the most clumsy mistakes and basic errors were sloppily perpetrated when perhaps they could have been avoided. After Jessie Lingard's goal for England had been ruled out by the wonders of VAR, Holland found their focus and direction, pinning England back with some of the most fluent attacking football of the game.

With the game now in its crucial extra time period and England visibly tiring, Holland broke out of defence with speed and promptness. In the 114th minute Quincy Promes sealed the victory for Holland, one they might have been craving for quite some time. So Holland it is who move on to reach the UEFA Nations League Final against Portugal and for some of us that has all the magnetic appeal of a wet, wintry afternoon by the seaside. Roll on Euro 2020. Maybe the UEFA Nations League was nothing but a figment of the imagination. 

Greece - a country of glittering jewels.

Greece - a country of glittering jewels.

Away in the far distance we could see a pillow of white clouds nestling peacefully on the horizon. They did, it has to be said, look extremely snug, cosy, compact and, above all comfortable, perhaps settling in for the evening or just clinging tenaciously onto one of nature's most breathtaking mountain ranges. There is a great deal to recommend Greece as one of your potential holiday locations this summer.

We used to associate Greece with extensive plate smashing in lively restaurants, bottles of boozy retsina, harmonious dancers who look as they could quite possibly spend most of the evening strumming the balalaika and then demolishing another set of finest Greek crockery. But the national stereotypes seemed to have fallen by the wayside and in recent years the humble dinner plate is something to be cherished by our friendly Grecian hosts for whom the sheer expense of shelling out good money for new plates must have rankled with them over the years.

For the past week my wife and I have sampled the delights of Greece with little more in mind than a week of quiet relaxation, no ovens, no cooking, no sloshing dishwashers and none of that thunderous, rumbling noise that our dishwasher tends to make when it gets very excited. Then there's the washing machine that sounds as if, at any moment, it will simply take off to another planet.

Our destination was Kefalonia, a glorious little island surrounded by some of Greece's multitude of surrounding, twinkling islands. It is tucked neatly into a pocket of stunning terracotta brown roofed villas and fabulous looking houses that look remarkably like Oriental pagodas but without the rest of the building.  For as far as the eye this is Kefalonia, an island of idyllic contentment, quiet seclusion and completely cut off from the madness and bedlam of  the deeply historic capital city of Athens.

But here we were on the gorgeous and bejewelled isle of Kefalonia where very little seems to happen to disturb its sleepy tranquillity and the pace of life is equally as soporific. But then we were awoken to the kind of sound that should, by all rights, be confined to the early morning rather than the whole day. Now when was the last time a very throaty cockerel decided to make itself heard during the morning, lunchtime, afternoon and evening? Maybe it was pining for something or somebody and just felt like a hearty cry at the top of its voice. It was impossible to tell.

So this is the puzzle and the most curious of mysteries. Why on earth was what seemed like a confused cockerel allowed  to announce its presence throughout the neighbourhood, cock- a doodling and bellowing out its message to the rest of Greece when, quite clearly, it should have been content with its daily, early morning stint rather than going to all that trouble of repeating itself over and over again?

 But loud and proud the cockerel, now in its element, kept up its insistent chorus with perhaps occasional pauses for breath. The farmyard near us was in full resonant voice as the resident goats piped up with their very own bleating choirs. It was the most uplifting sound you could possibly have wished to hear on this most jaw droppingly beautiful corner of Greece.

Wherever you looked though there were the brooding mountains, commanding, almost symmetrically designed by Mother Nature, classically carved, a sight of mesmerising beauty, a sight that you could probably watch for ever because you simply can't take your eyes away from them. Now scattered delicately over the island from our hotel balcony, there were more tiled houses with balconies, more barking dogs that seem to make their presence felt at regular tea time spots and small families of ginger cats sitting casually outside mini supermarkets.

Meanwhile back at our hotel we were innocently polishing off our egg based breakfast with the appropriate slices of toast and jam when suddenly we spotted something that went completely against the grain of everything we'd come to expect from Greece. At first it seemed as if we might have been imagining it but it was true and very real.

On a patch of grass in the grounds of our hotel there was a tortoise. Yes a genuine tortoise. But this was no ordinary tortoise. This was the resident tortoise, a tortoise that must have paid the rent, paid its taxes and presumably all of the household bills. Slowly but surely it crept across the grass awkwardly and reluctantly as if wary that somebody might have noticed it taking a secretive crawl in a fruitless search of lettuce and carrots.

And then there was food, the traditional Greek fare that has decorated many of the huge concentration of restaurants and bars dotting the local, winding country lanes and steep hills that would have tested the endurance of many a fell or mountain walker. Of course there is the renowned Greek moussaka, the customary taramasalata, a rich Greek dish that can be dipped in and tasted at some leisure. But, and without any warning we were served chips, hundreds and thousands of chips on every plate of food unapologetically. 

Now here was the moment when some of us thought we were part of some bizarre joke. For the next week - bar one night of blissful spaghetti bolognaise - we were given veritable mountains of chips and by the end of our holiday we were just grateful to see the back of the humble chip. There was a delectable dish of a mix grill consisting of succulent lamb, burgers and generous helpings of pita bread that almost seemed to fall off the plate in protest. Chips became not only the recurring theme of our holiday but some compulsory addition to our heaving plate of meat and chips.

Where does it say in the travel brochure or Expedia.com that every British holidaymaker should be confronted with cholesterol filled chips, chips that could barely be fitted on a plate, packed together tightly before  spilling over helplessly onto the table napkin?  Chips, although hugely appreciated back in England, were now turning into some unnecessary part of our evening meal. And yet the repetitive nature of this culinary supper treat had now become almost unbearable if strangely welcome. Still, you had to see the funny side of it all.

My wife and I completed two excellent and very invigorating tours including a day long tour of Kefalonia's capital city. This took in the fairy tale surroundings of the Drogarati caves where we taken on some impossibly perfect journey and the turquoise coloured lagoons sparkled endlessly in the mid- day sun. The Greek gentleman in charge of our boat promptly serenaded us with what sounded very much like some wonderfully romantic Greek love song.

Yesterday, on the final day of our Greek odyssey we set out for the Melissani lakes where the main attraction seemed to be the holiday rest home for turtles. Crossing a vast bridge we made a point of glancing into the crystalline waters for any sight of our friendly turtles. After what seemed like an eternity, we both spotted one solitary turtle just going about its business without a care in the world. A jolly spot of pedalling on some hugely enjoyable pedalo finished the day off with a carefree chuckle.

In these troubled times of Brexit and Britain's ambivalent relationship with her European neighbours it was still nice to see that our Greek friends, waiters, shopkeepers and the most hospitable of cafe society are still happy and willing to serve us with our coffees, lattes, cappuccinos, Greek salads and Mythos lagers with not a single murmur of complaint. Greece has once again captured our imagination and, from the country that brought us Homer, Aristotle and Apollo, you had to feel as though you were in the right time and the right place.