The day before the Ashes.
Tomorrow at Edgbaston the smouldering fires of sporting rivalry will once again be re-ignited. You can almost smell the animosity now. The flames are flickering quite vividly, the hearty crack of cricket ball against willow now no more than a day away. It will be a day of drowsy summer contemplation, of gently flicking through the middle class and respectable pages of the Daily Telegraph and The Times before settling down by the boundary rope where once the greats of Ashes past lifted their bat or swung supple arms and shoulders.
It is now 38 years since that famous England and Australia series. It was the year that players from both sides brandished their swords, glared furiously at each other as if determined to both undermine and humiliate before attempting to demolish each other with a single swipe of a bat or a vicious sling of a ball from the bowlers end. By the end of this titanic battle royal between England and the Aussies, England emerged as thoroughly deserving winners of that little urn with a smattering of Ashes as a reward for their mighty labours.
If you shut your eyes for a just a minute or two you can still see the all conquering, boastful, bragging, wild eyed and fiercely enthusiastic Ian Botham grabbing hold of the bails and stumps at Headingley before charging across those hallowed acres, face burning and bursting with patriotic pride and bubbly effervescence. England had regained the Ashes for what seemed like the first time in ages, a victory made all the sweeter by the knowledge that the Australians had so arrogantly assumed that the Ashes should have been theirs by right. It was time to settle old scores.
Under the scholarly and almost learned skipper Mike Brearley, England threw caution to the wind as the cool, calculating and impressively patient Geoff Boycott, the suavely elegant David Gower, the robustly aggressive and fearsome looking Mike Gatting, the confident and fluently stylish Peter Willey all joined forces to slay the daunting and seemingly overwhelming Australian challenge.
Dennis Lillee, still brutally sharp and fast, was still hurling missiles at the England batting while Terry Alderman had joined Lillee in a punishing fusillade of red ball deliveries that swung and seamed in perfect harmony. Australian could still stand by Allan Border, a relentless force of nature when the mood took him, smashing the ball wide of the covers or drilling and cutting the ball with all the venomous power you'd expect of an Australian batsman. Kim Hughes skippered Australia with a very precise and scientific outlook on the game while Graham Yallop and Graeme Wood held the Aussie innings with the most adhesive glue.
But it was both the England batsman and bowlers who provided the 1981 Ashes side with perhaps their most remarkable contributions. David Gower spent most of that fabled Ashes series wafting recklessly outside off stump either guiding the ball wide of gully for four or just hoping against hope that the ball would fall kindly for him. He reminded you of a duke hailing a Victorian hansom cab outside a high society party in Belgravia. But Gower was always the ultimate stylist and purist, a man who knew that the 1981 Ashes series was destined to be his for the taking.
And yet when we turn back the clock to 1981 the name of Ian Botham will resound down the ages like a Sunday village church bell. Botham was bold, brash, provocative at times, controversial, bullish and buccaneering, a player who threw the bat at everything dismissively as if he were genuinely annoyed with the Australians. Here was a man who harboured the most personal grudge against them for no particular reason. With the ever threatening Graham Dilley always constituting the greatest danger when it looked as if England were flagging, the series hung by a thread.
Then both Botham and the magnificent Bob Willis came flying out of the traps as if electrified and galvanised into turbo charged action. The Headingley Test was the vital turning point for England and once Botham had pinned back the Aussies, battering the Aussie middle order almost savagely into submission, wickets fell like bowling skittles.
For some of us though it was the heroically bravura display of Bob Willis that held the Headingley crowed in complete thrall. We will never forget the sweat soaked stringed vest, the scuttling and scurrying run up to the crease, the crisp white shirt billowing in the soft summer breeze, the curly hair bouncing up and down joyously as if Willis knew that it wouldn't impede his progress. Then there was that slanting, side on approach to the wicket the result of which was an explosion of whirling arms and hands. But it was that intense and pained expression on the Willis face that will live long in the memory.
So there you have it everybody. The 2019 Ashes series will begin tomorrow, the resumption of many decades of hostility and needle. We will briefly remember and only visualise the majesty and almost regal authority of the 'Don' Sir Donald Bradman who, in 1948, brought over his stunningly gifted and magically resourceful team to England, leaving English shores with the most enduring and indelible memories, a team of grace, style, class, panache and a team England would never ever forget.
Tomorrow morning an expectant Edgbaston crowd will oil their vocal chords with an early lager or two before young children will huddle next to the boundary ropes as if relieved that school days had were no longer an arduous chore and a confrontation between England and Australia would write another chapter in their young lives.
But we will always have 1981, that notable moment in our sporting lives when everything seemed to fall into place perfectly. We have endured many a sporting disaster, those embarrassing setbacks and defeats when the whole world seemed to be against us. But England regained the Ashes in 1981, the grass was always green, the mood was just right and the Baggy Green caps of Australia knew they were about to get the most severe shock to their system. It was in the stars because we knew it would happen. It's time for the Ashes and may the best team win as long as it's England.
Wednesday 31 July 2019
Monday 29 July 2019
Jacob Rees Mogg- please don't ban those words.
Jacob Rees Mogg - please- don't ban those words.
He may have been Prime Minister for almost a week but already Boris Johnson has hurtled slap bang into his first controversy as we always thought he might. Just as things were going so well in his maiden speech as PM, the other man with a plum in his mouth has, so to speak, stirred up a hornet's nest. But hold on, you can't say that because that's a well worn cliche and we can't have one of those in the House of Commons.
Yes folks. It's come to our attention that the esteemed member of North East Somerset and now the Leader of the House of Commons Jacob Rees Mogg has got rather hot under the collar about grammar and language. You see Mr Mogg's basic contention is that commas should be correctly situated in everyday sentences, imperial weights and measurements should be turned into a major political issue and everyday words should be banned, wiped clean from the English dictionary and never spoken of in both speech or the written word. Perhaps he'd like to ban cider from Somerset pubs into the bargain.
It should be pointed out that at this point in the proceedings that the lines of reality have now become totally blurred and instead we are now confronted with the thoughts of a man who believes horse drawn carriages, the landau and the barouche should all be immediately restored to the streets of London. Mr Mogg, amusingly referred to as the member of Parliament for the 18th century, inhabits a world that for most of us is now so far distant in time that he may just as well be living in it.
The problem is that Mogg maintains his defiant and somewhat antediluvian stance. It would have been fine had he admitted to his crazy and peculiar beliefs but sadly Mogg is still stuck in some inexplicable time warp and he won't give an inch. Mogg lives in a world of faded grandeur, a world of palatial country houses where the aristocracy and the nobility met at the grandest parties, where champagne flowed until deep into the night.
Mogg belongs to that rarefied age when ladies danced with gentlemen wearing gloves and ladies flaunted glittering jewellery. Even the voice would suggest that the man has eaten too many hot potatoes. And this is where Mogg's withering contempt for everyday words begins to fall on stony ground. On the one hand there are the idiosyncratic, Hooray Henry utterances, the fawning support of his Cabinet colleague and Prime Minister Boris Johnson followed by some good, old fashioned poshness and sycophancy. So this is the face of British politics. Or is it?
We all know that Mr Mogg would rather be living in a world of politeness, elegance and snooty propriety but does he have to make it that obvious? Does he have to inflict us on the urgent necessity of putting full stops in the right place and never to use words such as 'very', 'got', 'disappointment', or 'unacceptable' and whatever other word he believes should be forbidden. In an age when not a great deal seems to make any sense Jacob Rees Mogg has just taken us back to the days when Horatio Nelson was a wee lad in shorts.
In his dark, very severe pin striped jacket and wearing those very distinctive pre-NHS glasses Mogg's demeanour remains unchanged. There is the rigid formality, the insistence on discipline at all levels of society and that stern conviction that all children should go to bed when their parents tell them to do so.
But oh please Mr Mogg where on earth did you find the time or energy to completely sanitise the English language, to make a heartless mockery of the language of Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy and William Shakespeare? Should we now to proceed to talk and communicate in a way that only Mogg understands? Or have we now entered an era of studied uniformity where everything looks the same every day and the people in power have unchallengeable power? Or maybe Mr Mogg should set down his hard and fast rules now before the Thought Police arrive. Yes everybody it really does feel as if radical changes are just around the corner. Now leave that dictionary alone Jacob.
He may have been Prime Minister for almost a week but already Boris Johnson has hurtled slap bang into his first controversy as we always thought he might. Just as things were going so well in his maiden speech as PM, the other man with a plum in his mouth has, so to speak, stirred up a hornet's nest. But hold on, you can't say that because that's a well worn cliche and we can't have one of those in the House of Commons.
Yes folks. It's come to our attention that the esteemed member of North East Somerset and now the Leader of the House of Commons Jacob Rees Mogg has got rather hot under the collar about grammar and language. You see Mr Mogg's basic contention is that commas should be correctly situated in everyday sentences, imperial weights and measurements should be turned into a major political issue and everyday words should be banned, wiped clean from the English dictionary and never spoken of in both speech or the written word. Perhaps he'd like to ban cider from Somerset pubs into the bargain.
It should be pointed out that at this point in the proceedings that the lines of reality have now become totally blurred and instead we are now confronted with the thoughts of a man who believes horse drawn carriages, the landau and the barouche should all be immediately restored to the streets of London. Mr Mogg, amusingly referred to as the member of Parliament for the 18th century, inhabits a world that for most of us is now so far distant in time that he may just as well be living in it.
The problem is that Mogg maintains his defiant and somewhat antediluvian stance. It would have been fine had he admitted to his crazy and peculiar beliefs but sadly Mogg is still stuck in some inexplicable time warp and he won't give an inch. Mogg lives in a world of faded grandeur, a world of palatial country houses where the aristocracy and the nobility met at the grandest parties, where champagne flowed until deep into the night.
Mogg belongs to that rarefied age when ladies danced with gentlemen wearing gloves and ladies flaunted glittering jewellery. Even the voice would suggest that the man has eaten too many hot potatoes. And this is where Mogg's withering contempt for everyday words begins to fall on stony ground. On the one hand there are the idiosyncratic, Hooray Henry utterances, the fawning support of his Cabinet colleague and Prime Minister Boris Johnson followed by some good, old fashioned poshness and sycophancy. So this is the face of British politics. Or is it?
We all know that Mr Mogg would rather be living in a world of politeness, elegance and snooty propriety but does he have to make it that obvious? Does he have to inflict us on the urgent necessity of putting full stops in the right place and never to use words such as 'very', 'got', 'disappointment', or 'unacceptable' and whatever other word he believes should be forbidden. In an age when not a great deal seems to make any sense Jacob Rees Mogg has just taken us back to the days when Horatio Nelson was a wee lad in shorts.
In his dark, very severe pin striped jacket and wearing those very distinctive pre-NHS glasses Mogg's demeanour remains unchanged. There is the rigid formality, the insistence on discipline at all levels of society and that stern conviction that all children should go to bed when their parents tell them to do so.
But oh please Mr Mogg where on earth did you find the time or energy to completely sanitise the English language, to make a heartless mockery of the language of Charles Dickens, Thomas Hardy and William Shakespeare? Should we now to proceed to talk and communicate in a way that only Mogg understands? Or have we now entered an era of studied uniformity where everything looks the same every day and the people in power have unchallengeable power? Or maybe Mr Mogg should set down his hard and fast rules now before the Thought Police arrive. Yes everybody it really does feel as if radical changes are just around the corner. Now leave that dictionary alone Jacob.
Saturday 27 July 2019
Oh for the wonderful English climate.
Oh for the wonderful English climate.
If you thought last year in Britain was hot then you wouldn't be surprised to hear that this summer hasn't been that bad at all. Last Thursday the country exceeded all expectations once again with an entire day of almost 100 degrees of sweltering heat that none of us could quite believe. As July approaches its end there is a widespread feeling that, all things considered, it hasn't been a bad summer at all. It's had its moments of course but then you'd hardly expect anything else.
Way back in June it seemed as if the good, old fashioned English summer had reverted back to type or maybe that should be a stereotype. The rains came in their relentless torrents and most of us were digging out our mackintoshes, raincoats and umbrellas by the million. There were floods, inky black skies, gloomy mornings, languid afternoons and dreary evenings when it looked as though we'd have to resign ourselves to a traditional English summer of dullness and disappointment.
But then just as if by a sweet miracle the tennis at Wimbledon arrived in all its glory and splendour. Suddenly the heavens began to smile, skies noticeably clearing and the bright blue canvases of summer were here to stay. Somebody had obviously thought the time was right time to bring out those delicate oil paints and decorate our days with some of the most morale boosting light and shade. When all was said and done Wimbledon at least avoided those familiar rushes for cover as the rain fell from a weeping sky. So all was good and the coast was clear. You could now eat those strawberries and cream.
It's hard to know why the British attach so much importance to the weather's extremes and fluctuations. Maybe it's something we've grown up with and grown accustomed to since childhood? Perhaps our parents grew weary with summers that should have been warm but never were and then complained endlessly when the winters were unbearably cold. There had to be a happy medium but sadly this was never the case.
It's often said that years and years ago the summers were warmer and the winters were just frighteningly colder but then we were probably taught to believe in these rose tinted images. Still, here we are at the end of July and everything is as it should be. Outside, it's overcast and heavy with yet another band of rain, another brief spell of dramatic summer storms, weak and watery sunshine in intermittent spells and there is a splendid unpredictability about the British weather.
What cannot be denied however is that the British climate never fails to amaze us with its wildly differing moods and often humorous spells of indecision. The British weather is renowned for its infinite variations on a theme throughout its daily visit and versatility on a grand scale because no other country in the world could possibly change and disguise itself within the space of perhaps five minutes or so.
Frequently we are told that in any British road and neighbourhood that it can be raining quite persistently for the best part of a day while on the other side of your road a heatwave that will burnish the pavements and homes with the brightest coat of emulsion. And yet there is something very quirkily whimsical and lovable about the British weather that none of us would swap for the world.
At times some of us are convinced that the weather is teasing and flirting with us, challenging us, playing with our emotions, deliberately provoking us into some amusing comment. We wipe the sweat from our fevered brow in record breaking heat and then spend the next week or so complaining about it. This is followed by another session of blood vessel bursting exasperation when it pours down in Biblical abundance. Oh no, not another day of constant, demoralising rain, we cry. Not another day for the completion of jig saw puzzles with 5,000 pieces or the trusty Monopoly. How frustrating!
And yet some of us take consolation in the fact that at least Gene Kelly got soaked in Singing in the Rain while twirling his umbrella and clinging onto sodden street lights but you never saw him mope.. During the 1970s Morecambe and Wise, in quite the most unforgettable comedy sketch of all time, carried out the most wonderful impersonation of Kelly but then Eric and Ern never took life seriously at all and they certainly weren't going to let a lengthy shower or two to dampen their spirits.
So there you have it everybody. Boris Johnson is Britain's new Prime Minister, England are the new World cricket champions and the World Thumb Wrestling Championship is well under way. When it looked remarkably as if the England cricket team were about to be beaten by Ireland, the status quo was quickly restored and England still won quite conclusively. Who could ask for anything more? What a summer, what a climate!
If you thought last year in Britain was hot then you wouldn't be surprised to hear that this summer hasn't been that bad at all. Last Thursday the country exceeded all expectations once again with an entire day of almost 100 degrees of sweltering heat that none of us could quite believe. As July approaches its end there is a widespread feeling that, all things considered, it hasn't been a bad summer at all. It's had its moments of course but then you'd hardly expect anything else.
Way back in June it seemed as if the good, old fashioned English summer had reverted back to type or maybe that should be a stereotype. The rains came in their relentless torrents and most of us were digging out our mackintoshes, raincoats and umbrellas by the million. There were floods, inky black skies, gloomy mornings, languid afternoons and dreary evenings when it looked as though we'd have to resign ourselves to a traditional English summer of dullness and disappointment.
But then just as if by a sweet miracle the tennis at Wimbledon arrived in all its glory and splendour. Suddenly the heavens began to smile, skies noticeably clearing and the bright blue canvases of summer were here to stay. Somebody had obviously thought the time was right time to bring out those delicate oil paints and decorate our days with some of the most morale boosting light and shade. When all was said and done Wimbledon at least avoided those familiar rushes for cover as the rain fell from a weeping sky. So all was good and the coast was clear. You could now eat those strawberries and cream.
It's hard to know why the British attach so much importance to the weather's extremes and fluctuations. Maybe it's something we've grown up with and grown accustomed to since childhood? Perhaps our parents grew weary with summers that should have been warm but never were and then complained endlessly when the winters were unbearably cold. There had to be a happy medium but sadly this was never the case.
It's often said that years and years ago the summers were warmer and the winters were just frighteningly colder but then we were probably taught to believe in these rose tinted images. Still, here we are at the end of July and everything is as it should be. Outside, it's overcast and heavy with yet another band of rain, another brief spell of dramatic summer storms, weak and watery sunshine in intermittent spells and there is a splendid unpredictability about the British weather.
What cannot be denied however is that the British climate never fails to amaze us with its wildly differing moods and often humorous spells of indecision. The British weather is renowned for its infinite variations on a theme throughout its daily visit and versatility on a grand scale because no other country in the world could possibly change and disguise itself within the space of perhaps five minutes or so.
Frequently we are told that in any British road and neighbourhood that it can be raining quite persistently for the best part of a day while on the other side of your road a heatwave that will burnish the pavements and homes with the brightest coat of emulsion. And yet there is something very quirkily whimsical and lovable about the British weather that none of us would swap for the world.
At times some of us are convinced that the weather is teasing and flirting with us, challenging us, playing with our emotions, deliberately provoking us into some amusing comment. We wipe the sweat from our fevered brow in record breaking heat and then spend the next week or so complaining about it. This is followed by another session of blood vessel bursting exasperation when it pours down in Biblical abundance. Oh no, not another day of constant, demoralising rain, we cry. Not another day for the completion of jig saw puzzles with 5,000 pieces or the trusty Monopoly. How frustrating!
And yet some of us take consolation in the fact that at least Gene Kelly got soaked in Singing in the Rain while twirling his umbrella and clinging onto sodden street lights but you never saw him mope.. During the 1970s Morecambe and Wise, in quite the most unforgettable comedy sketch of all time, carried out the most wonderful impersonation of Kelly but then Eric and Ern never took life seriously at all and they certainly weren't going to let a lengthy shower or two to dampen their spirits.
So there you have it everybody. Boris Johnson is Britain's new Prime Minister, England are the new World cricket champions and the World Thumb Wrestling Championship is well under way. When it looked remarkably as if the England cricket team were about to be beaten by Ireland, the status quo was quickly restored and England still won quite conclusively. Who could ask for anything more? What a summer, what a climate!
No Joe Bloggs and Ollie and His Friends- my books.
No Joe Bloggs and Ollie and His Friends- my books.
Now if you're the kind of person who like their summertime reading to be easy on the eye, entertaining, funny, heartwarming, uplifting and thoroughly enjoyable then you may like to feast your eyes on two of my books. Of course this is brazen self promotion but hey there can be nothing wrong with telling the world about your literary endeavours.
My second book No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Barnes and Noble online. It's my warts and all life story, a moving, feelgood, nostalgic and lyrical account of where it all started for me growing up in Ilford, Essex, vividly affectionate descriptions of London, all singing, all dancing prose, my grandparents as Holocaust survivors, my parents, my late and wonderful dad's fictitious journey to Las Vegas with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior and the Rat Pack, his passionate love for his family and his fantasy trip to the gambling casinos of LA.
I also chronicle my favourite movies from the late 1960s and 1970s, my favourite music, bands and singers from the same period, amusing pen portraits of football teams from the 1970s such as Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester United, Spurs, Chelsea, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Everton, Leeds United and Manchester City. There are very precious childhood memories, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, famous celebrities and TV programmes from that memorable era.
And now for my next spot of trumpet blowing. At the beginning of this year, my first children's book Ollie and His Friends was published and I can't begin to tell you how good that made me feel. Ollie and His Friends now available at Lulu.com. and Amazon. It tells the story of \Ollie the Oboe, Vince the Violin, Glenda the Guitar, Penny the Piano, Donald the Drum, Ricky the Recorder, Harry the Harp and all of Ollie's musical instruments on the adventure of a lifetime. Oh, and incidentally they love eating jam sandwiches.
So there you are folks, two must have books for the beach or swimming pool this summer and compulsive reading. You won't regret it. In fact I think you'll find both books fascinating reading for entirely different reasons. If you're a child you'll love Ollie and His Friends and if you're an adult who just wants a trip down memory lane then No Joe Bloggs has to be top of your reading list for long, balmy summer evenings when the birds are still tweeting and there's just another glass of Pimms to consume at your leisure.
Happy reading everybody.
Now if you're the kind of person who like their summertime reading to be easy on the eye, entertaining, funny, heartwarming, uplifting and thoroughly enjoyable then you may like to feast your eyes on two of my books. Of course this is brazen self promotion but hey there can be nothing wrong with telling the world about your literary endeavours.
My second book No Joe Bloggs is available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Barnes and Noble online. It's my warts and all life story, a moving, feelgood, nostalgic and lyrical account of where it all started for me growing up in Ilford, Essex, vividly affectionate descriptions of London, all singing, all dancing prose, my grandparents as Holocaust survivors, my parents, my late and wonderful dad's fictitious journey to Las Vegas with Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis Junior and the Rat Pack, his passionate love for his family and his fantasy trip to the gambling casinos of LA.
I also chronicle my favourite movies from the late 1960s and 1970s, my favourite music, bands and singers from the same period, amusing pen portraits of football teams from the 1970s such as Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester United, Spurs, Chelsea, Wolves, Ipswich Town, Everton, Leeds United and Manchester City. There are very precious childhood memories, loads of pop culture from the 1960s and 70s, famous celebrities and TV programmes from that memorable era.
And now for my next spot of trumpet blowing. At the beginning of this year, my first children's book Ollie and His Friends was published and I can't begin to tell you how good that made me feel. Ollie and His Friends now available at Lulu.com. and Amazon. It tells the story of \Ollie the Oboe, Vince the Violin, Glenda the Guitar, Penny the Piano, Donald the Drum, Ricky the Recorder, Harry the Harp and all of Ollie's musical instruments on the adventure of a lifetime. Oh, and incidentally they love eating jam sandwiches.
So there you are folks, two must have books for the beach or swimming pool this summer and compulsive reading. You won't regret it. In fact I think you'll find both books fascinating reading for entirely different reasons. If you're a child you'll love Ollie and His Friends and if you're an adult who just wants a trip down memory lane then No Joe Bloggs has to be top of your reading list for long, balmy summer evenings when the birds are still tweeting and there's just another glass of Pimms to consume at your leisure.
Happy reading everybody.
Tuesday 23 July 2019
Boris Johnson - the new Prime Minister - believe it or not.
Boris Johnson- the new Prime Minister - believe it or not.
Oh what a day! Oh what a momentous day! We can hardly believe it. Who would have thought it possible? Please wake us up. It isn't happening. And yet it has. The blond bombshell, Eton educated, foppish, scruffy, unkempt one is the new Prime Minister of England, the Home Counties and every point of the compass north of Hadrian's Wall. The man we were convinced would top the bill at either the London Palladium or the Comedy Club in the heart of London is the man entrusted with the onerous responsibility of taking charge of the country. Surely we're dreaming this. But we're not.
Boris Johnson, formerly mayor of London, then Foreign Secretary for a while, will wake up tomorrow and will probably think he's just stepped into a veritable Alice in Wonderland scenario. Only this time the Mad Hatter has probably sipped his tea, run as far as he can get and just vanished without trace. Boris Johnson is indeed the new Prime Minister.
The phrase has the most surreal and strange sound to it. Still, it could have been a whole lot worse. The Guinness drinking, cigar puffing and man of the people Nigel Farage comes immediately to mind. But then it has been a long, hot day and we must stop our minds from wandering. Facts and fiction are beginning to get in our way. The fact is that the man who once made a complete fool of himself on a London zip wire suspended high above London with nothing but a pair of Union Jacks for company will walk into 10 Downing Street wondering what on earth has hit him.
There will be the dawning realisation that utter tomfoolery, ridiculous buffoonery and complete absurdity have all taken up residence in a Britain that now finds itself accountable to a man who once referred to the noble game of table tennis as wiff waff. Here is a man who recently made the bizarre statement that if Britain doesn't leave the EU, the nation may have to get used to a diet of drinking water and Mars bars. Here is a man who once threw himself forcefully into rugby tackling a a poor youngster in a brazen publicity stunt.
So this is what it's all come down to. Like a child pestering his parents for a new train set or a pampered, privileged, upper class teenager who's just been promised a Lamborghini once he passes his driving test, Boris Johnson has finally got the job he's always wanted. He's been waiting patiently for this moment ever since the day when the now former Prime Minister Theresa May finally resigned because none of those stuffy, paternalistic men in Brussels would ever listen to her.
Yes, good old Boris, member of Uxbridge, has finally landed the job he'd been craving and hankering after for ages, scheming, conniving and schmoozing for as long as any of us can remember. He's turned breathing down the neck into an art form, cunning and subterfuge into a way of political life and that little known sport known as cheap opportunism into the funniest of side shows.
Ladies and Gentlemen you hardly need telling that Boris Johnson has carefully judged the mood of the nation, brilliantly pulled the wool over the nation's eyes and then just sniggered his way into 10 Downing Street rather like one of those mischievous sixth form rebels who insist on putting whoopee cushions under the headmaster's chair or letting off stink bombs while nobody is watching.
Tomorrow the whole of Britain may well wake up in a bewildered trance, heads spinning and pretending that it hasn't dropped onto the set of a new TV sitcom or some mad, wacky soap opera where pubs are set on fire and neighbours engage in salacious gossip. Boris Johnson will be leading from the front, safeguarding Britain's future, guaranteeing us more jobs than ever before, saving the NHS heroically from both oblivion and disintegration while all the time concentrating on those key social issues such as housing, education and last but not least Brexit on Halloween.
This is it folks. Our Boris will come to our rescue and how we've needed a firefighter like Boris Johnson. You see the problem is that our departure from the European Union has become such a tedious news story that some of us are beginning to wish that another former Prime Minister David Cameron had left the country for good. It's your fault Mr Cameron and you can't deny it. Still, we suspect that somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean or wherever he is these days, Cameron may well be pouring himself a neat brandy, privately congratulating his Eton peer and friend.
Anyway the truth is - and it may be a difficult truth to stomach for some of us- that Boris Johnson, the man who loves to entertain the nation with cheesy one liners, hilarious Latin jokes and a classic line on Churchillian pearls of wisdom, will brush back that forest of blond hair, stride out towards the flashing photographers and eager cameras, straightening the blue tie, smiling that smile of smug self satisfaction and then delivering his first speech as the new Prime Minister.
These are iconic, historic and critical moments in the history of British politics. If he gets it completely wrong and messes up big time then Boris Johnson is destined to end up on the political scrap heap. On the other hand if he does get it right and we are no longer associated with those Brussels mandarins then the country may well hail him as the greatest Prime Minister of all time.
What does become clear is that Boris Johnson is of course hugely intelligent, enormously eloquent and supremely confident. He may think he has the finger on the pulse of the nation but will he in the process press down too hard? With most of the people he thought he could count on now abandoning ship, Boris may have some difficulty in changing minds and winning hearts. This may be a long, uphill climb out of the ditch the Tories may have fallen into. So seize the day Boris because this may be the most challenging journey you've ever been on. Keep calm Mr Johnson because happy days may still lie ahead. There's only one Boris Johnson.
Oh what a day! Oh what a momentous day! We can hardly believe it. Who would have thought it possible? Please wake us up. It isn't happening. And yet it has. The blond bombshell, Eton educated, foppish, scruffy, unkempt one is the new Prime Minister of England, the Home Counties and every point of the compass north of Hadrian's Wall. The man we were convinced would top the bill at either the London Palladium or the Comedy Club in the heart of London is the man entrusted with the onerous responsibility of taking charge of the country. Surely we're dreaming this. But we're not.
Boris Johnson, formerly mayor of London, then Foreign Secretary for a while, will wake up tomorrow and will probably think he's just stepped into a veritable Alice in Wonderland scenario. Only this time the Mad Hatter has probably sipped his tea, run as far as he can get and just vanished without trace. Boris Johnson is indeed the new Prime Minister.
The phrase has the most surreal and strange sound to it. Still, it could have been a whole lot worse. The Guinness drinking, cigar puffing and man of the people Nigel Farage comes immediately to mind. But then it has been a long, hot day and we must stop our minds from wandering. Facts and fiction are beginning to get in our way. The fact is that the man who once made a complete fool of himself on a London zip wire suspended high above London with nothing but a pair of Union Jacks for company will walk into 10 Downing Street wondering what on earth has hit him.
There will be the dawning realisation that utter tomfoolery, ridiculous buffoonery and complete absurdity have all taken up residence in a Britain that now finds itself accountable to a man who once referred to the noble game of table tennis as wiff waff. Here is a man who recently made the bizarre statement that if Britain doesn't leave the EU, the nation may have to get used to a diet of drinking water and Mars bars. Here is a man who once threw himself forcefully into rugby tackling a a poor youngster in a brazen publicity stunt.
So this is what it's all come down to. Like a child pestering his parents for a new train set or a pampered, privileged, upper class teenager who's just been promised a Lamborghini once he passes his driving test, Boris Johnson has finally got the job he's always wanted. He's been waiting patiently for this moment ever since the day when the now former Prime Minister Theresa May finally resigned because none of those stuffy, paternalistic men in Brussels would ever listen to her.
Yes, good old Boris, member of Uxbridge, has finally landed the job he'd been craving and hankering after for ages, scheming, conniving and schmoozing for as long as any of us can remember. He's turned breathing down the neck into an art form, cunning and subterfuge into a way of political life and that little known sport known as cheap opportunism into the funniest of side shows.
Ladies and Gentlemen you hardly need telling that Boris Johnson has carefully judged the mood of the nation, brilliantly pulled the wool over the nation's eyes and then just sniggered his way into 10 Downing Street rather like one of those mischievous sixth form rebels who insist on putting whoopee cushions under the headmaster's chair or letting off stink bombs while nobody is watching.
Tomorrow the whole of Britain may well wake up in a bewildered trance, heads spinning and pretending that it hasn't dropped onto the set of a new TV sitcom or some mad, wacky soap opera where pubs are set on fire and neighbours engage in salacious gossip. Boris Johnson will be leading from the front, safeguarding Britain's future, guaranteeing us more jobs than ever before, saving the NHS heroically from both oblivion and disintegration while all the time concentrating on those key social issues such as housing, education and last but not least Brexit on Halloween.
This is it folks. Our Boris will come to our rescue and how we've needed a firefighter like Boris Johnson. You see the problem is that our departure from the European Union has become such a tedious news story that some of us are beginning to wish that another former Prime Minister David Cameron had left the country for good. It's your fault Mr Cameron and you can't deny it. Still, we suspect that somewhere in the middle of the Caribbean or wherever he is these days, Cameron may well be pouring himself a neat brandy, privately congratulating his Eton peer and friend.
Anyway the truth is - and it may be a difficult truth to stomach for some of us- that Boris Johnson, the man who loves to entertain the nation with cheesy one liners, hilarious Latin jokes and a classic line on Churchillian pearls of wisdom, will brush back that forest of blond hair, stride out towards the flashing photographers and eager cameras, straightening the blue tie, smiling that smile of smug self satisfaction and then delivering his first speech as the new Prime Minister.
These are iconic, historic and critical moments in the history of British politics. If he gets it completely wrong and messes up big time then Boris Johnson is destined to end up on the political scrap heap. On the other hand if he does get it right and we are no longer associated with those Brussels mandarins then the country may well hail him as the greatest Prime Minister of all time.
What does become clear is that Boris Johnson is of course hugely intelligent, enormously eloquent and supremely confident. He may think he has the finger on the pulse of the nation but will he in the process press down too hard? With most of the people he thought he could count on now abandoning ship, Boris may have some difficulty in changing minds and winning hearts. This may be a long, uphill climb out of the ditch the Tories may have fallen into. So seize the day Boris because this may be the most challenging journey you've ever been on. Keep calm Mr Johnson because happy days may still lie ahead. There's only one Boris Johnson.
Saturday 20 July 2019
Golf- a good walk spoiled, surely not.
Golf- a good walk spoiled, surely not.
When somebody proposed that the venue for the 2019 golf Open would be Royal Portrush in Northern Ireland the wise commentators sighed for a minute, gazed out of their living room windows and wondered if life could get any better. For the first time since 1951, the green emerald isle of Royal Portrush has opened up its clubhouse to the wealthy elite who ply their trade on the driving ranges, fairways, bunkers and putting greens of the world.
If there is any romantic symmetry in this famous golf tournament then either Rory Mcilroy or Darren Clarke, who both hail from Northern Ireland, will walk down the 18th hole fairway, their ears pounded by the tumultuous applause of hundreds and thousands of fans cheering themselves hoarse because that's what usually happens to British golfers when they win the British Open.
It was almost 50 years ago of course that a man dressed in a black polo pullover named Tony Jacklin swung powerfully at a St Andrews ball and sent the ball soaring into the air not thinking for a minute that the said ball would go so far that by some wondrous twist of fate, it would plop into the hole for a hole in one. Since then the British exponents of this surprisingly and fiercely competitive sport have come and gone.
There was Peter Ooseterhuis, single minded, purposeful and dedicated to the cause. There was Nick Faldo, ferociously ambitious, driven at times and determined to sweep all comers aside in a flurry of birdies, superbly measured under par cards that had the whole of Britain gripped. Then we had Sandy Lyle, undoubtedly one of the most polished golfers Britain has ever unearthed. Lyle had the most beautiful of swings, an insatiable hunger for victory and the devil may care willingness to take on the very best and win.
More recently there was Colin Montgomery, the ultimate perfectionist and, by his own admission, irritable, bad tempered, petulant, grumpy and downright cantankerous. But Montgomery always knew how to play the big occasion, a man with the winning mentality, a man who could play some of the most skilful and electrifying golf ever seen. Montgomery sneered at convention, did things his way and didn't care who knew it. He played to the gallery and took the flattering plaudits in his stride.
Now of course there's Rory Mcilroy, Darren Clarke, Justin Rose, a teenage prodigy, Lee Westwood who seems to have been around for years now and many a thrusting newcomer ready and waiting in the wings to dethrone the new generation. Mcilroy is a towering genius capable of playing some of the most sublime golf you're ever likely to see, Clarke is powerful, consistent, shrewd and always up with the leader board. Rose was,- and still is- that brilliant, young whipper snapper who started winning major tournaments at a ridiculously young age.
But for those who remember the BBC's coverage of the Open with nothing but warm affection golf seems to have been unforgivably marginalised by those who have yet to invest in Sky TV and BT Sport. No longer can the nation settle down to watch and listen to the whisperingly melodious tones of Henry Longhurst and the immensely knowledgeable Peter Alliss, a former Ryder Cup player of some note.
Today the immaculately sweatered professionals stroll up and down the world's most well appointed and designed golf courses with lethal irons that send the ball formidable distances. Eventually they land on a green of billiard table quality while around them the crowds swarm in idolatrous delight. It is golf at its most ritualistic, the British at their most appreciative and discerning and a game showcased in its most natural setting.
Tomorrow evening those same crowds will stride onto the fringes of the Royal Portrush fairway, gentle or blustery summery winds tugging stubbornly at the hole flag posts. The final two contenders will take out their very striking putters that begin to look increasingly like broom sweepers. They will both look admiringly at their golfing public and hold the ball as if it were some precious ornament. The winner of the British Open will bend over to pick up the ball, display it like a gold nugget and then milk up more applause. Mark Twain may well have been one of the finest of American writers but what did he know about golf? Besides, what did Twain know about the finer points of the tournament where the lucky recipient gets a Claret Jug? Very little one suspects.
Wednesday 17 July 2019
It was 40 years ago.
It was 40 years ago.
Some of us have entirely contrasting memories of our school years. Others choose to conveniently forget that very early brush with academia. It is easy to preserve our fondest recollections of our school life because those were the ones that normally gave us the most pleasure. Those were our favourite subjects, our favourite teachers and of course the friends who meant so much to us.
Last week I met up with some of my favourite secondary school friends in the most definitive school re-union. I can't begin to tell you how good it was to see the guys I hadn't seen for exactly 40 years. There was the most emotional lump in my throat as the people I'd once known as teenagers were now married with children and one or two who although single, were still greeted with the broadest of smiles. I was just thrilled and delighted to see most of my old class mates, content in the knowledge that we still had so much to talk about, sharing all those lovely old reminiscences all over again. It was a privilege to see you all again.
There was Barry, Ajit, Simon, Gerald, Ricky, Rajesh, Rob, Keith, Perry, Garry, Atul, Greg, Andy and a whole host of the great and good. For one afternoon we rekindled those unique bonds of friendship that I thought had been lost in the mists of time. We drank jubilantly, ate our lunches with enthusiastic relish and couldn't believe that after a huge chasm of time we could still laugh, joke, smile and shake hands amicably before wandering joyfully down that nostalgic memory lane where only the good times rolled. And all of us must have worn those 1970s flared trousers and platform shoes.
I first met my good friend Barry in the place where my formative childhood years were planted. All of my wonderful friends went to a secondary school in Ilford, Essex which no longer exists and sadly closed down in my last year at school. But then we were all transferred to another school and personally the move represented much more than a traumatic upheaval. I'd always hated change but I can only tell you that I always felt as though I'd been deprived of a decent education so by the time I left the school gates at Chadwell Heath High, I felt nothing but a horrible sense of emptiness, inadequacy and utter failure, total desolation.
So let's turn the clock back to 1979, the year I beat a hasty retreat from Chadwell Heath High after a lengthy sentence and confinement at nearby Gearies secondary school. Many of us gathered at the Eagle pub in Snaresbrook, Essex came fully equipped with their very personal memories and experiences. All had wondrous stories to tell, vastly different lifestyles to relate and the kind of humour that can only be summoned when good friends get together to find common ground once again.
Frustratingly, there didn't seem to be enough hours of the day in which to find out much more about us. I apologise to any of my school friends for failing to remember exactly what they were doing now. I do know that my friend Keith, a very sprightly athlete, still looked athletic and spoke with the most delightful American accent, a New Jersey accent to be precise. Keith announced his engagement which only added to the day's theme of rejoicing and celebration.
Ajit was just a bundle of fun, full of lively banter, incessant belly laughter and full of the joys of summer. Ajit seemed to have the kind of passionate love of life that we should all have even when things look dreadfully bleak and hopeless. Simon and Gerald, in my eyes, were instantly recognisable and 40 years later, looked much the same. Perry, now a successful businessman, looked very streetwise, savvy and very easy going. Rob used to be tall and commanding policeman but was now happily retired. Greg you'll have to forgive me, although we were engaged in animated conversation, I didn't quite catch what you did for a living. I can only apologise once again to Andy but although we were sitting on the same table as each other I didn't find out what you were doing now. Sorry gentlemen.
But above all what I will always cherish was the goodwill, the genuine camaraderie, the amiable eloquence of the whole day. I have to admit here and now that I'd almost given up on getting back together with my old secondary school friends. There was a sense that I'd been trying too hard to re-discover old school mates who had so obviously moved on in their lives. But now we were all back together for one jolly good laugh, one more chance to share our feelings, our hopes and dreams for the future, the simple joy of back slapping congratulation.
As we all went our separate ways, albeit temporarily, the thought occurred to me that 40 years ago Britain was heralding the arrival of the first female Prime Minister - one Margaret Thatcher. Mrs. Thatcher would take us on a long and meandering journey along the path of initial triumphalism before veering off to chronic unemployment where the number out of work reached a staggeringly disturbing three million. Then Mrs Thatcher had the most enormous row with the trade union movement, sharply divided the whole country, quarrelled endlessly with the miners and then reluctantly left 10 Downing Street, tears furiously running down her face.
We may think of Mrs Thatcher as the only Prime Minister who brought festering discord and dissent although she may have promised nothing but full time economic prosperity. But on reflection it does seem an irony that although we either loved or loathed dear Margaret she was undoubtedly statesmanlike and I feel sure that my school friends would endorse such sentiments. They may chuckle very quietly at the possible coronation of another Tory politician with designs on greatness and immortality. For Margaret Thatcher read Boris Johnson. You really couldn't make it up.
Some of us have entirely contrasting memories of our school years. Others choose to conveniently forget that very early brush with academia. It is easy to preserve our fondest recollections of our school life because those were the ones that normally gave us the most pleasure. Those were our favourite subjects, our favourite teachers and of course the friends who meant so much to us.
Last week I met up with some of my favourite secondary school friends in the most definitive school re-union. I can't begin to tell you how good it was to see the guys I hadn't seen for exactly 40 years. There was the most emotional lump in my throat as the people I'd once known as teenagers were now married with children and one or two who although single, were still greeted with the broadest of smiles. I was just thrilled and delighted to see most of my old class mates, content in the knowledge that we still had so much to talk about, sharing all those lovely old reminiscences all over again. It was a privilege to see you all again.
There was Barry, Ajit, Simon, Gerald, Ricky, Rajesh, Rob, Keith, Perry, Garry, Atul, Greg, Andy and a whole host of the great and good. For one afternoon we rekindled those unique bonds of friendship that I thought had been lost in the mists of time. We drank jubilantly, ate our lunches with enthusiastic relish and couldn't believe that after a huge chasm of time we could still laugh, joke, smile and shake hands amicably before wandering joyfully down that nostalgic memory lane where only the good times rolled. And all of us must have worn those 1970s flared trousers and platform shoes.
I first met my good friend Barry in the place where my formative childhood years were planted. All of my wonderful friends went to a secondary school in Ilford, Essex which no longer exists and sadly closed down in my last year at school. But then we were all transferred to another school and personally the move represented much more than a traumatic upheaval. I'd always hated change but I can only tell you that I always felt as though I'd been deprived of a decent education so by the time I left the school gates at Chadwell Heath High, I felt nothing but a horrible sense of emptiness, inadequacy and utter failure, total desolation.
So let's turn the clock back to 1979, the year I beat a hasty retreat from Chadwell Heath High after a lengthy sentence and confinement at nearby Gearies secondary school. Many of us gathered at the Eagle pub in Snaresbrook, Essex came fully equipped with their very personal memories and experiences. All had wondrous stories to tell, vastly different lifestyles to relate and the kind of humour that can only be summoned when good friends get together to find common ground once again.
Frustratingly, there didn't seem to be enough hours of the day in which to find out much more about us. I apologise to any of my school friends for failing to remember exactly what they were doing now. I do know that my friend Keith, a very sprightly athlete, still looked athletic and spoke with the most delightful American accent, a New Jersey accent to be precise. Keith announced his engagement which only added to the day's theme of rejoicing and celebration.
Ajit was just a bundle of fun, full of lively banter, incessant belly laughter and full of the joys of summer. Ajit seemed to have the kind of passionate love of life that we should all have even when things look dreadfully bleak and hopeless. Simon and Gerald, in my eyes, were instantly recognisable and 40 years later, looked much the same. Perry, now a successful businessman, looked very streetwise, savvy and very easy going. Rob used to be tall and commanding policeman but was now happily retired. Greg you'll have to forgive me, although we were engaged in animated conversation, I didn't quite catch what you did for a living. I can only apologise once again to Andy but although we were sitting on the same table as each other I didn't find out what you were doing now. Sorry gentlemen.
But above all what I will always cherish was the goodwill, the genuine camaraderie, the amiable eloquence of the whole day. I have to admit here and now that I'd almost given up on getting back together with my old secondary school friends. There was a sense that I'd been trying too hard to re-discover old school mates who had so obviously moved on in their lives. But now we were all back together for one jolly good laugh, one more chance to share our feelings, our hopes and dreams for the future, the simple joy of back slapping congratulation.
As we all went our separate ways, albeit temporarily, the thought occurred to me that 40 years ago Britain was heralding the arrival of the first female Prime Minister - one Margaret Thatcher. Mrs. Thatcher would take us on a long and meandering journey along the path of initial triumphalism before veering off to chronic unemployment where the number out of work reached a staggeringly disturbing three million. Then Mrs Thatcher had the most enormous row with the trade union movement, sharply divided the whole country, quarrelled endlessly with the miners and then reluctantly left 10 Downing Street, tears furiously running down her face.
We may think of Mrs Thatcher as the only Prime Minister who brought festering discord and dissent although she may have promised nothing but full time economic prosperity. But on reflection it does seem an irony that although we either loved or loathed dear Margaret she was undoubtedly statesmanlike and I feel sure that my school friends would endorse such sentiments. They may chuckle very quietly at the possible coronation of another Tory politician with designs on greatness and immortality. For Margaret Thatcher read Boris Johnson. You really couldn't make it up.
Monday 15 July 2019
England - cricket world champions.
England - cricket world champions.
Ben Stokes wiped the sweat from his drained face, brushed off the green stains of grass on his shirt and the rest of England could hardly hold back the elation any longer. In fact some of us are still rubbing our eyes in astonishment. Surely this was never going to happen at any time of our lives. We must have been hallucinating because nobody thought an English sporting combination would ever become cricket World Champions. And yet England did and how good that must be feeling at the moment.
Yesterday evening at a sun dappled Lord's, the official home of English cricket, England finally threw off the restraints and constraints of decades of hurt. True, Sir Clive Woodward, Jonny Wilkinson and Martin Johnson were collectively responsible for English rugby's finest hour with their World Cup victory in 2003 but now English cricket, the symbolic and precious sport of an English summer, presented us with its most historic moment of all time.
True, there were no red shirts skipping and jigging around Wembley Stadium and there were none of those after match celebrations at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington. For a few brief moments it did feel briefly as if the spirit of 1966 had once again revisited English cricket. Besides, if we'd waited another couple of weeks or so the coincidence would have been too uncanny for words. But if English football's World Champions can still hear the triumphant echoes of that iconic day then surely English cricket's World Champions are more than entitled to their day of global fame.
When the players of England had finally completed their last circuit of their gentle wandering around Lord's some of us were beginning to check both our blood pressure and our pulse. This was not an occasion for the faint hearted or those who can barely tolerate great sporting occasions when nerves are frayed and fingers are being bitten to the quick. Why do our sporting heroes insist on putting us through this agony, this insufferable purgatory, the tension, the drama, the whole emotional spectrum?
Finally though our patience had been rewarded, our unwavering loyalty to the cause finally given a proper reason to get very excited, jumping for joy rather than enduring that almost hard wired frustration. It's the moment when we think we've won something only to find that we weren't quite good enough to cross the line. Sometimes you'd be forgiven for thinking that England sporting teams do this on purpose just to test our reflexes.
After seeing off Australia in the World Cup semi finals most of England must have assumed, quite rightly it has to be said, that their Antipodean neighbours New Zealand were just skittles ready to be knocked down on a bowling alley. And yet how wrong could they be. This was not only a World Cup Final, it was carnival day at Lord's, a match that initially struggled to capture anybody's imagination but then blossomed like the brightest of summer flowers into a game that will be raved about, praised, rhapsodised about, discussed, analysed from ever angle and then declared as one of the great classics of all time.
For this was sport at its most sensational, spectacular and barely understood because some of the events that were unfolding before us simply defied rational explanation. In fact towards the end of England's now breathtaking run chase for victory none of us seriously thought we'd ever see anything better than this. The black shirted, black trousered, black caps of New Zealand were straining every sinew, using limbs they must have thought they'd never use again and just driving England back to the pavilion with every ball bowled.
The evening shadows were lengthening over St Johns Wood, the English batsmen visibly wilting in the summer warmth. Ben Stokes was beginning to run out of partners, wickets were falling disturbingly and for those in the crowd this must have felt like Chinese water torture. What on earth would Middlesex giant Denis Compton have thought of this in his celestial cricketing home? We can only imagine the thought processes of former England and Middlesex skipper Mike Brearley among the many former and captivated players in the Lord's crowd.
But with one ball remaining of the new fangled super over about to be bowled by Jofra Archer, even the most neutral of fans must have privately convinced themselves that England had blown it. Archer gingerly ran towards the crease, neatly delivered the ball and New Zealand ran hell for leather. They ran one, knew they had to come back for the second to win the World Cup and then that slow motion moment when time stands still. The ball was slung back from third man like a catapult and New Zealand's last, flailing batsman threw himself forward in a vain effort to complete the second. Jos Buttler, a delightful batting hero for England, sent the bails flying and England were World Champions.
New Zealand though, electing to bat first did start their innings with a promising spring in their step only for the opening partnership of Martin Guptill and Henry Nicholls to be abruptly broken. It was now 29-1. After a breezy flurry of confident straight driving, meaty fours and sixes one of the Black Cats most pivotal and influential figures Kane Williamson was out bowled by a ball that nipped back sharply by Liam Plunkett. It was 103-2. Then Henry Nicholls was smartly bowled out playing on with an inside edge. 118-3.
Now the morale of the New Zealand attack began to crumble like a decaying wall. Batsmen began to slash rashly at the good length English ball. An air of wild recklessness began to descend over the Black Cats. Soon the likes of Tom Latham, Ross Taylor were walking back to that grandly august Lord's Long Room where the chandeliered splendour of its portrait filled walls must have been gazing down on New Zealand with a gleeful grin. After a disastrous tumble of wickets New Zealand thought they'd got away with a perfectly respectable total of 240-8.
Soon though they'd be regretting their judgments. England came bursting out of the blocks like Olympian sprinters. Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow laid the strongest foundation for a run chase that seemed attainable but firstly Roy was bowled decisively by Tom Latham followed by the dashing, cavalier Jonny Bairstow who looked set fair for a big innings only to be bowled out fairly cheaply for 36.
There ensued a rickety collapse for England as Joe Root, brave, courageous and red blooded played back awkwardly onto his pads and lost his wicket for seven. A period of settled steadiness fell over the English batting before captain Eoin Morgan bounded onto the Lords wicket. Morgan, full of natural leadership qualities didn't really assert himself and was bowled by Jimmy Neesham for nine.
Somehow though this was an occasion tailor made for Ben Stokes and when Stokes flourishes his bat you can bet your bottom dollar that he means to stay at the betting crease until the formalities are complete and the transaction sealed. Stokes swung his bat so impressively and meaningfully that you sensed that here was an Ian Botham moment for the core of this England team.
From the moment Stokes settled his bat and shouldered arms, English cricket knew that something very significant and game changing was about to happen. And indeed it was. Stokes revealed the whole panoply of his power hitting game. There were the imperious lofted drives that seemed to be destined for St Johns Wood tube station, the monumental clips and immaculate pulls through the covers and point that went hurtling towards the boundary for a whole succession of fours. We mustn't forget those impish scoops for four, models of improvisation that took everybody by surprise.
Stokes was carefree, majestic, wonderfully adventurous and totally fearless. He slashed and cut the ball through gully and mid wicket with almost heartless relish. The runs flowed from Stokes bat like a tinkling stream in the Lake District. The bat became his most loyal friend, sprinkling singles when he had to and then launching a series of powerful shots that either ended in the Lords tavern or ended up high in the terraces where nobody could find it. Eventually Stokes couldn't be budged and was not out for a match winning 89.
Then Jos Buttler compiled a gutsy and tenacious, valiant 59 but Liam Ferguson bowled him out when he also appeared immovable. The lower order English batsmen were rapidly tumbled out as Chris Woakes went for two, Liam Plunkett was clean bowled for 10, Adil Rashid crazily run out, Jofra Archer went back to the pavilion for a duck and Mark Wood suffered a similar fate right at the end.
The turning points of the game were crucially decisive. There was the Ben Stokes six that became a terrible accident for New Zealand, Dominic Boult's unfortunate dropped catch that was then adjudicated as a six. The sight of Boult, stumbling back on his feet to prevent a six, must have been utterly demoralising for New Zealand. It was the six they'd privately dreaded and New Zealand were psychologically burnt out.
So it was that England slowly built up their head of steam for those final and conclusive overs of the game. Painstakingly but with a deep gulp of relief England levelled the Black Caps well crafted 240 and the game finished all square.
We had now the super over, a mysterious brain child of somebody who obviously felt there was no other satisfactory way of deciding the game. Jofra Archer running in almost nervously or so it seemed conceded a wide then the New Zealand batsmen fought like lions to match their English opponents as if their lives quite literally depended on it.
With just a two runs to win the World Cup, the ball was thrashed wildly towards the boundary but Mark Wood, on whom lay the biggest responsibility , ran furiously for two in what would have been a dramatic victory for New Zealand. Lunging for the line he narrowly missed out and Jos Buttler sent the bails flying into the air. England are the new cricket World Champions. What a game, what a day, what uncertainty, how finely balanced until the last ball.
Cue the whole of the England team sprinting off ecstatically into different directions, chests bumping each other, arms waving, leaping up and down as if somebody had just informed them that they'd just won several National Lotteries. They smiled, laughed and joked uproariously into the night and probably deep into early this morning. The champagne kept pouring, the World Cup proudly flaunted and still Ben Stokes couldn't find the right words which was perfectly understandable. England had finally won the cricket World Cup. Now some of us could quite happily get used to that sentence.
Ben Stokes wiped the sweat from his drained face, brushed off the green stains of grass on his shirt and the rest of England could hardly hold back the elation any longer. In fact some of us are still rubbing our eyes in astonishment. Surely this was never going to happen at any time of our lives. We must have been hallucinating because nobody thought an English sporting combination would ever become cricket World Champions. And yet England did and how good that must be feeling at the moment.
Yesterday evening at a sun dappled Lord's, the official home of English cricket, England finally threw off the restraints and constraints of decades of hurt. True, Sir Clive Woodward, Jonny Wilkinson and Martin Johnson were collectively responsible for English rugby's finest hour with their World Cup victory in 2003 but now English cricket, the symbolic and precious sport of an English summer, presented us with its most historic moment of all time.
True, there were no red shirts skipping and jigging around Wembley Stadium and there were none of those after match celebrations at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington. For a few brief moments it did feel briefly as if the spirit of 1966 had once again revisited English cricket. Besides, if we'd waited another couple of weeks or so the coincidence would have been too uncanny for words. But if English football's World Champions can still hear the triumphant echoes of that iconic day then surely English cricket's World Champions are more than entitled to their day of global fame.
When the players of England had finally completed their last circuit of their gentle wandering around Lord's some of us were beginning to check both our blood pressure and our pulse. This was not an occasion for the faint hearted or those who can barely tolerate great sporting occasions when nerves are frayed and fingers are being bitten to the quick. Why do our sporting heroes insist on putting us through this agony, this insufferable purgatory, the tension, the drama, the whole emotional spectrum?
Finally though our patience had been rewarded, our unwavering loyalty to the cause finally given a proper reason to get very excited, jumping for joy rather than enduring that almost hard wired frustration. It's the moment when we think we've won something only to find that we weren't quite good enough to cross the line. Sometimes you'd be forgiven for thinking that England sporting teams do this on purpose just to test our reflexes.
After seeing off Australia in the World Cup semi finals most of England must have assumed, quite rightly it has to be said, that their Antipodean neighbours New Zealand were just skittles ready to be knocked down on a bowling alley. And yet how wrong could they be. This was not only a World Cup Final, it was carnival day at Lord's, a match that initially struggled to capture anybody's imagination but then blossomed like the brightest of summer flowers into a game that will be raved about, praised, rhapsodised about, discussed, analysed from ever angle and then declared as one of the great classics of all time.
For this was sport at its most sensational, spectacular and barely understood because some of the events that were unfolding before us simply defied rational explanation. In fact towards the end of England's now breathtaking run chase for victory none of us seriously thought we'd ever see anything better than this. The black shirted, black trousered, black caps of New Zealand were straining every sinew, using limbs they must have thought they'd never use again and just driving England back to the pavilion with every ball bowled.
The evening shadows were lengthening over St Johns Wood, the English batsmen visibly wilting in the summer warmth. Ben Stokes was beginning to run out of partners, wickets were falling disturbingly and for those in the crowd this must have felt like Chinese water torture. What on earth would Middlesex giant Denis Compton have thought of this in his celestial cricketing home? We can only imagine the thought processes of former England and Middlesex skipper Mike Brearley among the many former and captivated players in the Lord's crowd.
But with one ball remaining of the new fangled super over about to be bowled by Jofra Archer, even the most neutral of fans must have privately convinced themselves that England had blown it. Archer gingerly ran towards the crease, neatly delivered the ball and New Zealand ran hell for leather. They ran one, knew they had to come back for the second to win the World Cup and then that slow motion moment when time stands still. The ball was slung back from third man like a catapult and New Zealand's last, flailing batsman threw himself forward in a vain effort to complete the second. Jos Buttler, a delightful batting hero for England, sent the bails flying and England were World Champions.
New Zealand though, electing to bat first did start their innings with a promising spring in their step only for the opening partnership of Martin Guptill and Henry Nicholls to be abruptly broken. It was now 29-1. After a breezy flurry of confident straight driving, meaty fours and sixes one of the Black Cats most pivotal and influential figures Kane Williamson was out bowled by a ball that nipped back sharply by Liam Plunkett. It was 103-2. Then Henry Nicholls was smartly bowled out playing on with an inside edge. 118-3.
Now the morale of the New Zealand attack began to crumble like a decaying wall. Batsmen began to slash rashly at the good length English ball. An air of wild recklessness began to descend over the Black Cats. Soon the likes of Tom Latham, Ross Taylor were walking back to that grandly august Lord's Long Room where the chandeliered splendour of its portrait filled walls must have been gazing down on New Zealand with a gleeful grin. After a disastrous tumble of wickets New Zealand thought they'd got away with a perfectly respectable total of 240-8.
Soon though they'd be regretting their judgments. England came bursting out of the blocks like Olympian sprinters. Jason Roy and Jonny Bairstow laid the strongest foundation for a run chase that seemed attainable but firstly Roy was bowled decisively by Tom Latham followed by the dashing, cavalier Jonny Bairstow who looked set fair for a big innings only to be bowled out fairly cheaply for 36.
There ensued a rickety collapse for England as Joe Root, brave, courageous and red blooded played back awkwardly onto his pads and lost his wicket for seven. A period of settled steadiness fell over the English batting before captain Eoin Morgan bounded onto the Lords wicket. Morgan, full of natural leadership qualities didn't really assert himself and was bowled by Jimmy Neesham for nine.
Somehow though this was an occasion tailor made for Ben Stokes and when Stokes flourishes his bat you can bet your bottom dollar that he means to stay at the betting crease until the formalities are complete and the transaction sealed. Stokes swung his bat so impressively and meaningfully that you sensed that here was an Ian Botham moment for the core of this England team.
From the moment Stokes settled his bat and shouldered arms, English cricket knew that something very significant and game changing was about to happen. And indeed it was. Stokes revealed the whole panoply of his power hitting game. There were the imperious lofted drives that seemed to be destined for St Johns Wood tube station, the monumental clips and immaculate pulls through the covers and point that went hurtling towards the boundary for a whole succession of fours. We mustn't forget those impish scoops for four, models of improvisation that took everybody by surprise.
Stokes was carefree, majestic, wonderfully adventurous and totally fearless. He slashed and cut the ball through gully and mid wicket with almost heartless relish. The runs flowed from Stokes bat like a tinkling stream in the Lake District. The bat became his most loyal friend, sprinkling singles when he had to and then launching a series of powerful shots that either ended in the Lords tavern or ended up high in the terraces where nobody could find it. Eventually Stokes couldn't be budged and was not out for a match winning 89.
Then Jos Buttler compiled a gutsy and tenacious, valiant 59 but Liam Ferguson bowled him out when he also appeared immovable. The lower order English batsmen were rapidly tumbled out as Chris Woakes went for two, Liam Plunkett was clean bowled for 10, Adil Rashid crazily run out, Jofra Archer went back to the pavilion for a duck and Mark Wood suffered a similar fate right at the end.
The turning points of the game were crucially decisive. There was the Ben Stokes six that became a terrible accident for New Zealand, Dominic Boult's unfortunate dropped catch that was then adjudicated as a six. The sight of Boult, stumbling back on his feet to prevent a six, must have been utterly demoralising for New Zealand. It was the six they'd privately dreaded and New Zealand were psychologically burnt out.
So it was that England slowly built up their head of steam for those final and conclusive overs of the game. Painstakingly but with a deep gulp of relief England levelled the Black Caps well crafted 240 and the game finished all square.
We had now the super over, a mysterious brain child of somebody who obviously felt there was no other satisfactory way of deciding the game. Jofra Archer running in almost nervously or so it seemed conceded a wide then the New Zealand batsmen fought like lions to match their English opponents as if their lives quite literally depended on it.
With just a two runs to win the World Cup, the ball was thrashed wildly towards the boundary but Mark Wood, on whom lay the biggest responsibility , ran furiously for two in what would have been a dramatic victory for New Zealand. Lunging for the line he narrowly missed out and Jos Buttler sent the bails flying into the air. England are the new cricket World Champions. What a game, what a day, what uncertainty, how finely balanced until the last ball.
Cue the whole of the England team sprinting off ecstatically into different directions, chests bumping each other, arms waving, leaping up and down as if somebody had just informed them that they'd just won several National Lotteries. They smiled, laughed and joked uproariously into the night and probably deep into early this morning. The champagne kept pouring, the World Cup proudly flaunted and still Ben Stokes couldn't find the right words which was perfectly understandable. England had finally won the cricket World Cup. Now some of us could quite happily get used to that sentence.
Saturday 13 July 2019
Roger Federer- the tennis great who defies superlatives.
Roger Federer- the tennis great who defies superlatives.
Roger Federer did what he would normally does when he wins a tennis match. He calmly moved towards the Wimbledon net to shake the hands of Rafa Nadal and extended the hand of courteous friendship. There was none of the boastful bombast that might have come to characterise other lesser mortals, just a modest smile and nothing more than an appreciative wave to not only the crowd but his family who are clearly the most important people in his life.
Federer, now 37, seems to have been around for ever but yesterday the man from the land of cuckoo clocks and cheese, produced another one of those superlative and stupendous displays, reaching yet again a Wimbledon's men's final. Many of us could hardly believe that a man who continues to defy age and explanation, is still playing with all the exuberance and athleticism of a 17 year old about to make his debut at Wimbledon.
But this match between these two heavyweights of the tennis world took the game to such heavenly heights that at times you felt utterly privileged to be an outsider looking on. This was unbelievable tennis, tennis of the finest and richest vintage, tennis of ambrosial quality, supped from the most expensive bottle of wine, tennis at its most intoxicating, truly a feast for the eyes and senses.
In the end Federer beat Nadal 7-6(7-3) 1-6 6-3-6-4 but by the end of this eye- popping, breathless and spellbinding men's single final we can only have imagined what would have happened if the match had actually gone the distance in a five set thriller. Nothing though could have prepared us for this colossal and most intriguing game of tennis, a match that kept delivering and reminded you of those gold embossed confrontations between Borg and Connors as well as Borg and Mcenroe.
Sport loves to revel in its moments of gripping drama and suspense, its natural inclination to exaggeration and hyperbole when the simplest word or phrase would be more than enough. And yet Roger Federer, at an age when most of his contemporaries would be more than happy to hang up their rackets, is still pursuing greater goals, reaching out for even more distant horizons and then somehow conquering those heights.
Although Federer dropped a set to Nadal, by the second Federer was re-charging his batteries, limbering up gently on the baseline and compiling a whole new vocabulary for the game. Now Federer had become the master of re-invention, powering and pounding away violent forehand returns and then viciously swinging his racket with brute force. Federer punched his shots ferociously past Nadal, volleying and half volleying the ball away from the Spaniard with the most velvety, silky and smoothest of winners.
Once again though it was the tireless vitality and inexhaustible stamina of Federer that left the Wimbledon loyalists gasping for breath. Federer seemed to be taunting and tormenting his younger opponent, stretching Nadal between the tramlines like a man who loves to use an elastic band. Federer ran and chased, scampered and scurried, swiping his racket at shots he had no divine right to get.
After Federer had simply overwhelmed Nadal in the next two sets with those poetic drop shots and another expressive range of delightful chip and charges at the net, the game looked to be up for Nadal. The delicious weight of the Federer half volley and volley, the ability to pick up Nadal's shot from the ankles, almost beggared belief. There were booming, running forehand winners, impossibly angled shots that seemed to float over the top of the net and mesmeric aces that flew past Nadal rather like a hare at a greyhound track.
The Swiss genius was now unstoppable, crashing shots from the very depths of the baseline, following through with his arms with fluid and flowing strokes. Here was a Roger Federer playing with a technical refinement, liquid fluency and painterly artistry. Having now plunged to his lowest level by conceding two sets, Nadal had now been ruthlessly pinned back and finally waved the white flag of surrender in the third set, as Federer finished off his friend and rival 6-4.
So it is that for what seems the umpteenth time Federer is back in another Wimbledon men singles final. It seems at times that the Swiss has quite literally set up a permanent camp on Centre Court. When Bjorn Borg was winning Wimbledon titles for fun, it must have appeared as if nobody would ever knock him off his lofty perch. For Roger Federer the impression is that he may be around for much longer than we might have imagined.
Roger Federer did what he would normally does when he wins a tennis match. He calmly moved towards the Wimbledon net to shake the hands of Rafa Nadal and extended the hand of courteous friendship. There was none of the boastful bombast that might have come to characterise other lesser mortals, just a modest smile and nothing more than an appreciative wave to not only the crowd but his family who are clearly the most important people in his life.
Federer, now 37, seems to have been around for ever but yesterday the man from the land of cuckoo clocks and cheese, produced another one of those superlative and stupendous displays, reaching yet again a Wimbledon's men's final. Many of us could hardly believe that a man who continues to defy age and explanation, is still playing with all the exuberance and athleticism of a 17 year old about to make his debut at Wimbledon.
But this match between these two heavyweights of the tennis world took the game to such heavenly heights that at times you felt utterly privileged to be an outsider looking on. This was unbelievable tennis, tennis of the finest and richest vintage, tennis of ambrosial quality, supped from the most expensive bottle of wine, tennis at its most intoxicating, truly a feast for the eyes and senses.
In the end Federer beat Nadal 7-6(7-3) 1-6 6-3-6-4 but by the end of this eye- popping, breathless and spellbinding men's single final we can only have imagined what would have happened if the match had actually gone the distance in a five set thriller. Nothing though could have prepared us for this colossal and most intriguing game of tennis, a match that kept delivering and reminded you of those gold embossed confrontations between Borg and Connors as well as Borg and Mcenroe.
Sport loves to revel in its moments of gripping drama and suspense, its natural inclination to exaggeration and hyperbole when the simplest word or phrase would be more than enough. And yet Roger Federer, at an age when most of his contemporaries would be more than happy to hang up their rackets, is still pursuing greater goals, reaching out for even more distant horizons and then somehow conquering those heights.
Although Federer dropped a set to Nadal, by the second Federer was re-charging his batteries, limbering up gently on the baseline and compiling a whole new vocabulary for the game. Now Federer had become the master of re-invention, powering and pounding away violent forehand returns and then viciously swinging his racket with brute force. Federer punched his shots ferociously past Nadal, volleying and half volleying the ball away from the Spaniard with the most velvety, silky and smoothest of winners.
Once again though it was the tireless vitality and inexhaustible stamina of Federer that left the Wimbledon loyalists gasping for breath. Federer seemed to be taunting and tormenting his younger opponent, stretching Nadal between the tramlines like a man who loves to use an elastic band. Federer ran and chased, scampered and scurried, swiping his racket at shots he had no divine right to get.
After Federer had simply overwhelmed Nadal in the next two sets with those poetic drop shots and another expressive range of delightful chip and charges at the net, the game looked to be up for Nadal. The delicious weight of the Federer half volley and volley, the ability to pick up Nadal's shot from the ankles, almost beggared belief. There were booming, running forehand winners, impossibly angled shots that seemed to float over the top of the net and mesmeric aces that flew past Nadal rather like a hare at a greyhound track.
The Swiss genius was now unstoppable, crashing shots from the very depths of the baseline, following through with his arms with fluid and flowing strokes. Here was a Roger Federer playing with a technical refinement, liquid fluency and painterly artistry. Having now plunged to his lowest level by conceding two sets, Nadal had now been ruthlessly pinned back and finally waved the white flag of surrender in the third set, as Federer finished off his friend and rival 6-4.
So it is that for what seems the umpteenth time Federer is back in another Wimbledon men singles final. It seems at times that the Swiss has quite literally set up a permanent camp on Centre Court. When Bjorn Borg was winning Wimbledon titles for fun, it must have appeared as if nobody would ever knock him off his lofty perch. For Roger Federer the impression is that he may be around for much longer than we might have imagined.
Friday 12 July 2019
England reach the cricket World Cup Final.
England reach the cricket World Cup Final.
If only John Arlott or the jolly, cake eating radio, Test Match Special commentator Brian Johnson could see the English cricket team now. For years we must have thought that reaching a World Cup Final for the England cricket team was somehow wishful thinking. Admittedly, England did reach a World Cup Final 25 years ago but were sadly crushed by Pakistan. This time it was entirely different and how they must be gloating in the glory of the moment.
Now, how shall we put, England have done it again and this time England have only gone and beaten our famous antagonists Australia. Yes the English have stopped the Aussie juggernaut as if it were something that came naturally to England. The Aussies have been beaten and crushed into the dust, knocked out of a semi final when they may have almost presumptuously taken for granted that a World Cup Final was their rightful place, having won the World Cup on so many occasions.
But now the Eion Morgan, Joe Root, Jonny Bairstow, Ben Stokes, Chris Woakes, Jofra Archer and company have quite literally turned the tables on an Australian side who, bursting with lavish one day grandstanders, were convinced that all they had to do was just turn up at Edgbaston, plant their feet firmly on the ground and steamroller remorselessly all over the yellow baggy caps of Australia. Maybe though this could be England's year to finally stop the rot and treat semi finals with contempt.
At the beginning of August England will once again square up for that frequent dust up with Australia in yet another Ashes battle royale. You can be sure that the boisterous drinkers of Earls Court will be swigging back excessive bottles of Fosters lager because Australia certainly know how to make a noise when the Ashes come calling. It would be foolish to underestimate England's Antipodean snarling rivals but how we look forward to that unique first ball of the First Test.
And yet some of us fondly cast our minds back to that celebrated and unforgettable 1981 when the studious professor who was Mike Brearley, the handsome and outrageously uninhibited Ian Botham and the ridiculously tireless Bob Willis slanted in at Headingley and looked as though he'd just completed a hundred London Marathons. It was the year the bristlingly buccaneering Botham slogged, hooked and drove a whole procession of fours, sixes, cuts and pulls to all parts of every English Test ground in the country. It was a year we'll never forget. Maybe this time it'll happen all over again, this time against the Aussies neighbours New Zealand. Now there's an irony.
If only John Arlott or the jolly, cake eating radio, Test Match Special commentator Brian Johnson could see the English cricket team now. For years we must have thought that reaching a World Cup Final for the England cricket team was somehow wishful thinking. Admittedly, England did reach a World Cup Final 25 years ago but were sadly crushed by Pakistan. This time it was entirely different and how they must be gloating in the glory of the moment.
Now, how shall we put, England have done it again and this time England have only gone and beaten our famous antagonists Australia. Yes the English have stopped the Aussie juggernaut as if it were something that came naturally to England. The Aussies have been beaten and crushed into the dust, knocked out of a semi final when they may have almost presumptuously taken for granted that a World Cup Final was their rightful place, having won the World Cup on so many occasions.
But now the Eion Morgan, Joe Root, Jonny Bairstow, Ben Stokes, Chris Woakes, Jofra Archer and company have quite literally turned the tables on an Australian side who, bursting with lavish one day grandstanders, were convinced that all they had to do was just turn up at Edgbaston, plant their feet firmly on the ground and steamroller remorselessly all over the yellow baggy caps of Australia. Maybe though this could be England's year to finally stop the rot and treat semi finals with contempt.
At the beginning of August England will once again square up for that frequent dust up with Australia in yet another Ashes battle royale. You can be sure that the boisterous drinkers of Earls Court will be swigging back excessive bottles of Fosters lager because Australia certainly know how to make a noise when the Ashes come calling. It would be foolish to underestimate England's Antipodean snarling rivals but how we look forward to that unique first ball of the First Test.
And yet some of us fondly cast our minds back to that celebrated and unforgettable 1981 when the studious professor who was Mike Brearley, the handsome and outrageously uninhibited Ian Botham and the ridiculously tireless Bob Willis slanted in at Headingley and looked as though he'd just completed a hundred London Marathons. It was the year the bristlingly buccaneering Botham slogged, hooked and drove a whole procession of fours, sixes, cuts and pulls to all parts of every English Test ground in the country. It was a year we'll never forget. Maybe this time it'll happen all over again, this time against the Aussies neighbours New Zealand. Now there's an irony.
Thursday 11 July 2019
Yesterday- the film.
Yesterday - the film.
From a chronological point of view yesterday is the day before today but we all know that. Yesterday the song is, indisputably, one of the most famous songs ever written. It was composed by the most famous pop band and will always be instantly hummable and recognisable because for those of a certain generation it was just there, designed to be appreciated, revered and much loved. It was the kind of song that none of us will ever forget because whether we're in the shower, bath, kitchen, or any place in the world, we'll know that a masterpiece had been completed just for us.
But Yesterday the film, currently appearing at a movie screen near you, is a fabulous, moving, deeply emotional movie that taps in so perfectly into the narratives and themes of our lives, that when we wake up tomorrow morning we'll probably understand the much bigger picture of life when the sun streams through the blinds or curtains of our lives and we then set about tucking into our breakfasts.
Yesterday is mushy, soppy, funny, accurate and extremely clever. It explores the subjects that we take for granted; relationships, love, fierce ambitions, passionate desires and then a whirlpool of fraud, deception and, most tragically towards the end of the film, delusions of grandeur. It peels back all of the complex layers of a life spent in a tangled web of lies and betrayals. Yesterday is honest, revealing, insightful, intelligently constructed and full of the joys of misty eyed nostalgia.
Our story begins with Jack Mallik aka Himesh Patel, setting out on the road to fame with nothing but a weeping guitar around his neck. Now how corny is that a reference to the Beatles and George Harrison? After cruising the clubs and bars of Suffolk, Jack bumps into Ellie, played with superb gusto by Lily James. Jack and Ellie pretend they're in love but then do their utmost to repress their affection for each other when Ellie insists that she's only Jack's manager or words to that effect.
After travelling back from a local gig, Jack straps himself onto a motor bike, thundering off into the blue beyond before tragedy strikes - well, not quite but a mini disaster all the same. Jack crashes into another vehicle, spins through the air in slow motion and then lands on a severely wounded face. While in hospital, Ellie visits Jack who by now looks like something out of a horror movie. Jack is minus two front teeth and has most the swollen, black and blue mouth you're ever likely to see.
And then Jack. perhaps burdened with too much pain and discomfort, finds comfort in epic Beatles songs. He strums his trusty guitar, believing quite confidently that everybody will have heard Hey Jude and Yesterday. How foolish an assumption. Frantically tapping away at his computer, Jack looks desperately for any information that would confirm his assertion that the Beatles were the most memorable boy band of the 1960s and, quite possibly, all time.
Frustratingly this is where Jack comes unstuck. Now he finds only the beetle of the insect variety and, hilariously, John and Paul are historical popes. No matter how hard Jack tries and scrambles around for any hint or confirmation of the Beatles existence there's nothing. It's rather like a world that time forget in as much that everybody Jack meets thinks he's nuts.
Walking into his family living room the glorious Meera Syal, after much deliberation and some lively banter with her real life husband Sanjeev Bhaskar, Jack loses patience with his joking parents before finally storming out of the room and never seemingly coming back again. We are now confronted with joyous one liners, rib tickling comedy and thick dollops of humour.
Yesterday is splendidly summed up by the scene where all of Jack's faithful band crew who, on listening to Hey Jude and Yesterday can only drool at something they believe that Jack has so beautifully committed to paper. When Jack re-assures his friends that he had nothing to do with such honeyed lyricism, there is a hollow and stunned silence. Who on earth are the Beatles?
Then Jack is confronted with the American TV chat show circuit where one of Britain's most treasured comedians James Corden takes Jack to task, questioning directly the aspirational wannabe pop star on his dubious claims to have written some of the most original and evocative pop songs ever written. Corden insists that Jack is just some cheap plagiarist determined to pull the wool over everybody. The dark shadow of guilt hovers over Jack rather like some sinister light in a 1950s gangster film.
It is at this point that Deborah aka Kate Mckinnon, a straight talking, fast living American agent, becomes deeply and emotionally involved in the rise and fall of her by now very gullible client. She sweeps across America' record studios, driving hard bargains while Jack doesn't quite know who to believe or where to go.
Eventually it all seems to blow up in Jack's face. Ellie, with whom Jack is now rapidly falling in love with, begins to suspect that something isn't quite right.There are rows and bust ups, disagreements here and there before Jack makes the final decision to hit the big time. In a scene reminiscent of Brief Encounter where Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard meet for that iconic cup of tea at a railway station. Jack, mistakenly believing that he must have missed the train on which Ellie was travelling, looks back joyfully at the cafe behind him where Ellie is patiently waiting for Jack to change his mind.
Now our story takes its final twist. Jack, at the peak of his powers, has been booked to appear before his fanatical followers at Wembley Stadium. Guitar screeching, his fans at their most feverish and adoring, Jack stomps across the stage, posing and posturing all the while, confidently stating his case with his truly rock and roll interpretation of those unmistakable Beatles classics. Suddenly, in a heart sinking pang of conscience Jack can no longer live with the knowledge that he was not the man who recorded the Fab Four's remarkable song book. It was time to say sorry for pulling a fast one.
In one of the film's most moving moments Jack, shamefacedly gazing at his audience. confesses his sins. After an astonished pause and gulp of breath, the Wembley Stadium goes wild, cheering endlessly at this most painful admission. Of course it ends up happily ever after because weepies normally do.
Jack and Ellie get married, his entourage get all happy, clappy supportive and everybody ends up singing yet another version of Hey Jude, Yesterday, Get Back and one, full blast rendition of Sergeant Peppers. Something tells me that you'll love Yesterday because it just makes you feel so good about yourself. There is nothing rude or controversial about it and it's all very clean. What more could you possibly wish for in a film? Not a great deal.
From a chronological point of view yesterday is the day before today but we all know that. Yesterday the song is, indisputably, one of the most famous songs ever written. It was composed by the most famous pop band and will always be instantly hummable and recognisable because for those of a certain generation it was just there, designed to be appreciated, revered and much loved. It was the kind of song that none of us will ever forget because whether we're in the shower, bath, kitchen, or any place in the world, we'll know that a masterpiece had been completed just for us.
But Yesterday the film, currently appearing at a movie screen near you, is a fabulous, moving, deeply emotional movie that taps in so perfectly into the narratives and themes of our lives, that when we wake up tomorrow morning we'll probably understand the much bigger picture of life when the sun streams through the blinds or curtains of our lives and we then set about tucking into our breakfasts.
Yesterday is mushy, soppy, funny, accurate and extremely clever. It explores the subjects that we take for granted; relationships, love, fierce ambitions, passionate desires and then a whirlpool of fraud, deception and, most tragically towards the end of the film, delusions of grandeur. It peels back all of the complex layers of a life spent in a tangled web of lies and betrayals. Yesterday is honest, revealing, insightful, intelligently constructed and full of the joys of misty eyed nostalgia.
Our story begins with Jack Mallik aka Himesh Patel, setting out on the road to fame with nothing but a weeping guitar around his neck. Now how corny is that a reference to the Beatles and George Harrison? After cruising the clubs and bars of Suffolk, Jack bumps into Ellie, played with superb gusto by Lily James. Jack and Ellie pretend they're in love but then do their utmost to repress their affection for each other when Ellie insists that she's only Jack's manager or words to that effect.
After travelling back from a local gig, Jack straps himself onto a motor bike, thundering off into the blue beyond before tragedy strikes - well, not quite but a mini disaster all the same. Jack crashes into another vehicle, spins through the air in slow motion and then lands on a severely wounded face. While in hospital, Ellie visits Jack who by now looks like something out of a horror movie. Jack is minus two front teeth and has most the swollen, black and blue mouth you're ever likely to see.
And then Jack. perhaps burdened with too much pain and discomfort, finds comfort in epic Beatles songs. He strums his trusty guitar, believing quite confidently that everybody will have heard Hey Jude and Yesterday. How foolish an assumption. Frantically tapping away at his computer, Jack looks desperately for any information that would confirm his assertion that the Beatles were the most memorable boy band of the 1960s and, quite possibly, all time.
Frustratingly this is where Jack comes unstuck. Now he finds only the beetle of the insect variety and, hilariously, John and Paul are historical popes. No matter how hard Jack tries and scrambles around for any hint or confirmation of the Beatles existence there's nothing. It's rather like a world that time forget in as much that everybody Jack meets thinks he's nuts.
Walking into his family living room the glorious Meera Syal, after much deliberation and some lively banter with her real life husband Sanjeev Bhaskar, Jack loses patience with his joking parents before finally storming out of the room and never seemingly coming back again. We are now confronted with joyous one liners, rib tickling comedy and thick dollops of humour.
Yesterday is splendidly summed up by the scene where all of Jack's faithful band crew who, on listening to Hey Jude and Yesterday can only drool at something they believe that Jack has so beautifully committed to paper. When Jack re-assures his friends that he had nothing to do with such honeyed lyricism, there is a hollow and stunned silence. Who on earth are the Beatles?
Then Jack is confronted with the American TV chat show circuit where one of Britain's most treasured comedians James Corden takes Jack to task, questioning directly the aspirational wannabe pop star on his dubious claims to have written some of the most original and evocative pop songs ever written. Corden insists that Jack is just some cheap plagiarist determined to pull the wool over everybody. The dark shadow of guilt hovers over Jack rather like some sinister light in a 1950s gangster film.
It is at this point that Deborah aka Kate Mckinnon, a straight talking, fast living American agent, becomes deeply and emotionally involved in the rise and fall of her by now very gullible client. She sweeps across America' record studios, driving hard bargains while Jack doesn't quite know who to believe or where to go.
Eventually it all seems to blow up in Jack's face. Ellie, with whom Jack is now rapidly falling in love with, begins to suspect that something isn't quite right.There are rows and bust ups, disagreements here and there before Jack makes the final decision to hit the big time. In a scene reminiscent of Brief Encounter where Celia Johnson and Trevor Howard meet for that iconic cup of tea at a railway station. Jack, mistakenly believing that he must have missed the train on which Ellie was travelling, looks back joyfully at the cafe behind him where Ellie is patiently waiting for Jack to change his mind.
Now our story takes its final twist. Jack, at the peak of his powers, has been booked to appear before his fanatical followers at Wembley Stadium. Guitar screeching, his fans at their most feverish and adoring, Jack stomps across the stage, posing and posturing all the while, confidently stating his case with his truly rock and roll interpretation of those unmistakable Beatles classics. Suddenly, in a heart sinking pang of conscience Jack can no longer live with the knowledge that he was not the man who recorded the Fab Four's remarkable song book. It was time to say sorry for pulling a fast one.
In one of the film's most moving moments Jack, shamefacedly gazing at his audience. confesses his sins. After an astonished pause and gulp of breath, the Wembley Stadium goes wild, cheering endlessly at this most painful admission. Of course it ends up happily ever after because weepies normally do.
Jack and Ellie get married, his entourage get all happy, clappy supportive and everybody ends up singing yet another version of Hey Jude, Yesterday, Get Back and one, full blast rendition of Sergeant Peppers. Something tells me that you'll love Yesterday because it just makes you feel so good about yourself. There is nothing rude or controversial about it and it's all very clean. What more could you possibly wish for in a film? Not a great deal.
Tuesday 9 July 2019
Roger Federer- a Wimbledon great.
Roger Federer- a Wimbledon great.
He smiled engagingly, apologised sheepishly when his opponent slipped on the Wimbledon grass and then just got on with the business of just thrashing the man from Italy as if it were just another day at the office. For a while we were just flabbergasted by the brilliance of the man from Switzerland, the classical beauty of his tennis, the almost instinctive genius of the one tennis player whose global renown and lofty stature may never be surpassed.
Roger Federer, for whom Wimbledon may well have become his spiritual home, blew away Matteo Berretini of Italy in a phenomenal, record breaking time of one hour and !4 minutes and by the end of it all even some of Federer's most avid fans must have wondered at the sheer futility of the exercise because some of us might have been inclined to believe that poor Berretini shouldn't have been anywhere near a tennis court. Still, as they say in footballing parlance, you can only beat what's put in front of you and the Italian looked completely out of his depth.
The truth of course is that this was a terrible mismatch and we all know of course what happens to sub standard, inferior tennis players when they meet one of the greatest the sport has ever produced. They look to the skies, look totally bemused and then look for a hole in the ground. At times Federer seemed to simply float and glide through the match, barely breaking sweat for most of it and then treading all over Berretini with Swiss panache, a graceful and gracious sportsman whose nerve and composure on Centre Court will now always bear comparison to that cool Swedish master blaster Bjorn Borg.
With bandana securely plastered on his forehand, towel in hand and an air of almost effortless assurance about him, Federer, tanned and still as a fit as a flea, smoothly strolled out to Centre Court with that understated modesty and a genuine air of humility that has never really left him after all these years. That rather dashing waistcoated track suit may have gone but the flair, the ruthlessness of those all powerful ground strokes and the sheer likeability of the man can never be denied.
Not for the first time there was something very commanding, poised and utterly controlled about the Federer, the most complete Wimbledon champion of champions. There was a quiet charisma about the Swiss legend, a man totally unflustered by world events around him, confident in the belief all the while that nobody should ever have the audacity to beat him at any time in his illustrious career. In fact he may be deeply offended if anybody should ever snatch a point off him at any stage in any match. There is a steeliness about him, a complete detachment from the turmoil around the rest of the courts at Wimbledon.
After a whirlwind first set which lasted 17 minutes, Federer blasted his Italian opponent into outer space with another extraordinary display of power hitting, dynamic cross court winners and the kind of tennis that the likes of Bjorn Borg, John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors would probably have envied. Then Federer indulged in those glorious party pieces that have now defined him. There was the nervous racket twiddling, the brief bout of shirt tugging, eyes completely focussed, shoulders crouched forward excitedly and then there was the reluctant acknowledgement that there was indeed another man on the other side of the net just waiting to receive a first serve he would never return.
Then there were the punishing forehands, another sequence of whipped shots that arrowed across and beyond Berretini as if Centre Court were some kind of firing range. Federer went through the whole repertoire that almost comes to him as second nature. There were the sliced backhands, the beautifully faded and perfectly executed chip and charges to the net, the bewildering speed off the mark and those ferocious, thumping aces that flew past the Italian with lightning fast rapidity.
But for a man now in his 30s there was the movement and energy of a player who perhaps may be privately contemplating retirement. What is it about Federer that keeps going, keeps embracing the big occasion, keeps coming back for more of the same? Surely it can't be the money, the financial incentive to maintain the standard of living to which his family are now accustomed. But then you glanced across at his immaculately dressed wife and children and knew that the Swiss tennis giant just wants to make them even happier than he already is.
Yet more embarrassment was heaped on Berretini when Federer smashed and demolished the Italian as if he was simply invisible. There was the perfect volleying from preposterous angles, the miraculous returns of serves from the back of the court and the stupendously timed drop shots that almost seemed to creep surreptitiously over the net when least expected. Federer chased everything persistently but then realised that there was no need to because the game was all but over for Berretini. Several Federer backhand volleys almost left the Italian in another postcode.
Finally, there was the declaration of peace and defeat from the Italian. The third set for Berretini almost passed him by, as if he'd just imagined it. There were of course the comical gestures fuelled by the certainty that this was no way of spending a summer's afternoon in South West London. Admittedly he had shamefacedly snatched three points from the match but this was merely a training session for Federer. Perhaps he was saving himself for more taxing assignments or merely looking forward to an early tea.
Once again Wimbledon had offered its paying customers another afternoon of tennis that reached new levels of excellence, tennis of the very highest quality and tennis of sustained attractiveness. When the Pimms, the champagne, the strawberries and cream set had packed away their picnic hampers, the bottles of wine and the traditional fripperies that have always been associated with Wimbledon. we saluted a man who just treated the day as if it was some trivial chore that had to be done. Switzerland have every reason to believe that Federer may just have another trophy on his mind.
Not for the first time there was something very commanding, poised and utterly controlled about the Federer, the most complete Wimbledon champion of champions. There was a quiet charisma about the Swiss legend, a man totally unflustered by world events around him, confident in the belief all the while that nobody should ever have the audacity to beat him at any time in his illustrious career. In fact he may be deeply offended if anybody should ever snatch a point off him at any stage in any match. There is a steeliness about him, a complete detachment from the turmoil around the rest of the courts at Wimbledon.
After a whirlwind first set which lasted 17 minutes, Federer blasted his Italian opponent into outer space with another extraordinary display of power hitting, dynamic cross court winners and the kind of tennis that the likes of Bjorn Borg, John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors would probably have envied. Then Federer indulged in those glorious party pieces that have now defined him. There was the nervous racket twiddling, the brief bout of shirt tugging, eyes completely focussed, shoulders crouched forward excitedly and then there was the reluctant acknowledgement that there was indeed another man on the other side of the net just waiting to receive a first serve he would never return.
Then there were the punishing forehands, another sequence of whipped shots that arrowed across and beyond Berretini as if Centre Court were some kind of firing range. Federer went through the whole repertoire that almost comes to him as second nature. There were the sliced backhands, the beautifully faded and perfectly executed chip and charges to the net, the bewildering speed off the mark and those ferocious, thumping aces that flew past the Italian with lightning fast rapidity.
But for a man now in his 30s there was the movement and energy of a player who perhaps may be privately contemplating retirement. What is it about Federer that keeps going, keeps embracing the big occasion, keeps coming back for more of the same? Surely it can't be the money, the financial incentive to maintain the standard of living to which his family are now accustomed. But then you glanced across at his immaculately dressed wife and children and knew that the Swiss tennis giant just wants to make them even happier than he already is.
Yet more embarrassment was heaped on Berretini when Federer smashed and demolished the Italian as if he was simply invisible. There was the perfect volleying from preposterous angles, the miraculous returns of serves from the back of the court and the stupendously timed drop shots that almost seemed to creep surreptitiously over the net when least expected. Federer chased everything persistently but then realised that there was no need to because the game was all but over for Berretini. Several Federer backhand volleys almost left the Italian in another postcode.
Finally, there was the declaration of peace and defeat from the Italian. The third set for Berretini almost passed him by, as if he'd just imagined it. There were of course the comical gestures fuelled by the certainty that this was no way of spending a summer's afternoon in South West London. Admittedly he had shamefacedly snatched three points from the match but this was merely a training session for Federer. Perhaps he was saving himself for more taxing assignments or merely looking forward to an early tea.
Once again Wimbledon had offered its paying customers another afternoon of tennis that reached new levels of excellence, tennis of the very highest quality and tennis of sustained attractiveness. When the Pimms, the champagne, the strawberries and cream set had packed away their picnic hampers, the bottles of wine and the traditional fripperies that have always been associated with Wimbledon. we saluted a man who just treated the day as if it was some trivial chore that had to be done. Switzerland have every reason to believe that Federer may just have another trophy on his mind.
Sunday 7 July 2019
Johanna Konta moves through to the last 16 of the Wimbledon ladies semi final.
Johanna Konta moves through to the last 16 of the Wimbledon ladies semi final.
The mind kept drifting back to that day in 1977 when the lady in the mauve cardigan curtseyed before the Queen and Britain basked in its first ladies Wimbledon's single winner. She had thick black hair, an ever so demure manner and her name was Virginia Wade. On one of those beautifully triumphant afternoons for British sport, Wade beat her Dutch opponent Betty Stove and a nation celebrated not only the Queen's Silver Jubilee but a British sporting heroine who could hardly believe the remarkable magnitude of her achievement.
Yesterday, Johanna Konta began her journey to the summit of another ladies victory at Wimbledon with a temporarily awkward win over American Sloane Stephens 0-3, 6-4, 6-1. For those who were spellbound by the emergence of a female British tennis player who could actually win this most highly prized of tournaments then this may have come as little surprise. But then surely it's about time that Britain produced a woman with the guts, the red blooded tenacity and the sheer will to win that overcomes all the odds particularly when the girl has a famous grand father in her family.
Konta, as has been widely reported, is related to the great Hungarian football maestro Ferenc Puskas, one of that magically resplendent team who routed England at the old Wembley in 1953. But Johanna Konta slowly but surely ground down Stephens after struggling briefly in both the first and second sets. It was the kind of uplifting performance that British sport could do with on a more frequent basis because they don't seem to come around that often.
But she is the very epitome of the up and coming tennis player. There is something very driven, fiercely competitive and determined to get her own way about her. In one or two incidents we were given a fascinating glimpse into the Konta character. She is tall, gangling, impressively athletic and startlingly spring heeled. All of the mannerisms were there; the almost perpetual fist pumping, the intermittent knee bending, the private quest for greater effort, the self criticism, the self reproach, the irritation at the first sign of imperfection and that grouchy, grumpy, irascible cry for help aimed at her coach.
And yet Konta has exactly the right temperament to become the poster girl for British tennis. She has everything that we may look for in a potential Wimbledon champion. There is that natural intelligence about her, a suppleness and litheness in those fleet of feet that only the best can conjure up. There is something of the Virginia Wade about her in as much that she can move around Centre Court so quickly that by the time her opponent has returned her first serve, Konta has shuffled across the baseline with lightning speed. Konta does seem to be the genuine article but none of us can be sure when her day will come.
The Konta first service is rather like watching a wind up doll, heels lifting up from the ground with superb agility. Then there is the wide stance, ball almost deliberately bounced with careful calculation. We are now treated to that very angular serve, shoulders easing herself into position and finally that explosive swing of the racket as she throws the whole of her body into that vital first serve.
After a first and second set of gripping unpredictability, both women engaged in a superb battle of wills and wits, whipped forehands soaring deep into the baseline, the ball flying over the net like a missile that doesn't quite know where it might land. Firstly, Stephens executed drop shots of the most enchanting delicacy and drilled forehand returns that went whistling down both tramlines at the rate of knots.
Stephens though seemed to run away with the first set 6-3 and the Wimbledon crowd were deeply restless. Konta was beginning to get rather flustered with not only herself but annoyed with a machine that seemed to be making far too much noise for her liking. Something wasn't working for her, the booming serves never landing in the strategic places she was hoping for. So she persevered and grew into the match, punching out double fisted forehands and backhands with all the sinewy strength she could muster. At some point the match ball seemed to have a mind of its own.
Then the match quite perfectly seemed to gravitate in Konta's favour. The British girl suddenly began to see the flight of the ball much more clearly and it wasn't long before the third set became too much for Konta's American opponent. Konta was now hitting the ball with almost medieval savagery. Before long it was Konta who was slicing and fading her shots with all the cunning of the stage conjuror.
Finally Konta stormed her way through the third set, rattling off six points with the minimum fuss. Your heart goes out to the defeated in sport because you can never tell what might be going through their mind. Sloane Stephens will inevitably have her day in the sun and so will Johanna Konta. We must hope that Britain will one day provide us with another Virginia Wade moment because at the moment there is nothing to show for brave and wholesome talent. A mauve cardigan is perhaps all that's needed.
The mind kept drifting back to that day in 1977 when the lady in the mauve cardigan curtseyed before the Queen and Britain basked in its first ladies Wimbledon's single winner. She had thick black hair, an ever so demure manner and her name was Virginia Wade. On one of those beautifully triumphant afternoons for British sport, Wade beat her Dutch opponent Betty Stove and a nation celebrated not only the Queen's Silver Jubilee but a British sporting heroine who could hardly believe the remarkable magnitude of her achievement.
Yesterday, Johanna Konta began her journey to the summit of another ladies victory at Wimbledon with a temporarily awkward win over American Sloane Stephens 0-3, 6-4, 6-1. For those who were spellbound by the emergence of a female British tennis player who could actually win this most highly prized of tournaments then this may have come as little surprise. But then surely it's about time that Britain produced a woman with the guts, the red blooded tenacity and the sheer will to win that overcomes all the odds particularly when the girl has a famous grand father in her family.
Konta, as has been widely reported, is related to the great Hungarian football maestro Ferenc Puskas, one of that magically resplendent team who routed England at the old Wembley in 1953. But Johanna Konta slowly but surely ground down Stephens after struggling briefly in both the first and second sets. It was the kind of uplifting performance that British sport could do with on a more frequent basis because they don't seem to come around that often.
But she is the very epitome of the up and coming tennis player. There is something very driven, fiercely competitive and determined to get her own way about her. In one or two incidents we were given a fascinating glimpse into the Konta character. She is tall, gangling, impressively athletic and startlingly spring heeled. All of the mannerisms were there; the almost perpetual fist pumping, the intermittent knee bending, the private quest for greater effort, the self criticism, the self reproach, the irritation at the first sign of imperfection and that grouchy, grumpy, irascible cry for help aimed at her coach.
And yet Konta has exactly the right temperament to become the poster girl for British tennis. She has everything that we may look for in a potential Wimbledon champion. There is that natural intelligence about her, a suppleness and litheness in those fleet of feet that only the best can conjure up. There is something of the Virginia Wade about her in as much that she can move around Centre Court so quickly that by the time her opponent has returned her first serve, Konta has shuffled across the baseline with lightning speed. Konta does seem to be the genuine article but none of us can be sure when her day will come.
The Konta first service is rather like watching a wind up doll, heels lifting up from the ground with superb agility. Then there is the wide stance, ball almost deliberately bounced with careful calculation. We are now treated to that very angular serve, shoulders easing herself into position and finally that explosive swing of the racket as she throws the whole of her body into that vital first serve.
After a first and second set of gripping unpredictability, both women engaged in a superb battle of wills and wits, whipped forehands soaring deep into the baseline, the ball flying over the net like a missile that doesn't quite know where it might land. Firstly, Stephens executed drop shots of the most enchanting delicacy and drilled forehand returns that went whistling down both tramlines at the rate of knots.
Stephens though seemed to run away with the first set 6-3 and the Wimbledon crowd were deeply restless. Konta was beginning to get rather flustered with not only herself but annoyed with a machine that seemed to be making far too much noise for her liking. Something wasn't working for her, the booming serves never landing in the strategic places she was hoping for. So she persevered and grew into the match, punching out double fisted forehands and backhands with all the sinewy strength she could muster. At some point the match ball seemed to have a mind of its own.
Then the match quite perfectly seemed to gravitate in Konta's favour. The British girl suddenly began to see the flight of the ball much more clearly and it wasn't long before the third set became too much for Konta's American opponent. Konta was now hitting the ball with almost medieval savagery. Before long it was Konta who was slicing and fading her shots with all the cunning of the stage conjuror.
Finally Konta stormed her way through the third set, rattling off six points with the minimum fuss. Your heart goes out to the defeated in sport because you can never tell what might be going through their mind. Sloane Stephens will inevitably have her day in the sun and so will Johanna Konta. We must hope that Britain will one day provide us with another Virginia Wade moment because at the moment there is nothing to show for brave and wholesome talent. A mauve cardigan is perhaps all that's needed.
Friday 5 July 2019
England clinch World Cup cricket semi final at the expense of New Zealand.
England clinch World Cup cricket semi final at the expense of New Zealand.
Once again an England team is on the threshold of something very special. After the heartbreak and tears of the England World Cup ladies semi final defeat to the USA, the England cricket team have now reached their first World Cup semi since the early 1990s. It would by easy to become cynical about the fortunes of the national sporting collectives since we've become very hardened to setbacks, the inevitable sense of anti climax, the gloomy foreboding and then the crushing disappointment when it all goes haywire.
But the fact is that a wonderfully motivated England played some of the most mesmerising and ultimately destructive, attacking cricket the good people of Durham are ever likely to see. Sometimes you know it's going to be your day when even the rock guitarist between overs keeps blasting out a classic rock anthem with such whole hearted zest. For here's the thing. This was one day cricket at its most scintillating, dazzling, colourful and full of the showbiz spectacle that we've come to expect of the game in recent decades.
For those who still remembered the game being played in plain white shirts, trousers and thick pullovers if the rains fell, then this was a rude reminder of the fact the gentle sedateness of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s is rather like some misty historical and yellowing piece of parchment from another era. Now, cricket is all about gentlemen wearing the kind of coloured clothing that to those who cherish the game's purest traditions must have seemed like a withering insult.
Still, the English cricket team find themselves on the verge of greatness, perhaps dare we say it, World Champions and ready to pick up one of the most important trophies in world cricket. Who cares about the ludicrous sponsors vividly emblazoned all over gully and mid wicket, a rich combination of globally famous logos, blues, reds, yellows, purples and greens splashed gaudily across every piece of Durham grass?
England, for their part, wore all light blue from head to toe, reminding you instantly of a group of men summoned to appear at one of those very bizarre fashion shows where the bold, crazy and outrageous stroll down the catwalk in an effort to strike a memorable pose. Then there were the wickets, stumps and the bails which, to an impartial observer, had to be seen to be believed. There they were, three black stumps with what can only be described as three tiny bulbs of light which only blinked and flashed when they were required to do so.
Opinion continues to be divided about the modern day references to a kind of rampant commercialism which has now completely engulfed sport on every level and in every environment. The sight of Coca Cola and Mcdonalds battling it out for corporate supremacy doesn't seem right to those who believe that cricket should be completely free of any kind of writing on their shirts.
The fact is that England are now in a World Cup semi final and while the likes of Joe Root, Jason Roy, Ben Stokes and Jos Buttler continue to take this World Cup by storm with yet more mature and accomplished performances, maybe this could be the year when at long last the ghosts of English sport's past will just drift away into obscurity never to be found again.
Finally we saluted the emergence of one Jonny Bairstow, another of those showboating, all conquering, wonderfully swashbuckling cricketers who throw the bat at everything, humiliate the quickest of bowlers and then destroy opponents as if they were born to score a barrowload of centuries. We must have felt that Ian Botham was the last of the breed but Bairstow was indeed the star of the show, a magnificent tour de force, a big hitting, run machine, reckless and rash at times but this was Bairstow at his most stylish and carefree, a joyous batsman designed for the big occasion.
Throughout what became a fairly easy victory over New Zealand, Bairstow flung the bat at everything short with an almost casual impudence. There were the towering lofted drives that must have ended up in a Durham car park, the dismissive sweeps off the back foot that hurried to the boundary for four in no time at all. There were the arrogant pulls which flew through mid off and presumably crashed into the club bar, knocking over a whole row of amber coloured pints of lager into the bargain. Then the thunderous sixes which kept flying and flying into another county.
By the time Bairstow had reached a century New Zealand were already waving the black and white flag of surrender. Defeat was imminent and damagingly comprehensive for our Kiwi friends, England moving forward to a richly deserved World Cup semi final. The next couple of days for England have an amusing familiarity about them, a sense of deja vu of course but then an overwhelming dread that this is not going to happen because it hasn't so far and probably never will.
And yet there has to be some semblance of optimism, a very real recognition and premonition that things will indeed go wrong. Because here we are at the beginning of July and we all know what happened at the end of |July 53 years ago. Maybe this time. You never know.
Once again an England team is on the threshold of something very special. After the heartbreak and tears of the England World Cup ladies semi final defeat to the USA, the England cricket team have now reached their first World Cup semi since the early 1990s. It would by easy to become cynical about the fortunes of the national sporting collectives since we've become very hardened to setbacks, the inevitable sense of anti climax, the gloomy foreboding and then the crushing disappointment when it all goes haywire.
But the fact is that a wonderfully motivated England played some of the most mesmerising and ultimately destructive, attacking cricket the good people of Durham are ever likely to see. Sometimes you know it's going to be your day when even the rock guitarist between overs keeps blasting out a classic rock anthem with such whole hearted zest. For here's the thing. This was one day cricket at its most scintillating, dazzling, colourful and full of the showbiz spectacle that we've come to expect of the game in recent decades.
For those who still remembered the game being played in plain white shirts, trousers and thick pullovers if the rains fell, then this was a rude reminder of the fact the gentle sedateness of the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s is rather like some misty historical and yellowing piece of parchment from another era. Now, cricket is all about gentlemen wearing the kind of coloured clothing that to those who cherish the game's purest traditions must have seemed like a withering insult.
Still, the English cricket team find themselves on the verge of greatness, perhaps dare we say it, World Champions and ready to pick up one of the most important trophies in world cricket. Who cares about the ludicrous sponsors vividly emblazoned all over gully and mid wicket, a rich combination of globally famous logos, blues, reds, yellows, purples and greens splashed gaudily across every piece of Durham grass?
England, for their part, wore all light blue from head to toe, reminding you instantly of a group of men summoned to appear at one of those very bizarre fashion shows where the bold, crazy and outrageous stroll down the catwalk in an effort to strike a memorable pose. Then there were the wickets, stumps and the bails which, to an impartial observer, had to be seen to be believed. There they were, three black stumps with what can only be described as three tiny bulbs of light which only blinked and flashed when they were required to do so.
Opinion continues to be divided about the modern day references to a kind of rampant commercialism which has now completely engulfed sport on every level and in every environment. The sight of Coca Cola and Mcdonalds battling it out for corporate supremacy doesn't seem right to those who believe that cricket should be completely free of any kind of writing on their shirts.
The fact is that England are now in a World Cup semi final and while the likes of Joe Root, Jason Roy, Ben Stokes and Jos Buttler continue to take this World Cup by storm with yet more mature and accomplished performances, maybe this could be the year when at long last the ghosts of English sport's past will just drift away into obscurity never to be found again.
Finally we saluted the emergence of one Jonny Bairstow, another of those showboating, all conquering, wonderfully swashbuckling cricketers who throw the bat at everything, humiliate the quickest of bowlers and then destroy opponents as if they were born to score a barrowload of centuries. We must have felt that Ian Botham was the last of the breed but Bairstow was indeed the star of the show, a magnificent tour de force, a big hitting, run machine, reckless and rash at times but this was Bairstow at his most stylish and carefree, a joyous batsman designed for the big occasion.
Throughout what became a fairly easy victory over New Zealand, Bairstow flung the bat at everything short with an almost casual impudence. There were the towering lofted drives that must have ended up in a Durham car park, the dismissive sweeps off the back foot that hurried to the boundary for four in no time at all. There were the arrogant pulls which flew through mid off and presumably crashed into the club bar, knocking over a whole row of amber coloured pints of lager into the bargain. Then the thunderous sixes which kept flying and flying into another county.
By the time Bairstow had reached a century New Zealand were already waving the black and white flag of surrender. Defeat was imminent and damagingly comprehensive for our Kiwi friends, England moving forward to a richly deserved World Cup semi final. The next couple of days for England have an amusing familiarity about them, a sense of deja vu of course but then an overwhelming dread that this is not going to happen because it hasn't so far and probably never will.
And yet there has to be some semblance of optimism, a very real recognition and premonition that things will indeed go wrong. Because here we are at the beginning of July and we all know what happened at the end of |July 53 years ago. Maybe this time. You never know.
Wednesday 3 July 2019
England women lose out to USA in the World Cup semi final.
England women lose out to USA in the World Cup semi final.
It had to happen. Of course it did. We always knew it would because it always does - eventually. The default position for all England football teams regardless of gender, came back to haunt them and in the end we were all crying into our evening tea pondering ruefully on the woeful misfortunes of an England team somehow destined to falter at the final hurdle.
But why do we always get so tantalisingly close and yet so far? Is there something in the water perhaps? Has it got something to do with simple stage fright or possibly some psychological barrier that gets in England's way just when looks as if we've finally got it right? The truth is that semi final syndrome has once again caught us off guard. Just when we thought we'd cracked the code.
Last night the ladies of the England football World Cup played their heart out and gave us those cliched blood, sweat and tears. They could have hardly tried any harder since England football teams have always done gallantry and heroism with a gentle swagger. But last night the England women of the international footballing community were beaten by USA, which would have sounded hugely embarrassing had the men been involved in a similar scenario. Besides, one World Cup defeat for the men in 1950 against the Americans is quite enough to bear although time is, inevitably, the greatest healer.
Sadly, this was the English ladies third successive World Cup semi final defeat and just to rub salt into the wound the girls seemed to have caught the men's debilitating bug. When captain Steph Houghton missed that vital penalty which would have ensured parity for England against the USA, a hollow feeling of defeat and resignation seemed to hang over the England team like the darkest cloud. There was no way back from that critical point and the Americans were convinced that this would be their night of nights.
For the best part of an hour or so the England girls had looked reasonably convincing without ever hurting their opponents when it really mattered. Their passes were neat, firm, forthright, full of pin point accuracy with decorative cameos that slid across the pitch fluently and tidily. Their attacking movements were both graceful and tender, softly humming from one white shirt to the next as if they'd planned it this way for ages. Slowly but surely their approach play from the back reminded you of their male counterparts who did so much to copy the passing template that the Germans, French and Spanish had so originally pioneered. World Cups are different though.
Unfortunately though the English girls lively passing patterns began to lose their thread and players who had once believed that this could be their year to actually reach a World Cup Final found themselves in some delusional forest where everywhere was thick bushes, dangerous wasteland and tangled knots. England became slovenly, sloppy, dishevelled, horribly naive at times and quite obviously lacking the big match temperament, finesse and physical power of the present World Champions.
The immensely skilful Nikita Parris, who had dribbled her way so attractively past flailing American feet had now been cancelled out by an American side who had so successfully nullified the Parris drop of the shoulder, the nimble footwork as well as her thrilling acceleration. Both Jill Scott and Beth Mead were beginning to slice through the American defence with all the ease of ice skaters gliding effortlessly on the rink. Millie Bright was a continuous threat, pushing and probing forward with admirable frequency, a forceful and a genuine nuisance. Then there was the ever willing and whole hearted Lucy Bronze, powerful and persistent at all times. It was not to be though.
And yet it all seemed to count for nothing. The women's answer to Harry Kane was Ellen White who had beautifully glanced home England's equaliser after another excellent cross. For a while it felt at times as if White was determined to help herself to as many as goals. After White had had a goal disallowed by VAR after the prettiest of build ups from England, England had perhaps felt all of their meticulous planning and attention to detail had been undone by a technically superior American side.
From a superbly weighted diagonal ball across the back of the English penalty area, a high, hanging cross was headed powerfully home by Christen Press for the American's opening goal. Once again the USA hunted in packs, stitching and embroidering their football with some of the most imaginative passing ever seen on an international women's football pitch. The Americans were sharper to the ball, even hungrier to win the ball back when not in possession and generally more streetwise than the English.
No sooner than England had equalised than the Americans had broken forward once again at speed and with some vigour. There was a much greater clarity and polish to the World Champions game and although there was an element of raw directness and aggression to their play we knew that England would have to look back on the occasion as another missed opportunity. Following a marvellously perceptive crossfield ball, another nicely delivered cross saw Alex Morgan nip beyond the last English defender and head the ball decisively past England keeper Carly Telford.
As Morgan ran away to celebrate her goal, she was seen to be mocking the very English tea drinking gesture. It almost seemed like the ultimate insult but this had not been a night for English manners or English propriety. Manager Phil Neville, once of Manchester United and Everton had instilled all the right habits and mannerisms into the England women's team and tea seemed a poor consolation.
One day, one year either the men or women will discover that this whole business of actually winning a World Cup or a European Championship is, quite simply, a piece of cake. For now we can only comfort ourselves with the knowledge that even the Germans and French had missed out this time. Never mind, maybe next time.
It had to happen. Of course it did. We always knew it would because it always does - eventually. The default position for all England football teams regardless of gender, came back to haunt them and in the end we were all crying into our evening tea pondering ruefully on the woeful misfortunes of an England team somehow destined to falter at the final hurdle.
But why do we always get so tantalisingly close and yet so far? Is there something in the water perhaps? Has it got something to do with simple stage fright or possibly some psychological barrier that gets in England's way just when looks as if we've finally got it right? The truth is that semi final syndrome has once again caught us off guard. Just when we thought we'd cracked the code.
Last night the ladies of the England football World Cup played their heart out and gave us those cliched blood, sweat and tears. They could have hardly tried any harder since England football teams have always done gallantry and heroism with a gentle swagger. But last night the England women of the international footballing community were beaten by USA, which would have sounded hugely embarrassing had the men been involved in a similar scenario. Besides, one World Cup defeat for the men in 1950 against the Americans is quite enough to bear although time is, inevitably, the greatest healer.
Sadly, this was the English ladies third successive World Cup semi final defeat and just to rub salt into the wound the girls seemed to have caught the men's debilitating bug. When captain Steph Houghton missed that vital penalty which would have ensured parity for England against the USA, a hollow feeling of defeat and resignation seemed to hang over the England team like the darkest cloud. There was no way back from that critical point and the Americans were convinced that this would be their night of nights.
For the best part of an hour or so the England girls had looked reasonably convincing without ever hurting their opponents when it really mattered. Their passes were neat, firm, forthright, full of pin point accuracy with decorative cameos that slid across the pitch fluently and tidily. Their attacking movements were both graceful and tender, softly humming from one white shirt to the next as if they'd planned it this way for ages. Slowly but surely their approach play from the back reminded you of their male counterparts who did so much to copy the passing template that the Germans, French and Spanish had so originally pioneered. World Cups are different though.
Unfortunately though the English girls lively passing patterns began to lose their thread and players who had once believed that this could be their year to actually reach a World Cup Final found themselves in some delusional forest where everywhere was thick bushes, dangerous wasteland and tangled knots. England became slovenly, sloppy, dishevelled, horribly naive at times and quite obviously lacking the big match temperament, finesse and physical power of the present World Champions.
The immensely skilful Nikita Parris, who had dribbled her way so attractively past flailing American feet had now been cancelled out by an American side who had so successfully nullified the Parris drop of the shoulder, the nimble footwork as well as her thrilling acceleration. Both Jill Scott and Beth Mead were beginning to slice through the American defence with all the ease of ice skaters gliding effortlessly on the rink. Millie Bright was a continuous threat, pushing and probing forward with admirable frequency, a forceful and a genuine nuisance. Then there was the ever willing and whole hearted Lucy Bronze, powerful and persistent at all times. It was not to be though.
And yet it all seemed to count for nothing. The women's answer to Harry Kane was Ellen White who had beautifully glanced home England's equaliser after another excellent cross. For a while it felt at times as if White was determined to help herself to as many as goals. After White had had a goal disallowed by VAR after the prettiest of build ups from England, England had perhaps felt all of their meticulous planning and attention to detail had been undone by a technically superior American side.
From a superbly weighted diagonal ball across the back of the English penalty area, a high, hanging cross was headed powerfully home by Christen Press for the American's opening goal. Once again the USA hunted in packs, stitching and embroidering their football with some of the most imaginative passing ever seen on an international women's football pitch. The Americans were sharper to the ball, even hungrier to win the ball back when not in possession and generally more streetwise than the English.
No sooner than England had equalised than the Americans had broken forward once again at speed and with some vigour. There was a much greater clarity and polish to the World Champions game and although there was an element of raw directness and aggression to their play we knew that England would have to look back on the occasion as another missed opportunity. Following a marvellously perceptive crossfield ball, another nicely delivered cross saw Alex Morgan nip beyond the last English defender and head the ball decisively past England keeper Carly Telford.
As Morgan ran away to celebrate her goal, she was seen to be mocking the very English tea drinking gesture. It almost seemed like the ultimate insult but this had not been a night for English manners or English propriety. Manager Phil Neville, once of Manchester United and Everton had instilled all the right habits and mannerisms into the England women's team and tea seemed a poor consolation.
One day, one year either the men or women will discover that this whole business of actually winning a World Cup or a European Championship is, quite simply, a piece of cake. For now we can only comfort ourselves with the knowledge that even the Germans and French had missed out this time. Never mind, maybe next time.
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