Farewell Bury - but why and how?
So how did it all come down to this? Bury's disappearance from the Football League, their demotion to non League football is another stark reminder of football's harsh realities, its brittle financial backbone, its air of vulnerability at times and that familiar tale of corruption, appalling mismanagement and in the case of owner Steve Dale, a man with no interest in football whatsoever. And therein the lies the problem. Not for the first time football finds itself at the heart of a shameful scandal.
The chances are that the loyal and hardcore fans of Bury who have been following their football team for the best part of several decades will now have to be content with a leisurely stroll through the local shopping centre, grieving openly, sobbing their hearts out and wondering if justice will ever be seen to be done. The likelihood is that they will also be flooding the phone lines of their local radio station, angry, disgusted and totally betrayed by not only Dale and his chums but by all the people who they believe have sold them down the river.
In fact you may be sure that every single Bury supporter who has stuck faithfully by their troubled team will take to the streets and roads this afternoon and voice their opinions in no uncertain terms. A furious revolt will be heard the length and breadth of Gigg Lane, banners will be unfurled and proud football fans will question football's integrity. Of course football has been here before but the crime has been committed, rules bent and a humble little football club, one of the League's oldest, can only be left to cower in the corner sadly, their sense of rejection and isolation perfectly understandable.
This afternoon Bury, once twice winners of the FA Cup, will be surplus to requirements, no longer wanted by the Football League and told to sling their hook. Gigg Lane will become an industrial wasteland, the pavements echoing to the sound of aching souls and the lingering smell of defeat and despair in the air. They will trudge down cobbled lanes, looking down at the ground miserably and tearfully, mindful all the while that no longer will be they allowed to rattle through those precious turnstiles, no longer given the opportunity to wave their scarves on those sturdy terraces.
The fact is of course those self same terraces will now be empty, soulless, pitifully heartbroken and, more importantly, left to rot during cold winters of desolation and dereliction. a broken football club with a couple of thousand supporters who will continue to support them through thick and thin but without any League status anymore. Gigg Lane will become a sombre monument to football's greed, its flagrant disregard of the very football supporters who keep the game alive. Football will now take stock of itself, examine its conscience, weigh up exactly where things might have gone so disastrously wrong and then presumably wash its hands of the whole filthy business. Oh woe the Football League!
Of course this is not the first team that one of the Football League's lower division's basement boys has gone bust, condemned to bankruptcy and never likely to re-surface as a viable League club at any point in the future. The examples are, quite distressingly, common and poor old Bury may never be able to take any consolation in the fact that this has happened before.
In the winter of 1962 Bury's neighbours Accrington Stanley discovered that the club were up to their neck in debt, the team simply fading away and the winding up receivers had to be called in. Players hadn't been paid for ages, the whole infrastructure of the club had become a long standing joke, a complete embarrassment and the club had to be wound up whether Stanley wanted it to or not. Accrington Stanley went out of the Football League, another busted flush, gone to the wall, penniless and now trapped in the non League.
But there is a happy ending to this story. Several years ago Accrington Stanley came back to life as a League club with a sharp injection of money from a compassionate backer of the club. Now Stanley are back in the Football League and if Bury can cling onto any straw of hope then they may have to look no further than Accrington Stanley.
Towards the end of the 1960s you remembered Workington and Barrow, two more Lancashire hotpots who simply couldn't pay their way anymore and were kicked out of the Football League. So they shut their gates, locked the front door and said farewell. Presumably, Workington and Barrow are still attracting the proverbial cat, dog and a couple of sympathetic passers by on their way to the Saturday market.
The blunt truth is football may have to stand up in a court of law to account for its criminal negligence, its cruelty and its inexplicable indifference to football clubs with a heart. Bury may not be the first team to leave the Football League and nor will they be the last. Bolton Wanderers of course have survived by the skin of their teeth. But Bury are now yesterday's men, a team whose supporters will now cry into their beer tonight and hope that somebody will care and somebody will once again believe in them. It can't be too much to ask for little Bury.
Saturday 31 August 2019
Wednesday 28 August 2019
Manor House- still a work in progress.
Manor House - still a work in progress.
At some point this century they'll finish what they started some time ago. By my reckoning it should be some time before another Labour government is elected or perhaps some time in the distant future when none of us will be around to see its completion. The nagging suspicion is that the Woodberry Down estate in Manor House is still very much a work in progress. In fact this whole housing development just seems to go on and on but we can live in the hope that finally one day it'll be declared as well and truly done, the finished article.
Meanwhile the show goes on and what a show this is. Throughout the day we are constantly subjected to noises, clanking noises, metallic noises, grating noises that are designed to annoy us, getting on our nerves, trying our patience, outraging us and possibly tempting us to complain to the council for what seems the umpteenth time.
What we have here is a sometimes deafening cacophony, a resounding orchestra of drills, hammers, instruments of demolition and major upheaval for all concerned. The fact is that some of us have reached the end of our tether and we've had enough. There is an incessant chorus of cracking, smashing, clattering, industrial machinery that looks as if it's been lent to the workers at Woodbury Down Estate by some very kind and generous BBC film crew working on some very ambitious sci- fi series.
Realistically, the local residents around here may be resigned to their fate. There's isn't a great deal they can do about this, at times, insufferable racket apart from perhaps fold their arms, become hardened to circumstances that are completely beyond their control and just watch with anger in the hope that one day tools are downed and we can all go back to living the quiet life.
In the general scheme of things most of us would just have been extremely tolerant in the face of this relentless assault on our senses, that audio system that keeps blaring away with seemingly not a single thought or consideration for any of those families with babies or the elderly who must be up in arms.
To the fascinated onlooker this dramatic disfigurement of our landscape is not quite the sight you'd be too keen to wake up to in the morning. Finally though, the whole look and appearance of this area does look slightly more aesthetically pleasing than it might have done a couple of years ago. Those huge and thick supporting blocks of concrete have been firmly driven into the ground and the gentlemen in lime green hi viz jackets seem to be enjoying themselves.
All day long the engineers, labourers, plasterers, painters and decorators spend most of their day outside in the late summer heat and rain, either wandering, treading gently or bending down to pick up their knives, saws, tape measures, theodolites and mallets as if it were second nature. They keep wandering, hovering, stopping, assessing the ground they happen to be working on and then shouting, yelling, singing and laughing. It's rather like listening to some awful music you wish you could switch off immediately.
Outside us are massive fleets of lorries who seem to be giving birth to yet more lorries. In fact there are times when our buildings remind you of one giant sized car park. Around the back from where we live, the Berkeley company responsible for this housing renaissance are clocking on and off for work. Men in yellow hard hats and high viz jackets keep coming and going as if determined to get the work finished as soon as possible.
For a number of years now this has been what it's like to witness the regrowth of a North London suburb that, although perfectly habitable, certainly looked as if it needed some tender loving care. What we didn't know though at the time of course is that some of the ageing flats were beginning to look past their sell by date. In fact the whole lot had to be flattened to make way for another generation, another age group and an entirely new set of families.
Still, it might be as well to just let them continue since this is the way of the world. We are definitely heading in the right direction and it's full steam ahead as they say in sea-going, nautical terms. It just feels as though this remarkable re-construction project is taking for ever. In 50 years time some of us may or may not be here to watch the fruits of their labours and that could be a major source of frustration.
Shortly after the Second World War a brand new housing revolution in Britain saw the rise of prefabs and soaring council flat towers that were built to last. Some perished because of their age and others were blown up by men who were given permission to do so, crumbling to the ground like a set of dominoes. How often have you seen those imposing tower blocks detonated with what seem like bomb disposal experts? A black puff of smoke billows into the air, as they tumble to the ground almost helplessly.
Anyway across the road they're still ploughing on with the Travel Lodge hotel. Yes folks we are now surrounded by hotels. Please do come to sunny Manor House on Sea although we may be hundreds of miles from any signs of sea. Apparently you can now book for Christmas should you wish to do so and the views from your hotel balcony are truly out of this world. For instance there are the eye catching red Route Master buses on their way to Wood Green, the picture postcard lorries rumbling by every second and then the cars with their sleek looking bonnets and purring engines. It's just perfect.
So there you have it folks. Just a very revealing insight into the current housing arrangements in Manor House. Why wouldn't you want to contemplate a relaxing break next to bullish bulldozers and vast winches hanging in the air before swinging effortlessly towards Finsbury Park? Ah, London suburbia at its most efficient and effective. Oh for the thoughts of that eminent architect and designer Sir Norman Foster.
At some point this century they'll finish what they started some time ago. By my reckoning it should be some time before another Labour government is elected or perhaps some time in the distant future when none of us will be around to see its completion. The nagging suspicion is that the Woodberry Down estate in Manor House is still very much a work in progress. In fact this whole housing development just seems to go on and on but we can live in the hope that finally one day it'll be declared as well and truly done, the finished article.
Meanwhile the show goes on and what a show this is. Throughout the day we are constantly subjected to noises, clanking noises, metallic noises, grating noises that are designed to annoy us, getting on our nerves, trying our patience, outraging us and possibly tempting us to complain to the council for what seems the umpteenth time.
What we have here is a sometimes deafening cacophony, a resounding orchestra of drills, hammers, instruments of demolition and major upheaval for all concerned. The fact is that some of us have reached the end of our tether and we've had enough. There is an incessant chorus of cracking, smashing, clattering, industrial machinery that looks as if it's been lent to the workers at Woodbury Down Estate by some very kind and generous BBC film crew working on some very ambitious sci- fi series.
Realistically, the local residents around here may be resigned to their fate. There's isn't a great deal they can do about this, at times, insufferable racket apart from perhaps fold their arms, become hardened to circumstances that are completely beyond their control and just watch with anger in the hope that one day tools are downed and we can all go back to living the quiet life.
In the general scheme of things most of us would just have been extremely tolerant in the face of this relentless assault on our senses, that audio system that keeps blaring away with seemingly not a single thought or consideration for any of those families with babies or the elderly who must be up in arms.
To the fascinated onlooker this dramatic disfigurement of our landscape is not quite the sight you'd be too keen to wake up to in the morning. Finally though, the whole look and appearance of this area does look slightly more aesthetically pleasing than it might have done a couple of years ago. Those huge and thick supporting blocks of concrete have been firmly driven into the ground and the gentlemen in lime green hi viz jackets seem to be enjoying themselves.
All day long the engineers, labourers, plasterers, painters and decorators spend most of their day outside in the late summer heat and rain, either wandering, treading gently or bending down to pick up their knives, saws, tape measures, theodolites and mallets as if it were second nature. They keep wandering, hovering, stopping, assessing the ground they happen to be working on and then shouting, yelling, singing and laughing. It's rather like listening to some awful music you wish you could switch off immediately.
Outside us are massive fleets of lorries who seem to be giving birth to yet more lorries. In fact there are times when our buildings remind you of one giant sized car park. Around the back from where we live, the Berkeley company responsible for this housing renaissance are clocking on and off for work. Men in yellow hard hats and high viz jackets keep coming and going as if determined to get the work finished as soon as possible.
For a number of years now this has been what it's like to witness the regrowth of a North London suburb that, although perfectly habitable, certainly looked as if it needed some tender loving care. What we didn't know though at the time of course is that some of the ageing flats were beginning to look past their sell by date. In fact the whole lot had to be flattened to make way for another generation, another age group and an entirely new set of families.
Still, it might be as well to just let them continue since this is the way of the world. We are definitely heading in the right direction and it's full steam ahead as they say in sea-going, nautical terms. It just feels as though this remarkable re-construction project is taking for ever. In 50 years time some of us may or may not be here to watch the fruits of their labours and that could be a major source of frustration.
Shortly after the Second World War a brand new housing revolution in Britain saw the rise of prefabs and soaring council flat towers that were built to last. Some perished because of their age and others were blown up by men who were given permission to do so, crumbling to the ground like a set of dominoes. How often have you seen those imposing tower blocks detonated with what seem like bomb disposal experts? A black puff of smoke billows into the air, as they tumble to the ground almost helplessly.
Anyway across the road they're still ploughing on with the Travel Lodge hotel. Yes folks we are now surrounded by hotels. Please do come to sunny Manor House on Sea although we may be hundreds of miles from any signs of sea. Apparently you can now book for Christmas should you wish to do so and the views from your hotel balcony are truly out of this world. For instance there are the eye catching red Route Master buses on their way to Wood Green, the picture postcard lorries rumbling by every second and then the cars with their sleek looking bonnets and purring engines. It's just perfect.
So there you have it folks. Just a very revealing insight into the current housing arrangements in Manor House. Why wouldn't you want to contemplate a relaxing break next to bullish bulldozers and vast winches hanging in the air before swinging effortlessly towards Finsbury Park? Ah, London suburbia at its most efficient and effective. Oh for the thoughts of that eminent architect and designer Sir Norman Foster.
Sunday 25 August 2019
England level the Ashes with incredible win against Australia.
England level the Ashes with incredible win against Australia.
Wow! If only every cricket match could be like this. How honoured and privileged we'd be. The irony of course is that the last time an England cricket side managed to claw their way back into an Ashes Test Match the venue was Headingley and the good folk of Yorkshire did it again for England in a way that has now become almost customary. As will now be constantly repeated throughout the ages, for 1981 Ian Botham read 2019 and the even more remarkable Ben Stokes on 135 not out. Stokes it was who would receive the match winning garlands. Some will insist that Stokes should be bestowed with the freedom of Yorkshire.
Undoubtedly and most deservedly the man of hour, even month and quite definitely the man of the year, Ben Stokes, ginger hair bristling and eyes blazing, punched the air ecstatically. He then threw caution to the wind, leaping up and down like a child on Christmas Day and then trying to take in the sheer incredulity of the moment, and the breathtaking climax to the game. There was a sudden realisation that here was a man who was destined to be one of England's finest all rounders in that summer game of cricket. Surely no greater accolade could be extended to one man of sport.
So here we were on the grandest of all occasions. Two Ashes adversaries were gritting each other's teeth, snarling and sneeringly menacingly, with one in the hot seat and the other in an even hotter. England had tumbled out dreadfully and meekly as if convinced that there was no point in continuing with the game. They were all out for 67 after the Australians had more or less let them off the hook with a meagre total of 179.
Then Australia exploded out of the blocks in their second innings building the kind of mammoth total that looked for all the world would prove unassailable. This would not be quite the formidable score that some Australians would have been pleased with and there was a sense that maybe a missed opportunity would be their ultimate undoing. But on 246 they must have thought that England would perhaps find themselves slightly unsettled by the big occasion. When England collapsed quite compliantly with a sorrowfully pathetic 67 all out, Australian hands were rubbed together and Headingley feared the worst.
But then came the heroic, the courageous, the defiant and daring Ben Stokes, a man seemingly for all seasons. While all around him quite literally fell to the ground like blood stained soldiers on a battlefield, Stokes of course kept his cool. a figure of bravery, red blooded, doughty indestructibility, utterly fearless, powerful, round shouldered and punishing every loose ball with an artillery of sixes that flew over the Headingley boundary like one of those predatory gulls waiting to be fed their evening meal.
And yet it all started so unpromisingly and potentially disastrously. England began like the shy, nervous teenager at a school disco. Joe Root seemed to have a healthy appetite for the fight but then tickled fatefully down the leg side and was caught out by David Warner for a worthy 77. Then the hometown favourite Jonny Bairstow came stomping out of the pavilion rather like his predecessor Geoff Boycott 38 years ago when the chips were down, the pies were beginning to lose their taste and England were clinging onto dear life
Bairstow started swinging the bat joyfully, straight driving the ball down the ground handsomely, slogsweeping wildly and then clattering the ball through mid on and off with some consistency. The stage may have been set for Bairstow and the Yorkshire faithful willed on their boy from the local back streets. Sadly, Bairstow, as if unnerved by the immensity of the occasion nudged the ball fatally to the slips and was out cheaply for 36 when it seemed as if he was setting himself up for the day.
Jos Buttler now walked out into the sweltering heat of a Headingley afternoon. The swallows and gulls overhead were now desperate for sustenance and England were beginning to lick their lips again. Buttler though looked distracted and then, horribly, was run out for one. England's tail was wagging and a dark chasm was beginning to appear in front of England. Australia, to all intents and purposes, had one hand on retaining the Ashes and another on that much cherished little urn.
Now there would open up the most spectacular cabaret ever seen on an English cricketing field. With Chris Woakes and Stuart Broad back in the pavilion for a single respectively, England were teetering like a rock on a cliff side. With only one wicket to take and all the signs pointing to an imminent victory for the Australians, England were quite literally staring down the barrel.
With almost hilarious frequency there were dropped catches, Stokes and now Jack Leach running for their lives, harum scarum fielding that could have resulted in near certain defeat for England and that final, fumbled take that could have run out England's last batsman. This was heart in mouth cricket, cricket designed to raise the blood pressure and now the most miraculous recovery by an England side panting for breath.
Stokes was now on his own and after a series of giant sixes that seemed to travel into some distant Yorkshire valley, the man with the most implacable spirit, just got more and more incensed. The square cutting from the meat of his bat could be heard in Sheffield. Stokes, flowing and firing, stunned the crowd with massively extravagant hooking. He swiped, scooped and seemed to ladle the ball to the boundary, always improvising, always taunting the Aussies with batting of the sweetest vintage.
Headingley was almost beside itself with joy and disbelief. The crowd were so feverish and excited that any resemblance to 1981 would surely have been coincidental. Then Botham and Willis went for Australia like two heavyweights just hell bent on landing that momentous hook that switched off the lights of their opponents. Now it was the turn of Ben Stokes to send an electrical current through the Australian batting. Stokes stepped up and smashed the Australian bowling attack all over Headingley.
With two now required to win the game, Stokes settled himself for one last hurrah. Bat eagerly lifting up and down in anticipation and head perfectly poised, Stokes swung his bat delightedly at the ball before launching the most tremendously accurate shot with glorious finality. The ball scurried away from the Australian fieldsmen and clinched victory for England in quite the most ultra dramatic style in recent history.
For a minute it felt as if England had actually regained the Ashes once again but there is a long way to go for England if they are to regain any momentum and rhythm in this Test Match. There are no Sir Donald Bradmans or Len Huttons this time for England but you can somehow sense that this intriguingly balanced Ashes Test could go the proverbial distance. Under the shrewd guidance of Michael Vaughan in 2005, England were inspired winners. |Now cricket focuses on the figure of captain marvel Joe Root. Rarely has English cricket left us so lost for superlatives. It surely couldn't have got any better.
Wow! If only every cricket match could be like this. How honoured and privileged we'd be. The irony of course is that the last time an England cricket side managed to claw their way back into an Ashes Test Match the venue was Headingley and the good folk of Yorkshire did it again for England in a way that has now become almost customary. As will now be constantly repeated throughout the ages, for 1981 Ian Botham read 2019 and the even more remarkable Ben Stokes on 135 not out. Stokes it was who would receive the match winning garlands. Some will insist that Stokes should be bestowed with the freedom of Yorkshire.
Undoubtedly and most deservedly the man of hour, even month and quite definitely the man of the year, Ben Stokes, ginger hair bristling and eyes blazing, punched the air ecstatically. He then threw caution to the wind, leaping up and down like a child on Christmas Day and then trying to take in the sheer incredulity of the moment, and the breathtaking climax to the game. There was a sudden realisation that here was a man who was destined to be one of England's finest all rounders in that summer game of cricket. Surely no greater accolade could be extended to one man of sport.
So here we were on the grandest of all occasions. Two Ashes adversaries were gritting each other's teeth, snarling and sneeringly menacingly, with one in the hot seat and the other in an even hotter. England had tumbled out dreadfully and meekly as if convinced that there was no point in continuing with the game. They were all out for 67 after the Australians had more or less let them off the hook with a meagre total of 179.
Then Australia exploded out of the blocks in their second innings building the kind of mammoth total that looked for all the world would prove unassailable. This would not be quite the formidable score that some Australians would have been pleased with and there was a sense that maybe a missed opportunity would be their ultimate undoing. But on 246 they must have thought that England would perhaps find themselves slightly unsettled by the big occasion. When England collapsed quite compliantly with a sorrowfully pathetic 67 all out, Australian hands were rubbed together and Headingley feared the worst.
But then came the heroic, the courageous, the defiant and daring Ben Stokes, a man seemingly for all seasons. While all around him quite literally fell to the ground like blood stained soldiers on a battlefield, Stokes of course kept his cool. a figure of bravery, red blooded, doughty indestructibility, utterly fearless, powerful, round shouldered and punishing every loose ball with an artillery of sixes that flew over the Headingley boundary like one of those predatory gulls waiting to be fed their evening meal.
And yet it all started so unpromisingly and potentially disastrously. England began like the shy, nervous teenager at a school disco. Joe Root seemed to have a healthy appetite for the fight but then tickled fatefully down the leg side and was caught out by David Warner for a worthy 77. Then the hometown favourite Jonny Bairstow came stomping out of the pavilion rather like his predecessor Geoff Boycott 38 years ago when the chips were down, the pies were beginning to lose their taste and England were clinging onto dear life
Bairstow started swinging the bat joyfully, straight driving the ball down the ground handsomely, slogsweeping wildly and then clattering the ball through mid on and off with some consistency. The stage may have been set for Bairstow and the Yorkshire faithful willed on their boy from the local back streets. Sadly, Bairstow, as if unnerved by the immensity of the occasion nudged the ball fatally to the slips and was out cheaply for 36 when it seemed as if he was setting himself up for the day.
Jos Buttler now walked out into the sweltering heat of a Headingley afternoon. The swallows and gulls overhead were now desperate for sustenance and England were beginning to lick their lips again. Buttler though looked distracted and then, horribly, was run out for one. England's tail was wagging and a dark chasm was beginning to appear in front of England. Australia, to all intents and purposes, had one hand on retaining the Ashes and another on that much cherished little urn.
Now there would open up the most spectacular cabaret ever seen on an English cricketing field. With Chris Woakes and Stuart Broad back in the pavilion for a single respectively, England were teetering like a rock on a cliff side. With only one wicket to take and all the signs pointing to an imminent victory for the Australians, England were quite literally staring down the barrel.
With almost hilarious frequency there were dropped catches, Stokes and now Jack Leach running for their lives, harum scarum fielding that could have resulted in near certain defeat for England and that final, fumbled take that could have run out England's last batsman. This was heart in mouth cricket, cricket designed to raise the blood pressure and now the most miraculous recovery by an England side panting for breath.
Stokes was now on his own and after a series of giant sixes that seemed to travel into some distant Yorkshire valley, the man with the most implacable spirit, just got more and more incensed. The square cutting from the meat of his bat could be heard in Sheffield. Stokes, flowing and firing, stunned the crowd with massively extravagant hooking. He swiped, scooped and seemed to ladle the ball to the boundary, always improvising, always taunting the Aussies with batting of the sweetest vintage.
Headingley was almost beside itself with joy and disbelief. The crowd were so feverish and excited that any resemblance to 1981 would surely have been coincidental. Then Botham and Willis went for Australia like two heavyweights just hell bent on landing that momentous hook that switched off the lights of their opponents. Now it was the turn of Ben Stokes to send an electrical current through the Australian batting. Stokes stepped up and smashed the Australian bowling attack all over Headingley.
With two now required to win the game, Stokes settled himself for one last hurrah. Bat eagerly lifting up and down in anticipation and head perfectly poised, Stokes swung his bat delightedly at the ball before launching the most tremendously accurate shot with glorious finality. The ball scurried away from the Australian fieldsmen and clinched victory for England in quite the most ultra dramatic style in recent history.
For a minute it felt as if England had actually regained the Ashes once again but there is a long way to go for England if they are to regain any momentum and rhythm in this Test Match. There are no Sir Donald Bradmans or Len Huttons this time for England but you can somehow sense that this intriguingly balanced Ashes Test could go the proverbial distance. Under the shrewd guidance of Michael Vaughan in 2005, England were inspired winners. |Now cricket focuses on the figure of captain marvel Joe Root. Rarely has English cricket left us so lost for superlatives. It surely couldn't have got any better.
Friday 23 August 2019
England lose ground in the Ashes
England lose ground in the Ashes.
At the beginning of this sporting summer it had all looked so simple. All English cricket had to do was turn up at a World Cup Final in their own backyard and win it. This they did in nerve shredding, nail biting and ultimately thrilling style against a New Zealand side who must have been convinced that they could do no more than push England all the way.
How England are now paying for both cockiness and complacency on a monumental scale. Things are not going according to their script. But then, when was the last time you saw groups of scriptwriters at a cricket match? Maybe a just a slight touch of arrogance and presumption had seeped into their souls and Australia were determined to redeem themselves after the World Cup semi final defeat to England.
Yesterday Australia opened up the first day of the third Ashes Test against England like the proverbial startled rabbits in the headlights. This was not the Headingley of 1981 nor was it ever likely to be. There were no Ian Bothams or Bob Willises stampeding down from the famous Kirkstall Lane End with fire in their eyes, nostrils flaring, hair flapping and fully intent on creating bedlam and wholesale destruction in their path. Rather this was a somewhat stunned, aghast and totally confused Australian side, unsure of their bearings, just a little surprised and then staggered at the quality of the opposition.
After opting to bat first Australia, both David Warner and Marcus Harris set about the England bowling like hounds chasing their prey. Then, with just a hint of over zealousness Marcus Harris waved his bat rashly before recklessly snicking the ball to Jonny Bairstow and company behind the English stumps and Australia were 12-1.
Then with the score rattling speedily on Usman Khawaja was bowled by a ball that whipped back sharply to Khawaja who played on brushing the ball through to the wicketkeeper and slips. The Australian batsman was only given out when video evidence had shown quite clearly that the Australian had actually got a touch to the ball. 25-2.
After some stubborn defiance from Marnus Laluschagne who had established an entertaining 74, Australia proceeded to lose two more wickets in fairly rapid succession. The bullishly belligerent David Warner crashed some stunning fours through the covers, cutting beautifully and then building craftily towards 61. Jofra Archer then bowled a beauty that Warner simply couldn't defend against and Australia were teetering on the precipice, ready to collapse.
By now Stuart Broad and Jofra Archer were beginning to rip open the Australian batsmen. They bowled with brutal pace, frightening hostility at times and then moved the ball this way and that. The red ball Test match was now spitting venom at the Aussies who were perhaps feeling ever so constipated and drained of energy.
Now there occurred one of those unfortunate incidents that batsmen must dread. It happens when you think you've got the better of your opponents. Sport can often punch you in the guts when least expected. It can often be deeply cruel, unforgiving and totally unsympathetic. So when Matthew Wade trotted out to the wicket in that floppy green cap he must have privately accepted that something would go terribly wrong. It did and England rejoiced once again.
Broad, now flying and fulsomely vigorous, dug the ball deep into Wade and before Wade could turn around, the bails had been accidentally nudged and dropped to the ground. Another Australian wicket another embarrassment. The Australian fortress had now been emphatically broken into and England were licking their lips in anticipation of a richly deserved change of form.
When Tim Paine was out for a paltry 11, Australia knew that any hopes of a survival would dwindle so disturbingly that any hope of a late order comeback would have to go on the back burner. Travis Ward was swiftly bowled for a duck before the last man standing James Pattison was routinely bowled as if he were not there.
So for the first time in this Ashes ding dong, Australia were the fall guys, tottering and trembling in the face of an England barrage that seemed to get worse by the over. They were all out for 179 and for those who still remember 1981, this seemed like a case of history repeating itself. There are impartial observers though who wish that both Australia and England would just get on with each other. But this was a kind of phoney war before swords are drawn and the battle commences. Then again we really wouldn't have it any other way.
At the beginning of this sporting summer it had all looked so simple. All English cricket had to do was turn up at a World Cup Final in their own backyard and win it. This they did in nerve shredding, nail biting and ultimately thrilling style against a New Zealand side who must have been convinced that they could do no more than push England all the way.
How England are now paying for both cockiness and complacency on a monumental scale. Things are not going according to their script. But then, when was the last time you saw groups of scriptwriters at a cricket match? Maybe a just a slight touch of arrogance and presumption had seeped into their souls and Australia were determined to redeem themselves after the World Cup semi final defeat to England.
Yesterday Australia opened up the first day of the third Ashes Test against England like the proverbial startled rabbits in the headlights. This was not the Headingley of 1981 nor was it ever likely to be. There were no Ian Bothams or Bob Willises stampeding down from the famous Kirkstall Lane End with fire in their eyes, nostrils flaring, hair flapping and fully intent on creating bedlam and wholesale destruction in their path. Rather this was a somewhat stunned, aghast and totally confused Australian side, unsure of their bearings, just a little surprised and then staggered at the quality of the opposition.
After opting to bat first Australia, both David Warner and Marcus Harris set about the England bowling like hounds chasing their prey. Then, with just a hint of over zealousness Marcus Harris waved his bat rashly before recklessly snicking the ball to Jonny Bairstow and company behind the English stumps and Australia were 12-1.
Then with the score rattling speedily on Usman Khawaja was bowled by a ball that whipped back sharply to Khawaja who played on brushing the ball through to the wicketkeeper and slips. The Australian batsman was only given out when video evidence had shown quite clearly that the Australian had actually got a touch to the ball. 25-2.
After some stubborn defiance from Marnus Laluschagne who had established an entertaining 74, Australia proceeded to lose two more wickets in fairly rapid succession. The bullishly belligerent David Warner crashed some stunning fours through the covers, cutting beautifully and then building craftily towards 61. Jofra Archer then bowled a beauty that Warner simply couldn't defend against and Australia were teetering on the precipice, ready to collapse.
By now Stuart Broad and Jofra Archer were beginning to rip open the Australian batsmen. They bowled with brutal pace, frightening hostility at times and then moved the ball this way and that. The red ball Test match was now spitting venom at the Aussies who were perhaps feeling ever so constipated and drained of energy.
Now there occurred one of those unfortunate incidents that batsmen must dread. It happens when you think you've got the better of your opponents. Sport can often punch you in the guts when least expected. It can often be deeply cruel, unforgiving and totally unsympathetic. So when Matthew Wade trotted out to the wicket in that floppy green cap he must have privately accepted that something would go terribly wrong. It did and England rejoiced once again.
Broad, now flying and fulsomely vigorous, dug the ball deep into Wade and before Wade could turn around, the bails had been accidentally nudged and dropped to the ground. Another Australian wicket another embarrassment. The Australian fortress had now been emphatically broken into and England were licking their lips in anticipation of a richly deserved change of form.
When Tim Paine was out for a paltry 11, Australia knew that any hopes of a survival would dwindle so disturbingly that any hope of a late order comeback would have to go on the back burner. Travis Ward was swiftly bowled for a duck before the last man standing James Pattison was routinely bowled as if he were not there.
So for the first time in this Ashes ding dong, Australia were the fall guys, tottering and trembling in the face of an England barrage that seemed to get worse by the over. They were all out for 179 and for those who still remember 1981, this seemed like a case of history repeating itself. There are impartial observers though who wish that both Australia and England would just get on with each other. But this was a kind of phoney war before swords are drawn and the battle commences. Then again we really wouldn't have it any other way.
Wednesday 21 August 2019
Blackpool and Chester- two British diamonds.
Blackpool and Chester- two British diamonds.
For those of us who have seen it all before this was the opportunity to see it all over again. In their vastly differing ways both Blackpool and Chester are synonymous with everything Britain holds dear. There's the Blackpool of seaside frivolity, flashing and winking amusement arcades, silly 'Kiss Me Quick' hats, cosy and compact bed and breakfast hotels, 'The Golden Mile' which seems to meander endlessly from one end of Blackpool to the other and above all those endearing trams, now etched into Blackpool's transport history like the proverbial stick of rock.
On a family visit to both Blackpool and Chester we re-visited the sights and sounds of those famous English beauty spots rather like old friends meeting up with genuinely fond acquaintances we couldn't wait to see again. After parking the car, we set about pounding the grand old esplanades and pavements of Blackpool with all of the enthusiasm of daytrippers determined to re-discover much more of both the old and new Blackpool.
There were the innumerable cafes and restaurants strung along the front like chunky pearls in jewellery shop windows, the pretty souvenirs, postcard stalls clustered together with patriotic zeal, timeless toy windmills accompanied with the inevitable bucket and spades and all of the holiday paraphernalia we've come to expect from Blackpool. Then the majestic red and brown Blackpool Tower stood high and impressively into the air. The Blackpool illuminations would shortly be on display for all to see. It was England at her best and most striking.
But in an increasingly unstable political climate, tourists, local families and children from all over the world may have to re-think their priorities and budgets. This is the time for cutting back perhaps, saving frugally and re-calibrating our outgoings before investing in things we may have cause to regret. Even so, the atmosphere along the rich Lancashire coast could not have been better as the good people from Hong Kong to Hackney, Malaysia to Merseyside availed themselves of the traditional pink candy floss, gallons of ice cream, while not forgetting the fish and chip lunches that may last for an eternity.
Suddenly, Blackpool once again came to life as we always knew it would. It was the sound perhaps of the 1950s and, certainly, the 1960s. It was the sound of a motor bike convention, roaring, growling, sputtering, spluttering and steaming with both smoke and furious intent. We could only have assumed that most of these avid bike fans were proud possessors of Vespas, well upholstered, gleaming chrome machines that may well have seen many a road or motorway in their time. Here again they flaunted their long hair, thick leather jackets and cultural charisma, men and women with rugged personalities.
For a while it looked as if those turbo charged petrol heads would come to dominate our day by the Lancashire Riviera. Then, quite dramatically, a severe and mildly shocking wind blew up with a stern vengeance. But this was no ordinary wind. It was alarmingly blustery and sufficiently blowy to rock us back on our heels. By the time we'd repaired to a local hotel for a serene tea, sandwiches and cakes the wind had whipped up so strongly that ever so briefly it threatened to ruin our day.
Eventually though we were able to summon another burst of energy for the stroll back to the car. What we saw next was a classic scene stolen unashamedly from those celebrated Disney theme parks. A long and winding procession of old style, horse drawn wedding carriages slowly clip clopped into view. Mauve canopy firmly fixed onto the main carriage you half expected a violinist to strike up 'Here Comes the Bride'. Still, clanking with metal, bridle and ornate feathers proudly pointing out of their ears, the horses went about their leisurely way totally oblivious to Brexit, the fortunes of Blackpool football team and the ever present dangers of losing the Ashes to Australia.
Then we travelled quickly onto the lovely city of Chester for no particular reason other than simple curiosity. Chester is beautifully and timelessly historic, a city tuned into the future but always harking back to a wonderfully medieval past when knights were brave and a good, old fashioned pint of mead might have set you back a princely sum. The present day Chester will never lose its distinctive identity. It both looks and feels like an ancient British city because its shops and buildings have always had that quintessential British character.
From the elegant, black and white timber framed facades to the countless card shops, Chester is alive and well with its very tuneful street buskers and all the familiar local merchandise on your doorstep. There were the ever present jewellers, prominent pawnbrokers, Chester cathedral in all her pomp, Poundland stores with bargains in profusion, Greggs the bakers and sundry patisseries with mouth watering cakes.
After a pleasant river boat trip taking in all of Chester's many and varied tourist delights we all made our way back to the car. Blackpool and Chester had captured our imagination. We had seen what we had come to see and we were not to be disappointed. There are everyday experiences in our lives which we may take for granted but at the end of a late summer retreat by the seaside and a gentle plod through the bustling streets of Chester we knew that England had now shut up its shutters before completing the day with a jolly pub quiz and a pint of best cider. Surely a day to be savoured.
For those of us who have seen it all before this was the opportunity to see it all over again. In their vastly differing ways both Blackpool and Chester are synonymous with everything Britain holds dear. There's the Blackpool of seaside frivolity, flashing and winking amusement arcades, silly 'Kiss Me Quick' hats, cosy and compact bed and breakfast hotels, 'The Golden Mile' which seems to meander endlessly from one end of Blackpool to the other and above all those endearing trams, now etched into Blackpool's transport history like the proverbial stick of rock.
On a family visit to both Blackpool and Chester we re-visited the sights and sounds of those famous English beauty spots rather like old friends meeting up with genuinely fond acquaintances we couldn't wait to see again. After parking the car, we set about pounding the grand old esplanades and pavements of Blackpool with all of the enthusiasm of daytrippers determined to re-discover much more of both the old and new Blackpool.
There were the innumerable cafes and restaurants strung along the front like chunky pearls in jewellery shop windows, the pretty souvenirs, postcard stalls clustered together with patriotic zeal, timeless toy windmills accompanied with the inevitable bucket and spades and all of the holiday paraphernalia we've come to expect from Blackpool. Then the majestic red and brown Blackpool Tower stood high and impressively into the air. The Blackpool illuminations would shortly be on display for all to see. It was England at her best and most striking.
But in an increasingly unstable political climate, tourists, local families and children from all over the world may have to re-think their priorities and budgets. This is the time for cutting back perhaps, saving frugally and re-calibrating our outgoings before investing in things we may have cause to regret. Even so, the atmosphere along the rich Lancashire coast could not have been better as the good people from Hong Kong to Hackney, Malaysia to Merseyside availed themselves of the traditional pink candy floss, gallons of ice cream, while not forgetting the fish and chip lunches that may last for an eternity.
Suddenly, Blackpool once again came to life as we always knew it would. It was the sound perhaps of the 1950s and, certainly, the 1960s. It was the sound of a motor bike convention, roaring, growling, sputtering, spluttering and steaming with both smoke and furious intent. We could only have assumed that most of these avid bike fans were proud possessors of Vespas, well upholstered, gleaming chrome machines that may well have seen many a road or motorway in their time. Here again they flaunted their long hair, thick leather jackets and cultural charisma, men and women with rugged personalities.
For a while it looked as if those turbo charged petrol heads would come to dominate our day by the Lancashire Riviera. Then, quite dramatically, a severe and mildly shocking wind blew up with a stern vengeance. But this was no ordinary wind. It was alarmingly blustery and sufficiently blowy to rock us back on our heels. By the time we'd repaired to a local hotel for a serene tea, sandwiches and cakes the wind had whipped up so strongly that ever so briefly it threatened to ruin our day.
Eventually though we were able to summon another burst of energy for the stroll back to the car. What we saw next was a classic scene stolen unashamedly from those celebrated Disney theme parks. A long and winding procession of old style, horse drawn wedding carriages slowly clip clopped into view. Mauve canopy firmly fixed onto the main carriage you half expected a violinist to strike up 'Here Comes the Bride'. Still, clanking with metal, bridle and ornate feathers proudly pointing out of their ears, the horses went about their leisurely way totally oblivious to Brexit, the fortunes of Blackpool football team and the ever present dangers of losing the Ashes to Australia.
Then we travelled quickly onto the lovely city of Chester for no particular reason other than simple curiosity. Chester is beautifully and timelessly historic, a city tuned into the future but always harking back to a wonderfully medieval past when knights were brave and a good, old fashioned pint of mead might have set you back a princely sum. The present day Chester will never lose its distinctive identity. It both looks and feels like an ancient British city because its shops and buildings have always had that quintessential British character.
From the elegant, black and white timber framed facades to the countless card shops, Chester is alive and well with its very tuneful street buskers and all the familiar local merchandise on your doorstep. There were the ever present jewellers, prominent pawnbrokers, Chester cathedral in all her pomp, Poundland stores with bargains in profusion, Greggs the bakers and sundry patisseries with mouth watering cakes.
After a pleasant river boat trip taking in all of Chester's many and varied tourist delights we all made our way back to the car. Blackpool and Chester had captured our imagination. We had seen what we had come to see and we were not to be disappointed. There are everyday experiences in our lives which we may take for granted but at the end of a late summer retreat by the seaside and a gentle plod through the bustling streets of Chester we knew that England had now shut up its shutters before completing the day with a jolly pub quiz and a pint of best cider. Surely a day to be savoured.
Thursday 15 August 2019
Jeremy Corbyn - the man who always believed.
Jeremy Corbyn- the man who always believed.
This is the time of the year when all good, decent politicians from both sides of the House of Commons normally turn their thoughts to a well earned holiday. Several years ago it was reported that Labour minister Margaret Beckett loved to take caravanning holidays in Britain away from the hustle and bustle of the Westminster fun factory. Some of her colleagues from both sides of the house were torn between Torquay and Tuscany. Now they will flip a coin and then laugh privately
When the pressure became too much for former Prime Minister Theresa May, there was only one solution. Mrs May and her husband Philip would slip on their hiking boots and take to the hills. With her back firmly against the wall, she and hubby would head straight to Wales where a welcome would always be made. Then again it must have seemed a good idea at the time because events on the domestic front were beginning to drive her mad. So she and Philip would pack their rucksack, head for the open road and the twisting country lanes. It was all very safe and comfortable for her since no-one would ever think of disturbing her peace so far away from Westminster Towers.
But one man and one man alone refuses to keep quiet. He is the leader of the Labour party and his name is Jeremy Corbyn. Now there was a time when some politicians may have accepted the status quo graciously and just got on with the business of opposing the government in charge of the country - but oh no, not our Jeremy. Maybe the penny has yet to drop for Mr Corbyn or, quite possibly, he may think that the job of Prime Minister is still available and somebody forgot to tell him otherwise.
And yet here we are today and Corbyn is still shouting it from the rooftops, airing his grievances, just making a nuisance and still behaving like some spoilt child who can't get his own way. Hasn't anybody told him that the vacancy of Prime Minister has already been filled by Boris Johnson and he may as well get used to the idea? But with almost absurd persistence Corbyn keeps complaining and then suggesting that he should be made temporary Prime Minister because he knows best. If you didn't know he was being serious you could swear the man had lost his mind.
These are bizarre and barely credible times and with Britain still in a state of severe flux on matters relating to the EU you could be forgiven we were all watching some very bleak Chekhov play. Surely though this is not the time for the Leader of the Opposition to come out with quite the daftest statement ever made by any member of any Shadow Cabinet. In the world of Jeremy Corbyn though nothing is quite what it seems. Rather than packing his holiday suitcase and remembering his bucket and spade, Corbyn peddles the piffle, nonsense and balderdash that his Tory opponent Jacob Rees Mogg has now got down to a fine art.
Sadly though, for all his brave backtracking and defensive mechanisms, Corbyn remains a voice in the dark, bellowing at the top of his voice and pontificating mindlessly in case there is someone or anyone who may care to listen to him. He reminds you of one of those very vocal orators at Speakers Corner at London's Hyde Park who just attract nothing but ridicule.
Yesterday and not for the first time Corbyn pleaded with Prime Minister Boris Johnson for a General Election because the country was being criminally mismanaged, wretchedly misled and then torn apart by deeply damaging and divisive rows. But hold on Mr Corbyn, dear Boris has only been PM for five minutes and the most unelectable politician of all time may have to wave the white flag of surrender.
It could be that one day in the not too distant future, Corbyn will wake up in his hotel bedroom, fling open the curtains and realise that those in high office have just written him off as some rather deluded talking head, a liability not only to his own party but to the rest of the country as a whole. There is a nagging doubt though that a very silent minority out there may well come to the conclusion that Corbyn is indeed a force for good, a paragon of virtue and the best thing since sliced bread.
Sometimes though you've just got to bite your lip, smile resignedly and forget about the past. In the mind's eye we can now see Corbyn pulling up his holiday deckchair, wandering off to the local amusement arcade and wondering if he can still win a game of bingo. He will tie his handkerchief on his head, plunge his feet into the soft sand and then dip his toes in a placid sea. And this is the point when Mr Corbyn will begins to realise that the tide of opinion is well and truly against him.
Meanwhile the raging waters of turbulence will continue to crash against the walls of Jeremy Corbyn's embattled political landscape. All the while those within the Shadow Cabinet will continue to persuade their leader that his time is up. Corbyn is treading on hot coals and wherever he goes the paths will always be blocked by those daunting brick walls of dissent and increasingly fiery opposition.
So it is ladies and gentleman that the corridors and noisy lobbies of Westminster will remain empty and hollow, a wonderful wilderness where nothing will happen and voices will be temporarily silenced. Some of us are convinced that this is the way it should always be but never is. Still, we must treasure these precious moments in our lives since they'll all be back from their respective holiday destinations and ironically the farthermost points of Europe. If only the Leader of the Opposition would simply take a long sabbatical and try to take the hint. The exit door for Corbyn is that way and there can surely be no other plausible option for the grey bearded one to go. Oh thanks but no thanks Mr Corbyn.
This is the time of the year when all good, decent politicians from both sides of the House of Commons normally turn their thoughts to a well earned holiday. Several years ago it was reported that Labour minister Margaret Beckett loved to take caravanning holidays in Britain away from the hustle and bustle of the Westminster fun factory. Some of her colleagues from both sides of the house were torn between Torquay and Tuscany. Now they will flip a coin and then laugh privately
When the pressure became too much for former Prime Minister Theresa May, there was only one solution. Mrs May and her husband Philip would slip on their hiking boots and take to the hills. With her back firmly against the wall, she and hubby would head straight to Wales where a welcome would always be made. Then again it must have seemed a good idea at the time because events on the domestic front were beginning to drive her mad. So she and Philip would pack their rucksack, head for the open road and the twisting country lanes. It was all very safe and comfortable for her since no-one would ever think of disturbing her peace so far away from Westminster Towers.
But one man and one man alone refuses to keep quiet. He is the leader of the Labour party and his name is Jeremy Corbyn. Now there was a time when some politicians may have accepted the status quo graciously and just got on with the business of opposing the government in charge of the country - but oh no, not our Jeremy. Maybe the penny has yet to drop for Mr Corbyn or, quite possibly, he may think that the job of Prime Minister is still available and somebody forgot to tell him otherwise.
And yet here we are today and Corbyn is still shouting it from the rooftops, airing his grievances, just making a nuisance and still behaving like some spoilt child who can't get his own way. Hasn't anybody told him that the vacancy of Prime Minister has already been filled by Boris Johnson and he may as well get used to the idea? But with almost absurd persistence Corbyn keeps complaining and then suggesting that he should be made temporary Prime Minister because he knows best. If you didn't know he was being serious you could swear the man had lost his mind.
These are bizarre and barely credible times and with Britain still in a state of severe flux on matters relating to the EU you could be forgiven we were all watching some very bleak Chekhov play. Surely though this is not the time for the Leader of the Opposition to come out with quite the daftest statement ever made by any member of any Shadow Cabinet. In the world of Jeremy Corbyn though nothing is quite what it seems. Rather than packing his holiday suitcase and remembering his bucket and spade, Corbyn peddles the piffle, nonsense and balderdash that his Tory opponent Jacob Rees Mogg has now got down to a fine art.
Sadly though, for all his brave backtracking and defensive mechanisms, Corbyn remains a voice in the dark, bellowing at the top of his voice and pontificating mindlessly in case there is someone or anyone who may care to listen to him. He reminds you of one of those very vocal orators at Speakers Corner at London's Hyde Park who just attract nothing but ridicule.
Yesterday and not for the first time Corbyn pleaded with Prime Minister Boris Johnson for a General Election because the country was being criminally mismanaged, wretchedly misled and then torn apart by deeply damaging and divisive rows. But hold on Mr Corbyn, dear Boris has only been PM for five minutes and the most unelectable politician of all time may have to wave the white flag of surrender.
It could be that one day in the not too distant future, Corbyn will wake up in his hotel bedroom, fling open the curtains and realise that those in high office have just written him off as some rather deluded talking head, a liability not only to his own party but to the rest of the country as a whole. There is a nagging doubt though that a very silent minority out there may well come to the conclusion that Corbyn is indeed a force for good, a paragon of virtue and the best thing since sliced bread.
Sometimes though you've just got to bite your lip, smile resignedly and forget about the past. In the mind's eye we can now see Corbyn pulling up his holiday deckchair, wandering off to the local amusement arcade and wondering if he can still win a game of bingo. He will tie his handkerchief on his head, plunge his feet into the soft sand and then dip his toes in a placid sea. And this is the point when Mr Corbyn will begins to realise that the tide of opinion is well and truly against him.
Meanwhile the raging waters of turbulence will continue to crash against the walls of Jeremy Corbyn's embattled political landscape. All the while those within the Shadow Cabinet will continue to persuade their leader that his time is up. Corbyn is treading on hot coals and wherever he goes the paths will always be blocked by those daunting brick walls of dissent and increasingly fiery opposition.
So it is ladies and gentleman that the corridors and noisy lobbies of Westminster will remain empty and hollow, a wonderful wilderness where nothing will happen and voices will be temporarily silenced. Some of us are convinced that this is the way it should always be but never is. Still, we must treasure these precious moments in our lives since they'll all be back from their respective holiday destinations and ironically the farthermost points of Europe. If only the Leader of the Opposition would simply take a long sabbatical and try to take the hint. The exit door for Corbyn is that way and there can surely be no other plausible option for the grey bearded one to go. Oh thanks but no thanks Mr Corbyn.
Tuesday 13 August 2019
Shoot- a classic football magazine celebrates 50th anniversary.
Shoot- a classic football magazine celebrates 50th anniversary.
For those devoted followers of football magazines the 50th anniversary of 'Shoot' may well have caught us unawares. Some of us discovered the joys and charms of football magazines in the mid 1970s because in most cases we were the ones who longed for Thursday mornings when the magazine was ready to be picked up from the local newsagents. It was a weekly ritual and one we had no resistance to. We'd caught the bug and it had entered our bloodstream willingly.
We were the ones who couldn't wait for the following season's Football League ladders if only to find out whether our team were still in the same division as the one that had finished the previous season. It would prove to be the healthiest of addictions. Sadly 'Shoot' went the way of most of its contemporaries, a spiralling descent into obscurity never to be seen again.
Then one day Shoot lost its attacking edge, the 21st century arrived with a vengeance and Shoot disappeared from the shelves from our local sweet shops. The magazine had lost its marketing battle and the advent of fanzines had suddenly taken its place in the popular affections of football crazy male teenagers. We can only lament the passing of Shoot since it was the one football magazine that was easy to read, accessible and identifiable. We knew the players as intimately as our family, the uncles who would slump in sleepy armchairs on a Sunday afternoon and knew exactly the identity of the barber who used to cut Kevin Keegan's afro hair.
The language was straight from the hip, no nonsense and uncompromising rather like those hard as nails characters such as Norman Hunter and Billy Bremner, both Leeds United defensive battleships who loved nothing better than a straightforward case of aggro, fisticuffs and the kind of physical engagement where grudges were permanently harboured and some of the more seemingly villainous types would wait outside football ground car parks in the hope of handing out sweet revenge.
There were fascinating articles about teams, players, managers, cheeky vagabonds, misfits, extroverts and playboys as well as the quiet and retiring types who might have preferred an evening of wine, classical music or chess. We loved Shoot because it was simple, totally without airs or graces and it reached out to football youngsters with the kind of hard hitting and well researched prose that only the boys from our neighbourhood could relate to.
In the early days there were columns from Kevin Keegan and Gerry Francis, Gordon Hill and Andy Gray in later editions. Both Keegan, Francis, Hill and Gray invariably pulled no punches with their often meaty but highly amusing opinions which often caught the mood of the nation at the time. Keegan was dynamic, busy, constantly involved at the heart of most of Liverpool's most vibrant attacking movements and always running at defences as if his life depended on it.
Then there was Gerry Francis, QPR's midfield general who controlled the middle of a football pitch in the way that the leader of a well drilled army would set out his very specific orders. Francis was Queens Park Rangers metronome, forever judging important matches, seeking space and then spraying those measured passes to his colleagues as if nature had ordained it.
Francis was also England captain and even though England manager at the time Don Revie was in the middle of a Saudi Arabia desert scheming his way out of England, Francis would never let anybody down. In Shoot magazine Francis would deliver a weekly helping of good, old fashioned stories of young players who needed just a little encouragement and those whose potential would leave Francis breathless.
But right at the back of the magazine there was one constant that always left us with a faint chuckle or the gentlest of giggles. Every week one player from any of the old divisions one, two, three or four would be consulted on their favourite things in life. In the most hilarious of pen portraits, the varied and immensely talented likes of Alan Hudson, Tony Currie, Johnny Giles, Charlie Cooke, Sammy Nelson, Frank Worthington, Peter Bonetti and Peter Osgood would all unhesitatingly volunteer their favourite TV programmes, their preferred choice of food, music, clothes, animals and all of those outrageous celebrities who either infuriated or delighted us.
Regrettably though Shoot is no longer with us, a football magazine that seems to have passed its sell by date and no longer held in the high esteem that it used to be. Those were the halcyon days of lovably colourful League ladders, the much anticipated fixture lists that some of us couldn't wait to get to hold of. Now we too could read about the lighter side of the The Beautiful Game, often the comical and the farcical with a delicate garnish of the enlightening and the informative.
Now of course there is the still widely available and likeable fanzine known as 'When Saturday Comes'. 'When Saturday Comes' is a superbly intelligent and hugely engaging magazine with a deeply knowledgeable take on the modern game. Some have regarded 'When Saturday Comes' as one of those cutting edge and alternative football magazines where football fans with a genuine passion for the game are given the most comfortable platform to express both their views and innermost feelings.
There remains Match magazine, similar in format and design in as much that those teenagers that Match is targeted at are often the ones who want the very latest football news. It is one of those laid back, relaxed and frivolous reads with a gossipy, no holds barred language which continues to appeal to a captive readership who love to know all about their heroes favourite mobile phones are how many FIFA computer games they may have in their possession.
So there you have it. Shoot football magazine is 50 years old and the choice of the late and legendary England captain Bobby Moore as its first front cover, does bring a tear to the eye. While Moore was wiping his hand before lifting the World Cup for England, somebody must have been dreaming of the day when Moore's face would so rightly adorn the front cover for a boys football magazine. How far sighted they must have been. Certainly a genius.
For those devoted followers of football magazines the 50th anniversary of 'Shoot' may well have caught us unawares. Some of us discovered the joys and charms of football magazines in the mid 1970s because in most cases we were the ones who longed for Thursday mornings when the magazine was ready to be picked up from the local newsagents. It was a weekly ritual and one we had no resistance to. We'd caught the bug and it had entered our bloodstream willingly.
We were the ones who couldn't wait for the following season's Football League ladders if only to find out whether our team were still in the same division as the one that had finished the previous season. It would prove to be the healthiest of addictions. Sadly 'Shoot' went the way of most of its contemporaries, a spiralling descent into obscurity never to be seen again.
Then one day Shoot lost its attacking edge, the 21st century arrived with a vengeance and Shoot disappeared from the shelves from our local sweet shops. The magazine had lost its marketing battle and the advent of fanzines had suddenly taken its place in the popular affections of football crazy male teenagers. We can only lament the passing of Shoot since it was the one football magazine that was easy to read, accessible and identifiable. We knew the players as intimately as our family, the uncles who would slump in sleepy armchairs on a Sunday afternoon and knew exactly the identity of the barber who used to cut Kevin Keegan's afro hair.
The language was straight from the hip, no nonsense and uncompromising rather like those hard as nails characters such as Norman Hunter and Billy Bremner, both Leeds United defensive battleships who loved nothing better than a straightforward case of aggro, fisticuffs and the kind of physical engagement where grudges were permanently harboured and some of the more seemingly villainous types would wait outside football ground car parks in the hope of handing out sweet revenge.
There were fascinating articles about teams, players, managers, cheeky vagabonds, misfits, extroverts and playboys as well as the quiet and retiring types who might have preferred an evening of wine, classical music or chess. We loved Shoot because it was simple, totally without airs or graces and it reached out to football youngsters with the kind of hard hitting and well researched prose that only the boys from our neighbourhood could relate to.
In the early days there were columns from Kevin Keegan and Gerry Francis, Gordon Hill and Andy Gray in later editions. Both Keegan, Francis, Hill and Gray invariably pulled no punches with their often meaty but highly amusing opinions which often caught the mood of the nation at the time. Keegan was dynamic, busy, constantly involved at the heart of most of Liverpool's most vibrant attacking movements and always running at defences as if his life depended on it.
Then there was Gerry Francis, QPR's midfield general who controlled the middle of a football pitch in the way that the leader of a well drilled army would set out his very specific orders. Francis was Queens Park Rangers metronome, forever judging important matches, seeking space and then spraying those measured passes to his colleagues as if nature had ordained it.
Francis was also England captain and even though England manager at the time Don Revie was in the middle of a Saudi Arabia desert scheming his way out of England, Francis would never let anybody down. In Shoot magazine Francis would deliver a weekly helping of good, old fashioned stories of young players who needed just a little encouragement and those whose potential would leave Francis breathless.
But right at the back of the magazine there was one constant that always left us with a faint chuckle or the gentlest of giggles. Every week one player from any of the old divisions one, two, three or four would be consulted on their favourite things in life. In the most hilarious of pen portraits, the varied and immensely talented likes of Alan Hudson, Tony Currie, Johnny Giles, Charlie Cooke, Sammy Nelson, Frank Worthington, Peter Bonetti and Peter Osgood would all unhesitatingly volunteer their favourite TV programmes, their preferred choice of food, music, clothes, animals and all of those outrageous celebrities who either infuriated or delighted us.
Regrettably though Shoot is no longer with us, a football magazine that seems to have passed its sell by date and no longer held in the high esteem that it used to be. Those were the halcyon days of lovably colourful League ladders, the much anticipated fixture lists that some of us couldn't wait to get to hold of. Now we too could read about the lighter side of the The Beautiful Game, often the comical and the farcical with a delicate garnish of the enlightening and the informative.
Now of course there is the still widely available and likeable fanzine known as 'When Saturday Comes'. 'When Saturday Comes' is a superbly intelligent and hugely engaging magazine with a deeply knowledgeable take on the modern game. Some have regarded 'When Saturday Comes' as one of those cutting edge and alternative football magazines where football fans with a genuine passion for the game are given the most comfortable platform to express both their views and innermost feelings.
There remains Match magazine, similar in format and design in as much that those teenagers that Match is targeted at are often the ones who want the very latest football news. It is one of those laid back, relaxed and frivolous reads with a gossipy, no holds barred language which continues to appeal to a captive readership who love to know all about their heroes favourite mobile phones are how many FIFA computer games they may have in their possession.
So there you have it. Shoot football magazine is 50 years old and the choice of the late and legendary England captain Bobby Moore as its first front cover, does bring a tear to the eye. While Moore was wiping his hand before lifting the World Cup for England, somebody must have been dreaming of the day when Moore's face would so rightly adorn the front cover for a boys football magazine. How far sighted they must have been. Certainly a genius.
Sunday 11 August 2019
The start of the football season- another dawn has fallen.
The start of the football season- another dawn has fallen.
As the soft, caressing breezes of summer give way to the plaintive moans of winter with all its moaning, groaning, whistling winds, this may be the time to welcome back the football season in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. You may be sure that all the British isles will be feeling distinctly jittery and jumpy as the date of Britain's withdrawal from the EU, aka the European Union, draws ever closer.
Yesterday at the London Stadium it was very much business as usual. West Ham were demolished, trodden into the ground, thrashed, thumped, naturally hammered and then crushed into the East London soil by the reigning supreme Premier League champions Manchester City by the kind of humiliatingly one sided scoreline that the locals must have become accustomed to by now but the feelings of bitterness and resentment remain inescapable.
For the last six seasons ago West Ham have become tiresomely pitted against the top six of the Premier League. Last season they were heavily beaten by Liverpool at Anfield 4-0 and in preceding seasons were undone, unravelled and undermined by both Chelsea and Manchester United away from home. The conspiracy theorists among the more seasoned faithful at the London Stadium must have thought those in the highest circles of the FA hierarchy have got it in for West Ham. But when they come to compile the fixture lists at the end of June this part of London may have to resign themselves to whatever fate throws up at them.
Still, there was an eerie sense of inevitability about a lunchtime afternoon in Stratford where the twin forces of commercialism and uncontrollable materialism meet head on while the claret and blue scarves, banners and flags of West Ham United mingle and jostle on match day quite happily. At the back of their minds are those long, gone nostalgic days of Upton Park when match day programmes were a glorious shilling or two and hot dogs were sixpence.
Some of us hold a soft spot for the close knit intimacy of Upton Park where the steepling terraces of the Chicken Run were an affectionate reference to one side of the ground. The North and South bank of course had always provided a deeply theatrical backdrop to the Boleyn Ground, another historical throwback to the Middle Ages. For those whose veins are now enduringly claret and blue, the sway and surge of the North Bank along with that unforgettable wintry light show that was the striking of a thousand cigarette matches will never ever be forgotten.
We who witnessed the Upton Park experience can still delight in the appearance of a massed brass band outside the players tunnel, the communality of it all, the feeling of togetherness and belonging to your favourite football club, the sense that you were part of something special. There was the woman lugging around the largest monkey nut bag in the world where, quite suddenly, bags of monkey nuts were launched almost optimistically into the 'Chicken Run'. There were the vulgar profanities, the East End charm offensive, the bubbly bonhomie and then those nutritious meat pies dripping with cholesterol.
But now Upton Park is but a fading memory, some distant echo, that faint voice, a tattered chip paper, a forlorn cry in the dark, the past and history. To the fortnightly shoppers in the Green Street market, West Ham United and its association with Upton Park must seem like a tragic episode in a wonderful period drama.
Yesterday the current class of West Ham ran out of the tunnel at the London Stadium in this season's retro claret and blue shirt, light and dark with thin black stripes. There was the rock solid reliability of Issa Diop and Fabian Balbuena combining Paraguyan and French muscle and personality at the back. There was Aaron Cresswell, full of chirpy energy and well intentioned adventure but this was not to be one of Cresswell's more satisfying afternoons. Of course there were the marauding overlaps from full back but against a Manchester City side who were not in the mood to be charitable, poor Cresswell seemed to be overrun, overwhelmed and completely outpaced.
Last season Declan Rice emerged as one of West Ham's brightest of new, homegrown discoveries. Throughout Rice radiated ice cool composure and the calming aplomb of a player much older than his young years. He intercepted passes from visiting attacks as naturally as a man breathing, sleeping, eating and drinking. His positional sense was one of a young player who had been playing his football at the highest level and one who had experienced life and its cuisine from the top table.
But Rice and the usually thoughtful and probing midfield promptings of Jack Wilshere were somehow missing. Wilshere of course is potentially one of the most cultured players English football has produced in recent times but occasionally he looked like a man who had lost his map. That low centre of gravity which enables his body to swerve and then run positively at defences had now deserted him. The alarming tendency to frequent injury for lengthy spells more or less ruined his career at his boyhood club Arsenal but with the advent of a new season, Wilshere must be hoping that West Ham can now give him a new lease of life.
Alongside Wilshere is the beautifully balanced and hugely creative Manuel Lanzini, full of South American trickery, delicious improvisation and witty feet. Lanzini darts in and out of defences with all the artful dexterity of a mischievous pick pocket. He cuts and thrusts, weaving, dodging and forever scheming. Against Manchester City though Lanzini was rather like an archaeologist digging for gold, treasure and ancient coins.Everywhere Lanzini went a black Manchester City shirt was sure to follow.
With the frequently brilliant Felipe Anderson, the Brazilian sorcerer not quite up to the highly demanding standards he may obviously set himself, the ever roaming and wandering Michal Antonio trying desperately hard to out sprint his opponent, West Ham were forever puffing, panting for breath and chasing a lost cause. But new French striker Sebastian Haller at least gave the hint of promise holding up the ball cleanly and intelligently, threatening to score goals by the dozen. But this was not to be West Ham's day and that sense of deja vu felt by supporters who have seen this all before, all added up to another day of disappointment for the Happy Hammers.
For Manchester City this was just another day back at the red bricked footballing university that is Manchester City's playground. This is the place where the students of Manchester City receive their football education at a very advanced level. They knit and stitch their passes together rather like somebody creating some very elaborate tapestry. Their movement both and off the ball is too breathtaking for words, a wondrous display of instinct and intuition, their one and two touch football a richly gratifying sight that constantly baffled and bewildered.
When the evergreen David Silva linked up with hat-trick hero and now prolific attacker Raheem Sterling moved across the pitch with all the sleekness of a leopard on the African savanna, City were purring, humming and flowing in a way that has now become the norm. We may have seen City at their most frighteningly accomplished and for West Ham five for City could well have been six, seven or even eight.
The power points of City's football though had now generated so much electricity that for those leaving the London Stadium long before the end of the game the shock to their system is one they may have to get used to in the coming months. But then we could be pleasantly surprised because the element of unpredictability that runs through West Ham like a seaside rock could catch everybody out.
And yet there can be no telling what the future may hold for those bubble blowing West Ham supporters where nothing is what it may seem. For almost 40 years now, the claret and blue trophy cabinet has been empty, slowly turning into some dusty attic where cobwebs hang in grim isolation. Maybe one day though our patience will be rewarded and our loyal support given its just desserts. Football supporters will always believe that the impossible may yet become possible. If we shut our eyes and keep the faith perhaps those claret and blue fortunes that always fly will indeed land in the right spot. Oh to be a West Ham supporter!
As the soft, caressing breezes of summer give way to the plaintive moans of winter with all its moaning, groaning, whistling winds, this may be the time to welcome back the football season in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. You may be sure that all the British isles will be feeling distinctly jittery and jumpy as the date of Britain's withdrawal from the EU, aka the European Union, draws ever closer.
Yesterday at the London Stadium it was very much business as usual. West Ham were demolished, trodden into the ground, thrashed, thumped, naturally hammered and then crushed into the East London soil by the reigning supreme Premier League champions Manchester City by the kind of humiliatingly one sided scoreline that the locals must have become accustomed to by now but the feelings of bitterness and resentment remain inescapable.
For the last six seasons ago West Ham have become tiresomely pitted against the top six of the Premier League. Last season they were heavily beaten by Liverpool at Anfield 4-0 and in preceding seasons were undone, unravelled and undermined by both Chelsea and Manchester United away from home. The conspiracy theorists among the more seasoned faithful at the London Stadium must have thought those in the highest circles of the FA hierarchy have got it in for West Ham. But when they come to compile the fixture lists at the end of June this part of London may have to resign themselves to whatever fate throws up at them.
Still, there was an eerie sense of inevitability about a lunchtime afternoon in Stratford where the twin forces of commercialism and uncontrollable materialism meet head on while the claret and blue scarves, banners and flags of West Ham United mingle and jostle on match day quite happily. At the back of their minds are those long, gone nostalgic days of Upton Park when match day programmes were a glorious shilling or two and hot dogs were sixpence.
Some of us hold a soft spot for the close knit intimacy of Upton Park where the steepling terraces of the Chicken Run were an affectionate reference to one side of the ground. The North and South bank of course had always provided a deeply theatrical backdrop to the Boleyn Ground, another historical throwback to the Middle Ages. For those whose veins are now enduringly claret and blue, the sway and surge of the North Bank along with that unforgettable wintry light show that was the striking of a thousand cigarette matches will never ever be forgotten.
We who witnessed the Upton Park experience can still delight in the appearance of a massed brass band outside the players tunnel, the communality of it all, the feeling of togetherness and belonging to your favourite football club, the sense that you were part of something special. There was the woman lugging around the largest monkey nut bag in the world where, quite suddenly, bags of monkey nuts were launched almost optimistically into the 'Chicken Run'. There were the vulgar profanities, the East End charm offensive, the bubbly bonhomie and then those nutritious meat pies dripping with cholesterol.
But now Upton Park is but a fading memory, some distant echo, that faint voice, a tattered chip paper, a forlorn cry in the dark, the past and history. To the fortnightly shoppers in the Green Street market, West Ham United and its association with Upton Park must seem like a tragic episode in a wonderful period drama.
Yesterday the current class of West Ham ran out of the tunnel at the London Stadium in this season's retro claret and blue shirt, light and dark with thin black stripes. There was the rock solid reliability of Issa Diop and Fabian Balbuena combining Paraguyan and French muscle and personality at the back. There was Aaron Cresswell, full of chirpy energy and well intentioned adventure but this was not to be one of Cresswell's more satisfying afternoons. Of course there were the marauding overlaps from full back but against a Manchester City side who were not in the mood to be charitable, poor Cresswell seemed to be overrun, overwhelmed and completely outpaced.
Last season Declan Rice emerged as one of West Ham's brightest of new, homegrown discoveries. Throughout Rice radiated ice cool composure and the calming aplomb of a player much older than his young years. He intercepted passes from visiting attacks as naturally as a man breathing, sleeping, eating and drinking. His positional sense was one of a young player who had been playing his football at the highest level and one who had experienced life and its cuisine from the top table.
But Rice and the usually thoughtful and probing midfield promptings of Jack Wilshere were somehow missing. Wilshere of course is potentially one of the most cultured players English football has produced in recent times but occasionally he looked like a man who had lost his map. That low centre of gravity which enables his body to swerve and then run positively at defences had now deserted him. The alarming tendency to frequent injury for lengthy spells more or less ruined his career at his boyhood club Arsenal but with the advent of a new season, Wilshere must be hoping that West Ham can now give him a new lease of life.
Alongside Wilshere is the beautifully balanced and hugely creative Manuel Lanzini, full of South American trickery, delicious improvisation and witty feet. Lanzini darts in and out of defences with all the artful dexterity of a mischievous pick pocket. He cuts and thrusts, weaving, dodging and forever scheming. Against Manchester City though Lanzini was rather like an archaeologist digging for gold, treasure and ancient coins.Everywhere Lanzini went a black Manchester City shirt was sure to follow.
With the frequently brilliant Felipe Anderson, the Brazilian sorcerer not quite up to the highly demanding standards he may obviously set himself, the ever roaming and wandering Michal Antonio trying desperately hard to out sprint his opponent, West Ham were forever puffing, panting for breath and chasing a lost cause. But new French striker Sebastian Haller at least gave the hint of promise holding up the ball cleanly and intelligently, threatening to score goals by the dozen. But this was not to be West Ham's day and that sense of deja vu felt by supporters who have seen this all before, all added up to another day of disappointment for the Happy Hammers.
For Manchester City this was just another day back at the red bricked footballing university that is Manchester City's playground. This is the place where the students of Manchester City receive their football education at a very advanced level. They knit and stitch their passes together rather like somebody creating some very elaborate tapestry. Their movement both and off the ball is too breathtaking for words, a wondrous display of instinct and intuition, their one and two touch football a richly gratifying sight that constantly baffled and bewildered.
When the evergreen David Silva linked up with hat-trick hero and now prolific attacker Raheem Sterling moved across the pitch with all the sleekness of a leopard on the African savanna, City were purring, humming and flowing in a way that has now become the norm. We may have seen City at their most frighteningly accomplished and for West Ham five for City could well have been six, seven or even eight.
The power points of City's football though had now generated so much electricity that for those leaving the London Stadium long before the end of the game the shock to their system is one they may have to get used to in the coming months. But then we could be pleasantly surprised because the element of unpredictability that runs through West Ham like a seaside rock could catch everybody out.
And yet there can be no telling what the future may hold for those bubble blowing West Ham supporters where nothing is what it may seem. For almost 40 years now, the claret and blue trophy cabinet has been empty, slowly turning into some dusty attic where cobwebs hang in grim isolation. Maybe one day though our patience will be rewarded and our loyal support given its just desserts. Football supporters will always believe that the impossible may yet become possible. If we shut our eyes and keep the faith perhaps those claret and blue fortunes that always fly will indeed land in the right spot. Oh to be a West Ham supporter!
Saturday 3 August 2019
Rory Burns- England's Ashes hero par excellence.
Rory Burns - England's Ashes hero par excellence.
Rory Burns, English cricket's hero par excellence must have prayed for days like this. Edgbaston was still, slightly humid, naturally expectant and for a moment or two it thought of its sparkling predecessors. It thought of its towering giants, men such as Ian Botham, Len Hutton, Basil D'Oliveira, Ted Dexter, Cyril Washbrook, Alan Lamb, WG Grace, Dennis Amiss, Geoff Boycott and John Edrich, players of immense character and stature, players who were hungry for runs and never afraid to express the full range of their undoubted talents.
Yesterday though it was the turn of the young Surrey slogger Rory Burns to make the most emphatic of statements, underlining his signature at the right time and in the right place. For this was the second day of the Ashes Test, rather like a royal coronation in as much as it may be the one occasion when trumpets are blown and the heaving crowds roar for all their worth. |It is, quite possibly, one of the oldest sporting conflicts between two nations who can barely stand each other.
For as long as we can remember there has been lively banter at its most insulting, mutual hatred and disapproval of each other, loathing, intolerance but at the end of the day a reluctant handshake if they're feeling up to it. Cricket seems to gain a genuine pleasure from an England-Australia dust up because both teams seem to get a sadistic thrill out of each other's misfortune. This may not be the spirit in which sport should be played but this is the Ashes where two sets of gladiators clash shields and remain fixed on the one idea of striking each other to the ground.
As the gates at Edgbaston opened, thousands of loud, vociferous, feverish, pumped up, jovial England supporters surged onto the terraces, breathing fire and brimstone. Throughout the day they would keep up the most insistent racket, a noisy cacophony of good, old fashioned English songs, salty ditties designed not only to unsettle the Aussies but also ensure that they were the home team with home advantage. They were there to see England snatch back the Ashes again from Australia and nothing would stop them now.
Small children with ice creams, teenagers with vigorous chants and adults with masculine cheers, sat patiently waiting in enormous anticipation of the full blossom and finery of an England batting attack. The great cricketing commentators Neville Cardus and John Arlott would have waxed endlessly lyrical about an Ashes confrontation convinced that an English cricketing landscape was the loveliest and most picturesque of them all.
The Ashes though is still haunted and traumatised by the Body Line series over 80 years ago when the gentleman who was Douglas Jardine, the skipper, was accompanied by Harold Larwood and company. Now they terrorised the Australians with what seemed at the time some of the most damaging and destructive bowling ever seen. Forever more it will always be considered to be some of the most illegal cricket anybody has witnessed but then none of us could have known it at the time.
And so it was that we find ourselves back in the current day. World Champions England came into this match still shaking ever so slightly after a victory against Ireland which was never really comfortable. However, after brushing the Australian batting side all out for a seemingly meagre 284, England came bounding out of the Edgbaston pavilion like men with grenades in their hands. They were upright, upstanding, civilised and dignified men, men on a mission, men intent on wreaking havoc, mayhem and pandemonium, men with shrewd and perceptive eyes, men of the finest stock and breeding.
So it was that the main focus was on one Rory Burns, helmet fixed properly to his head, gloved hands clutching his bat rather like one of those City of London gents with a bowler hat on their head, the Financial Times firmly tucked under their arms and an umbrella over their heads to prevent rain. Burns looked very neat, well organised, methodical and desperate to impress. Burns had been selected for the England side because those in the know think this kid will go far. Of course the doubters may have thought otherwise but then what did they know about cricket? This was Burns time to establish himself in the England side, to build an innings of immense maturity and class.
After Jason Roy had carelessly lost his wicket to a catch at second slip for 10, Burns took complete command. He dug his bat purposefully and dogmatically into the ground like one of those construction workers all over London building houses for the next generation. Burns though is more of the pavement artist, mixing his watercolours and dabbing his impressionistic colours onto the paper. For the entire day Burns was all deep thought, intense concentration and youthful zest. He did everything English cricket hoped he would.
Burns was England's ultimate risk assessor, judging, measuring, analysing, forever vigilant, oozing both composure and an admirable doggedness of character that had to be admired. Soon he would be revealing a huge and varied array of violent driving through the covers, mid on and off, gorgeous shots that were swept off the back foot sweetly and contemptuously while always taking the time to watch the pigeons thoughtfully if he had a spare moment or two. Burns flicked, snicked, swung, clobbered and hammered for four at anything that might have dropped loose or was there to be hit.
In no time at all Burns reached his century with all the effortlessness of a gardener pruning their roses. By stumps at the end of the day Burns was on 125 not out. Some of the more bright eyed dreamers and optimists once again thought of Len Hutton 80 years ago when Hutton decided to take out all of his pent up frustration on Australia with that mammoth score of 364 in an England total of just over 900. Oh if only Burns could do the same to the present day crop of Baggy Green Caps.
Then England wobbled and collapsed ever so slightly. England captain Joe Root, who had begun his innings nudging the ball cleverly to all sides of the ground and cutting the ball powerfully when necessary, was cheaply caught and bowled by Peter Siddell. Root was followed hopefully by Joss Buttler, World Cup winning man of the hour, spent a brief occupation at the crease before falling for only five and then Jon Denly was unfortunately out for 18, lbw.
Rory Burns though stood tall and commanding while others were losing their heads. He slashed wildly at times but there was a controlled ease about Burns batting that never really looked like letting up. His footwork had all the nimbleness of a ballroom dancer and his shot selection reminded you of a poker player carefully weighing up their cards.
When stumps were drawn at the end of the day, Burns took off his helmet, ran his hands through his hair and then acknowledged the Edgbaston crowd with a flourish of the bat. Cricket let out a satisfied sigh, realising at once that they may have seen the next Ian Botham but tempering their appreciation with a mild concern about the game's commercial development.
For the first time in Ashes history both England and Australia wore numbers on their shirts, a concession to modern times of course but hard to accept for the many traditionalists. At this rate English cricket may have to get used to rock bands and silly gimmickry. What on earth would Sir Donald Bradman have thought of it all? The mind boggles.
Rory Burns, English cricket's hero par excellence must have prayed for days like this. Edgbaston was still, slightly humid, naturally expectant and for a moment or two it thought of its sparkling predecessors. It thought of its towering giants, men such as Ian Botham, Len Hutton, Basil D'Oliveira, Ted Dexter, Cyril Washbrook, Alan Lamb, WG Grace, Dennis Amiss, Geoff Boycott and John Edrich, players of immense character and stature, players who were hungry for runs and never afraid to express the full range of their undoubted talents.
Yesterday though it was the turn of the young Surrey slogger Rory Burns to make the most emphatic of statements, underlining his signature at the right time and in the right place. For this was the second day of the Ashes Test, rather like a royal coronation in as much as it may be the one occasion when trumpets are blown and the heaving crowds roar for all their worth. |It is, quite possibly, one of the oldest sporting conflicts between two nations who can barely stand each other.
For as long as we can remember there has been lively banter at its most insulting, mutual hatred and disapproval of each other, loathing, intolerance but at the end of the day a reluctant handshake if they're feeling up to it. Cricket seems to gain a genuine pleasure from an England-Australia dust up because both teams seem to get a sadistic thrill out of each other's misfortune. This may not be the spirit in which sport should be played but this is the Ashes where two sets of gladiators clash shields and remain fixed on the one idea of striking each other to the ground.
As the gates at Edgbaston opened, thousands of loud, vociferous, feverish, pumped up, jovial England supporters surged onto the terraces, breathing fire and brimstone. Throughout the day they would keep up the most insistent racket, a noisy cacophony of good, old fashioned English songs, salty ditties designed not only to unsettle the Aussies but also ensure that they were the home team with home advantage. They were there to see England snatch back the Ashes again from Australia and nothing would stop them now.
Small children with ice creams, teenagers with vigorous chants and adults with masculine cheers, sat patiently waiting in enormous anticipation of the full blossom and finery of an England batting attack. The great cricketing commentators Neville Cardus and John Arlott would have waxed endlessly lyrical about an Ashes confrontation convinced that an English cricketing landscape was the loveliest and most picturesque of them all.
The Ashes though is still haunted and traumatised by the Body Line series over 80 years ago when the gentleman who was Douglas Jardine, the skipper, was accompanied by Harold Larwood and company. Now they terrorised the Australians with what seemed at the time some of the most damaging and destructive bowling ever seen. Forever more it will always be considered to be some of the most illegal cricket anybody has witnessed but then none of us could have known it at the time.
And so it was that we find ourselves back in the current day. World Champions England came into this match still shaking ever so slightly after a victory against Ireland which was never really comfortable. However, after brushing the Australian batting side all out for a seemingly meagre 284, England came bounding out of the Edgbaston pavilion like men with grenades in their hands. They were upright, upstanding, civilised and dignified men, men on a mission, men intent on wreaking havoc, mayhem and pandemonium, men with shrewd and perceptive eyes, men of the finest stock and breeding.
So it was that the main focus was on one Rory Burns, helmet fixed properly to his head, gloved hands clutching his bat rather like one of those City of London gents with a bowler hat on their head, the Financial Times firmly tucked under their arms and an umbrella over their heads to prevent rain. Burns looked very neat, well organised, methodical and desperate to impress. Burns had been selected for the England side because those in the know think this kid will go far. Of course the doubters may have thought otherwise but then what did they know about cricket? This was Burns time to establish himself in the England side, to build an innings of immense maturity and class.
After Jason Roy had carelessly lost his wicket to a catch at second slip for 10, Burns took complete command. He dug his bat purposefully and dogmatically into the ground like one of those construction workers all over London building houses for the next generation. Burns though is more of the pavement artist, mixing his watercolours and dabbing his impressionistic colours onto the paper. For the entire day Burns was all deep thought, intense concentration and youthful zest. He did everything English cricket hoped he would.
Burns was England's ultimate risk assessor, judging, measuring, analysing, forever vigilant, oozing both composure and an admirable doggedness of character that had to be admired. Soon he would be revealing a huge and varied array of violent driving through the covers, mid on and off, gorgeous shots that were swept off the back foot sweetly and contemptuously while always taking the time to watch the pigeons thoughtfully if he had a spare moment or two. Burns flicked, snicked, swung, clobbered and hammered for four at anything that might have dropped loose or was there to be hit.
In no time at all Burns reached his century with all the effortlessness of a gardener pruning their roses. By stumps at the end of the day Burns was on 125 not out. Some of the more bright eyed dreamers and optimists once again thought of Len Hutton 80 years ago when Hutton decided to take out all of his pent up frustration on Australia with that mammoth score of 364 in an England total of just over 900. Oh if only Burns could do the same to the present day crop of Baggy Green Caps.
Then England wobbled and collapsed ever so slightly. England captain Joe Root, who had begun his innings nudging the ball cleverly to all sides of the ground and cutting the ball powerfully when necessary, was cheaply caught and bowled by Peter Siddell. Root was followed hopefully by Joss Buttler, World Cup winning man of the hour, spent a brief occupation at the crease before falling for only five and then Jon Denly was unfortunately out for 18, lbw.
Rory Burns though stood tall and commanding while others were losing their heads. He slashed wildly at times but there was a controlled ease about Burns batting that never really looked like letting up. His footwork had all the nimbleness of a ballroom dancer and his shot selection reminded you of a poker player carefully weighing up their cards.
When stumps were drawn at the end of the day, Burns took off his helmet, ran his hands through his hair and then acknowledged the Edgbaston crowd with a flourish of the bat. Cricket let out a satisfied sigh, realising at once that they may have seen the next Ian Botham but tempering their appreciation with a mild concern about the game's commercial development.
For the first time in Ashes history both England and Australia wore numbers on their shirts, a concession to modern times of course but hard to accept for the many traditionalists. At this rate English cricket may have to get used to rock bands and silly gimmickry. What on earth would Sir Donald Bradman have thought of it all? The mind boggles.
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