So another General Election.

So another General Election.

Yes folks. It's absolutely true. You really couldn't make this one up. If there are any crystal ball gazers out there or those of a Nostradamus persuasion then you can now take a bow and claim some sort of vindication. In our heart of hearts we probably knew it was coming but we were never quite sure when. But the most closely guarded secret is now out in the public domain and we told you. Or maybe we did and you were hoping that it wouldn't happen after all.

Unless you've taken a short break a million miles away from Planet Earth you'll know that on the 12th of December Britain will once again be traipsing off to their local school, church or community centre to ink an X on their ballot form for yet another General Election. These General Elections seem to be multiplying and breeding because the last one only seemed like yesterday. This is quite clearly a gross exaggeration but owing to circumstances quite beyond our control here in Britain none of our esteemed members of Parliament can make up their minds.

It only seems like yesterday since former Prime Minister David Cameron was leading us into some strange, surreal political wilderness where all was barren land, broken promises and misplaced optimism. Regrettably, events have taken a turn for the worse, and those maverick politicians have told nothing but lies, malicious lies, half baked lies and lies to turn your stomach. They have left us with a whole load of emotional baggage, crossed lines and nasty, rancorous bust ups in the now echoing lobbies and corridors of Westminster.

And yet for three years those Cabinet and Shadow cabinet ministers have engaged in a kind of no holds barred argument, an appalling series of verbal fisticuffs that have polarised, antagonised and totally alienated the whole of Britain. Families have been at war, children have been crying because their cans have been kicked down the road and, according to latest market research figures, almost the whole population of Britain have taken to the streets with their anguished yells. Brexit has officially driven us around the bend and that's the truth.

But yesterday matters came to a head for those of us who believe that in the middle of all this strife, stress and pandemonium something had to give eventually. And it did. Boris Johnson called a General Election a fortnight before Boxing Day and for the satirists out there this felt like the worst kind of comical timing. So put down your Christmas shopping bags just for a minute and allow this realisation to wash all over you. You've got less than a couple of weeks to go before the trees, tinsel and turkey are all ready in your home, waiting to be displayed on your groaning Christmas Day table.

For the first time though since 1923 a General Election in the depths of winter has been announced. Now hang on. Does that mean we'll all have to don our winter pullovers, thick coats and woollen gloves just because our members of Parliament have told us to go down to the said school or church and decide who should lead the country. Usually General Elections are held when the first cuckoos of spring have made themselves heard or, quite possibly, the middle of summer when most of us are in T-shirts and shorts.

And yet with a blatant disregard for our welfare and health, Boris and his chums have told us that if we don't vote him back as Prime Minister he'll never talk to us again or maybe he'll just throw a petulant tantrum. You wouldn't put it beyond him. The chances are that come December 12 the Tories, with Boris Johnson riding the crest of wave will crush Jeremy Corbyn in the most emphatic fashion, sailing into the serene waters of a handsome victory. It could be the most one sided Election victory Britain has ever witnessed.

Back in the 1980's when Margaret Thatcher and Neil Kinnock were knocking seven bells out of each other for both Conservative and Labour parties respectively, the scenario was strikingly similar. Kinnock was spouting fiery Socialist discourse and Thatcher was committed to a whole new dawn of British politics where the fields would always be green, full employment would be absolutely guaranteed and Denis, her husband, could take as much time as he liked on the golf course.

Sadly though for Neil Kinnock it didn't go according to plan. In the now infamous beach scene where Kinnock and wife Glenys started stumbling on the sand and then falling over as the tide threatened to sweep them away, Labour were comprehensively smashed and blasted into a thousand pieces by Mrs  Thatcher.

Then there was the Sheffield pre election rally where poor Kinnock got all of his words twisted up and then found himself reduced to a gibbering wreck when he discovered that he hadn't a clue what he was talking about. Kinnock kept telling us about sun lit uplands, boundless prosperity and a brave new world where the factories would always hum and people would be so much happier under the Labour party. For the 1980s read 2019. It's all very symmetrical.

Today Jeremy Corbyn has finally got his wish and the No Deal concept that he felt should have been taken off the table has now been removed as that pesky obstacle in his way. The bearded one from Islington can finally tell all his friends that the blond one from Uxbridge has finally given into that relentless period of delaying, dawdling and dithering. He can now look the country in the face and shamefacedly convince us that he's the man for the job at 10 Downing Street. This could be a battle royale when in all reality we can be rest assured that it'll be nothing more than a straightforward knock out after three rounds.

Still, for the next three weeks, Corbyn will tour the country, jumping onto orange crates in sceptical shopping centres, put a megaphone to his mouth and grind out the same old story. He will gaze across at all the Costa coffee shops, the very profitable Pret A Mangers with their rich variety of both organic or wholemeal sandwiches and will loudly proclaim his suitability for the job of Prime Minister. We know fully well though, that no amount of converting or prosletysing will change the public's minds because they know, with some certainty, that Corbyn is just a chancer, a supreme opportunist and full of boiling hot air.

Of course Corbyn will forever be haunted by the dark shadows that have followed him everywhere he goes. His unforgivable antisemtic outbursts, his stubborn attachment to Hamas and all of their associated terrorist groups could well be the complete ruination of him. He will ultimately be judged for the man he is rather than the man he'd like to be. There are the extremist leanings and the persistent advocacy of everything that could be regarded as backward thinking rather than forward. We may well be heading towards a humiliating wipe out for Corbyn come December 12 and it's advisable to look away now.

So it's off to the polls we go on our merry way with plenty of festive cheer. We are now in uncharted territory because this isn't the way some of us thought this would turn out. After endless breast beating, agonising acrimony and damaging, ding, dong doubts at every corner you'd have thought we were much closer to a breakthrough conclusion where somebody actually comes up with a result one way or the other.

But here we are on the last day of October, contemplating pumpkins and witches on broomsticks. It may be Halloween but we are as far away from a Brexit withdrawal as it's possible to be. Today was the day the teddy bears were supposed to be having their picnic. It also marks, quite poignantly, the final day of the Speaker of the House John Bercow's occupancy of that very lofty chair. With a lump in his throat and maybe a tear or two in his eye he thanked his loving wife and children. Maybe he privately puffed out his cheeks with relief. It was time to rest that weary throat. Give that man a medal.

Another Brexit delay until the end of next January.

Another Brexit delay until the end of next January.

We are now almost at the end of our tether and we are most certainly fed up. Today, with perhaps the heaviest of hearts, Prime Minister Boris Johnson reluctantly decided that we weren't quite ready to come out of the European Union. We were meant to sever our ties with that grand old monolith known as Brussels towers on Halloween night this Thursday but some of the witches exercised their evil powers and now we find ourselves at square one. Quite obviously mention of pumpkin pies and trick and treating was enough to scare the living daylights out of our European counterparts.

But fear not the blond bombshell who is Boris Johnson has got everything under his control- well everything that is apart from the unruly shock of hair on his head. Only kidding Boris. The fact is of course that Boris is beginning to get the hang of this Prime Minister lark- there is definitely an air of statesmanship and tact about the man that does change your perception of the Uxbridge dynamo. The trouble is though that we are no closer to leaving the EU than we were on March 31st.

Here we are in the closing chapters of another year and it's all very vague, woolly, totally indecipherable, maddeningly inconclusive and just a pain in the neck. We are quite literally living in a parallel universe and nobody seems to have a clue what the other is supposed to be doing. There are bulky documents that may as well have been written in Esperanto or hieroglyphics. They remind you of the ramblings of some very confused caveman who would much rather be painting on walls or hunting for food.

The fact is though that talk has now turned to the very real possibility of a General Election on December 12. This means that dear old Santa Claus will have to move himself because at this rate the mince pies may have to be eaten in double quick time. This afternoon Boris Johnson pleaded for the opportunity to go to the ballot box, imploring his Labour opponent Jeremy Corbyn to go to the country. Johnson has now repeatedly told us that his Tory government had run its course, was out on its feet, worn out and ready for the knackers yard.

There comes a point in a man's life when you've got to with your gut instinct and after all these long and drawn out, tiresome and loathsome discussions and deliberations some of us are just heartily sick of it all. It almost feels as if the collective rabble who make up the House of Commons have stolen three years out of our lives without a single pause for breath. They have tormented us with endless twaddle, loosened their tongues with devastating attacks on each other's intelligence, pounded our ears with loud voices and then landed savage verbal blows the like of which we have rarely seen before.

And now they have the audacity to stretch it out for the rest of the year and who knows perhaps deep into the 25th century when men and women wearing odd looking space suits will be tearing their hair out because they simply can't stand their blistering, blustering rhetoric. Surely not though. At some point some very rational voice of commonsense will put a stop to all of this totally inelegant language, this vacuous vocabulary, this ridiculously clumsy and cumbersome grammar and this insistence on outrageous literary absurdity.

Now though we are seriously beginning to believe that the public have simply been sold down the river, unnecessarily stressed out and are now quite literally on the point of just completely giving up on politicians permanently. How on earth are we to believe or place any trust on the kind of people who keep spinning their soundbites, patronising us with garbled, made up words and phrases and then spitefully spitting out yet more poison, bile and vitriol on the radio airwaves of Britain? Ya boo sucks.

And yet why should we endure and tolerate this idiosyncratic behaviour, this headlong rush towards that fiery pit of endless pomposity? But hold on, maybe we've known this for years anyway so why should any of this current conduct come as any great surprise? They sit on those bright green benches everyday, standing up and sitting down, flourishing their sheaves of paper, giggling, gurning, guffawing, sniggering, hollering, shouting, grandstanding and then desperately trying to get one over each other. It is the mentality of the nursery class where paint brushes are thrown and the kids who are supposed to be listening to the morning story would rather poke their tongues at the teacher behind their backs.

Eventually we'll have to put our allegedly honourable politicians in detention and ready to pay for their unbearable misdemeanours. It's time to do those lines. They must write this sentence. We will never mention the word Brexit again 500 times. If that doesn't frighten them then nothing will. This time they've gone too far. Yes you Johnson! Yes you Gove and yes you Rees Mogg! We will not stand for your wholesale destruction of the English language and we will never understand why or how it's come to this impasse, this roadblock, this grinding halt.

Who can possibly believe that the 31st January is just some random date in the calendar when some decision that should have been made final last March is simply a figment of our imagination? This is beginning to resemble some very silly game of Hide and Seek where everybody races around looking for an object that doesn't really exist anyway. Still, this has to be a very plausible alternative to the BBC Test Card. Oh why didn't that girl finish off that game of noughts and crosses? For the Test Card read Brexit.

Still, we can feel a General Election is just around the corner. The problem now is that the proposed date may disrupt our Christmas shopping and deciding either the red or blue of a new Government in the middle of December is almost inappropriately problematic. But they can count on our votes or maybe not. They won't let us down, honestly. When was the last time a new Government betrayed us or made a fool of us?  We could always cancel Christmas if only to make room for some more riveting Brexit lectures. Let's get out the Trivial Pursuit. What a good idea.

England reach the rugby union World Cup Final.

England reach the rugby union World Cup Final.

Crikey, they've done it again! Who'd have thought it possible? Months after celebrating their famous World Cup Final victory over New Zealand, England pulled off the same trick against the same nation but this time in the rugby union code. This could be the year of the uncanny coincidence. Does sport get any better or more rewarding? You wait years for England to win something and then two roll up when least expected. Beggars though can't be choosers. But England are in another sporting World Cup Final and who cares what those stuffy bureaucrats at the EU may be thinking?

The fact is though that Eddie Jones brave white shirted men from England have reached their first World Cup Final since 2007 and that's no mean feat. Four years before of course, under the shrewd and savvy leadership of Martin Johnson, England had beaten a cocksure Australian team with Jonny Wilkinson's much adored and acclaimed last second penalty that swung over the posts in a romantic parabola.

Still, here we are in 2019 and it looks as if it's happening all over again. Maybe their appointment with destiny is much closer than we ever thought it would be. Set in context a win against the All Blacks, regardless of its nature, has to be savoured and early this morning at British time, England were the epitome of gallantry, the very vision of chivalry, English knights in armour and they played the kind of virile, vigorous and swashbuckling rugby rarely seen at this exalted level.

The shackles were off, the inhibitions lost in a haze and some of us are genuinely excited. England are on fire, dashing, moving in unison, darting once again, driving through the lines, winning decisive ball at the breakdown, winning line outs with an effortless and knowledgeable air and just very good. Here against the great All Blacks, once one of the most untouchable sides in the world and still looking pretty sharply debonair when the mood takes them, England matched New Zealand ruck for ruck and pass for pass.

For the better part of the first half England were in strategic, thoughtful mood, aggressive and combative when they had to be and then sweeping down the pitch as if defeat would never enter their minds for a second. They outmuscled the All Blacks, they outran the All Blacks, they broke down all of the psychological obstacles that the men in black might have set for them. It was rugby from the old days, rugby that was continuously enthralling and rugby that was, quite naturally, of the highest quality.

But this was an England side who were determined to rise to the big occasion come what may. The rumours were that the All Blacks would just get out the steamroller and then tread all over England, a big, muscular pack who would just hammer the English into the ground without a single apology. England were tough as old boot leather, sticking rigidly to their original game plan and never allowing their opponents the luxury of a breather.

Under the quiet but heavily influential captaincy of Owen Farrell, England pinned back New Zealand into their own half time and again. As a collective unit, England were strong, feisty, well organised, fitter than they've ever been before and rolling steadily towards the All Blacks try line with red blooded masculinity, charging forward at will, shouldering arms to the cause and just forcing their opponents back into meek submission.

When Manu Tuilagi gave the lead with a cleverly worked try after 35 seconds it seemed as if we were living in a fantasy world. Nothing could have been further from the case. England just kept pushing, probing, committing the All Blacks into rash mistakes and without a thought for their own well being, just diving into the danger areas, snatching the ball back in vital areas of the pitch, stealing a march as they say, going for broke and gambling like the most experienced poker player.

There were frequent moments throughout the game when you kept expecting the All Blacks to just win back possession and just turn on their inimitable style. You were convinced that the majestic All Blacks from years gone by would swish the matador's cape and break down English resistance. You feared that  New Zealand, with their pretty passing range and fleet footed rhythms, would simply wipe out England with their unique flair and individual brilliance. Not today though, certainly not today.

This was England's time, a side dedicated to the task of stopping the All Blacks from winning what would have been their third consecutive World Cup trophy. However hard the Kiwis tried though, they were just flabbergasted by English grit, determination and beefy commitment. There was nothing that the now outgoing World Champions could do about this valiant white shirted forward advance. England were sharper in the ruck invariably plunging on the ball before offloading to colleagues within perfect proximity. England were hunting in packs and when the ball went loose they were quicker and brighter, forceful and purposeful.

When the ever present Jonny May helped himself to a whole barrel load of penalty conversions to increase England's lead, suddenly we were looking at a major shock. Nobody could have seen this one coming or could they? The New Zealand juggernaut had lost its way, its engines burnt and left to smoke alarmingly in the face of a tremendous England onslaught. England were just heroic, fearless, bristling and snarling viciously, purring and humming, pulling on the handbrake when the All Blacks threatened just after half time but never shaken or stirred at any point during the game.

To their eternal credit the All Blacks did get back into the game briefly with the simplest of tries after a temporary lapse in English defensive concentration. Julian Savea was quick witted to notice a gap in the English defence after England had failed to pick up the ball and Savea's try gave New Zealand hope when none had even remotely existed.

England though were not to be deterred nor downhearted. They grabbed hold of possession once again and drilled through the All Blacks in a dizzying whirlwind of passes, flipping the ball between themselves, a bewildering blur of hands weaving in and out of a New Zealand side as if they weren't there. From time to time the play would be halted, white shirts floored for perhaps a minute or two but England knew they had their opponents measure.

But then the reliable Jonny May potted another penalty and George Ford whipped over another handsome penalty that would finally silence the all singing Kiwis. The pre match haka would fizzle out into a slow waltz and the final whistle would signal another England World Cup Final appearance.

Now England await the outcome of the other semi final tomorrow between Wales and South Africa and lips are being licked at the prospect of another rugby contest designed for the purists. For those of us living in the green and pleasant lands of Britain, an England- Wales World Cup Final feels like the greatest sporting confrontation of all time. Across the soaring mountains  of England and the timeless valleys of Wales voices will increase in volume by the minute and day. We can barely believe it all and yet who knows? Loyalties will be tested and hearts will be in mouths. For those with nerves of steel this could be the ultimate challenge. You're advised to sit tight, hold onto your chairs and just enjoy the moment. Not a single soul will be taking bets on what happens now. 

Chelsea are back in the limelight again.

Chelsea are back in the limelight again.

How good it is to see the emergence of Chelsea's youngsters again. Having admirably beaten the once legendary Ajax of Amsterdam last night in the Johan Cruyff Arena, we were reminded of just how much progress the managerial novice Frank Lampard, with his bright and breezy team, are now making everybody sit up and take notice. The 1-0 win in the Dutch capital capped a deeply encouraging, signpost victory for an extremely young Chelsea side who are not only challenging for honours again but doing it in the right way.

But it was their very controlled performance against the once unbeatable Ajax that must have brought even greater satisfaction to all concerned at Stamford Bridge. While not quite the sprightly entertainers of Dave Sexton's 1970s boys in blue, current manager Frank Lampard is still learning his managerial apprenticeship.

 There is a feeling that Lampard's nurturing of both a hardcore of English players and his continued support of Brazilians Willian and Jorginho will offer much in the way of the attacking fluency that may have gone missing under both Antonio Conte and, last season the moody, lugubrious Maurizio Sarri who often looked as if he'd just lost a tenner. Mind you he did once work in a bank so that would have explained everything. Still, he could always have asked Ken Bates for a pound.

Back in the season's infancy the young bloods of Chelsea completely overran and outclassed a Wolves side who had surprised everybody last season with some of the most enterprising and classy football that the old gold shirts of Wolverhampton Wanderers had produced for ages. Chelsea though sliced open, cut to pieces and then scored five goals at Moulineux in a joyful 5-2 victory. Some of the locals had never seen anything like it since the halcyon days of Billy Wright, Bill Slater, Jimmy Mullen and Johnny Hancocks were in their prime. Wolves must have thought Ted Drake's Chelsea ducklings had come back from yesteryear and bitten them fiercely.

However, you were also reminded yesterday evening of the sharp downfall of Dutch football in recent years. True, Ajax did reach the Champions League semi final last season but Dutch football was achingly missing at last year's World Cup in Russia. A Netherlands team at any World Cup is rather like a slap up four course meal with an abundance of caviar. Your mind was gently transported to those marvellous days of the 1970s when Holland paraded so much that was rich and lavishly talented only to end up with the wooden spoon.

Holland had it all. There was the indisputable genius of Johan Cruyff, the equally as imposing Johan Neeskens, the hard working and tireless Wim Van Hanegem and the ferocious shooting of Ruud Krol, who once almost broke the net with a 30 yard piledriver against Italy. Even now Dino Zoff, Italy's safe as houses goalkeeper must look back on that seminal moment in his career and shudder with horror. Italy would never be the same again although Holland would proceed to reach two consecutive World Cup Finals losing both to West Germany and Argentina respectively.

Still, back in the present day, Ajax Amsterdam continue to be the foremost representatives for Dutch football. You can still, from time to time, hear the echoes of Cruyff, Robbie Rensenbrink and Neeskens because Ajax will always be searching for the lost gold that gave so much during the 1970s. Comparisons with the Ajax of old will always be odious since no one team can resemble their predecessors from another era. Somebody will have to put away the mirror.

For Chelsea though their Champions League group match against Ajax was a salutary reminder of what happens when you neglect a team for so long. The current Ajax side is hardly the worst team that will wear those famous colours but their gradual climb back to the brocaded beauty of a former era may take some time to come of age. There were flashes of the silks and satins of Cruyff and company but little to suggest that one day in the not so distant future, a Champions League trophy will be adorning their trophy cabinet.

Chelsea, for their, part had an impressive collection of young English talent such as the outstanding Callum Hudson Odoi, a player of perfect poise, balance and an insatiable appetite for goals. Then there was the recently England capped Mason Mount, a stylish, quick witted and neat midfield player who could become anything he wants to be. Tammy Abraham also figured prominently for Chelsea, making space for himself quite readily and shaping to score from all angles.

Furthermore Jorginho and Willian also brought their very own exotic Brazilian blend to the game with their vision, extra sensory perception and their steady ball control. Since when did a Brazilian ever lose that timeless aptitude for finding the right pass and the right weight of pass? Their feathery touches and natural attacking gifts have almost become second nature to them.

And yet after their shocking 4-0 capitulation to Manchester United on the opening day of the season, Chelsea remain unscathed and ready to pick up the baton again. They have made the most rapid of recoveries although the workmanlike 1-0 victory against Newcastle United last weekend wasn't quite what most Chelsea fans were expecting. Maybe they were looking for just a tad more salt and pepper from their team. Besides, Stamford Bridge always did appreciate a show stopper.

Time for Brexit - or not?

Time for Brexit- or not?

So here we are at the business end of Brexit and still we wonder and ponder, arguing and then  hurtling towards a cul-de-sac from which there can be no easy escape. None of us are any the wiser than we were three years ago when this whole political freak show started in earnest. You begin to imagine what that great wit, humorist, wordsmith and bon viveur Oscar Wilde would have made of this pathetic charade. To lose three successive votes in the way that Theresa May did some months back looks like carelessness. Then again we could be accused of wildly misquoting the ever lyrical Irish playwright and novelist.

The fact of the matter is that we are now 10 days away from the leaving date which takes Britain out of the EU and after innumerable advertising campaigns and almost saturation media coverage the future destiny of the UK has never been in more doubt. Its soured relations with the whole machinery of the EU bureaucratic network remain one of the hottest potatoes in recent political history.

Over the weekend the House of Commons did a rare spot of overtime when they all convened for another session of nattering, chattering, waving papers in the air, jumping up and down as if on hot coals and then realising that they were just parroting something they'd said a thousand times before. They stood up and sat down, loudly competing for attention and then told to keep quiet by the speaker of the House John Bercow. Then they retired for the day and some of us were more perplexed than ever before.

Did the Prime Minister really win permission to pursue his EU withdrawal agreement and had he finally got through to the stubborn naysayers who kept sniping at him for just being Boris Johnson? For once there was an overwhelming agreement in the air and we were entitled to believe that finally we were reaching the end of a very long road. But hold on the DUP, our Irish friends, were still in uproar. What about  us? We've been criminally overlooked in this vast European discussion where nobody wins any brownie points and the only winners are the people who think they've won.

There are of course formidable obstacles in our way. The truth is that on the 31st October we will almost certainly be leaving the European Union with or without a deal. Now the bone of contention here is that it could go desperately wrong on the day and we could end up at square one again which is no good for any of us. The experts will tell us that this one news agenda could drag on interminably and we'll all regret the invention of the TV and radio.

Today the |Speaker of the House John Bercow once again demanded civility and propriety with the dearest wish that somehow between now and the end of the month heads will be bashed together, Boris Johnson will stop swivelling his body menacingly, turning his head to one side and then thrusting his arm at his Labour adversary Jeremy Corbyn as if not sure what to do or say that will satisfy anybody in the House. Then Johnson started flailing his fingers at Corbyn in much the way a child would accuse another of stealing their conkers.

We are now in counter productive, nobody wins anything territory where the only result is a stalemate. There is a great deal of overly boisterous shouting and unnecessary jaw jawing going on, the kind of sound that reminds you of one of those huge ghetto blasters you used to see in London parks during the 1980s. Everything is becoming unbearably inconsequential, the most tempestuous bear pit you've ever heard or seen. The language is simply more gobbledygook, more drivel, linguistic madness and the strangulation of the English language we've always cherished.

The latest subjects to be both translated and just made so much plainer to the English speaking world are the Customs Union, the Irish borders, the World Trade Organisation and whether we should simply tell the rest of Europe to sling their hook and never darken our corridors again. At times it almost feels as if somebody is drilling the most annoying pneumatic drill through our heads remorselessly.

Then our attention is drawn back to those stupid, collective terms for those seasoned campaigners who are still unsure which way to go. Ladies and Gentlemen, the Brexiteers are still around us and they'll never go away until you give them a copy of the Times but certainly not the European for their further reading pleasure. There can be no doubt that for the moment we're just going around in circles and the sooner somebody raises their head above the parapet saying  something reasoned and sensible the better it will be for all of us. We will sigh with immense relief and gratitude. We will shake their hands and, quite possibly, buy them a drink.

For now the scenes outside the House of Commons are indescribably bizarre. Westminster is a sea of Union Jacks, the allegedly loathsome EU flags, a gentleman who sounds remarkably like a town crier, a very anguished population of Londoners and who ever else wants to join in. There are small knots of TV reporters and flashing cameras determined to capture something that their viewers or listeners will always remember them by.

The tragedy of course that we could be detained here for several generations and for those who may be pleading for a resolution, there can only be deep sympathy and repeated requests for time and patience. But time is running out and a vast majority of us will be willing the result to go in our favour- whatever the result may be. Of course we'll all be biting our finger nails with anticipation as if they haven't taken enough punishment.

And so we find ourselves on the brink, teetering on the edge, hoping against hope but not really knowing why. The public think they want a second referendum because nobody told them what on earth those politicians were talking about after the first one. As far as they were concerned the result may just as well have been a score draw and fully deserving of a replay at Anfield. There have been screaming matches and slanging matches on the BBC's Question Time, childish petulance on the panel, accusation and counter accusation, threatening finger jabbing, endless statistics and a public who have just had enough of this all. Maybe, just maybe we should have another General Election. Now that would be fun. We can't wait. It's time for another session of yawning.

England rugby union boys get their own back after Ashes defeat.

England rugby union boys get their own back after Ashes defeat.

We knew they could do it and they did. Sometimes the planets are so perfectly aligned and the stars shining in the right position that when England sporting teams walk onto their pitches, they somehow know it's going to be the right day. We had a sixth sense about this one, an inkling, a spine tingling premonition that grew stronger by the minute and the hour. When the English cricket team trooped off the field at the Oval, shoulders slumped and spirits drooping after reluctantly giving back the Ashes to Australia, we didn't think for a moment that a day such as this would ever arrive.

Well, here we are in the opening weeks of an autumnal October and an English rugby union team in the far off distant lands of the Far East have come up trumps. In the mystical splendour of a Japanese day, Eddie Jones freewheeling, cavalier England team quite literally threw caution to the wind and secured their place in a rugby union World Cup semi final. How about that one? We have to believe now that this could be one of the most successful years in English sporting history. The full blossom of English cricket burst into colour with an epic World Cup Final victory against New Zealand.

There were the illustrious likes of Ben Stokes, full of character and charisma, Joe Root, full of tough, unyielding Yorkshire grit and relentless endeavour, Jonny Bairstow busting a gut for his country without even the remotest thought of defeat on his mind. We knew in our heart of our hearts that Australia were there for the taking in that cliffhanger of a World Cup semi final. And of course we were not to be disappointed when all of the above went on thrillingly to beat New Zealand in the World Cup Final.

But after the deflating setback of the Ashes debacle, England were back on form but this time on a rugby pitch where chests were puffed out to their fullest and English patriotism was at its height. The critics, of whom there must have been few and far between, were probably skulking away in the corner waiting patiently for what they thought would prove England's last stand, a calamity that was about to happen at any minute.

Eddie Jones meticulously drilled England had other ideas, a white shirted battalion full of running that couldn't be held back, scurrying, scampering, dodging and burrowing a path through a rapidly backpedalling Australian back row. Across the wide open expanses of the pitch, England carried the ball with entrancing tenacity, ducking and diving deceptively, pushing and shoving through huge columns of a gold and yellow Australian team who, although full of streetwise intelligence themselves, simply couldn't cope with the English bombardment from the backs to those meaty props and hookers eating up the ground.

There was  the big, bold, bruising and belligerent Kyle Sinckler who picked up the ball and then ran with it as if he just wished he could keep the ball and take it home with him. Sinckler was the first to run in the first of the English tries, a barnstorming belter of a try that lit the English touch paper. Then with the game still finely poised, England drove their way back into the game and rammed home their technical superiority.

Henry Slade, the Exeter Chiefs fly half, with a breahtless interception, revved up the engines, pushed his feet on the accelerator, pelted at full speed with the ball, sprinted as if his life depended on it then offloaded perceptively to the galloping Anthony Watson. Watson it was who gladly grabbed Slade's feed before roaring over the try line and dunking the ball over for yet another pulsating try for England. What on earth would have been going through the minds of the folks back home for a country on the verge of a political history of their own?

With captain fantastic Owen Farrell leading from the back to the front and kicking shrewdly placed conversions of his own, England were in full flight, dashing, jinking and jiving, whipping passes across the centre of the pitch before winning judicious ball in the rucks and mauls. Then Jonny May weighed in with a magnificent try after some clever and inspirational handiwork, the ball fizzing from one hand to the other as if magnetised.

So it is that an English rugby union side is a tantalising step closer to emulating the class of 2003 when Jonnny Wilkinson lofted that drop kick cum penalty that went steepling into the Australian air and won England the World Cup 16 years ago. It only seems like yesterday of course but how we must be hoping that the brave red rose, white shirted men from England and its shires, counties and cities could do it all over again. The English sporting year is rapidly turning into a wondrous street carnival. Bring on those trumpets and drums. It may be the right time to party like we've never partied before.

It was 46 years ago today.

It was 46 years ago today.

Those ghostly, whistling winds are still haunting the England football team of a certain vintage. It was indeed 46 years ago today when Sir Alf Ramsey, the architect of arguably England's finest hour, looked ashen faced searching desperately for a hole in the ground. In 1966 it was fated that England would win the World Cup in front of their own adoring Wembley fans.

 Roll forward seven years later and the atmosphere would assume a much more sinister aspect. Years and decades later and it still seems barely believable. England would be denied a place at the 1974 World Cup in West Germany by the most horrific howler ever seen on a football pitch. The inquests followed rather like the aftermath of a celebrated court case. It just didn't seem possible at the time but on reflection we should have seen it coming from miles off.

Months earlier in Katowice, the imperious World Cup winning captain Bobby Moore had his rush of blood to the head when he dithered outside his own penalty area thereby leaving Poland the freedom of the country to capitalise on Moore's hesitation, beating England quite easily in the end. At the time none of us thought it would become the forerunner of a series of banana skins in England's World Cup group. They had also struggled terribly against Wales but weeks before England's return match with Poland at Wembley in 1973, England had emphatically thumped Austria 7-0 at Wembley.

And so it was that on this day in October Poland had come to Wembley privately fearing another demolition from the English bulldozer. Most of the nation still believed, with an unreasonable arrogance, that all they had to do was turn up on the night, close their eyes, swagger across those hallowed North London acres, pull up a deckchair, plant some sun glasses over their eyes, stick on the traditional sun factor and just wait for the flood of goals to arrive. But then it all went haywire.

In the ITV studios on the night of the game, Brian Clough, perhaps lamenting what might have been, referred to the Polish keeper Jan Tomaszewski  as the ultimate circus clown. That night Tomaszewski performed so many acrobatics that by the end of the game even the high wire trapeze act was laughing their head off. The remarkable Polish keeper stopped everything that England could fire at him, flinging himself outrageously at everything, tipping shots over  the bar at point blank, spreading his body across at marauding attackers and generally acting as an impenetrable shield in front of his goal.

For 90 minutes the tall, bustling, broad shouldered Martin Chivers who by then had become an established fixture in Spurs forward line, hurled and launched himself heroically in the air at every cross that came his way that night. But the Polish fortress would refuse to budge and Chivers just slouched his way dejectedly away from Wembley that night rather like somebody who'd just missed the last train. If only the Polish goal had been ever so slightly bigger for Chivers.

But you could never have accused England of not trying. They threw the cliched kitchen sink at the Polish keeper, bombarding the visitors keeper with every shot in the book. A whole sequence of shots either crashed off the post, bounced around the Polish penalty area like a smouldering grenade and then the ball just assumed an air of feeble defeat and resignation.

Then it happened because, quite frankly it does at times even when you think it won't. With the minutes ticking away inexorably the Leeds United hard man Norman Hunter went in for a tackle on the half way line that was never likely to be his. Hunter's mind was quite clearly in another post code when he lunged at a ball that was closer to Neasden than Wembley. In a tangle of legs Hunter lost the ball as Gadocha went haring away with the ball at his feet before laying the ball square for Domarski who slamned the ball under the body of England goalkeeper Peter Shilton.

So it was that the shy and reserved man who had delivered England their only World Cup, shrugged his shoulders, scowled gloweringly at the cameras around him and then just trudged away into yet more gloom. Sir Alf Ramsey, so acclaimed and eulogised by the whole of England seven years earlier, now became the villain of the piece, the hooded man, the vilified man, the man who simply wanted to creep away from the scene of the crime in the hope that nobody would notice him.

 Ramsey was sacked, given his marching orders and a man named Brian Clough, who had so cruelly lampooned a Polish goalkeeper as a clown, missed out on the England job now vacated by Ramsey's dismissal because tact was never his strong point. It is hard to know what either West Germany or Holland would have made of England had they qualified for the following summer's World Cup in West Germany but the irony of course was that an English butcher by the name of Jack Taylor would referee the final between the Dutch and the West Germans. Oh a penny for the thoughts of a certain Gareth Southgate. Your country awaits you sir.

The shame and blame - England win the battle against racism against Bulgaria.

The shame and blame - England win the battle against racism against Bulgaria.

The shameful events which unfolded last night in Sofia were another sad indictment of a society that has yet to resolve the rampant disease that is still racism, prejudice, xenophobia, violent discrimination and the despicable blight of racist tendencies. It is that vile strain of  neo Nazi hatred and unspeakable intolerance that continues to spread its potentially lethal poison where ever it goes. Once again a football match has descended into the fiery pit of degradation, humiliation and utter despair.

Last night should have been a cause of celebration since England, under the shrewd and immensely personable management of Gareth Southgate had beaten an appallingly bad Bulgaria side. By the end of one of the most one sided international matches in the history of football, England were cruising into a place at next year's European Championship with some of the most brilliant one touch football some of us have ever seen from an England side.

Sadly, with the game deep into the middle of the first half, alien voices could be heard from an understandably disgruntled Bulgarian crowd. But these were not the sounds of support or genuine encouragement. They were those very depressing acoustics we thought we'd never hear again at any football match anywhere. The men in black were revealing their nastiest colours, men wearing the uniform of the most obnoxious fascism, the waving of Hitler's fist, the espousal of the Far Right ideology, disgusting and filthy remarks that have no place at any public occasion.

For a while it looked as if they'd got away with it and despite the two lengthy stoppages in the game, the damage was briefly painful but far from being sufficiently disruptive to completely postpone the game. By the end of the first half England were so far ahead and seemingly running away with the game that a boxing referee would have immediately intervened with a towel. In retrospect maybe the half time whistle may have come to England's rescue.

When Marcus Rashford gave England the lead with a sensational opening goal after roughly eight minutes England must have been hoping that they'd avoid an almost instant  repetition of the Prague disaster. Then Harry Kane had given England the lead from the penalty spot only to be unravelled like a cotton reel by a Czech Republic side who responded powerfully, creatively and, it has to to be said, surprisingly.

Rashford it was who cut inside his defender, dropped a shoulder, dummied, shimmied and then bamboozled everybody with a breathtaking shot that arrowed into the top of the net like a well propelled missile. Then England stretched the lead minutes later after another English tapestry of passes from Kieran Trippier, Rashford and Kane had set up Raheem Sterling to complete the move with a simple tap in

Then the superb Ross Barkley, surely one of England's most trustworthy of midfield playmakers in years to come, stepped up to the mark with another performance of cultured brilliance. Barkley headed home England's third but did much to remind us that here is a player who could always flick the right switch, always measuring his passes with the most reliable tape measure and then scanning the whole geography of the pitch as if somebody had given him the freedom of Prague to do whatever he liked with the ball. And he promptly did.

By now England had been allowed to express themselves in pretty much the way they wanted to do. Kane, Rashford and Barkley were sprinting down the pitch in perfect formation and unison. It was pointed out that they reminded you of Olympic 4 by 400 runners running down the back straight and going as fast as they could. They were breaking and charging towards the Bulgarian goal as if nature had intended it that way. England were counter attacking with eye popping rapidity and lightning alacrity.

England's fourth goal came typically from another Kane inspired breakaway. High kicking his legs Kane kicked into fourth gear with a full pelt run that eliminated the whole of the Bulgarian defence. Trippier and Sterling responded in kind and it was rather like watching a flock of gulls flapping majestically across a blue summer sky. Kane, sensing Sterling darting instinctively into space, laid the ball off to Sterling who drove the ball into the net with the air of a man for whom goal scoring is becoming his natural gift.

Now Jordan Pickford, the England goal keeper made his presence felt as the most unlikely of England's creators. Rather than building from the back, Pickford tried to avoid the self indulgent ball to a player not a million miles away from him and launched an ambitious pass to the middle of the pitch. Here he found the English cavalry in slap happy mode. The Everton keeper found a precise pass which landed at Kane once again and the Spurs striker made up ground in no time at all. Sterling, quite inevitably in the right place and the right time, raced away as well to meet Kane's subtle pass with another goal.

The second half  would become the greatest exhibition of keep ball, possession football ever seen by an England side. It was reminiscent of every training practise session that you'd probably come to expect to see from Barcelona, Manchester City quite definitely, Brazil when the impulsive mood takes them and current world champions France but not England surely. How wrong were we?

Suddenly, you imagined one of those airport baggage carousels where the suitcases go round in every increasing circles but these England players were much quicker and sharper. England just revelled in the huge pockets of space that the Bulgarians seemed to be inviting them to venture into. The passes were tapped and nudged, guided and caressed affectionately to each other, backwards and forwards while never deviating from their original purpose. If only every England game could be like this one.

Clearly this was not the Bulgarian side that had once reached the exalted heights of the World Cup semi final in 1994. There was none of the world class style of a Hristo Stoichkov, nobody who could slow the tempo right down to the level of Stoichkov's cerebral footballing brain. In fact there were points during the game when you would have been forgiven for thinking that Bulgaria had been reduced to the also rans, the has beens  and the minnows of world football such was England's outright dominance.

When Harry Kane finally scored England's sixth and perhaps cruel goal England spent the rest of the second half contemplating their pan European adventure next summer when they can only dream of appearing in what would be their first major Final since the class of 1966. And guess what? It would be Wembley again so the enticing scent of a European Championship trophy continues to beckon. By then it is to be fervently hoped that the scourge of the racists will have vanished for ever and never show their ugly heads again. Oh for a blissful summer of European football.

England lose to Czech Republic in Euro 2020 qualifier.

England lose to Czech Republic in Euro 2020 qualifier.

It was all going so well. There we were thinking that this would be the proverbial piece of cake when who should steal the marzipan than the Czech Republic. Of all the teams in England's admittedly poor Euro 2020 qualifying group who some of us may have felt would cause England's problems, the Czech Republic did it once again. England haven't beaten the Czech Republic in their own backyard for well over 100 years now and that is the kind of damning statistic that very few of us can possibly believe. But it's true and not for the first time in England's chequered history convincing victories were followed by miserable anti climaxes.

Last night in the breathtakingly historic city of Prague, the white shirted men of England were beaten for the first time in any Euro or World Cup qualifier and that in itself may have provided us with some comfort in our hour of sadness. The truth is that you can't win all the time and eventually defeat arrives when least expected. England though were just not themselves and the reality is that this England team are far from the finished article.

In that crazy 5-3 win against Kosovo at St Mary's, England reminded you of the kid at the fairground  who suddenly finds themselves in front of the mirror, a perfectly ordinary image at first but then distorted the next. England blasted Kosovo with all the heavy artillery that you might have come to expect after a five goal sledgehammer had cracked open the heart of the Kosovo defence before half time. England then lapsed into some unaccountable trance in the second half and were lucky to finish the game with a 5-3 victory.

When England are not at their best and the moon is in the wrong position they look shabby, in need of a good wash and just lose their way. For much of the first half of this Euro 2020 qualifier England looked punch drunk, awkward and misshapen. They looked, for all the world, disjointed, completely run down and somehow wishing that all of these preliminary skirmishes before big international tournaments could be scrapped once and for all. It seemed as if Gareth Southgate's men had just peaked and there was nowhere else for them to go.

After all the kind words and bouquets of praise had been showered on England's young and resurgent men in the wake of their World Cup heroics last year, England are now back in the real world. They gave a creditable account of themselves in the still baffling UEFA Nations League but when it came to the more familiar European Championship qualifiers England re-joined the other European party slightly the worse for wear.

Still, England did overwhelm the Czech Republic at home with a sound 5-0 victory and perhaps you felt that there was something good in the air once again. Bulgaria were comfortably dismissed and the  feelgood euphoria that had been genuinely felt in Russia might have trickled over into the present day England squad. England were rocking and rolling, scoring goals from all angles and boasting a young, fresh and vibrant team, full of beans and ready to embrace a new era.

And yet for 90 minutes yesterday evening in Prague, the notes were in the wrong order, the keys were discordant and all of that bristling enthusiasm of their more recent encounters had now fallen by the wayside. Suddenly, England look one paced, untidy, dishevelled, wandering around Central Europe rather like those tourists who keep asking for directions with a map in their hands. They were plodding, leaden footed, pedestrian and no longer sure of which way to go. Or so it seemed.

But England opened proceedings against the Czech Republic like a theatrical troupe of Shakespearean actors on first night, full of confident pronouncements, clear vocal projections and determined to finish off their opponents in no time at all. There was a clarity and eloquence about England's football that boded so well for the rest of the game. Everything seemed to be clicking from kick off and that fluid attacking co-ordination brought them their first goal after five minutes.

When the marvellously effervescent Raheem Sterling set off on one of those mazy and irresistible runs towards the Czechs penalty area, we sensed that all was well. Sterling ran directly at the backpedalling Czech defence and we somehow knew that the only way the home side were going to catch him would result in a penalty. Sterling darted forward strongly, rolling his body purposefully, checked back inside his hapless defender and then was dragged to the ground. Harry Kane struck his penalty with arrogant ease. England were one up and the world seemed to be their oyster.

Regrettably England proceeded to get bogged down in a sticky quagmire of their own making. The crisp passing game that had come to characterise their game in both Russia and more recently in their opening Euro qualiifiers had temporarily deserted them. It was almost as if somebody had taken their well rehearsed script and accidentally dropped it in the bin. There was nothing of  the vim, vitality and assurance of their World Cup adventure, a side whose lights had been turned off and none could find  the requisite battery or that surge of electricity that had to be there on the night.

In the centre of England's defence Harry Maguire kept looking around him all the time and for a while looked like a lost soul, frantically covering and then panicking in case a  Czech would home down on him in yet another attack. Maguire has come a long way since his days at Leicester and after a brief settling in period at Manchester United, Maguire did look as if he'd made that central defensive role his own.

His presence at free kicks and corners in Russia last year was both encouraging and heartening but against the Czech Republic Maguire seemed to be pre-occupied by something and perhaps worried by his club's alarming predicament at the moment. United are struggling for any kind of form and here it showed. Maguire gave the impression that this wasn't his kind of game and his problems got worse rather than better.

Both Danny Rose, Kieran Trippier and Declan Rice all looked ring rusty, slovenly and clumsily apprehensive at times. Rose seemed to lunge into tackles that shouldn't have been necessary while Rice, although steady and unfussy, reminded you of Bambi gingerly climbing to its feet and then collapsing. Kieran Trippier looked as if he needed permission to move forward on the overlap which he did so successfully in Russia. Here Trippier was hesitant, reluctant to commit himself when it counted and not entirely sure what to do with the ball.  Maybe somebody should have given him a note of consent

For Michael Keane defensive duties were more of a burden and Keane was frequently caught out by pace on the break and out of position when he should have been more attentive. In midfield the normally reliable Liverpool playmaker Jordan Henderson had all of his wires crossed, shuffling his feet, digging out simple passes to nobody in particular and then finding that all he could see in front of him were the red shirts of the Czech Republic. It was indeed totally out of character.

For the young Chelsea debutant Mason Mount this must have been the debut from hell. Mount did provide England with some of their most refined touches and was actively involved in some of England's better moments. There was a nimbleness and delicacy about the new Chelsea attacker that did appear to be promising. But when Mount faded from the game England had no obvious outlet or attacking alternative.

Jadon Sancho, although a definite inclusion in future England teams, was not the ball of energy and the livewire nuisance that Gareth Southgate might have assumed he would be on the night. Sancho has made a very forceful impact when picked by Southgate and there is something of the explosive goal scorer about him that will always be considered for the start of an England team.

On the night though both Harry Kane and Raheem Sterling were never tuned into the same wavelength as each other and there were times when they were waiting for a bus that was never likely to turn up at all. Kane is in a Spurs side that will certainly be in contention for another Champions League place but is now treading water and Sterling is in a Manchester City team who must be feeling that they were rudely offended by Wolves last weekend. City were beaten by an in form Wolves at the Etihad Stadium and a brief shock to City's system left Sterling glowering and snarling. England were though teetering precariously and then it happened.

A high and well driven corner was floated over the entire England's defence who froze unthinkably. Jakus Brasbec was on hand to sweep the ball sweetly into the net for the Czech's equalising goal. A cold and shuddering shiver went straight through the England defence. The home side now found their range and focus, sewing their passes togehter tenderly and slipping through the gears with a smart fluency.

With five minutes to go and England still in recovery mode after a dreadful first half for them, the Czechs struck back and deservedly scored the winning goal. A breathless break down England's wing culminated in a low, sensibly cut back ball to Zdenek Ondrasec who gleefully steered the ball past England keeper Jordan Pickford. Game over. England lose their first international for ages. Fear not though. It could just be a blip. Besides, the Gareth Southgate waistcoat was conspicuous by its absence, a lucky omen perhaps.  Keep calm everybody.

Extinction Rebellion- let's hear it for those eco warriors.

Extinction Rebellion- let's hear it for those eco warriors.

For what now seems like the umpteenth day, London has been held hostage, ground to a standstill, made to suffer for what it seems to be doing to the planet. It has been gripped in a vice, unable to function, totally blocked and gridlocked. Nothing new there you may think but the truth is that the combined forces of Extinction Rebellion, probably the most powerful set of environmental protesters ever to gather in the heart of the West End in London,  have cut off the veins and arteries of London's vital transport network.

Of course we should care about the future health and welfare of this generation and future generations to come. But the fact is that for the last couple of days, our eco warriors have been responsible for some of the most disruptive and vaguely aggressive demonstrations ever seen on a London street.

In the middle of one of the most volatile periods of political history, surely the time has come to put down all placards and banners if only to restore sanity to everyday living. And yet have they all got a point? Is there indeed a raison d'etre for their anger or are they just trying to ram home a perfectly sensible and logical point? Questions, questions and questions. The fact is that at some point commonsense may well prevail and they'll just go back to what they were doing again before sooner rather than later.

In years and decades gone past the voices of dissent and revolt have always been very visible and prominent presences on the streets of London. At the end of the 1980s there was the famous Poll Tax riot, the cause of so much hostility and division that by the end of the day shop windows had been smashed beyond redemption, bricks and stones had been thrown at huge contingents of police and everywhere there was a scene of bloody carnage.

When the breakdown of order does occur and the civilised voices are completely drowned out by their own noise you begin to question the wisdom and logic behind it all. Today we saw hundreds of protesters tying themselves down to aeroplanes, the fuselages and undercarriages of wonderfully built planes designed to keep the flow of passengers flying out from British shores to global destinations far away.

But for well over a week now these disenchanted and apparently disenfranchised members of the public have taken it upon themselves to stop London. They believe, whether rightly or wrongly, that slowly but surely the healthy existence of Planet Earth is being seriously jeopardised by critical levels of pollution, unbearable toxic fumes from billowing industrial chimneys and what they believe to be lethal poisons in the air.

 And then there's the delicate matter of plastic waste gradually eroding the great seas and oceans. We've been talking about this for seemingly years now but never has the issue been so urgently discussed and analysed by those who would seem to have our best interests at heart.  So they get out all of their instruments of war and conflict, confrontation and fury, barricading themselves in against the very people they believe are strangling the life force of the country with little consideration of the consequences and even less thought of families, communities, towns and cities, the people who matter.

At the moment the whole of the West End of London and now the City airport is now locked down, helpless, surrounded by the rebels and renegades, the unheard majority, the vast, seething masses who shout and bellow, pinning themselves to the ground, vehemently sticking to their guns, raging and ranting, fighting for a fervent cause and then standing firmly for their right to protest. Hundreds of arrests have been made and the democracy which they feel has now been irreparably damaged, has now become the centre of our attention because nobody is listening to them.

But surely the rightful democratic rights of a nation should be heard out or maybe they should be stifled  and then deprived of the oxygen of publicity. Maybe we should all be outraged because we've taken as much as we can. The people in government who should be accessible at all times would rather take up all their time with Brexit, three years of noisy chattering, babbling, waffling, going nowhere in particular, antagonising, putting off, moping, sulking, insulting and finally giving up.

So it is that the main ring leaders and cheer leaders of Extinction Rebellion go on their way, laying on the pavements of the West End of London, grinning and grimacing, struggling and striving, marching and stamping their incensed feet because they have to do what they need to do right now. This has got to stop. Stop the world. Stop those cars, buses, lorries and vans. In fact stop the world. Stop all of those nasty malodorous smells, those evil environmental impostors determined to contaminate all of us, wiping us all out with one monumental stink.

Maybe their deeply rooted fears and paranoias are indeed well founded and the world as they know it will just explode before it's too late to do anything about it. Oh what will become of our civilisation! Is there hope for us? There is an overwhelming sense that Extinction Rebellion may have the most valid and plausible of points. Perhaps they are killing off everything that is so essential and precious to all of us, perhaps they're deliberately threatening our lives with those dreadfully damaging planes. It's hard to tell.

Today though saw yet another example of what can happen when things get wildly out of control. We saw an utter meltdown, hundreds of people banging their drums, blowing their whistles and generally causing one deafening kerfuffle. They stormed the barricades, defied the law of the land and all for reasons that they felt were perfectly legitimate. Their actions were those of the repressed and downtrodden, the brave and the heroic. Let the revolution commence, time to make your feelings well and truly heard across the land. Could somebody tell us why and when exactly it will ever end? Anybody.

Judy- the Judy Garland film.

Judy - the Judy Garland film.

In the end Judy Garland succumbed to the demons that seemed to swallow her up and then devour her relentlessly. It was the saddest story in the entire history of the Hollywood film industry. It was almost too painful for words and emphasised the fragility of a young girl who grew up in the spotlight and then became the haunted woman. This was no cautionary tale more a classic example of what happened to a genuine Hollywood star who had it all at a ridiculously young age and then realised that there was no safety net when fame and celebrity eventually overwhelmed her.

Judy, the latest cinema blockbuster, rehashed and regurgitated that well chronicled story about Judy Garland, undoubtedly one of America's most lovable of all sweethearts, a singer par excellence and one of Hollywood's charming darlings. But for Judy Garland the hearts and roses of her earlier career would be abruptly replaced by the knives and daggers of those who were determined to bring her down.

We're all familiar with the child star appearance in the Wizard of Oz and in hindsight we can only imagine what might have happened to her had the overnight success that  propelled her into the Hollywood limelight not blown up in her face quite as quickly.  But as the years that followed and maturity loomed, it soon became apparent that here was a singer who could really belt out a song with heartfelt conviction.

Soon, the agents came calling, directors and producers from Hollywood's most enthusiastic studios would come knocking on her door and Garland was snapped up in no time at all. With that thick, black and lustrous hair, a powerful and colossal voice that could grab hold of all the nuances and layers of every emotion inside the song, Garland's richly textured voice would deliver any song with a melodramatic authority that had never really been heard at all in America nor the world for that matter.

Judy follows the story of the latter half of her career when drugs had taken an almost suffocating hold on her life. Her torturous relationship with Micky Deans and the celebrated appearance at London's Talk of the Town would rip huge holes in her private lifestyle and subsequently lead to her premature death at the age of 47. Now there would follow an almost painful decline, that horrendous disintegration into her private world of hell, more and more drugs before sliding into a disastrous sequence of failed dalliances with men, a relationship with Deans that was destined to fall flat on its face and loneliness.

Meeting the showbiz and theatre impresario Bernard Delfont for the first time, Garland, played beautifully by Rene Zellweger, confronts the seasoned West End wheeler and dealer with a good deal of cynicism, privately doubting whether Delfont can give her what she may be looking for. Garland muddles her way painstakingly through the London period constantly declaring her love for the capital city but then retiring to her dressing room with head in hands, depression imminent and never entirely sure whether she can win the hearts of a very critical West End audience.

And yet it was that never ending cycle of terrible lack of confidence, destructive self criticism and that almost obsessive search for perfection that followed Garland everywhere. There were the drama queen histrionics, the uppers and downers, more pills, more drinks, and nothing but self loathing. It all spiralled out of control very quickly and before her closest advisers could do anything more to help her there was death.

The film charts at first Garland's stormy marriage to Sid Luft, from whom Judy gave birth to Lorna and then inexplicably glosses over her marriage to Vincent Minelli, from whom there was Liza. Then Garland stumbles into a whirlwind romance with Micky Deans with whom she would immediately fall in love with but not before falling out big time with Deans when Garland suspected that Deans was turning into a control freak.

Then there was the glorious alliance with two members of the public. When Garland leaves the theatre, she's suddenly faced with a couple of gentlemen who just happened to be waiting outside the Talk of the Town in the hope of meeting their heroine in the flesh. Rather unexpectedly Garland asks them out for a spot of dinner. You're inclined to think that poetic licence has been used here but the image of a Hollywood superstar dining out at an Aberdeen Steak House with a couple of middle aged men from the Clapham Omnibus still sends a warm glow down your back.

Towards the end of the film when Garland was literally down in the gutter and the audiences were at their most hostile, we begin to see Garland at her feistiest, her strongest, her most defiant and, above all, her most magisterial. She cranks the volume to full blast, booming out that vast and emotional megaphone of a voice into the ether, punching the lyrics into the farthest reaches of the West End of London and cracking the glasses of the assembled throng inside the Talk of the Town.

All of Garland's repertoire was proudly displayed before an audience that had finally been won over. There was the funny, whimsical 'Trolley Song' and then the ones that weren't featured in the film. 'Meet Me in St Louis' and the turbo charged 'Zing! Went the Strings in my Heart' were typically Garland at her very best and a Hollywood glamour girl at the height of her career. 'I Got Rhythm' was Garland ripping into the very essence of the Hollywood song book and 'It's A Great Day for the Irish' was her personal tribute to Ireland, Garland at her most bubbly and celebratory. 'Come Rain or Shine' is Garland at her gutsiest.

It does seem a crying shame that the world never really got to see Judy Garland in her prime because some of us still miss that red blooded dynamism, that devil may care, carefree abandon and that authentic cry from the heart. We will wonder what exactly she would have thought of her equally as extrovert daughters Liza and Lorna. Liza of course will always be associated with Cabaret, that sensually edgy and sexy blockbuster of a film that ensured her legend. Lorna is still singing for her particular supper but the feeling persists that Judy Garland is somewhere out there on that permanent 'Yellow Brick Road' chasing a rainbow that can never be caught.

Stevie Wonder- the greatest of all musicians and singers.

Stevie Wonder- the greatest of all musicians and singers.

Motown records must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. When the 11 year old Stevie Wonder walked into those celebrated studios, the world spun on its axis, the angels sang and a star was born. Little Stevie, complete with resonant harmonica and a banquet of talent, sat down at the piano, tapped those keys with a tantalising glimpse of what was to come and then set down those heavenly lyrics. There was  all of the energy and exuberance of youth about him that would hold his phenomenal worldwide fan base in thrall for years and decades.

From the earliest 1960s to the present day Stevie Wonder remains one of the most versatile, accomplished, creative, ground breaking, innovative, relentlessly prolific and pioneering soul singers of all time. Throughout the 1960s, he broke down all racial barriers, healing potentially poisonous rifts between black and white people at the time and then became the triumphant ambassador for race relations in every corner of the world.

The Stevie Wonder back catalogue is both illustrious and rightly admired by his legion of fans around the world. The vast number of gold and platinum records that have sold in their millions are another reminder of the man's remarkably enduring popularity and his continuing status as one of the most influential and pacifying forces in a world that refuses to get on with each other.

During last night's excellent BBC tribute to the music prodigy that is Stevie Wonder, we wandered down memory lane and found some of those familiar love anthems sounding as fresh as ever. There was the very early 'Uptight', 'Signed, Sealed and Delivered as Stevie shook his tambourine, gently cradled the harmonica and then entertained an adoring American audience during an early 1960s TV show over and over again.

It wasn't long before Wonder spread his crusading message across the TV and radio airwaves. Soon there would follow the sumptuously beautiful 'Ma Cherie Amor' before the 1970s produced a dazzling set of rubies, emeralds and diamonds. There was 'Superstition' the magnificent 'Higher Ground' and the extraordinarily successful album 'Inner Visions' which was spoken about in messianic terms by those who simply couldn't get enough of Stevie.

The whistles and bells reception which greeted the stupendous 'Songs in the Key of Life' sent huge ripples of excitement around the globe once again. The bright orange album cover, with its strikingly wavy effects, takes pride of place in our record collection. 'Songs in the Key of Life' gave us a glittering treasure trove of hit singles, top of the chart classics and a delectable selection of album tracks with that special hallmark of genius.

There was 'Isn't She Lovely' one of the most stunningly crafted love songs ever written although we were reminded that it was Stevie Wonder's affectionate tribute to his newly born daughter. The sentiments within the song were an appropriate homage to Stevie's favourite people and loves. It was a track coated with engaging sentimentality.

Then there was 'Sir Duke', his tipping of the hat to the great Duke Ellington, full of unashamed soul and dynamic funk. 'I Wish' also hits the right note, a joyous fusion of soul, disco and throbbing dance music as people bopped the night away. Here was a generation that was up on their feet, inspired, strutting their funky stuff until the early hours of the morning, brassy trumpets whipping up the most amazing musical storm. There was the mellow and delicious 'Love's in Need of Love Today', Wonder's heartfelt and touching tribute to the world, his hopes and aspirations for the future.

During the Eighties Wonder gave us Hotter Than July', his personal nod in the direction of reggae,  Bob Marley and Master Blaster(Jammin') when dreadlocks and braids became the new fashion statement for those who preferred their hair to stand out from the rest. 'Part Time Lover' and 'Happy Birthday' were life enhancing, morale boosting and heart rending standards that just made you want to feel very good about everything and everybody else.

In recent years the Wonder output has slowly diminished with the passing of the years. But 'Ribbon in the Sky', deservedly rhapsodised by Beverly Knight, is one of the defining singles on the album 'In Square Circle'. 'Ribbon in the Sky is the definitive love song, a glorious cry from Stevie Wonder's heart, suffused with a red rose tenderness and a vocal from the great man that should be preserved and bottled for posterity.

So it is that you feel yourself  helpless with appreciation for the greatest singer, vocalist, song writer and lyricist there has ever been.  For a man who was born blind and found himself constantly battling the elements of institutionalised racism, personal prejudice and a society that initially shunned him, Stevie Wonder conquered the world with his sweet as sugar music. The music should and must endure for all of our lifetimes because little Stevie Wonder it was who guided us through our troubled adolescence when it all looked so bleak.  Thankyou Stevie.

Peter Sissons dies - a BBC news reading tour de force.

Peter Sissons dies- a BBC news reading tour de force.

Peter Sissons, who today died at the age of 77, has left a gaping hole in the lives of those who trusted the voice of the BBC. For what seemed an eternity, Sissons was the ultimate gentleman, an appropriately serious newsreader, grave when the occasion wholly merited it and then marvellously authoritative at all times.

The Liverpool born broadcaster was always the epitome of professionalism and immaculately briefed on all the breaking news stories which frequently arrived on his early and late evening shift with the BBC. But there was an earnestness and sincerity about the man that was simply unmistakable. You would tune into Sissons because you knew he would convey that smooth assurance behind the news desk that would never desert him. He was unflappable, suave, never flustered and always immediately apologetic if things were going wrong around him.

For most of us now news is now an unstoppably wall to wall, 24-7 service that never lets up at any time in case we miss anything at all. From the lofty and immensely traditional BBC to the more commercial influence of both ITV, Channel 4 and 5, to Sky in all its manifestations, rolling news has come to figure prominently in all of our waking lives - from dawn to dusk and through the night.

Sissons though reminds us of the news from news casters from another age. Most of us will always identify with the news broadcasting legends from the late 1960s and 70s. We couldn't quite remember the genteel and eternally elegant age of Michael Aspel but we do recall those sartorially correct men who made it all possible in later years. Aspel was the one who wore beautifully fitted dinner jackets, crisp white shirts, formal bow ties and equally as smart ties, speaking commandingly and clearly into a huge BBC microphone and then shuffling his papers onto the desk as if it was something that came quite naturally to him.

There was the always stern but utterly polished Kenneth Kendall, a man who delivered the news with impeccable poise, perfect timing and all of the vowels and consonants in the right place at the right time. Kendall was the man summoned most unfortunately to read the first BBC news bulletin about the heartbreaking tragedy of the Munich air crash in 1958 where almost the whole of Sir Matt Busby's Busby Babes and the Manchester United golden generation lost their lives.

Kendall of course would often be joined on screen with Richard Baker who has also sadly passed away recently. Baker was one of those classical BBC voices whose beautifully measured words and sentences would float across Britain and the world like one of those upright swans. For seemingly ages Baker was also the consummate presenter of the Last Night of the Proms.

In the middle of the 1970s there was Robert Dougall, a friendly, avuncular, pleasant and likeable man who smiled comfortingly if the news became light hearted which was indeed rare. There was a jolly joviality and easy going dependability about Dougall that warmed and made you feel good about life.  Dougall, rather like Baker and Kendall, was debonair, dapper and always presentable. For a while we had the estimable Peter Woods and Richard Whitmore who were always clean cut and respectable.

Then there was Peter Sissons, foreign correspondent, a man out on the fighting fields of the world, braving the elements, dodging the bullets and bombs intrepidly and then returning home to family and children. He would then become one of the most outstanding newsreaders for many a decade, deeply informative, witty and humorous at times but unfailingly precise.

When Sissons left the BBC news room it must have been widely assumed that he would either completely forgotten or just fade into the obscurity of the BBC's extensive news archives, the man who used to read the news to the nation. But oh no, Sissons was far from finished. The BBC's flagship political programme Question Time needed somebody to replace the unique Robin Day, another member of the bow tie brigade, Sissons was the man to take over from Day.

For what seemed a considerable length of time, Sissons chaired and apparently refereed Question Time with those tellingly spicy interventions. At the time Sissons would fend off the notable likes of every member of Margaret Thatcher's Cabinet. Sissons was always in sparkling form when it came to arguing, questioning and fiercely interrogating Cecil Parkinson, Kenneth Baker, Michael Heseltine and Norman Tebbitt. He would cut down to size with admirable severity all of those pompous politicians who thought they knew everything there was to know.

Sadly though Sissons would then hand over the reins to David Dimbleby, another broadcasting giant with  a wonderful line in cutting sarcasm and facetiousness that brought a smile to everybody's face. Dimbleby snarled and sneered gorgeously, constantly taking his Question Time guests to task for a question they were allegedly ignoring or prevaricating over.

But Peter Sissons was the gentle and well mannered face of the BBC, courtesy personified, the embodiment of politeness and, although occasionally gossipy, always  challenging the people who mattered with a sharp but harmless barb. But essentially Sissons was a family man of principle and honour. Such qualities are easily overlooked and in the current news agenda you feel sure we'll miss Sissons raw honesty. It's safe to say that he will never be forgotten.

Let it rain and rain.

Let it rain and rain.

You must have known it was coming. On the first day of October it was almost destined to happen. The last time we saw as much rain as today was back in June when it did nothing but. The truth is that after another dry summer, it's time to batten down the hatches, grab a duvet, turn on the central heating, close the garden or balcony doors, come inside from the rain and just accept the passing seasons.

Most of July, August and September were moderately warm so we shouldn't really grumble and quibble. In fact during July there were a couple of days when a heatwave took the temperatures soaring into the high 90s but then it all came crashing down around our ears with intermittent showers and grey skies leaking tentative drops of the wet stuff. Then those same skies darkened yet again threatening precipitation then changing their mind because it simply felt like doing so.

Here in Britain we love talking about the weather and once again you feel almost duty bound to report on the latest developments on this enchanted isle. This is England after all and this almost hard wired obsession or just charming preoccupation continues to dominate our everyday conversation whether we like it or not. We tell our neighbours about the weather, we comment upon it to perfect strangers and the dialogue goes on and on until some of us just laugh at the ridiculous absurdity of it all.

As evening approaches here in North London several flashes of lightning and claps of thunder have added that dramatic quality to the British weather that we all privately look forward to anyway. Heavy downpours and more showers are now the order of the day and quite possibly the whole of October. It's best not to think in negative terms in case the heavens just open and it just keeps raining ad infinitum. Few of us really like rain and yet if we can re-frame our thinking maybe we can see the upside of all this gloom and doom. We don't care if the weather man says it's raining you'll never hear me complaining. Besides, the farmers love the rain because it's good for the crops and that's inarguable.

October is indeed with us and those trusty cliches can be dragged out of the cupboard again. There are the autumnal mists and mellow fruitfulness, the yellowing leaves crackling and snapping, gathering together in a private conference, the whistling winds intensifying in strength by the day, trees shaking, bowing, swaying from side to side as if not entirely sure what winter will bring.

On the first day of October there is a brooding melancholy about this early autumn day, thick black and grey clouds forever scudding, drifting and hovering above us, hinting at full blooded storms and then growling like a grizzly bear. This may be the last time our lawnmowers make the acquaintance of our garden because the shed is exactly where they're going. The shears and secateurs are heading back into that dark corner of our shed where a winter hibernation awaits.

We've tended our summer flower beds with consistent tenderness, pruned the roses, cut back the branches on our trees and then devoted most of the rest of our time to our allotment sites where the cabbages and rhubarbs provide us with our wintry tea time comforts. It's time to get out our rain coats, to don the wellington boots, traipsing around gleefully in the cloying mud, watching the children jump up and down in the puddles and then abandoning ourselves to Paul McCartney's inclement weather.

Down by the seaside, those fish and chip shops and souvenir shops, for so long the centre of so much prosperity are beginning to wind down for the year. The amusement arcades are still flashing, buzzing and throbbing with life but the reality is that at some point during the depths of winter the seaside resorts of Britain will become ghost towns, dreary and blustery, wind-swept by even more ferocious gale force winds. Then the winds will whip up again boisterously and uproariously as if determined to cause a major stir.

The roofs and slates of Britain, for so long exposed to soothing summer breezes and frequent summer heat are now shivering ever so slightly. Gutters are dripping with increasing regularity, the pavements now darker with more and more showery rain. Umbrellas are receiving their first airing of the year and there is a growing recognition that colder days lie ahead. But not yet surely.

The change of seasons is upon us, that transitional point of the year when we know that our bodies will have to get used to something different. Once summer has vanished into the distance and those summer holiday planes have made their last joyful journey to warmer climes, the sense of early and and darker evenings becomes a chastening reality. At four in the afternoon the day will cease operations and it'll feel like midnight by five in the afternoon. Cheer up though it'll be spring before you know it.

Still, autumn has posted its first announcements and the people who once took their leisure in the summer sun are now racing for the bus stops and railway stations in a frantic effort to get out of the teeming, slanting rain. Papers over their heads, collars pulled up to their shoulders, they hop, skip and bound fearlessly towards their destination as if the sky were about to fall over their heads. Then faces matted with wetness, coat hoods completely soaked and spirits drowned, they wave their arms about aimlessly and curse profanely.

So it is that  we resign ourselves to the impending winter and those pitifully bare branches hanging by once decoratively pink and red cherry blossom trees are now temporarily without colour. But they'll be back prettier than ever, cooler than ever, ready to illuminate our lives once again. Yes folks, autumn has arrived and there has to be an air of resignation because, let's face it, there's nothing you can do about it. Has anybody seen the Scrabble box? Oh, there it is.