It's Thanksgiving Day in America.

It's Thanksgiving Day in America.

To those of you who may be reading this piece in the USA, we would like to extend our best wishes to you for this is Thanksgiving Day. From here in Britain may we be the first to convey nothing but goodwill,  kind hearted felicitations and the happiest of days. This is normally the day when American hugs itself in self congratulation, eats plenty of turkey, drinks in suitably convivial amounts and then gathers around the family log fire before exchanging a whole load of pleasantries and civilities.

America will once again be hoping that the country that is now glorying in the presence of one Donald Trump as President will continue to bathe in more success and prosperity. It is the country that looks at itself in the morning, pinches itself in the rudest of health and then gives much thanks for its timeless extravagance and excess, its extraordinary self confidence and its natural ability to sell itself, promote itself, make a fuss of itself before slapping itself on the back yet again.

Of course we were horrified by the catastrophe that was 9/11 in much the way a previous generation would have been shocked and shaken by the cold blooded assassination of John F. Kennedy in November 1963. How desperately America has tried to pull together all the strands of resilience over the years when all looked bleak and melancholy.

But today is different, a riotous celebration of everything the Americans hold dear. It is indeed the land of the free, the hugely patriotic Stars and Stripes, of pledging allegiance to the flag, bonding together as families and friends, remembering Dynasty and Dallas, JR Ewing, Bobby, Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Arnold Palmer fashioning genius on a golf course, George Burns and Gracie Allen reducing the whole of America to helpless laughter, the corrupt and manipulative Richard Nixon, the wonderfully imaginative Woody Allen and the splendidly amusing Muppets.

Here in Britain we could only look on in wonder at those first TV pictures in colour years before the idea had even been thought of in Blighty. How we despaired when we first set eyes on legendary chat show hosts such as Johnny Carson and Ed Sullivan in bold and outlandish shades of blue, red, yellow and green when the equally as chatty and garrulous David Frost and Simon Dee were still stuck in monochrome black and white.

Around the world the general perception of our American friends is one of a country that is so impossibly rich and comfortable in its skin that if you were to challenge its baseball greatness and its boundless exuberance you'd have to believe that nobody could possibly beat them at anything because they're probably good at everything.

We will always admire the vastness of their skyscrapers, their soaring financial buildings that tower over the humanity below them and the millions of feet that stamp purposefully on their sidewalks in New York, California, Los Angeles, Chicago, Texas and Alabama. We will take our hats off to a country that revels in its sumptuous grandeur, its imposing height, its immensity, a country seemingly spoilt for choice in everything it does.

We hold our breath at its multi billion dollar corporations, its driving ambition that never seems to abate, the moneymakers on Wall Street, the giant conglomerates who just get wealthier by the second, the glittering showbiz capitals of Broadway and Hollywood and the movies with their gigantic budgets. It is a country that refuses to sleep because if it does it might miss out on something fundamentally important.

At its epicentre though is New York where all the tourists seem to head if only because of its multiplicity of shops, massive department stores, hundreds of restaurants and cafes of all sizes, the mountainous helpings of salt beef in their spacious sandwich bars, the wondrous jazz cafes, the yellow taxis racing along Times Square with almost frightening speed and the people all in a frantic rush to get somewhere anywhere with doughnut and coffee to hand.

Then of course America will always find time in its hectic schedule to make its way to Disneyland since Disneyland was the place where America re-discovered its childhood. It is the one place in the world where America found its iconic cartoon heroes, those endearing drawings that suddenly came to life in a lovely splash of colour. Walt Disney was the dream maker, the relentlessly optimistic one who even convinced Pam Travers to convert Mary Poppins into a major Hollywood film.

But then we turned around and found that Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck, Minnie Mouse and Daisy Duck and all of Mickey's acquaintances were all there large as life and in the flesh. Our children could still queue endlessly for their autographs, they could even share breakfast with them if they wanted to. Then we gazed with amazement at that wonderful fairy tale castle where Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs allegedly lived although perhaps they didn't after all.

There is still a breathless pace and intensity to everything America does, a sense of frenetic urgency where nothing must wait and absolutely everything has to be completed in five minutes or perhaps five seconds. Appointments have to be made, schedules planned months before hand and nothing left to chance. At some point you suspect America does have time to draw breath but not now thank you since they're busy and they haven't got time to take stock, consider, pause and reflect. It all has to be done here and now, in the present and you'll have to forgive us because we might be late.

And yet America does have to cause to reminisce, to find itself in an almost mournfully regretful mood. It continues to looks back at the horrendous tragedy of Vietnam, the civil wars, the poisonous racist riots, Rosa Parks being disgracefully humiliated on a bus and so much more. There had to be a period in its history when America must have thought it had lost its soul and heart when Kennedy was shot dead, when former president Richard Nixon shamefully succumbed to tears as David Frost exposed him for what he was.

Still, America will always have its comedians, its grandstanding entertainers, George Clooney, Tom Cruise, Harrison Ford, Brad Pitt, Meryl Streep, Cameron Diaz and numerous characters who have their utmost to embrace those core American values. None of us of course will ever forget the Hollywood stardust that was sprinkled liberally by James Stewart, John Wayne, Jimmy Cagney, Edward G. Robertson, Gregory Peck, the macho Burt Lancaster, Clint Eastwood, Mae West, Bette Davis and the eternal boulevardiers such as Gene Kelly and Fred Astaire.

So here we are on Thanksgiving Day and America that has rightly abandoned itself to its alfresco barbecues, its hedonistic, high society parties in LA and blissfully boozy bacchanalia. America loves to have a good time, drink its alcoholic bourbons, the interminable snapping of turkey legs and a willingness to let themselves go. There is nothing that America loves better than a party and who could possibly deny them that right?

Now whatever your point of view might be on the subject Donald Trump is still the president of the United States of America and that's the truth. There are those of us who can barely believe that a frequently bankrupt billionaire is occupying one of the most influential roles in world politics. When Hilary Clinton finally accepted the fact that she wouldn't be following in the footsteps of her husband by becoming the next and first female president of the USA, a part of us privately yearned for a proper alternative.

Instead the Americans have to content himself with a man who, by his own admission, is a complete political novice. Trump is of course unashamedly conceited, a man so self obsessed and self righteous that if anybody challenged him on any topic he'd probably tell you exactly what he thinks of you. And it wouldn't be too complimentary by any stretch of the imagination.

But then again perhaps we've underestimated Trump. Maybe he is nice as American pie, as apple cheeked and lovable as a country farmer. Quite possibly, Trump has principles, morals, a sense of proportion, something profound to say, a clear statement of intent that might have been mistaken for muddled thinking. Or have we all got it completely wrong?

For a while tonight though Donald Trump and his family can kick off their shoes, pick up a basketball or two, grab a juicy burger, distribute a present or several and dance the night away in the Oval Office. Some have said that his policies are utterly questionable, that the Trump mind just works on autopilot, a soundbite artist who just bumbles and blusters because he can and he will. Mind you if that wall in Mexico is anywhere near completion then maybe Thanksgiving Day could be his chance to celebrate again. Donald, the microphone is yours. 

It's Christmas in Bournemouth.

It's Christmas in Bournemouth.

The sky was darkening over Bournemouth, the wintry light was fading and in a small corner of Dorset it was Christmas Day. Now to those of you who may have assumed that too many glasses of mulled wine and port may have been consumed it should be pointed out that this was a very special weekend.

Some of us celebrated their birthday and when the festivities were over and Santa Claus plus his merry band of reindeers had paid a fleeting visit to Bournemouth we began to believe that the bloke in the thick red coat really does exist. And yes this was no time warp at all because last Saturday really was Christmas Day and Sunday really was Boxing Day. You have to believe me because it's true and no it wasn't some late and bizarre April Fools joke. We did experience the whole splendour of the festive season a whole month before the real day and we weren't imagining it.

Our wonderful daughter had paid for the most fabulous weekend of light hearted entertainment, a rock and roll guitarist with a jolly line in sharp innuendo and joyful humour while behind him were two other sadly neglected guitars that just looked sorry for themselves. Hair slicked back beautifully in Bill Haley and Comets style, our entertainer promptly proceeded to roll out the back catalogues of Eddie Cochran, Del Shannon, Elvis Presley and Bobby Darrin in a style that suggested that the spirit of 1954 was still with us today.

Meanwhile at the reception desk my wife and I were treated to quite the most spectacular display of Christmas decorations you're ever likely to set eyes upon. There were glitteringly white reindeers in what looked like glass, Christmas trees in rich profusion and a selection of some of the most attractive looking presents this side of Lapland. Now please suspend your imagination for just a while because there was more to come.

In one of the many ornate guest rooms there were yet more homages to the festive season. There were plush Chesterfields, cosy seating with deeply comfortable leather to sink into at your leisure. Beside the fireplace, yet another glorious variety of boxes of Christmas presents nestled next to yet more reindeers. Everywhere you looked you were confronted with quite the most remarkable demonstration of surrealism followed swiftly by some heartily uplifting fun at the same time.

Then the evening arrived and Christmas dinner was lavishly served up with just a hint of knockabout laughter in the air just for good measure. Party hats were distributed, turkey with all the trimmings proudly delivered and then the hotel manager bounded into the dining room dressed as Santa. Red coat tightly strapped to his body and white beard flowing in all manner of directions, we tucked ravenously into the festive fare stifling a gale of giggles and a flurry of chuckles.

Now we would find ourselves as privileged guests at one of the finest bingo nights of all time. In fact every night would be bingo night because that is somehow quintessentially English and you can't beat a good, old fashioned game of bingo over Christmas. People love the thrill of marking their bingo ticket with a cross to acknowledge the simple fact that they could be in line to win a substantial sum of money at the end of it all.

But here we were in bracing and bountiful Bournemouth and the good people of Dorset do like to enjoy themselves. After much number calling and gentle murmurings of excitement, we reached a crescendo of fever pitch when it felt as if the identity of a National Lottery winner was about to be revealed. For one crushing moment of disappointment though this would prove the ultimate let down. It was £20 only and nothing much to write home about to be rounded up with  a princely £100 for the full house.

For some of us though a trip to see the house of one of the greatest of literary authors of all time would be the icing on the cake. Thomas Hardy was, and remains, one of Britain's most deliciously lyrical wordsmiths of all time. Hardy, by profession an eminent architect, designed Max Gate in the very rural heart of Dorchester. For the first time we were given a thorough and superb guide who carefully explained the simple and delightfully furnished interior of the Hardy hearth and home.

Hardy fell in love with the fragrant Emma and spent a considerable amount of his literary life in the quiet serenity of the Wessex countryside. There was a crackling log fire, some well upholstered wooden chairs, shelves groaning with dictionaries, thick history books and a wholesome intimacy about this very welcoming home from home. A coal bucket and frying pan sat re-assuringly in the far corner of the smallest kitchen in the world.

Suddenly, some of us were transported to literary heaven. We were told that Hardy always felt that the very essence of English poetry would become his preferred choice of writing. His now world famous and well documented novels will never ever be forgotten but there were weighty books of Hardy's poetry on several tables. The written word though would always be his forte and the vividly decorative prose would elevate him to the highest of plateaus.

Throughout their married life Hardy and wife Emma would share a troubled private lifestyle. Writing studies would become extensions and new bedrooms. Our guide took me up to Emma's room where a very private letter and a slim volume of her writings were in pristine condition. We discovered that Emma was a sadly unwell woman for much of her life and never ever really received the same level of recognition and adulation as her celebrated husband.

For the man who gave us Tess of the D'Urbevilles, Far From the Madding Crowd, Jude the Obscure, Return of the Native, the lesser known the Trumpet Major, Under the Greenwood Tree and the Woodlanders, this had to be one of the most memorable day outs for many years now. In fact this was the fulfilment of a very personal ambition and as we left Max Gate you felt as if you'd rubbed shoulders with greatness, sitting right next to the typewriter where all the classical words, sentences and paragraphs would flood out of a fertile mind.

So it was that we left Bournemouth to the familiar strains of 'Auld Lang Syne' on New Year's Eve. You thought for a minute that you'd simply dreamt a yearly festival at the end of the year. Now though it was being re-enacted well over a month before the proper date. Sometimes you just have to go with the flow and if you just closed your eyes and pretended that Thomas Hardy was still with us then everything would be absolutely perfect. Roll on Christmas. Or maybe Christmas has passed and we thought we'd experienced it. Jingle Bells everybody.

It's the Premier League sacking season once again.

It's the Premier League sacking season once again.

Oh well. Here we go again. It's that time of the year. Just when a vast majority of Premier League managers thought their jobs were safe, it's time to dust down the P45, fire the bullet and order the next poor, unsuspecting boss out of the back gate or that door marked exit. You know the one we're talking about. We are now four months into the season and that rank smell of dissatisfaction drifting down the corridors of every Premier League club has now claimed its first victim.

Tottenham Hotspur, who are beginning to make a habit of doing these things on a frequent basis, today sacked a perfectly respectable and hugely gifted coach. Mauricio Pocchetino was today given his marching orders if only because Spurs seem to be struggling for the kind of form which at the end of last season took them to a Champions League Final against Liverpool. True, they were beaten on the night in Madrid but this season, after a brief upturn of form at the beginning of the season, their winning form has more or less completely deserted them and for Spurs this was patently unacceptable.

This could mark the start of the sacking season for those hard working managers who just want to get on with the simple business of running their football team without any interference from busybody, feverishly ambitious chairmen who think they know best but, in reality, are perhaps more of a hindrance than a help. Spurs chairman Daniel Levy is of course a fanatical and lifelong Spurs supporter but there must come a point in any chairman's life when patience runs out, losing becomes utterly distasteful and the moment of reckoning has to come.

For Pocchetino that time has arrived and after much deliberation, the Argentinian, for all of his positive thinking and vastly educated approach to the game, must be cursing the day when Liverpool kicked him in the teeth and destroyed his Champions League dream. Now Spurs find themselves in the kind of predicament they would never have thought possible at the start of the season. They had now settled into their new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium, vast income streams and revenues were flowing into the club, the traditional Spurs crowd were hugely expectant and everything seemed tickety boo. Wine and roses, sweetness and light.

Then, after some encouraging results in their favour and a head of steam, it all went rather flat. Tottenham, rather like their London neighbours West Ham, have hit the proverbial brick wall and just before the international break they once again came unstuck at at Liverpool where the seemingly runaway Premier League leaders pinched a last gasp victory against the North Londoners.  Before then there was the plodding and pedestrian 1-1 draw at home to newly promoted Sheffield United, a match where Spurs looked as though they were playing in chains.

And so it came to pass that Spurs have appointed their new boss. Come in Jose Mourinho. Yes folks it's Jose Mourinho, the so called Special One, the anointed one, the one with magical powers, the great tactician, the man who once led Chelsea to two back to back Premier League titles. It's that man with an ego the size of the United States of America, the snarling, sneering demeanour of a grizzly bear who hasn't eaten for at least five minutes and a man obsessed with winning every single game if he can.

After a calamitous spell at Manchester United, where the United supporters quite literally hounded Mourinho out of the club, Spurs are about to get their very first look at a man who so readily attracts either contempt or boundless admiration depending on which side of the bed he decides to get up on. Today could be the start of a bright new adventure for Tottenham or a gruelling, horrific journey where everybody at Spurs either loses their temper or just warms to the charismatic aura that Mourinho seems to bring to every club he turns up at.

This is surely uncharted territory for Spurs because quite clearly Mourinho left Manchester United in a terrible mess, up in arms and with a playing personnel who were at the end of their tether. Paul Pogba became the first victim of Mourinho's short tempered irascibility. One minute Pogba had become United skipper and the next he was that vile villain who could do no right for the club. Now Pogba and Mourinho were at loggerheads, forever arguing and squabbling with each other. It was a recipe for disaster and after a poor sequence of results for United, Mourinho was on his way and back onto the football manager unemployment register.

It is hard to know what stage Mourinho has reached in his very high profile career. There is the vain, narcissistic man who quite obviously thinks he should be in charge of the world let alone a football club. There is the no nonsense, ruthless disciplinarian who doesn't care a jot. Then there is the furious, hysterically animated one who goes potty when things are going against him, the man whose blood boils over when the referee takes a disliking to him. There is the man who waves and gesticulates, rants and raves, wildly impassioned, disturbingly dangerous if his team are denied at least three penalties a match.

Throughout any match Mourinho becomes so ludicrously hyperactive and excitable that at times he seems to be reflecting the mood of the very supporters who pay to watch his teams. At Chelsea Mourinho became an angelic paragon of virtue, a saintly figure adored by the Shed at Chelsea and then the whole of Stamford Bridge. |Before the Portuguese arrived in West London Chelsea had only won a couple of FA Cups and were still waiting for their next League title trophy. Mourinho did oblige by guiding the Blues to a Premier League titles but then got bored with success.

Before he could declare himself the Special One again, complacency set in and then the rot. Chelsea turned into pampered prima donnas and the Mourinho magic had gone. That Russian oligarch and notoriously secretive, uncommunicative chairman Roman Abramovich had had enough of the manager's tears and tantrums and Mourinho was shown the door.

And so we come full circle to Jose Mourinho, the new Spurs manager. In recent years Spurs have embarked on a whirlwind tour of the global game in search of the one man who can finally provide them with that elusive Premier League title. They've all been there and done it. There was the mysterious Christian Gross who seemed to lose his way en route to Spurs headquarters. Club legends and superstars Glenn Hoddle and Ossie Ardilles have both had a go at this most taxing of assignments but one man must be looking down on the latest developments with a good deal of suspicion.

Bill Nicholson was the managerial wizard and genius who transformed the fortunes of Spurs overnight. In his first match at White Hart Lane, Nicholson saw his new team obliterate Everton 10-4. For well over the next decade or so Nicholson supervised a revolution at Spurs. In the era that gave us John White, Terry Dyson, Bobby Smith, Jimmy Greaves and Danny Blanchflower, Spurs blossomed with some of the smoothest and purest football the club had ever played. This would be almost organically followed by the 1970s where men such as Martin Chivers, Steve Perryman, Jimmy Neighbour, Martin Peters and John Pratt would also emerge with stout hearts and immense skill.

But Nicholson is the one who Mourinho must be acutely aware of at what seems a critical stage of the season. Nicholson always did things with a sense of style and sophistication. Nothing else would suffice for him. He believed that his players should always behave themselves with an uprightness and rectitude that should come naturally, an unswerving belief that if things were going well on the pitch then they should also be proper and correct off it. And that's the balancing act.

It remains to be seen whether the man from Portugal can either emulate or surpass the glory, glory days and years of Bill Nicholson. Should there be a repetition of some of the weird shenanigans that completely disfigured his time at Manchester United then Spurs may have to cause to regret their choice of new boss. This is not to suggest that Mourinho is on borrowed time as a manager but there is still something edgy and anarchic about him that would imply that something is not quite right about the Mourinho mindset. This may be the right time to change his ways and become especially good at Spurs. We can but hope. It's over to you Jose.

England in cruise control and off to Euro 2020 Finals.

England in cruise control and off to Euro 2020 Finals.

This is the Harvest Festival season for the England football team. They have now yielded a bumper crop of goals sufficient to send them straight to the Euro 2020 Finals next summer. In the orchards of European football, England have finally landed a plum role in next year's European Championships. How simple was that? In fact this had to be the easiest qualifying group England have ever had to negotiate in a tournament that next year celebrates its 60th anniversary. No sweat at all.

But still there remains a depressing inevitability about England qualifying groups in both their World Cup and European Championship participation. In recent years England have seemingly turned up for all of these ridiculous mismatches against appallingly sub standard and poor European and world opposition with nothing to play for and having already secured qualification months before the Finals.

By the end of their almost predictable 7-0 thrashing of poor, battered and demoralised Montenegro some of us were already questioning the logic of these humiliating no contests. In fact it was rather like pitting an experienced heavyweight boxer against a desperately weak and compliant, young kid with only a couple of bouts under his belt. Oh how we sympathised with Montenegro on a night when the England football team notched up their 1.000th match  and captain Harry Kane helped himself to the easiest hat-trick he will ever score.

England have now clocked up a wonderfully impressive 32 goals in this Euro qualifying group and you began to wonder why the powers to be at UEFA continue to give England birthday parties when they allocate them their very generous supply of European patsies. Once again Montenegro gave the Wembley crowd a superb impersonation of a punch bag who just keep coming back for more of the same punishment.

If the memory serves us correctly the last time England had to struggle for qualification at a major tournament was the 1998 World Cup. Here a bloodied and bandaged Terry Butcher and a tireless Paul Ince danced around like a couple of fifth form playground schoolboys when they realised that a 0-0 draw against Italy would be enough to take to them to the following summer's World Cup in France.

Even so beggars can't be choosers and if the opposition is to be negligible then so be it. Montenegro were one of the many teams left behind when the old Yugoslavia went its separate ways. They have not been around long enough to provide any semblance of opposition for an international side so perhaps this result was to be expected. A 7-0 defeat though did seem rather cruel and heartless.

Time was when the likes of Turkey and Luxembourg used to come to Wembley ready and waiting to be rolled over and then massacred by six, seven, eight and even nine goals. And yet in more recent times these same teams have become much more enlightened. For Montenegro this was the most excruciatingly painful operation they were ever likely to get. After 20 minutes or so of this farcically uneven match, most of the England fans were probably thinking about a hasty retreat home so complete was England's dominance.

After their ugly encounter against Bulgaria where moronic racism threatened to spoil England's night of six goal perfection, England returned home to Wembley to rubber stamp qualification to next year's Euros which will be spread, quite literally, all over Europe. England will host both semi Finals so already a nostalgic tang of Euro 96 can be sensed.

For England manager Gareth Southgate this must have been like watching his team convert an open goal or that sweetest of tap ins on the goal line. Southgate, now amusingly without waistcoat, reminded you of one of those overjoyed grammar school students on learning of their examination results. This was no history lesson though because every time England have been required to qualify for a tournament they tend to keep it fresh and present.

The fun began on the night when Alex Oxlade Chamberlain, so unfortunately injury prone when called up for England in the past, was on the end of an immaculately weighted crossfield ball from Leicester's Ben Chilwell. The cross from deep fell invitingly at Chamberlain's feet and the winger drilled home England's opening goal with a ferocious thump.

What felt like moments later England went further ahead. An exquisitely floated free kick met Harry Kane flush on the head and the England forward glanced the ball home with the merest of nudges of his head and the ball flew past the Montenegro goalkeeper. For the rest of the game the visiting keeper would have to be gainfully employed for a vast majority of the first half although things did seem to become much more manageable for the second half.

Then the increasingly prominent Chilwell swung in a corner for Kane to complete the formalities with another header that he could have swept into the net in his sleep. We were now almost half an hour into this training exercise of a match and now England were just playing with Montenegro like a three year old with a battery operated toy on Christmas Day. In fact if any Montenegro player had touched the ball once it would have been considered a lot.

Now it was carnival time for Gareth Southgate. They were now passing the ball in short, pitter patter movements, pleasing short passes across the middle of the pitch and then metrically precise passes from the back that had enjoyable echoes of Brazil at their best, France at their most sublime and Germany at their neatest, most thorough and methodical. You could hardly exclude Italy who tormented teams with their insistent emphasis on defensive efficiency followed up with classic finishing.

With Manchester United's striker Marcus Rashford at his most powerful and ruthless, Harry Winks of Spurs now dictating the middle of the pitch with admirably precocious ball control, England were now flying high on the crest of a wave. Winks was immaculate, a steady and consistently controlling influence in England's midfield and with his Spurs predecessor Glen Hoddle watching from the TV commentary box, Winks could hardly believe that everything was going so well for him.

Rashford it was though who added a fourth goal after a period of pin ball on the edge of the Montenegro penalty area. Another shot was only partially cleared and Radford was on hand to drive the ball low and hard into the back of the net. Rashford's damaging running at pace with the ball was unlocking and disturbing an opposition defence who must have been praying for a quick drive back to the airport.

Then just before half time Rashford was the man of the hour yet again. The Manchester United striker almost sliced open the visitors defence with a bullocking charge that just couldn't be held back. He bustled his way to the by line, shrugged off defenders with all the ease of somebody opening up an envelope and clipped the ball low to Sancho who cut the ball back for an onrushing Tammy Abraham. The Chelsea attacker seemed to slide the ball into the net although an own goal was later attributed to Montenegro.

The second half would now become a perfect exercise in damage limitation. England set about the task like a forgiving parent who would never dream of scolding their offspring. Maybe they should have been lenient and indeed this seemed to be the case. England spent most of the second half like a gardener pruning their geraniums or cutting off wilting petals. Occasionally there would be a period of delightful self indulgence and then the thought must have occurred to them that their opponents had suffered enough.

Finally with the game done and dusted long, long ago, England almost reluctantly decided to score a seventh. Another daisy chain of passes resulted in another fantastic cross from the nicely maturing Trent Alexander Arnold. Harry Kane, with all the natural instincts of a striker, positioned himself cleverly and then clubbed the ball firmly past a helpless visiting keeper. Job done.

So it is that England reach another high prestige football tournament. The reaction of course was one of obvious delight. But there are some of us who may rightly believe that we've all been here a thousand times with England. You jump over some of the smallest of hurdles and then trot over the winning line with the pacemakers miles behind you. Of course England have qualified for Euro 2020 because they always do and may do again repeatedly. Only the Czech Republic have laid a glove on England and that can't be good.

 This is like one of those familiar dress rehearsals where all of the cast remember their lines with effortless ease.  Their first night butterflies, you suspect, are bound to set in fairly rapidly though and when next summer dawns you may rest assured that England will occasionally find themselves like a rabbit in the car headlights. Oh to be a fly on the dressing room walls of both France, Germany, Italy, Spain or Holland. Still, please don't panic everybody. Let's all have 20:20 vision. Anything could happen and probably will.

Liverpool send out Premier League warning.

Liverpool send out Premier League warning.

It is hard to believe that the last time Liverpool won a League title the Berlin wall had just come tumbling down, Margaret Thatcher was in her last year of her Prime Ministerial tenure and a club who had become accustomed to winning League titles were now struggling to win anything. In 1990 England had just reached their first World Cup semi final since the iconic year of 1966, a young rebel by the name of Paul Gascoigne had reduced the whole country to tears and the club who play their football at Anfield would celebrate their last League championship victory in the now defunct First Division.

But now Liverpool are back to their irrepressible winning ways and after their convincing 3-1 victory over current Premier League rivals Manchester City thoughts turned to yet more trophy gathering. Never have the odds on Liverpool finally regaining a trophy which they used to claim as theirs by divine right seem more realistic and plausible. It almost feels as if they seem destined to reclaim a trophy which they felt they were entitled to after all these years. Liverpool haven't won the League title for almost 30 years and that hurts on Merseyside.

Then there followed the fleet footed, twinkling toed, dainty and dexterous John Barnes, the calming influence of Steve Mcmahon. There was the combined versatility of players such as Ronnie Whelan, Jan Molby  and Ray Houghton who were all tearing visiting teams to shreds in that magnificent season 30 years ago. However, none of us could have known that the victorious boys of 1990 would have to wait another 30 years before their successors to the throne would show any sign of repeating the feats of  that all conquering season.

When the much revered likes of Barnes, Whelan, Houghton, Mcmahon, the local prouct Steve Mcmanaman and the gently strolling Jan Molby all joined up to load up the attacking bullets for the lethal Ian Rush, opposition teams knew they were in for a stressful afternoon. And along with the ever industrious Peter Beardsley we knew we were witnessing a Liverpool who were desperate to emulate the old First Division League championship exploits of their predecessors. There was the tireless Kevin Keegan, John Toshack, Terry Mcdermott, Ray Kennedy, Emlyn Hughes and the artistic if temperamental Graeme Souness, a team of such exceptional adaptability that many believed that Liverpool would continue to dominate English football for many years to come.

And yet here we are almost 30 years later and the worm is turning again. Anfield, still one of the most atmospheric and melodious of football grounds, is getting that lovely warm feeling again. Liverpool think this could finally be the year they've been waiting for and not before time or so they may believe. Anfield of course has undergone dramatic re-furbishment in recent years and the Anfield of the Gerry and the Pacemakers- You'll Never Walk Alone vintage is now just a distant if glorious 1960s memory.

The Kop have retained the same overtures and symphonies, the familiar songs, the visually moving sway of the red scarves and that sense of heartfelt community spirit which will always drive the players forward. Throughout the 1960s, 1970s and right up to the present day, the Kop remind you of a well tuned orchestra that never sound off key. Sadly, that tumbling, surging tidal wave of support from generations of fathers, mothers, aunties and cousins, although still ever present in huge droves, no longer seem to bunch together in their vast religious congregations.

Of course they provide Liverpool with that vital sense of continuity, that seamless link with both the past and present. Butt the new look Anfield has a more state of the art, art nouveau appearance where all seating arrangements and a more futuristic design about the ground seem to be a clear statement of the club's ambitions and their forward thinking outlook. Now the preferred choice of drink is more latte and capuccino rather than the traditional lager and pale ale.

On Saturday evening you were reminded of Ron Yeats and Peter Thompson, Ian St John and Tommy Lawrence, impregnable rocks at the heart of the glory, glory 1960s years of wine and roses. You remembered the brilliantly gifted Kenny Dalglish coming back to Liverpool as manager and winning again for the club. The floodlights were on full blast for Liverpool on the first wintry evening at Anfield and it was just like the old days. The now sadly missed Tommy Smith, you suspect, would have relished evenings such as this one.

A confrontation between Liverpool and Manchester City for a League title would have appeared unthinkable 30 or 40 years ago. City were regarded as a team of serial underachievers back in the 1970s and 1980s, a team of undoubted class and stature but always stumbling around in the dark rather like strangers in a haunted house. They reminded you of Victorian vagabonds with guttering candles in their hands frantically looking for warmth on a cold night. City were never in contention for anything and never really looked like succeeding even when Malcolm Allison and Joe Mercer were in charge at the club.

Of course under the magically transformative Pep Guardiola City have won back to back Premier League titles but this season is strikingly different. When City were shocked and beaten by newly promoted Norwich City a couple of weeks ago some of us thought of it as the most fleeting of blips, never to happen again. City though look very shaky, fallible, accident prone and unsteady on their feet. Their football is still pure and unblemished but there are visible cracks and the first hints of vulnerability and wobbly fallibility have to be a cause of concern at the Etihad Stadium.

When the outstandingly marauding full back overlaps of Andrew Robertson were ripping away at a flaky, threadbare City defensive fabric, Liverpool looked clinical, destructive and full of the joys of winter. Robertson maybe no galloping Emlyn Hughes but he does like a good, old fashioned run down the flanks. Here Robertson gave us that distinctive masterclass of a full back who loves nothing better than a sprint for the by line, taking on his opponent for pace before reaching his destination and crossing superbly for onrushing forwards Mo Salah and Roberto Firmino.

With the hugely intelligent and classily cultivated Jordan Henderson linking delightfully with Fabino and the increasingly progressive Trent Alexander Arnold on the other flank, Liverpool were all angles, mosaic patterns and intricate one touch football. Their football flowed speedily, accurately and pleasurably across the middle of the pitch rather like another Constable work of art. The landscape was unfolding before us and you could see another modern day manifestation of Liverpool genius.

When Fabino ventured forward to fire home a thunderous shot for Liverpool's opening goal from just outside the penalty area, you could hear the first crackles of electricity in the feverish Anfield Kop again. Fabino is one of those typically Brazilian purveyors of craft, guile and clever footballing deception who just revel in the use and distribution of a football. When the fizzing and fabulously energetic Mo Salah flung himself forward to head Liverpool's second, the crowd were tuning up those famously harmonious chants. A fluttering picture of the great Bob Paisley rippled across the Kop and those devoted loyalists were in their element. It was as if the the 1960s and 1970s had made a welcome return to Anfield.

It was left to the permanently skilful Sadio Mane to add the icing on Liverpool's now very edible cake. Mane popped up almost naturally at the far post to crack home Liverpool's third. It seemed almost too good to be true for Liverpool rather like a dreamscape that none of us could have imagined. City were being put in their place, rubbed out of existence like a mistake in a child's exercise book. They were being given that deserved dose of medicine that threatened to unseat them last season until Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool finally ran out of steam.

Although City did salvage a late consolation goal right at the end this felt like a change in the sea temperature for them. Liverpool are beginning to carve out a deeply impressive lead at the top of the Premier League. Of course your mind went back to that astonishing last gasp winning goal for Arsenal at Anfield which meant that Liverpool were pipped to the old First Division Championship.

Then there was that incredible season when Kevin Keegan's Newcastle United were so far ahead of Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United that some of us were in need of a good set of binoculars to spot Newcastle in the distance. Then Newcastle, who had a 12 point lead at the top of the Premier League in February of that season, blew up in front of all of us and Fergie's Manchester United's fledglings ran away with the Premier League title. It was the most head turning of turning points and the rest you know.

So it is that Liverpool sit pretty at the top of the Premier League just before the last international break of the season this year. There is an air of dethronement in the ether and those humorous Liverpool wise crackers are composing those eternally catchy tunes for another Anfield coronation at the end of the season.The balance of power is beginning to change quite noticeably and even the most hardened City fans are starting to worry and fret.

 The neutral onlookers will be cheering them all the way because we can all identify with Liverpool, their impeccable approach to the game, the passes like well connected wires, a fusion of intellect and intuition, short, sweet, quick and ultimately devastating. How proud Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley would have been. There is a classic fragrance of a Liverpool Premier League title in the atmosphere and you can almost sense it.

Lest we forget.

Lest we forget.

Lest we should ever forget. This weekend should be indelibly etched on all our minds for ever more. It is a weekend heavy with sombreness, mourning, grief and loss. It is the one time of the year when we set aside our concerns for the world around us, quietly remember the two World Wars and pray for lasting peace. It is not too much to ask of a world that still seems hell bent on a path of self destruction. At times it almost feels as if we have not only ignored the lessons of the past but are determined to overlook the present day and, quite certainly, the future.

This morning we were treated to the frivolities that have always accompanied the London Lord Mayor's Show, the annual street pageant that has wound its way splendidly around the City of London every year since the days when Dick Whittington was a lad. The children have lined the streets year after year, patriotic Union Jacks always fluttering and families have travelled down to London from all points of the compass. By now you have to be familiar with the whole pomp and ceremony of it all. It is England basking in its deeply rooted traditions.

And yet tonight at the Royal Albert Hall in London, thoughts will turn solemnly to the soldiers, those brave and heroic men and women who sacrificed their lives so that we could be here to witness the present day. The bloodshed, suffering and torment can still be seen, heard and felt 75 years later because the memories still hurt, the images are seared into our consciousness and the red poppies still securely pinned to our coats. It is a feeling that may never ever go away, a sense of numbness, speechlessness, horror and helpless shock.

So it is that our marvellous soldiers with their seemingly endless row of  medals will stand to attention tonight and tomorrow morning for Remembrance Sunday. Tomorrow they will march proudly along Whitehall and the Cenotaph where they will promptly doff their berets and caps, acutely aware of the gravity and momentousness of the occasion. The yellowing leaves will fall reverentially to the ground and the whole of both London and the world will stop what it's doing and bow its head.

There will be the most poignantly painful of silences as well there should be because at 11.00 tomorrow morning the trumpets and trombones will play those funereal pieces of classical music, the Last Post, a tragic and heartbreaking dirge that has always sounded utterly appropriate for this most grave of all occasions. Then the cymbals will clash resoundingly and those wonderful men and women wearing thick, long black coats will wipe away a private flood of tears because this is the one weekend of the year that should always be acknowledged.

Then they will march along Whitehall, arms swinging obediently, stride lengthening and heads now raised high on a crisp and evocative morning in London. They will keep marching for as long as it takes them to remind us of the senseless futility of war, all wars. It will be too much for some, if not all, for those gathered because the emotion of it all may prove too overwhelming for words.

But deep within us is that inner resilience, that strength of character that allows us just to think and reflect and then hope that any world war never darkens our corridor again. We come from the generation of grandsons and grand-daughters who were Holocaust survivors. They were the fathers, mothers, aunties, uncles and cousins who fought remarkably in the Battle of Britain, who traipsed across blood stained lands, ran through forests and who were evacuated to the country because they knew they had to escape from Adolf Hitler and his barbarically murderous henchmen.

Tomorrow morning though both the government of the day, the shadow cabinet, the Royal Family and every conceivable dignitary from both the Commonwealth and the world will lay their poppy festooned wreaths on the Cenotaph. They will step back for a moment or two very thoughtfully because we'll never know what's going through their minds. They will kneel very briefly, bow their heads and try to make sense of the whole day. This is a very outward expression of national goodwill, a demonstration of utter dignity and deference at its most impressive.

The Remembrance service is held every year and for all time. Because the problem is that although 75 years seems an inordinately long passage of time, the chances are that the Second World War may well become lost in the mists of time. Of course we should never forget and of course we should always cherish our parents and grandparents, grateful for the people who provided us with our ultimate salvation. Let us please take just a couple of minutes, maybe an afternoon, to just sit for a while and think of those who put their lives on the line for us. We should never ever forget.

The night after Guy Fawkes Day,

The night after Guy Fawkes Day.

So here we are on the night after the most explosive and colourful night of the year. While the children have finally let off those traditional bangers and Catherine wheels with their pungent smell of fire and smoke drifting languidly into the night sky, the adults are probably more concerned about General Elections, their personal choice of Prime Minister and the loose tongue of one Jacob Rees Mogg.

But fireworks night always takes us back almost inevitably to our childhood when those trusty Standard fireworks would come neatly packaged,  complete with a whole box of which remind you of sticks of dynamite. Here they sit bunched together, ready to be launched before a breathless and excited audience of children and doting parents, ever smiling, wide eyed and desperate to see that annual display of pyrotechnical fun and games.

For those of us who grew up in the peaceful and salubrious Essex suburb of Ilford, most of us can still remember gathering together every year on a boggy, muddy playing field where once the great feelgood soul man James Brown once graced us with his presence. We must have known it was James Brown because every so often you could still probably hear that loud grunt of pleasure, a stifled scream indicating that euphoria had indeed broken out over Ilford. Of course Brown felt good if only because that extravagant rock and roll lifestyle had quite categorically entered his soul.

Every year without fail the Melbourne Fields would come alive on Guy Fawkes Night. And yet the firework display itself would never seem to turn up on the night in question. For reasons best known to the local organisers it would always be held a couple of nights before. It was usually on the first Saturday evening in November and every year we would patiently wait outside Valentines Park, shivering with cold, rubbing our hands together desperately for warmth before realising that this was as good as it was going to get.

So it was that we leaned on the green railings next to Melbourne Fields, pulling up our coat hoods against the first hints of rain that would eventually give way to torrential rain. Then we raced onto a dark and dank playing field now completely caked in thick, cloying mud, exposed to what became an increasingly bitterly cold evening, wind swept, murky and only redeemed by something pretty special. The night was young and in the distance we could see, to the great delight of the youngsters, a mini fairground. Yes folks, a fairground with all the trappings of a fairground in November.

Now it was possible to believe that the usual summer fairground that had so briefly entertained the children of our age had come around again. Suddenly, there was the flashing, flickering, sparky ferris wheel, spinning and whirling, winking at us amiably, flying through the air at the rate of knots. There was that stall where you could quite easily win that much coveted goldfish but only if you could prove your throwing skills by landing three rings on whatever object you were required to get those elusive fish.

Then there was the dart board which bore no resemblance to the one you would normally find in your local pub because there were no pints of lager by way of reward if you were ever so fortunate to win cuddly teddy bears or yet more goldfish. There was that carousel that rose and fell, mechanical horses that responded in perfect time to the latest music of the time. What did seem baffling though was why the people who ran the carousel were so intent on playing the likes of Eddie Cochran or Johnny Rae. Of course there was nothing wrong with such rock and roll royalty but it was music that was relevant to the 1950s and no longer seemed applicable to the late 1970s. Still, we did know how to enjoy ourselves and who cared.

Over on the other side of the Melbourne Fields there was something else going on which illuminated a now freezing November night. Now to say this was one of the most improbable sights you were ever likely to see on Bonfire Night would be entirely correct. Proudly standing in one very isolated corner of Melbourne Fields was a film projector screen ready and waiting to crank out some of the most charming cartoons in the whole of Essex.

Before you could say Walt Disney, a spectacular repertoire of Disney's finest would burst onto the screen. Courtesy of Redbridge council and its exceedingly generous coffers, Mickey Mouse, Donald Duck and all of his Disney colleagues would put on their familiar show of camaraderie just for us. Amid the now sleeting, slanting rain we would gaze up at a considerably scaled down version of the conventional Odeon screen, squinting through the drizzle and then rushing for the fairground if only to camp out under one of the stalls.

By the end of the evening we felt as though as we'd been part of an evening that was somehow unique, a double whammy dose of good, old fashioned childish entertainment. In the old days of course there were no distracting I Pads or Tablets to worry ourselves over unduly, no Facebook or Twitter friends to add or communicate with and none of those millions of Apps to peruse and then to inquire about should you have been so inclined.

We played football on the streets and roads until dark when our parents ordered us back into our homes. We threw stones onto the pavement, thrilled to the experience of hop scotch and then listened out for the Rossi's ice cream van because that was so immensely exhilarating and just a sweet, innocent joy. Guy Fawkes though night represented complete escapism, an event of  such deep significance that school homework had to be delayed temporarily.

 For one evening we could cry out with amazement at something we must have seen a thousand times before on previous Guy Fawkes nights. It was the re-enactment of that old story. Oh to be a child from yesteryear. Such fond memories. May they never fade. Life is so sweet. Has anybody got a Space Hopper or Adidas T-shirt to spare? Of course they're in the cupboard.

A miserable weekend for the England rugby union team.

A miserable weekend for the England rugby union team.

In the end it was all too much bear and very much a depressing anti-climax, a sad postscript and in many ways a match too far for the English rugby union team. They were comprehensively beaten in the World Cup Final by a prodigiously resourceful, all singing, all dancing, foot loose and fancy free South Africa side who were technically flawless, a superbly oiled rugby machine, quicker of thought and classier than England in every position.

For the last couple of weeks Japan has coped commendably with everything that might have been thrown at them. There was the typhoon that threatened the very continuation of the Webb Ellis World Cup, the ever present critics who clearly felt that the country was ill equipped to hold a tournament of this size and the voices of praise who eventually fell in love with its meticulous attention to detail. Here they were confronted with the thorny issues of organisation and the logistical complications that might have set in had it all gone wrong. Still, they got it absolutely right.

Last week England seemed destined to win the World Cup with their eyes closed, blinkers on and whistling a merry tune as it all became too easy for them. But casual arrogance never did sit comfortably on English sport's shoulders. The weight of expectation can often prove more trouble than its worth and England were beaten by South Africa because somebody must have told them that this would, quite literally, be a walk in the park for them. So they rolled up at a World Cup Final, looked at their opponents contemptuously and then decided that this was just another cliched piece of cake.

So much for a powerful and yet beatable South African team or so England must have felt at the time. But how foolishly misguided were they? There is a time for presumptuousness and over confidence but this was not it for an England side who believed, quite rightly, that it was their turn to win something very big and prestigious. In fact this was the World Cup Final and at stake a chance to gain immortality and celebrity status for ever more. England though were not up for this one though. They were still busy preening themselves after beating New Zealand in the semi final.

After South Africa had quite literally wiped the floor with England 32-12, England were left to look stunned, emotionally exhausted, inferior, sub standard and, quite definitely, second best. It was to be hoped that the engine room of the side including the rumbling, driving and forceful backs of Elliot Daly, Anthony Watson, Johnny May on the wing, George Ford and Ben Youngs would hustle and , bustle, foraging forward in search of what turned out to be scraps.

 We hoped that the versatile and magical Mako Vunipola would dance and cavort his way past a dark green pack of South African beefcakes. We assumed that the likes of Jamie George, the ferociously determined Kyle Sinckler and the ever influential England captain Owen Farrell would just be a pain in the neck for a South African side who were both prepared and primed for action. We knew that the equally as brave and grittily tenacious Courtney Laws would punch wide holes in the scrum, forever pushing and shoving with increasing menace while Sam Underhill would break forward at every opportunity.

But there was something missing. We could all see that. Following a quick succession of penalties for both sides, there was nothing between them. Then the white shirts of England began to collapse in the scrums, vital ball was wastefully squandered, passes went wildly astray or over heads and England were never ruthless enough, a side that had now become sloppy, sluggish and off the pace. They were also losing the ball quite disturbingly at turnovers, line outs and now leaping at thin air.

By the hour mark South Africa were grabbing the oval ball rather like the primary school child who wants to take the ball home to their parents and show off their burgeoning skills. They tapped the ball effortlessly from the base of the scrum with the healthiest appetite for the battle. They made light of the potential threat that England might have posed them. The dark green shirted Springboks were indeed having their day in the Japanese sun although the weather itself never really promised as much.

Your mind travelled back to that famous day when  Nelson Mandela presented the World Cup to Francois Pienaar and the ecstatic Mandela couldn't help but jig and move his hips from side to side, a very smug and contented man who knew exactly where his country was going. Now it was time for the current generation of South African players to give something even more meaningful and profound back to the Rainbow Nation.

Now of course the dark and ugly days of apartheid are well and truly behind all of South Africa. The wide open veldt lands and sweepingly dramatic landscapes of Cape Town, Pretoria and Johannesburg are gleaming reminders of a South Africa that is largely at peace with itself. Of course there are pockets of bloodshed and violence but then again this would never be a straightforward re-building job.

Still when Siya Kosili became the first black captain to raise aloft the World Cup for South Africa, a nation went into immediate party mode, celebrating joyously deep into the night and quite possibly for the rest of the year. South Africa were daintily skipping and weaving their way entrancingly past England, full of magic and sorcery, endless energy and stamina, never allowing England to settle.

The second half had now become a glorious exhibition of rugby union at its finest. South Africa was giving full rein to its natural expression, a country that had found both its clear identity and creative focus. The anxieties were falling away as the match reached its final moments. When Chelsin Kolbe went swerving his way through a gasping England defence to plonk over the crucial try which clinched the World Cup, it was clear that a country that had once been gripped by corrosive racism was now enjoying one of  the greatest moments in their sporting history. If only sport could offer more days like this one. It would make everything so simple

9 to 5. What a way to earn a living!

9-5. What a way to earn a living.

When the curtain had come down and the thunderous applause had stopped, Bonnie Langford had thanked the audience who had once again shown their unanimous approval of the hit West End musical 9 to 5. We began to wonder whether we'd ever seen such a wonderful display of tongue in cheek, knock about fun on a Friday night. For this was the jokey reference that Ms Langford had made in relation to the day of the week. On this occasion she was kindly asking the audience to contribute towards a charity and a vast majority fully recognised this benevolent gesture.

9 to 5 was a foot tapping, wise cracking, thoroughly enjoyable showbiz gallop back to the 1980s when mobile phones had just broken onto the high tech market and looked remarkably like bricks with wires hanging from them awkwardly. Duran Duran and Spandau Ballet were dominating the British music charts and the financial stock market was swimming with money and excitingly lucrative wheeling and dealing. It was an age of opportunity, quite possibly selfishness, and greed with just a sprinkling of big hair, rampant materialism and a dash of Margaret Thatcher.

In the middle of all this madness and maelstrom, there was 9 to 5, a film that captured the zeitgeist of the 1980s American dream. Ronald Reagan was the American president, the ruthless money makers of New York were raking in their millions of dollars by the week, month and year, the huge corporations and conglomerates were at their wealthiest and a certain Donald Trump was one of those emergent American businessmen who earned several millions, became bankrupt and then crawled up the so called greasy pole of capitalism when fame called and the rest, as they say, is history.

The silver screen version of 9 to 5  featured the permanently smiling Dolly Parton who was almost as voluptuous as the production itself and a whole supporting cast of bubbly, wannabe and fanatically aspirational ladies who just want to get to the top as quickly as possible. Natalie Mcqueen, beautifully taking the role of Dolly Parton, is both blonde, effervescent as a bottle of champagne, brimming with chutzpah and confidence, a woman of both substance and runaway ambition. Mcqueen delivers one of those show stopping and memorable performances that you still find yourself remembering long after the West End rickshaws have gone.

Our story begins with the uncontrollably lecherous and cigar smoking Franklyn J. Hart, the head of Consolidated, one of those high profile companies that used to hire and fire their secretaries at the drop of a hat. Richard Taylor Woods, skilfully taking the place of the absent Brian Conley, plays the role of the dreadfully womanising Hart, forever chasing Doralee around his office like a labrador on heat. He then continuously woos and seduces Doralee as if determined to get his woman. Hilariously sitting down, the chair sends Hart toppling backwards and revenge is sweet.

We are now taken on a crazy, colourful, outrageous roller coaster of dynamic dance sequences with frequent nods to the Dolly Parton classic 9 to 5 and variations on a theme. After persistent advances and glorious rejections, all of the three secretaries Doralee Rhodes, Caroline Sheen as Violet Newstead and Chelsea Halfpenny as the equally as competitive and ambitious Judy Bernly plot the ultimate come uppance when the boss Hart goes too far. What follows would have most of us in giggling raptures.

Hart, by now groping at thin air rather than women, is strung up in sado masochism gear, chains, pins and leather stifling his every next move on the girls. By the interval we watch with nothing but gleeful hilarity as Hart is left suspended in the air with tape across his mouth and an audience who can do nothing but roar with laughter. All of Hart's lustful intentions are now reduced to nothing but a hovering figure with egg on his face and a giant sized ego which has now been severely deflated.

In the second half we are left with nothing but a whole series of accusations implying that Hart has stolen money, indulging in both fraud, deception and embezzlement. More scheming and conniving ensures that Hart ends up with nothing but battered pride hurt and not a single shoulder to cry on. Now threatening to kill one of his secretaries, Hart suffers humiliation and a dramatic fall from grace. The ladies win their day.

Throughout 9-5 we watch with some delight spectacularly colour co-ordinated sets with blues, greens, reds, yellows magically transferred to filing cabinets, water coolers, swivelling seats and desks wih unashamed style. This is a musical that successfully keeps its tongue in its cheek because just for a while you are taken on a whistle stop tour of a giddily affluent America where big bucks and millions of dollars are almost ritually exchanged and the ladies, who demand both dignity and respect, win the day quite triumphantly. Some of us loved this heady nostalgia trip back into an era that revelled in a  sudden 1980s explosion of victorious feminism, an age when senseless sexism was given a vigorous shove out of the door marked exit. Let's hear it for the girls.