Happy New Year and David Moyes.

Happy New Year and David Moyes.

So here we are on the threshold of another decade and it hardly seems possible that ten years have passed since the last one.  New Year's Eve is often a time for being both reflective and analytical, for dipping into the past and counting our blessings for both the present and whatever the future may hold for us. But reminiscence and nostalgia may not be all that they're cracked up to be. Besides, none of us know exactly what lies in front of us and on the last day of the year and the final hours before the beginning of a new decade many of us will be hoping that the last three years of this year aren't the worse of all omens. Oh for Brexit!

Tonight families across Britain and the world will be gathering in their living rooms still heavily laden down with the remains of leftover turkey, staring forlornly at the sad remnants of the booze scattered around your home and then desperately trying to summon up support for some more improvised family karaoke sessions. Then somebody will pluck up the courage to dance unashamedly on their own, failing miserably in their bid to find the rhythm and co-ordination to complete such an audacious manoeuvre.

Across the world we will don party hats, clink bottles and glasses in a blissful, alcoholic stupor before trudging off to the kitchen in the hope of finding somebody sufficiently sober to stand up with properly on the night. But tonight is the night of all nights, a time for family unity and harmony, giggling and laughing at the sheer uniqueness of the one night of the year that doesn't care if you wake up the following morning feeling as though you'd rather not engage with anybody until the first week in February.

Years and years ago we used to converge on Trafalgar Square to see in the New Year. Now health and safety issues take on almost urgent priority since none of us wants to see each other get hurt. In the old days- and still evident in a couple of cases- vast hordes of people would take their lives in their hands by jumping around engagingly in the fountains and then manfully trying to climb onto to those distinctive lions who have both been there for as long as anybody can remember.

We then retire to London's Embankment in the shivering cold and drizzly rain just to feast our eyes on the traditional fireworks party that now frames the equally as spectacular London Eye. Still, the New Year's Eve light show continues to hold a perennial fascination for those of us who just want to re-capture our childhood. We head for the best vantage point and then discover huge masses of people all huddling together, all seeking selfies to capture the moment for posterity and then letting out those traditional gasps of astonishment when they discover that their children are just as dazzled as their parents.

It is now that the London throng slowly disperses into the blustery wilderness, twisting and turning adroitly around only to find that their neighbours maybe not going anywhere very quickly. Around them the night buses are gradually switching on their engines for perhaps the busiest night of the year. This could be one of the longest nights any of them have ever experienced although the nightclub fraternity may think otherwise.

Meanwhile back at home we find ourselves in the world of yesteryear. Hands up those who still remember British TV on New Year's Eve. There was the enchanting Moira Anderson, a Scottish chanteuse with a voice of an angel and a woman who quite clearly sounded as though she'd drunk too many whiskies for her own good although not that many because it was all very good humoured. Meanwhile at the White Heather Club Andy Stewart, complete in tartan and a beautifully crafted set of bagpipes, blew heartily and then started jigging around swords as if his life depended on it.

Now of course we are almost completely spoilt for choice when TV comes a calling. There are 5,261 channels plus another 700 million channels all showing a thousand Christmas shows that have only been repeated over the years at least 72 million times. By now our wonderful cousins are snoring loudly on the sofa, the carpet is smothered in crushed tins of lager and mouldy cheese sandwiches are now a sea of crumbs. There remains a wholesome display of broken whistles and old Christmas crackers that are now scattered all over the once pristine mahogany tables. What happened last night?

By tomorrow they will be required to clear up the carnage on the floor. They will wake up with that feeling that perhaps can only be re-produced accurately on a Saturday morning after drinking the entire contents of a pub the previous night.  They will unwind their exhausted shoulders, fling their arms high into the air and then focus on the world outside with bleary eyes and an awkward groan.

The New Year's Eve party, which hours before had been a scene of high spirited intoxication and fun, now sounds like an empty cathedral, silence reigning for what seems like a good two hours. We had a great time last night but the problem is that some of them have no recollection of the party. So we slink away wearily into the fresh New Year's morning only to be told that London is holding that New Year's parade so it's time to do some more richly projected cheering into the wintry air.

Meanwhile back at the London Stadium, the football team who wear claret and blue are bracing themselves for another period of change. Not for the first time recently West Ham have now announced the re-appointment of their old manager David Moyes. Of course West Ham find themselves clinging onto dear life one point above the relegation zone. This is customary territory for the East London outfit and when Manuel Pellegrini finally walked out of the exit door, some of us didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Throughout the ages West Ham chairmen ranging from Len Cearns to the Pratt family have loyally backed their managers through thick and thin. When Ted Fenton was replaced by Ron Greenwood in the early 1960s, West Ham proceeded uncomfortably to spend the next 20 years in the old First Division. When Greenwood left West Ham in 1977 for the England job, John Lyall, who had spent his whole life at the club, took over as boss officially.

In the early 1990s club legend Billy Bonds, a rugged, no nonsense and uncompromising defender, became a new manager before another club favourite Harry Redknapp, full of Eastern promise and a cheeky turn of phrase, pulled on the tracksuit as manager of the club. There had been brief periods in between where Lou Macari and Glen Roeder became the most improbable of managers.

So here we are folks. It's time to get ready to party, to put on our gladrags, whistle a merry tune and try to avoid complete embarrassment in front of our friends. And yet who cares because it is New Year's Eve and our behaviour is in no danger of any severe examination. We can do whatever we like within reason and that sore hangover will just be a distant memory. Happy and Healthy New Year to everybody.

  

It's Christmas Day and all is quiet.

It's Christmas Day and all is quiet.

The streets and roads are as quiet as a library. There is not a soul to be seen or heard.  There is silence, peace and stillness. Cars and buses have fallen into a temporary hibernation and even the traffic lights at the top of our road seem to have taken the day off. This can only mean one thing and one thing only. It's Christmas Day and families around the world will carefully tread their way into the living room, smile pleasingly at the Christmas tree in the corner, wish they hadn't quaffed too many brandies, sherries and lagers the previous day and then slump back on their sofas with a hearty guffaw and belly laugh.

We all know that today is the one day completely devoted to rest, relaxation and detailed analysis of what the TV may have to offer us before just resigning ourselves us to the fact that Christmases of yesteryear were so different and those who miss the past will just have to get used to the present and the future. Of course Christmas will never be the same as it used to be because evolution always makes its presence felt and change is difficult.

During the 1950s everything shut for the day on Christmas Day. The shops and big department stores closed for the day, offices put up the shutters, factories declared a day of complete inactivity, street markets withdrew their services and even those quaint corner shops fixed the padlock on. The newsagents, which had been a hotbed of money and affluence, were now reduced to a whispering breeze that nobody can now hear.

For Christmas Day is that unique day of the year when nobody does anything at all and wishes that Christmas could just go away and never come back. Isn't it amazing that on the one day of the year we should look forward to, we all cross our arms in a fit of pique and frustration, pleading with the kids to keep the noise down? It's supposed to be a day of religious contemplation, looking back over the year at the tempestuous events that have shaped our lives and quite possibly annoyed us beyond reason.

Amid all the festive tinsel and frivolous frippery, mums, dads, grandparents, aunties, cousins and uncles tiptoe gingerly over the chaotic tangle of ribbons, paper and toys as if it were some customary ritual that has to be negotiated every year whether they like it or not. Then mums run back into the kitchen frantically checking the parlous state of a simmering turkey in the oven. This may be the time to stop and take it easy. If we count to ten then nothing untoward will happen.

 She opens the oven, cries in pain at the horrendous condition of a charred ruin in the oven and wishes it could all be over. She waves at the oven with a submissive wave of a tea towel and then races back to the potato peeler. Here the roast potatoes are prepared with a loving attention to detail, vegetables are thrown onto another tray and none of us can understand the sheer magnitude of the day. We drink and eat to the point of bursting, let out a huge, regretful sigh at the end of the day and then reluctantly play either charades, Monopoly or Scrabble by way of compensation.

Then the children run up and down the stairs almost constantly, the dog keeps looking longingly at their owners for a three hour run in the local park or recreation ground and you try to keep your feelings to yourself. Meanwhile your nearest and dearest just help themselves to nibbles, savouries and egg nog refreshments because there's not a great deal to do. All is panic and pandemonium and it's probably best to leave them to it.

This afternoon Her Majesty the Queen will deliver her regal pearls of wisdom to the nation. It will be a pre-recorded speech which will be laced with immense gratitude, relief that although she may have thought the year as bumpy, she'll still be able to make Christmas cakes with her great great grandchildren and her husband Prince Philip, although hospitalised recently, looks in remarkably good shape for a 98 year old.

The rest of the afternoon will all be about choices and making the right decisions. Do we finally pander to the whims of our golden Labrador and head to those forests or parklands? Or alternatively  we could listen to the magical strains of Chris Rea's Driving Home For Christmas or Jona Lewie's wonderful anti war song Stop the Cavalry. We could settle down and listen to the comforting Pipes of Peace by the one and only Paul McCartney followed by his warm homage to the festive period The Christmas song.

But no matter how much we complain and moan at the sheer, unnecessary expense and commercialism of it all, there can be no denying that in a strange kind of way, most of us do genuinely feel there is a point and purpose to Christmas after all. Besides, it gives us the opportunity to open up channels of communication that would have been barred during the rest of the year because those in political power had nothing else to talk about but Brexit and its bleak ramifications.

On reflection though there can be no escaping the soft and cosy sentimentality of Christmas, the innumerable repeats of films we've seen a thousand times in the past and the relentless barrage of TV cookery programmes with those endless recipes for the perfect Christmas cake. And so it goes on. The celebrities will dress up in those frankly ludicrous red and white coats while on the other channels they'll be doing their utmost to ladle on the froth, glitter and good natured silliness.

Besides, there can only be so many times that you can show A Christmas Carol with Alistair Sim or White Christmas without asking questions why? And yet why ever not? It is after all Christmas and let the good times roll. Repetition can quite be uplifting. This year there has been no sighting of the classic It's a Wonderful Life starring the incomparable James Stewart. It's a Wonderful Life remains a film. of light, shade and blissful redemption, happy ever after.

In recent years we've all played along to the all action, hair raising, heroic and chivalric James Bond, the man who somehow manages to escape death when all around him are either being blown up or shot. Bond has become an almost traditional Christmas staple, as familiar as Santa Claus himself, a man dedicated to the safety and security of the free world.

By the end of this afternoon millions of children will gaze out of snow ringed windows, pointing at equally as snow caked gardens and tall, stately trees. And yet hold on there can be snow because none has been predicted on Christmas Day for some time, a disappointment for the younger ones and those who still believe that snow is somehow imperative for a proper Christmas. Why can't they be allowed to venture out onto thick white carpets with their toboggans or hastily built sleighs, sliding, thrilling, hurtling down challenging hills while adoring parents look on with a just a hint of anxiety?

Whatever you may be doing today this is an opportune moment to say once again that Christmas is essentially a day for the simple enjoyments of life, of being together as a family and singing those jolly old festive tunes. Outside a thousand roast chestnuts are crackling away soothingly by countless braziers. Oh and of course there are no buses or trains which you know about anyway.

Well over 50 years ago the London tube and overground railway system ran to full capacity on Christmas Day and none of us would have batted an eyelid. There was also a full old First Division football fixture list as well with some of the most bizarre results ever seen. Now though football and trains have taken a back seat on this day of days and now football plays its games on Boxing Day.

So here we are on Christmas Day ladies and gentlemen. The Holly and the Ivy are tinkling away quite aptly in the background, mum and dad are wearing the silliest paper hats you've ever seen and cousin Graham is wrestling with the latest incarnation of the X Box series or some brilliantly retro Hornby train set and rails.

 It has to be said that we've all had one or two many snowballs or vodka and tonics for our own good, there have been one too many kisses under the mistletoe for anybody's liking and when they all come to the table to devour the turkey and sprouts they'll be thinking back to those Christmases when the trains once ran on Christmas Day. It was a time when football was played with one of those heavyweight medicine balls, pitches resembled unsightly mud heaps and England football manager Gareth Southgate had yet to make his arrival.  Still wherever you are on this sacred and deeply religious day Merry Christmas everybody and will somebody pass me the cranberry sauce please? Thankyou, it's much appreciated.

Martin Peters dies - one of West Ham's own.

Martin Peters dies- one of West Ham's own.

Yesterday football lost one of its most distinguished servants, one of the major contributors to English football's finest hour and half plus extra time. He was the one figure who, amid all of the hallabaloo and knees up revelry of that late July afternoon, kept the coolest of heads and that quiet low profile that would come characterise his football throughout his career.

Martin Peters, who died yesterday at the age of 76, was, of course part of the England team who beat West Germany in the 1966 World Cup Final and, as if it were fated to happen, scored one of the goals that left the Germans on their knees and looking for a hole in the ground.

The Germans were still incensed at the injustice of it all. When Peters West Ham team mate Geoff Hurst turned on a six pence inside the Germans penalty area and thundered his shot into the back of the net, a posse of white German shirts surrounded the referee, convinced that the ball had hit the bar, come down on the goal line and not crossed that line. But the goal stood and the rest is controversial history.

Martin Peters though remained calm, detached, utterly imperturbable and slightly bewildered by events swirling around him. While Hurst was flinging his arms into the air and casting an equally as baffled look around him, Peters was almost completely unaffected by all the fuss and confusion. Fresh faced and boyish, hair neatly cut and the epitome of composure, Peters was honoured to be associated with the one day in English football history where time seemed to freeze for just a while.

Born in Plaistow, East London, Peters joined the fabled West Ham academy of football where an entire generation of East End gems would be nurtured, encouraged, coaxed, inspired and made to feel as if they genuinely belonged. He was 15, wet behind the ears but willing to listen to everything that West Ham manager Ron Greenwood was about to teach him. The mind was both responsive and receptive, an absorbent sponge if you like.

Then the claret and blue teenager matured like the sweetest of wines, joining forces with the blond haired boy from Barking who would become Sir Alf Ramsey's greatest standard bearer and captain. Bobby Moore was both immaculate of dress and footballing temperament, a player who never hurried or scurried but always read and anticipated. Then there was Peters other loyal and whole hearted colleague Sir Geoff Hurst who followed Peters and Moore all the way to those wild party celebrations at the Royal Garden Hotel in Kensington later that evening.

As a player, Martin Peters was mild mannered, modest, a man of humility, graciousness personified, kindness and one of football's keenest students. Peters always seemed to have time on the ball and when the tackles were flying in from all directions, Peters chose the safe option and didn't get involved. When Ron Greenwood, the Hammers boss, insisted that Peters was 10 years ahead of every player in the old First Division, he may have been endorsing the sentiments of the whole of Britain.

Peters did win trophies with West Ham but there was a school of thought that believed that had he been more ambitious he could have won more with bigger clubs and loftier ideas. Although Peters was left out of the West Ham team who won that cliff hanger of an FA Cup Final in 1964, West Ham still went on to win the game, Ronnie Boyce swooping in with a last gasp header that floated wide of the Preston North End keeper and into the net.

In 1965, Peters once again emerged as one of the key figures and protagonists in West Ham's unforgettable European Cup Winners Cup Final victory against TSV Munich 1860 at the old Wembley Stadium. Peters was a strolling, swaggering artist, almost picking his passes as a water colourist would choose their paints. Peters would never be flustered or bothered, never agitated by things that were beyond his control.

Then in 1966 Martin Peters lined up with his World Cup Final best buddies and nervous acquaintances in the tunnel. You could see him at the very moment when the players were about to emerge into that theatrical shaft of watery sunlight that seemed to flood Wembley on that historic day. Peters, walking straight and unflinching was tall and upright as a guardsman, a man in search of a unique destiny.

Early in the second half, with both West Germany and England locked in battle and the scores level, it suddenly happened. A weak shot from just outside the German penalty area bobbled intriguingly around and the ball fell almost conveniently to Peters in acres of space. The ball rebounded off a German leg and almost in slow motion the West Ham midfielder joyfully cracked the ball into the West German net for England's second.

Throwing his hands into the air and jumping for joy, Peters had just carved his name into English football's hitherto chequered history. And so it was that Sir Geoff Hurst, one of Peters best friends off  the pitch, rattled the crossbar and then found that, much to the relief of everybody,  the third England goal was legitimate. Oh how grateful we were that VAR wasn't around to spoil things.

Four years later in Mexico, England came back to defend the World Cup that had rightfully been theirs in 1966. Peters was still there and working effectively for Sir Alf Ramsey in the sweltering mid day heat. He also scored again against West Germany but this time the chunky thighs of Gerd Muller, the lethal West German striker would wrap themselves around the ball thrashing the ball powerfully past Peter Bonetti the goalkeeper who was deputising for Gordon Banks, the victim of a thankfully brief bout of food poisoning.

After returning home from the World Cup in Mexico, Peters had time to take stock of his career up until that point. He'd picked up one or two trophies thus far but it was now time for some serious reappraisal. West Ham, or so he must have thought, were a club going nowhere and Peters felt a change was as good as a rest. In a move that took Jimmy Greaves to West Ham for one last swansong, Peters ended up at Spurs under another managerial visionary in Bill Nicholson.

Peters would win two League Cup medals for Spurs against |Norwich and Aston Villa. With a treasure trove of England caps still building up around him, Peters was determined to end his career on a high note. Then in the twilight of his career, Peters joined Norwich which became the last staging post for him, a player of gold plated distinction and respectability.

When Peters hung up his boots, Sheffield United came a calling, looking for a full time coach and manager to lead the Blades to a promised land that never materialised. Peters was a magician on the pitch but only capable of so much off it. Sheffield United would blunder and bumble, stutter and stumble rather painfully at times and it's only this season that they would be restored to the top flight under the very realistic Chris Wilder.

Martin Peters was never a nightclub socialite or indeed outrageous hell raiser with a penchant for late night punch ups or alcoholic misdemeanours. There was never anything false or superficial about Peters, certainly no airs or graces, just an easy going man with a straightfoward approach to life. He was renowned for ghosting into positions from set pieces and heading goals where no markers had ever seen him. Peters had an unobtrusive charm that endeared him to everybody in the game, a man of solid working class values and a lovingly supportive family.

And so it is that the East End of London bids a final farewell to one of their own. Martin Peters undoubtedly had claret and blue running through his veins. Along the Barking Road and Green Street they'll be paying their respects, doffing their caps and hats. Martin Peters never courted publicity, never really wanted to be famous but yesterday we remembered the very best that Peters had to offer. Oh and never forget that glorious day at the very end of July 1966 when Peters scored one of England's World Cup winning goals. A world champion par excellence. 

My You Tube video for my second book, my life story No Joe Bloggs

My You Tube video for my second book, my life story No Joe Bloggs.

Before you wrap up one of your latest Christmas parents for those nearest and dearest, you might want to have a look at my You Tube video for my second book and life story No Joe Bloggs, available at Amazon, Waterstones online, Foyles online and Barnes and Noble online.

No Joe Bloggs is my funny, feelgood, moving, lyrical and nostalgic life story, a journey down memory lane and my childhood growing up in the Essex suburb of Ilford. You'll read about my early years growing up in Ilford, my parents, grandparents and mum as Holocaust survivors, my favourite kind of music, bands and singers, loads of pop culture from the late 1960s and 1970s, vividly lyrical descriptions of London, the West End, the East End, a fictitious but I think deeply affectionate tribute to my wonderful and late dad, his trip to Las Vegas where he rubbed shoulders with the Rat Pack, aka Sammy Davis Junior, Frank Sinatra and company, playing American pool with all three. There's an amusing set of pen portraits on football teams from the 1970s such as Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester United, Manchester City, Chelsea, Spurs, Everton, Aston Villa, Wolves, Ipswich Town and Wolves.

There are also references to famous TV celebrities and programmes from the the 1970s, programmes from that era, iconic news events from that period, politicians and newscasters and a whole variety of other subjects.

So check out my You Tube video for No Joe Bloggs. If you type in Joe Morris and No Joe Bloggs you'll hear my moving account of the book and the first chapter of my book.

Thanks everybody.

My first children's book Ollie and His Friends and childhood.

My first children's book Ollie and His Friends and childhood.


We all remember our childhood. It was that period of idyllic contentment where everything seemed possible, where nothing seemed impossible, where the secrets and mysteries of life would confront us rather like those unwelcome strangers our parents always warned us against meeting. Yet we would build our tree houses in our gardens, run across parks and fields as if oblivious to time itself before eventually playing football and hopscotch until darkness fell.

Throughout our childhood time seemed to conveniently stand still, when back doors of homes were always flung wide open because crime and skulduggery were somehow alien to us. We threw ourselves wholeheartedly into our young lives confident in the knowledge that none would ever attack, harm us, maim or injure. We were the footloose and fancy free ones, allowed to engage, participate and freely indulge in the games and youthful frivolities that we would take to almost naturally and improvise on.

Of course these were exciting and adventurous times, racing around our local back roads on our bikes, throwing stones and pebbles onto the pavement, jumping around energetically for the best part of a day until mum and dad would invariably implore us to come in now and get ready for supper followed by bed. Then at another predictable point during the afternoon the ice-cream van would turn into our road, melodious tune ringing out its charming refrain.

And so it is that I'd like to remind you of my first childhood book called Ollie and His Friends. Ollie and His Friends is now available at Lulu.com and Barnes and Noble online.  There's Ollie the Oboe, Harry the Harp, Glenda the Guitar, Vince the Violin, Penny the Piano, Ricky the Recorder, Donald the Drum, and all of Ollie's musical instrument friends.

Yes, Ollie the Oboe is an Oboe. Now Ollie the Oboe, his family and young children Peter and Julie live in the country and love to get out and about. Ollie and His Friends is all about Ollie the Oboe who, along with his musical instrument friends, one day set out for a day to their local country village fete where they would all get up to all kinds of fun and mischief.

Let me tell you first of all that Ollie and His Friends love eating jam sandwiches and why ever not because you do tend to get peckish when you're hungry and it's almost lunchtime. Ollie and His Friends walk past the marrow competition where marrows are weighed up to determine who's got the biggest and heaviest marrow. They also get the chance to taste all of the jams and then play silly games with each other, laughing, joking and having a brilliant time with their family.

So there you are everybody. It's Christmas and Santa Claus is about to throw on that cumbersome looking red cloak before steering his reindeers onto some snow encrusted landscape. Eventually he'll reach some very accessible chimney, drop into some very festive living room and then go Ho Ho Ho!.

The fact is that it must be hoped that Santa will have my first children's book Ollie and His Friends in his sack. So if your children want a good, hearty chuckle and giggle, laugh and smile then Ollie and his musical instrument friends is a must for them. Ollie and His Friends is the perfect Christmas present for your children of that I have no doubt at all. They'll love Ollie the Oboe and his musical instrument friends. 

It was the week before Christmas and Chanukah on Sunday.

It was the week before Christmas and Chanukah on Sunday.

It's the week before Christmas and the world is still frantically rushing around, spinning around and whirling around at the most breathtaking speed. There's no time to stop or pause. Things have to be done now rather than later because if it isn't then we may have to panic like crazy. The giant supermarkets are heaving and seething, mobbed with people, trolleys groaning with merchandise, piped festive muzak full of familiarity and tradition. It has always been this way and we wouldn't have it any other way. It's a time for over indulgence, family gatherings, aunties, uncles, cousins and nieces you haven't seen for at least a year and those cliched customs.

Every year the Christian world gathers together in anticipation of the one festival at the end of the year that never changes its narrative, always leaving you wistful and nostalgic. But then you think about all of the labour and drudgery, rummaging through attics looking for twisted, ageing tinsel, moth eaten baubles, the bent star that is supposed to perch precariously on top of your Christmas tree and the pretty decorations that you may have completely forgotten about.

You think of the endless days when mum would spend all days in the kitchen, cooking, baking, basting the turkey, worrying about the time, fretting over relations who may never turn up on the big day and then regretting her decision to devote so much more time agonising about nothing in particular. This is the one time of the year nobody, or so it seems, looks forward to as Christmas Day looms approaches yet again. Why, oh why do we have to do the same thing, same place every single year?

Briefly, you remember your own childhood memories of the festive period and sigh contentedly at those early years. You can still remember sitting around our classroom table and being told quite firmly that it was indeed Christmas, it was time to roll up our sleeves and get busy. Before we knew it, the teacher would distribute vast reams of papier mache, tons of glue and so many scissors that the temptation would have been to open up a shop. It was time to get cracking on the Christmas party.

Soon we were all under strict instructions to pick up the said papier mache, cut carefully away in symmetrical patterns and the objective was to create as many lanterns and streamers as we possibly could. What ensued was a scene of childish chaos. At various tables most of the children seemed to be caught up in the most hilarious tangle of paper, sticky glue, pins and needles and any other kind of paraphernalia we could lay our hands on.

And then there was the school Christmas party with the obligatory Nativity play in the assembly hall. Shortly before the Christmas party we were all dragooned into playing any kind of musical instrument we could find. At the time both the violin, piano and, above all the recorder, were regarded as essential accompaniments to this festive musical.

Now for whatever reason the recorder was the most fashionable statement in every school curriculum. But some of us promptly refused to play the recorder because even then it just seemed the most absurd concept. Instead, you picked up the cymbal which seemed the easiest option. Besides, what could be simpler than being required to bash an instrument and just make a noise. So it was that with cymbal attached to a loose piece of string that at the appointed time you would wait your big Hollywood moment, raise your arm and smash the cymbal with dramatic force. Sadly but gloriously the cymbal went flying off in one direction and the string, quite possibly, into another school.

But some of course are rather more concerned with Chanukah, the Jewish festival that embraces happiness, laughter, doughnuts and latkes(Jewish potato cakes). We are now absorbed in the fun and frolics of this most joyous of festivals, the lighting of the Menorah and a general commitment to having the best of all times. For as long as any of us can remember now Chanukah has either overlapped with Christmas or arrived a couple of weeks before Christmas.

To those of us who have always observed both Christmas and Chanukah with both amusement and a childish glee maybe we should recognise them for what they are.  At the end of another frenetically eventful year of triumph and disaster, indecision and uncertainty, Brexit and No Brexit, the nation will slump on their settees, tuck into a thousand mince pies, drink endless glasses of port, brandy and mulled wine, while fondly thinking back to Morecambe and Wise and the Two Ronnies on Christmas Day.

As Boris Johnson celebrates another five years in office as Prime Minister and Jeremy Corbyn, the opposition leader of the Labour party declares humbug, it is a time for sober reflection. We are now poised to enter another decade and the years are now passing far too quickly. Of course the children will be demanding another lorry load of I Phones, I- Pads, Tablets, all manner of electronic gadgets. And don't forget Alexa, that cute little speaker that does whatever you tell it to do.

In years before our generation were blissfully content with the simple things in life such as Lego, Meccano, Etch-A- Sketch, Ker Plunk, marbles, dominoes, Scrabble or Monopoly. They were games we could identify with, relate to because they were all games that the whole family could get involved in without being wholly immersed in some small piece of plastic which excluded everybody.

Then maybe we are being fuddy duddy, middle aged hippies who have no idea what we should consider as cool and acceptable. Some of us though are longing for that first bite on those exquisitely jam filled doughnuts oozing with spectacular sweetness. It has to be Chanukah for some of us closely followed by Christmas. Oooh, children there goes Santa again all the way from Lapland and yes he has brought you a present! You didn't think he'd forget or did you? It's the blond one from Uxbridge. It's Boris Johnson and he will undoubtedly get Brexit done. We can but hope.

BBC Sports Personality of the Year.

BBC Sports Personality of the Year.

It was the week before Christmas give a day or two. It was Sunday evening and that could only mean one thing. And no we're not talking about the Christmas edition of Sunday Night at the London Palladium because that was many moons ago and there are now a superabundance of TV channels to choose from.

Last night the BBC announced its latest Sports Personality of the Year award for what seems like the umpteenth time. It was live from Aberdeen, the granite city that once produced one of the greatest football managers of all time in Sir Alex Ferguson and, of course, beef. For the traditionalists among us change can be ever so unsettling but the decision to move SPOTY from its comfortable slot at BBC TV Centre in London did come as a rude shock to the system.

For most of our childhood we were accustomed to the cosy living room that was a White City studio where the great and good of sport would gather together for a good, old fashioned slap of self congratulation on the back, cheerful banter with smart suited, booted gentlemen and women from the highest realms of sporting excellence. It was an evening of stiff formality, polite protocol and that famous appearance by Red Rum, surely one of the finest Grand National horses of all time.

But with the arrival of high tech gadgetry and increasingly high profile sporting occasions demanding ever bigger stages and audiences, London is no longer seen to be fit for purpose for Sports Personality of the Year. When the BBC moved its vast broadcasting operations to Salford, Manchester the general feeling was that the more intimate surroundings of the London hub were no longer the appropriate stage for such an immensely popular yearly award ceremony.

So it was that among a rich panoply of Scottiish tartan, glamorous bagpipes and a whole host of the sublime and legendary that the BBC paid homage to this year's sporting giants. They came in all their elegant finery, suits and waistcoasts, flowing dresses and scrubbing up beautifully. There was Katarina Johnson Thompson and Dina Asher Smith, athletes with splendid gifts and record breaking achievements that are somehow beyond compare.

And then there was a reverential hush in the audience as Sports Personality of the Year prepared itself for its most moving moment of all. When Doddie Weir, Scottish rugby union's most courageous and bravest rugby union player was diagnosed with Motor Neurone Disease, you must have assumed that Weir would simply give up and accept the inevitable. But not Doddie, a hustle and bustle, charging, stampeding, whole hearted and buccaneering character with nerves of steel and a heart of gold.

Supported by his loving wife Kathy and doting children, Weir has battled his disease with remarkable guts, fortitude and flinty stoicism, escaping to the country with his family and taking time out to reflect on how lucky he's been. Dressed from head to feet in yellow and green tartan, Weir spilled out  his heart with perhaps the most poignant acceptance speech that this awards ceremony audience had ever heard. There were tears in his eyes, fellow sportsmen and women who could hardly hold it all back and excessive appreciation for this tall, imposing man. Weir had indeed captured all of our hearts.

And then after effusive tributes to the victorious South African team who had brought home their rugby union World Cup against England and various references to both tennis, football, cricket, athletics and Lewis Hamilton winning yet another Formula One motor racing trophy, the Sports Personality of the Year ceremony readied itself for another outburst of powerful emotions.

In a way the winner of Sports Personality of the Year needed no guessing at all. It had been won by a World Champion, a World Cup winner extraordinaire and quite the most magnificent sportsman this year. His name is Ben Stokes and he was part of an England cricket team who, with infinite gallantry and a dashing disobedience of the script, beat |New Zealand in a World Cup Final that no Englishman or woman would ever forget.

In the gathering shadows of a summery Lords evening, England and New Zealand had gone toe to toe wih each other, clashing swords and then scrapping memorably to the bitter end. With the game at the super over stage and both teams almost level pegging, New Zealand were still crashing their fours and sixes over the pavilion and through the covers as if they could still sense victory. But then fate intervened as we always knew it would.

After Jofra Archer had bowled some seemingly wasteful and loose deliveries to the New Zealand batting attack it all went to the last ball. Archer ran into bowl yet again and this time the ball was thrashed firmly to the leg side boundary where Jason Roy, anticipating the panic about to ensue among the New Zealand tail, raced in, hurled the ball with uncanny accuracy over the stumps and Jos Buttler, England's lively, fully concentrated wicketkeeper, was on hand to whip off the bails and run out his opponent. England had won the World Cup, the cricket World Cup as opposed to rugby union or the football World Cup and Ben Stokes had become the man for the hour.

 When the victory had been confirmed Stokes thrust his hands into the air, fists bunched together exultantly and was promptly joined by his wildly whooping team mates. Cue the celebrations, the showboating, the running around in circles, the manly hugging, the bonding, the masculine solidarity and the inexplicable chest bumping. In fact cue men in light blue shirts and pullovers abandoning themselves to that indefinable moment of joy when you know that you've achieved something pretty extraordinary. The England cricket team had finally won the World Cup, were World Champions and Ben Stokes was the deserved Sports Personality of the Year.. It could hardly have gone to a nicer man.

Tories rule. Boris Johnson wins General Election victory.

Tories rule. Boris Johnson wins General Election victory.

It was the morning after the night before. Larry the Cat, the Downing Street cat, was prowling around the famous black door and just a couple of miles away Boris Johnson, the re-elected Prime Minister of Great Britain, had finally come to an amicable agreement with his blond hair. The world suddenly looked so radiant and beautiful that he may have felt tempted to run through one of Theresa May's cornfields with a song in his heart.

There are no reflective post mortems or sullen sulks but Jeremy Corbyn, the now humiliated leader of the Labour party will slump over an alcoholic hangover or so and just resign himself to what ever will be will be. Hair of the dog moments will follow almost inevitably and as he stares at the floor with an utterly forlorn and distraught air, he will probably find that the world he would have liked to turn upside down is wearing the smartest of blue rosettes and laughing all the way to 10 Downing Street.

Last night was an almost terrifyingly painful evening for the Labour party and it remains to be seen whether Britain will ever see red again. Generations may come and go and the Tony Blair years must seem like some purple period where the fields were quite definitely Elysian, things might have become increasingly better and education would always be repeated three times. The memories of a grinning and smug Blair waving to his adoring followers must now seem like a honeymoon period for the Labour party where everything was sheer bliss and ecstasy.

But here we are a day after the General Election and finally the country has delivered a Prime Minister with the biggest majority since Margaret Thatcher gave Neil Kinnock the most grotesque black eye. It wasn't as if we didn't know what was coming because we had been given prior warning. We knew all about Corbyn's controversial CV with all of those toxic racist fingerprints all over it.

We knew that there was something of the night about Corbyn and today we find ultimate vindication. We judged this one perfectly and we'll know in future that if anybody like Corbyn finds himself anywhere near political power again we'll tell them exactly where to go. There wasn't even any sign of damage limitation for Corbyn because he must have known that he was the guilty party.

And yet in the early hours of this morning, the bearded one from Islington slowly ambled around Islington Town Hall like a little boy lost, smiling weakly but all the while aware of the repulsive stink he'd left behind him. That'll teach him not to play with fire and besides he always seemed to be fighting a lost cause. Even the people around him didn't know quite what to say so shell shocked did they look. The final result had yet to be announced but it felt as if they were looking at a decaying corpse.

 The life force was ebbing away from Corbyn's challenge and perhaps somebody should have dropped a subtle hint in his ears. It was time to leave the building for the last time and Jeremy Corbyn knew it. He didn't show it but you could almost read the |Corbyn body language. It may have been the right time to just depart and never come back again under any circumstances. He knew what he was letting himself in for but at no point had he heeded the tell tale signs.

Back at BBC headquarters, the scribes and reporters were eagerly beavering away in town halls and community centres all over the country. Behind most of them there was that customary hive of activity that we've come to expect from the Voice of the Establishment. Wherever the BBC went there were voting halls that looked remarkably like aircraft hangars or busy furniture warehouses where every so often you would see whole clusters of people scurrying around as if their lives depended on it.

Back in the studio the esteemed and hugely likeable Huw Edwards looked unflustered and unflappable, calmly professional to his finger tips, a man of suave assurance. Then the tireless Laura Kuenssberg finally slowed down after all those exhaustive travels around the country. This had been a resounding victory for both Wales and Scotland. It's at times like this that a BBC newsroom needs a good, strong cup of black coffee and then your mind drifted back to Elections of yesteryear.

You recalled the days when the recently retired David Dimbleby was the master of ceremonies, an eloquent and smooth operator from a rich and renowned family of English TV broadcasters. For most of the 1970s Dimbleby, accompanied by the equally as well informed Robert McKenzie and the memorably amusing Peter Snow would gently guide their TV audience through the night.

However last night we were all reminded why General Election night on the TV can make for such compulsive viewing. In the opening hour or so of the BBC's saturation coverage of the Election there seems like a mad and frenzied chase to find the first constituency to declare that they'd finished their count and can therefore reveal the winners of their regional contest.

Last night Sunderland, Blyth Valley and Newcastle Upon Tyne were going flat out to be the first ones to say that they were ready. This is some strange phenomena that always seems to happen on Election night without fail. It seems as if the whole of the North East of England is determined to get it all over and done with before midnight. You can imagine the whole of the North East collectively panicking in case they miss the last late night bus before somebody switches off the lights.

In one of the local North East locations a gentleman wearing a Sunderland football shirt stood next to his contenders just glad to be there. Was he hoping that some kind hearted soul would allow him to open up the Stadium of Light for a late night tour of the ground? Then there was Lord Buckethead, a man or woman obviously intent on milking Election night for everything that it was worth.

When it was all over and the dust settled we lifted our eyes open with the nearest available matchsticks and thanked both the BBC and the House of Commons for their funky collaboration. It had been one of those magical and historic nights when two national institutions battled it out for the rights to be noticed and recognised.

So it was that early this morning Boris Johnson paid another visit to Her Majesty the Queen and very politely asked Her Majesty if she would be so good as to allow him to run the country again.  It may not have been too much to ask since this time he would be doing so in the full knowledge that this time he could do the job without worrying whether the bearded one Jeremy Corbyn would stop nagging him to announce yet another General Election. Boris, the stage is yours.

It's General Election Day.

It's General Election Day.

So here we are again folks. You must have thought the day would never arrive but it has and you'd be forgiven for thinking that Christmas Day was today rather than the event itself which is just under a fortnight away. But still we find ourselves in a terrible old pickle. Boris Johnson, the prospective Prime Minister in waiting, started the day as a milkman and then finished the day praying that it hadn't been spilt. It's General Election Day everybody. Whoopee! Let's rush out to vote in an urgent hurry because this is just too good to be true. Some of us are trying desperately hard to curb our enthusiasm.

Now who is it going to be? The last couple of weeks have been so bewildering that some of us are lost in a time warp. Now there may be a temptation to go for the odds on favourite Stanley Baldwin or even David Lloyd George. You wouldn't entirely discount Disraeli or Gladstone since a history lesson may be the order of  the day. But this may be the time to wipe your eyes and come back to the present day.

A vast majority of the British population though will probably breathe a huge sigh of relief come tomorrow morning when we should know the identity of the next British Prime Minister. As if any of us really care that intensely one way or the other. How we ever got ourselves into this fine old mess, this dreadful predicament, is anybody's guess. Even now you can see the good people of Britain shaking their heads, scratching their hair, screaming their exasperation and wondering if it'll ever end. This whole Brexit fiasco could have lasted indefinitely and perhaps a General Election was the only answer, a wonderful distraction.

We are all heartily sick of this wretched hot air, this verbal diarrhoea, this endless artillery of nonsensical drivel and balderdash. this embarrassing Punch and Judy show, the sheer preposterousness of it all, this relentless bullying. What started as a request to the country for a simple withdrawal from the European Union three years ago has rapidly degenerated into some hilarious, end of pier seaside show where the audience find it hard to know whether they should laugh or just look on with stunned astonishment.

What is clear is that British politics has now scraped the bottom of the barrel, reaching the lowest common denominator where what seemed like the most logical process has now been reduced to what feels like a post war music hall act where everything goes horrendously wrong. We now have on our hands the kind of political mayhem not seen for a good many decades. The result, or so we're led to believe, is seemingly a formality but then we remember David Cameron, a former PM.

Cameron, another old Etonian, was the man who dragged us into this fiery hell of argy bargy, altercation and anguish in the first place. Cameron was the one who was convinced that the country deserved a voice, an opinion and a referendum on whether Britain should leave the EU. In retrospect he must have felt that it simply wasn't worth the effort. Maybe he should have thought this one through. His personal decision to remain in the EU would have catastrophic repercussions, ripples in the water that became a torrent and was now a raging waterfall.

So here we are back on General Election Day, not quite knowing what exactly we're being asked to do but seething with anger, cynicism and scepticism- or maybe that should read Euro scepticism. As things stand the whole political system is both morally and emotionally bankrupt, a once healthy democracy now in severe danger of being  jeopardised by a grinning cast of third rate clowns, Wild West cowboys, absurd opportunists, shameless charlatans and  reckless philistines who profess to have the country's best interests at heart.

The old joke was that if it rained on a General Election day then all Labour party supporters would curl up on the sofa and read the Morning Star paper for the 150th time. Until the arrival of the ever charismatic Tony Blair it did seem that the Labour party were rather like a slumbering dinosaur because their potentially electable Prime Minister kept stumbling over on the beaches of Britain as the waves crashed in.

But then a man with little dress sense and a coat that looked as if it had dropped off the shelves of a local Oxfam, staggered into the political maelstrom with only a dog to keep him company. Michael Foot was a rather sad, scruffy and dishevelled man who never really seemed sure of where he was supposed to be going or the direction he was travelling. Of course Foot had been brought up from birth to believe that Socialism would be the only way to go, the road that lead to eternal prosperity.

Now though the Labour party have been burdened down with the walking calamity who is Jeremy Corbyn. When Neil Kinnock finally came to his senses after the devastating defeat to Mrs Thatcher you'd have thought that the penny had dropped. After Gordon Brown's brief exposure to the 10 Downing Street cameras, Tony Blair, that all conquering hero and Labour revolutionary, spent a decade capably steering the good ship Great Britain to safer waters. Some though would still accuse Blair, somewhat unfairly it has to be said, of Iraqi warmongering when there was no need for it at all.

For the Tories though there was the peerless Ms Thatcher, the admittedly too earnest John Major and the recently departed Theresa May before whom the dark shadow of David Cameron still hangs heavily over the Tories past. And now we have the ruthlessly aspirational and, to all appearances, tactless Boris Johnson. We knew he was in scheming mood when Mayor of London, a power hungry man who didn't care who he hurt on the way to the top.

At first he would appear at the London assembly as Mayor of the capital city and deny quite categorically that he would ever throw his hat into the ring when it came to appointing a new Prime Minister. Oh no not Boris. He was just a very competent manipulator, oozing with warm statements about the impressive architecture of his London, boasting about the right decisions he'd make that would benefit London and then re-assuring us repeatedly that the streets of London had never been safer.

Underneath that very shrewd exterior though lie the most concealed of hidden agendas. Boris wanted the top job at 10 Downing Street and after much schmoozing, much ingratiating, much glad handing of all the most important people in the land, Boris has got his way and some of us knew he would. Patience became a virtue and a self fulfilling prophecy. Johnson now stands on the brink of glory again.

Today though Britain will go to the polls not because they want to or have to. We've all slipped that famous piece of paper into a battered old black box and that is the way it has to be whether we like it or not. Of course you have the option of spoiling your voting slip because that is your right. Some of us would rather not reveal their personal choice suffice it to say that it was a vote or, quite possibly, an expression of our innermost feelings. And no it wasn't a spoilt vote, more of a very polite message.

Across the highlands and lowlands, the valleys and meadows, the thatched cottages, the hedgerows, the stone walls, the noble electricity pylons and wind turbines, the shopping centres, the council estates and the upright terraced houses of Britain, the people will tell us exactly how they feel.

Tomorrow morning though we will wake up to a bright eyed and bushy tailed BBC breakfast TV show where bleary eyes will once again flick away the sleep from worn eyes and announce what appears to be the inevitable. The blond one from Uxbridge will have brought home victory for the Tories and middle England will turn over the very literary pages of either the Daily Telegraph or Daily Mail. It will tap its egg very properly, spread its sweetest jam onto its very edible toast and then tell the rest of the nation that we told you so.  Hold on, that's just the worst kind of stereotype and that one can't be allowed. Boris Johnson is the next Prime Minister of Britain. How predictable was that? It was so easy. Let's go Boris! 

Two days to go before the British general election.

Two days to go before the British General Election.

There are two days to go and Britain can hardly contain its excitement. Forget the Queen's street parties, the colourful bunting, the endless supply of jam sandwiches and drink for the kids, the riotous celebrations across the country. On Thursday the nation goes to the polls for what could prove to be one of the most underwhelming General Elections of all time. Besides, we've all been here before. Undoubtedly, it's all been rather childish and comical. The contenders look much the same as they've always looked. It's all been very confrontational, bitter, resentful, personal and shamefully petty.

For the first time since 1923 the General Election will be held just in time for Jingle Bells, Ding Dong Merrily on High, Silent Night and I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas which is effectively what it feels like for most of us anyway. This time those unbearable politicians have got their timing all wrong. It must feel like a dreadful intrusion into our lives as the supermarket shelf stackers happily spread festive cheer and goodwill in their natty reindeer knitted pullovers.

Once again we'll all be emotionally blackmailed into marching off to our local church hall, school, leisure and community centre where voting for the next Government will feel compulsory. We'll be ordered to shuffle over to that secretive voting booth, ticking both the relevant candidates and choice of parties. We will then wonder why exactly we've carried out this most unenviable task. Besides, we are the ones who will be responsible for ensuring that who ever gets the chance to run the country, it probably won't make a jot of difference to our lives either way.

For the last couple of weeks Britain has been subjected to nothing but deplorable name calling, pathetic pleas and exhortations for our vote, passionate speeches about the same old subjects, venomous rants and above all hysterical outbursts laced with spite, insults and ludicrous accusations. They have faced each other in heated TV discussions, pointed fingers, jabbed fingers, harangued and heckled each other quite aggressively but never has there been a single pause for remorse after the event.

 In the blue corner one Boris Johnson the Prime Minister and proud Tory, committed perhaps one of the most unforgivable of all political sins. Visiting a fish market and then campaigning vigorously for your vote, Johnson seemed to tread on some rather delicate feet. He was grilled relentlessly by a persistent ITV reporter about a four year old child who'd been criminally neglected in a hospital ward, languishing on the floor and crying for help. But any expressions of sympathy for the youngster were not forthcoming and you could hardly believe what you were watching. Johnson grabbed the reporter's phone, planted it in his pocket and brazenly ignored the image in front of him.

At some bizarre point during the interview Johnson started rattling off all of those rather tedious promises and pledges, rolling off those incessant cliches about the NHS and then blundering his way through another succession of monotonous statistics. Johnson, perhaps mindful that he was simply digging a hole for himself, promised that the Tories would be bending over backwards to build hundreds of hospitals, educating millions of children so that they too could become eminent Old Etonians and then plunging billions and billions into his precious NHS once again.

If the last couple of weeks or so have taught us anything about our politicians it is that they are self obsessed, thoughtless, selfish and totally self absorbed. They tour both the factories of Britain, the high tech offices and the market stalls with a snooty and supercilious air totally disregarding the feeling on the ground and the people they expect to vote for them on Thursday. They trot out those pithy platitudes about getting Brexit done, paving the streets with gold and waving magic wands. As long as you back them. We will not be disappointed, that's for sure.

Here's the thing though. Boris Johnson, the man whose blond forest of hair has probably never seen a comb for the best part of three years, looks like the man who wants to lead his country into the promised land but then forgets the soundbites that he may have been expected to memorise on his cue cards. Of course he wants to do the decent thing for his Britain but there is a growing suspicion among many of us that perhaps he should pursue a career as a comedy script writer.

We know that he's an intellectual and we know he's written a book about Churchill. Of course he's an immensely assured linguist and polymath, a man capable of speaking a number of languages. And yet here is an Old Etonian with all the principles and values of an Old Etonian. There were the late,wild nights of wine, women and song or allegedly so. There were the disgraceful lapses in behaviour that might have been expected of an Etonian and the regrettable dabbling in drugs which they'd rather not dwell on if you don't mind. It is now that you realise who Boris Johnson is for better or worse.

Meanwhile in the red corner is one Jeremy Corbyn the leader of the opposition Labour party, the man in the margins and shadows lurking and loitering rather like some uninvited guest at a party. From the moment he was appointed leader of the Labour party Corbyn has been like a man on the run, a fugitive escaping from an extensive police hunt. At the moment the searchlights have shone in his face and blurred his vision.

Quite possibly the most despised politician in the history of British politics, Corbyn has spent the best part of three years desperately back tracking, denying the obvious, fending off violent anti Semitism and then retreating into his own world of visionary politics where everybody will feel a hundred times better under his style of Government. But then the ghosts of Christmas past may well come back to haunt him because the evidence is painfully incriminating.

Corbyn is rather like that convicted criminal who will do his utmost to protest his innocence because he'll never be forgiven if the truth does come out eventually. There were the occasions when Corbyn shared a platform with IRA leader and ringleader Gerry Adams, the nods of agreement in the company of notorious terrorists and then his alliance with Hamas, another motley mob of murderers who just hate Jews. But then Corbyn washes his hands of what he believes to be a terrible misunderstanding because why on earth would he want to be associated with such evil wickedness.

And last but not least there is the Liberal Democrats, a party so widely mocked by those in the know over the years that they hardly seem worthy of any mention. You have followed the Liberals over the years and you find yourself constantly wondering why they bother. They remain on the outside of the political mainstream because everybody can see that they lack the strength in numbers, charisma and personality of the other two. Some would have you believe that they lack the credibility factor so essential to any potential Prime Minister and you would have to say those cynics know what they're talking about.

For her personal campaign and crusade Jo Swinson has looked both presentable, agreeable, polite and genially well informed. But then you suddenly discover that for all her honourable intentions and vows to plant more trees if elected, Swinson is just another Liberal with a love of the environment, family and friends. Sadly, Swinson is just a peripheral figure, condemned to the sidelines, shoved out of the limelight unceremoniously because who would want to vote for the Lib Dems anyway.

So there we are Ladies and Gentlemen. These are the men and women who have been appointed as representatives of their party and ready to receive your vote on Thursday. Rumours persist that the contest is over and Jeremy Corbyn may just as well pack his suitcases for an early Christmas holiday in the Swiss Alps. Boris Johnson has got this one in the bag. The Tories have won this General Election by a hundred country miles quite emphatically. We know they will because Johnson has repeatedly told us over and over again.

It won't be a landslide victory because there has to be an element of doubt but Johnson, for all his burbling and eccentricities, is still the man for the big occasion. Then again it could be much closer than most of us would have anticipated. By early Friday morning though, we should know that there have been no recounts of votes and the Tories will finish the crossing line, triumphantly flinging their hands into the air and re-visiting the memories of Margaret Thatcher's waving from the window of Conservative headquarters.  You suspect that rather like his predecessor Johnson will not be doing any turning. It's full steam ahead for Brexit and all those cooking analogies, Boris.

Anthony Joshua is the heavyweight champion of the world.

Anthony Joshua is the heavyweight champion of the world.

Anthony Joshua is the heavyweight champion of the world. Now how does that sound? Surely it's music to the ears, gloriously reminiscent of those fabulous Rocky movies where Sylvester Stallone, eyes blackened and bloody, would emerge heroically from those epic prizefights with rags to riches victories against Apollo Creed. And guess what. Joshua is British, British as steak and kidney pie and red post boxes.

After 12 gruelling, punishing, stamina sapping rounds the man from London has brought back the world heavyweight boxing title of the world to Britain. Your mind briefly travels back to those pugilistic bruisers from yesteryear, two golden periods for British boxing when the lovable Frank Bruno and Lennox Lewis both busted a gut and did their utmost to bring back the world heavyweight title for Britian.

But for Anthony Joshua, this was an utterly convincing, tormentingly concussive, percussive, rat a tat tat victory where the waiting game proved the most ingenious boxing technique of all time. This was a hard fought but conclusive victory for Joshua who is slowly developing into one of the most intelligent and robust fighters Britain has produced for some time. There was a point during the fight when Joshua was so far ahead on points that the referee must have felt tempted to throw a towel into the ring.

And yet amid the sand dunes of Saudi Arabia this was boxing of the most remarkable quality, a fight that often resembled a cerebral game of chess with no fighter prepared to give an inch. Joshua, for his part, came dancing out of his corner rather like the immortal Muhammad Ali and promptly ground down his opponent as if  it were just another day at the office.

Boxing has often revelled in those thrilling, hard punching encounters where both men are frequently sent crashing to the canvas with seemingly destructive knock outs. This though was refreshingly different. This went the 12 round distance and Joshua got it absolutely right. It felt as if this fight had been planned in a very cool, premeditated fashion. There were no calculated gambles on the night from Joshua, just a carefully constructed sequence of mind games where Andy Ruiz Junior could only flick out the occasional burst of vaguely illegal body shots that landed somewhere in outer space.

From the very first round Joshua set out his stall, skipping, teasing, bouncing, bobbing, always in command, eternally confident, knowing fully well that it was Ruiz Junior who had to come out and genuinely take the fight to him. After a spell of cautious, tentative jabbing from Joshua, you could sense that Ruiz was there for the taking if Joshua had felt so inclined. But the Londoner was here for the duration and the jabs kept connecting with uplifting frequency.

The tone of the fight had been set by Joshua from the off. The opening rounds were spent by AJ carefully choosing his moments of savagery, measuring his jabs with pin point precision and then delivering the barrage of hooks that from time to time left Ruiz Junior questioning his own tactics. From here onwards this would become one of those mind blowing if attritional fights where the superior fighter knows he's going to win but doesn't quite know when.

By rounds six, seven, eight and nine Joshua continued to give the impression of a man who just wanted to dance the night away, wearing his opponent into the ground with a demoralising intensity. Every time the Joshua jab and, ultimately, hook, rocked the head of Luiz Junior back with a frightening crunch, we knew there could only be one outcome to this world heavyweight bout of bouts.

Then there were the last three rounds of this clubbing, pummelling, blood and thunder contest with both men showing the ravages of  early round eye injuries. Joshua should and perhaps could have delivered that classic hammer blow. Both men were now locking horns with each other, brawling, grappling and picking out the incisive moment when one would shortly be seeing stars.

With the arrival of round 12 Ruiz, although occasionally suggesting that he might have the necessary mental resources to hit back at Joshua, didn't really know where Joshua's weak spot was. So it was that Joshua kept on jiving and twisting the night away, now staring menacingly at Ruiz Junior and mortally offended that anybody should dare to challenge his supremacy.

The bell rang and although this was no 'Good Night Vienna' for either fighter the 'Clash of the Dunes' had satisfied the appetite of all the most discerning of boxing aficionadoes. Anthony Joshua had made British sport smile again when the anti climax of England's rugby union World Cup Final defeat to South Africa might have left all of us slightly miserable and despondent. British boxing will cherish nights like this because we all need to know that the bulldog spirit is alive and well. For Sly Stallone read Anthony Joshua. What a fight! What a night!

Y Viva Espana.

Y Viva Espana.

Ah yes my friends. What an experience and what a journey. We knew we'd enjoy it and we certainly did. This is the time of the year when most of us shut the door on the outside world, huddle around the TV, pull on our favourite pullovers, switch on the central heating or just throw a couple of logs onto a roaring wintry fire. We prepare our hot toddies, rubbing our hands together for even greater warmth in case the temperature drops to below -50 degrees and then discover that winter has reached out to us and given us a sharp bite on every part of our body.

But some of us were fortunate to be on the high seas for a relaxing cruise around the Canary Islands. We would spend the entire week sailing smoothly across the Atlantic, seeking escapism and finding that a certain detachment from routine can do you the world of good. Good friends had always waxed lyrical about the pleasures of cruising and it had to be said that this was indeed the epitome of luxury living.

After flying in from Tenerife airport we embarked on the kind of nautical adventure that would have been considered unthinkable for some of us. We were the ones who had become conditioned to those very early 1970s holiday package deals to the Costa Brava, Majorca and Benidorm as if we were the ultimate pioneers, the trendsetters if you like.

 But now 40 years later families all over Britain and the rest of the world have been converted. The plane used to take the strain- and still does in a majority of cases. Now the boat, ship or, so our estimable captain told us, the vessel is the preferred choice of travel. Nowadays we think nothing of jumping aboard that majestic vessel, splicing the main brace, knocking back huge quantities of rum and thinking of pirates.

On a serious and more up to date note though, a cruise around the Gran Canaria was hugely enjoyable, naturally rewarding and the most fun you can have in the middle of an ocean. For most of the expedition the Atlantic did generally behave itself but there were times when it didn't,  a rocky, bumpy, churning and often boiling sea that frequently felt as if the boat itself was ever so slightly drunk. We swayed from side to side, lurching around on deck rather like one of those 17th century sailors who'd imbibed rather too many glasses of beer for their own good.

Our first stop was Santa Cruz de La Palma, a gentle introduction into our first day of our cruise. After stepping off the gangplank, we took a slow, meandering stroll along the harbour front where all manner of wealthy looking boats bobbed thoughtfully on a sparkling day of sunshine. We didn't really enough time to see the most that La Palma had to offer and my wife kept insisting that we head for the old town. Still, it was just good to be in a country where the weather was a considerable improvement on Britain.

The shops, restaurants and cafes were of course an irresistible attraction. There was that very cool alfresco atmosphere that most European cities seemed to have made their own. People would sit outside the aforesaid establishment, sunglasses perched easily on the bridge of their noses and watching the rest of cafe society around them.

A brief rush around the local souvenir shops yielded a couple of necklaces for our wonderful daughter, T-shirts for the boys, trinkets galore and a whole collection of fridge magnets, bags and much more memorabilia for the groaning shelves in your home. There was a quick cappuccino to be savoured at our leisure and then the short trip back to the Marella Explorer, our hardy vessel as the captain would have put it quite charmingly.

Back on board we would walk endlessly along those plush red carpets that seemed to go on for miles, winding our way through a giddy network of piano bars, jewellery shops, a library and a Games Zone where doubtlessly the youngsters on board could indulge in their high tech world of computer games.

Then there were the mouth watering restaurants with their very unique set of global dishes and menus. There was a restaurant called the Latitude with an Italian theme. There was another very grand looking restaurant that was a definite throwback to another era, chandeliers hanging stylishly from the ceiling, waiters and waitresses smiling permanently while all around us elegance reigned.

On one of the decks a gambling casino seemed to be open for what looked like the entire evening and through the night. For the more daring of the passengers there was Black Jack, a game where only the more intrepid souls would even dare to venture. A formally dressed woman in shirt and waistcoat furiously shuffled her deck of cards with a very knowing look on her face. Then the cards seemed to spill out of her band almost apologetically as if acutely aware that she was simply calling everybody's bluff.

All around us though was the sound of soft music piping soothingly across the whole of the vessel. It was like being serenaded all the time by the sound of something that you'd have liked to listen to all day and all night but were never sure why it was there. Of course we could feel that definitive romance and glamour wherever we went and there was an air of 1920s decadence about the Marella Explorer.

 Back then the upper classes would have disdainfully ignored the lower classes because they quite clearly felt the lower classes were beneath them. Now over 90 years later the passengers of 2019 were playing cards, reading books and chatting with each other quite casually as if the class divide had never existed. They sat back on their sun loungers wind whipping up and gathering force but they were nonetheless happy to be in each other's company.

Now it was that we were afforded yet another day of rest and relaxation at sea without stopping at all. Not a great deal happened and most of our day out at sea was spent wandering and sauntering around the port and starboard side, breathing in great gulps of the invigorating air. For a while we took in a few fleeting shafts of sunlight but the gusts were forever blowing up, determined to stamp their authority on the cruise.

It was now full steam ahead for Funchal, Madeira on the Portuguese coast for a spot of dolphin and whale watching. Following some very valuable de-briefing we were told what to look out for and what not to do. Pulling on our orange life jackets and climbing very gingerly into our speedboat our guides for the morning gave us chapter and verse on those delightfully sociable and playful mammals.

However we were not prepared for just how fast this speedboat would prove to be. Strapping myself onto one side of the boat you were sprayed with innumerable buckets of sea water. Immediately you clambered to the other side of the boat. But then our friendly speedboat put his foot on the accelerator and suddenly we were travelling at lightning speed, bouncing up and down and then slowing down to watch what we were promised would be a memorable watch. Baby dolphins, bluebottle dolphins and whole families of dolphins would be seen playing peek a boo, dorsal fins gliding through the water sedately and then flopping back under the sea again and again. Unfortunately the whales weren't very co-operative and glad to see us so nothing would be seen.

On Thursday we were back on board the Marella Explorer heading for Morocco. You remembered those classic Bob Hope and Bing Crosby movies particularly the one where Hope and Crosby arrive in a Middle East paradise and then sing the praises of Morocco. Now though we were taken to a wonderfully entertaining horse show performed by classically trained horsemen. Galloping together in perfect formation the horses would race across the heavily sanded arena before firing off some of the loudest rifles ever heard.

Our time in Morocco would be complete with some very athletic men performing somersaults and then executing one of those breathtaking manoeuvres where the entire ensemble would climb onto each other's shoulders forming one of the greatest balancing acts while also leaving us gasping with appreciation. We were then regularly plied with sweet tea and equally as sweet cakes before trooping off to the souks of Morocco, indoor markets with all of those mysterious spices and smells of the Middle East.

And then we were on our way home, the Atlantic now swelling up ever so disturbingly high but the memories as fresh as yesterday. There was, above all, the entertainment on board during the evening. Rightly compared to the West End musical and cabaret circuit, every night we were treated to some of the most extraordinary of all musical extravaganzas, dancing and singing of the highest order and quality. By the end of the evening you almost felt as if you'd just left Drury Lane or Shaftesbury Avenue so phenomenally high were the standards.

Finally, we flew back into our London Gatwick airport which still sounds geographically bizarre since Gatwick does seem closer to the Sussex coast than the River Thames. Still, who were we to care? We'd been spoilt something rotten by a caring and attentive crew, a captain of the ship who was warmly humorous and an entertainments officer who came from Canada and just kept on smiling. What more could we possibly have asked?  Oh just in case we needed reminding it was Christmas and seasons greetings were extended to one and all. A life on the ocean wave as somebody once sang.