Ready for Brexit.
There is a part of us that believes that the last three years have just been a figment of our imagination. Finally, Britain will be leaving the EU(European Union) once and all without any more bust ups, heated arguments, toxic divisions, sometimes very explosive TV disagreements and the kind of open, animated conversations that would probably have been banned in Communist Russia many decades ago.
And yet here we are on the eve of Brexit and the satirical comedians are sharpening their one liners while the social commentators are readying their cutting comments, telling observations and wonderfully facetious wisecracks. This can't be happening or can it? After all this time, they've submitted their withdrawal agreement, a hefty document that must have been groaning on some poor Brussels mantelpiece for who knows how long. Britain can celebrate once again and that has to be good news.
The decisions and conclusions have been reached, tweaks and corrections made while those in positions of authority in Westminster wring their hands, heartily relieved that they won't have to go through all of this again for quite some time. Hopefully! We've been wrestling with all of these complex issues for so long that it is hard to remember a time when sanity once prevailed, Boris Johnson was still Mayor of London and Larry the Cat had more pressing matters on his mind outside 10 Downing Street.
So it is that on the last day of January 2020, the bells will ring out resoundingly across London town, patriotic Union Jack flags will be waved triumphantly and Nigel Farage will breathe the most enormous sigh of relief. Yesterday, with that rather tiresomely smug face, Farage, accompanied by the latest Brexit recruit Ann Widdecombe, formerly of a Tory persuasion, looked extremely pleased with themselves. We told you it would happen and it has. A group of passionate Brexiteers rose as one, smiled and grinned like Cheshire cats and performed a brief re-enactment of the Last Night of the Proms.
Now it was that Farage and his loyal Brexit chums, stood together as one, clapping, applauding and basking in their own reflected glory. It is at times like this when you find yourself despairing of the whole political process. You look across at those huge banks of MEP figures and wonder what on earth have we done to deserve them as credible and important characters who are genuinely committed to the future welfare of Britain. But then we think of Brexit.
Of course Brexit has to be a force for good, a powerful antidote to all of those miserably restrictive laws, rules and regulations that all of those EU ministers are determined to saddle us with for the rest of our lives. We have to break out of this endless circle of stern European directives that every so often act as insufferable obstacles to British progress. Global trading links and alliances have to be hugely beneficial if Britain is to expand its horizons and frontiers. It has to be time to strike while the iron is hot.
According to those in the know it is time to widen Britain's reach, capitalising on all of that rich potential that is poised to be tapped into now rather than later. Britain has to venture forward into all of those emerging Far East markets where lucrative deals will be confidently negotiated and all in the garden will be rosy for ever more.
Even now we can see multi billion cargoes of trade and commerce washing onto British shores with the abundant promise of more to come. They'll be flooding into the expectant ports of Southampton and Dover, swilling around like barrels of rum that were drunk incessantly at all of those epic shipping battles that Horatio Nelson took such evident pride in. By tomorrow morning the world will be Britain's oyster. Roll up, Roll up everybody British prosperity is on its way and it'll change the UK's economic, global position in quite the most dramatic and revolutionary fashion. So hold on everybody.
Before you know it we'll be inundated with huge supplies of tea, coffee, silks and fabrics of the most exotic quality, diamonds from South Africa of the most exquisite order, steel and teak wood from all over the world with all of the best that high technology and innovation that the world can offer. Suddenly all of those undreamt luxuries we'd always fantasised about will be laid before us in all of their wondrous splendour. The days when Britain once occupied its rightful place in the Empire will now seem like distant specks on a crumpled map of the world.
No longer will the UK have to depend exclusively on the generosity of the Dutch for Edam cheese as the only other option, or the French for their red wine and Camembert cheese. Of course we'll still be able to acquire our juicy oranges from Seville and Jaffa from Israel but now the choices will become that much wider and Europe will just have to make do and mend, burying their heads in their hands and wondering why Britain had to be quite so different, awkward and impossible.
It now occurs to you that Britain may well undergo the sort of cultural renaissance that took the 1960s by the scruff of the neck and transformed it almost overnight. Who could ever forget the fashion and music from this unforgettable decade, that astonishing World Cup football victory in 1966 and Harold Wilson reminding us all of that White Heat of Technology while slowly rolling the tobacco in his pipe?
Well, here we are at the beginning of a new decade in the 21st century and if our talking heads and wise social forecasters are to be believed it could be happening all over again. This could indeed be the land of sun lit uplands where the already rich, middle and upper classes become obscenely richer, everyday products are wrapped in gold or platinum while every home will be able to boast 23 TVs, ten chaise longues in their living rooms and ornately panelled libraries the size of a country.
Of course this is wildly wishful thinking and Brexit might be thinking along different lines but it would be intriguing to be a fly on the wall in the cafes, bars and restaurants of France, Italy, Spain, Greece, Hungary, Bulgaria, the Czech Republic and Switzerland tomorrow. Will they be raising a glass and toasting the health of their European neighbours or will there be some uncomfortable silence which quite clearly suggests that they'll never approve of our arrogance, our distinctly unfriendly insularity and refusal to work alongside them at any point in the future?
Tomorrow in Brussels, the grumpy officials and administrators at the European top table will be drowning their sorrows. making all manner of contingency plans in the absence of Britain and trying to get on with the business of life without the UK. They may decide to complete the contents of well ribboned boxes of Thorntons Belgian chocolates, wolfing down their waffles and then searching for alcoholic consolation.
Whatever happens tomorrow - and we feel sure that it will- Brexit will be announced, declared, written in stone, official, no questions asked and it's here to stay. Boris Johnson will, in all likelihood, stand outside 10 Downing Street, blond hair still unchallengeably in a class of its own and never quite sure what next to do. He will stick to the statesman's script, sure that the country is definitely on the right course, perhaps blurt out a couple of Latin gems and then quote from Winston Churchill.
These are happy, auspicious moments in British history. We'll wake up tomorrow morning, flinging open the curtains or blinds and skipping along to our kitchens with a buoyant spring in our step. We will conveniently forget the last three years at Westminster, settle our differences, confront the future without the EU and its pernicious influence, read the newspapers, crunch our toast and then sing all the way to the railway station. It's all been too complicated and unnecessary at times but we've got through it all and the world will seem much the same as it's always been. Or we hope it will. But of course it will because Nigel Farage has every confidence that it will. And we know what Nigel thinks. Good health everybody.
Thursday 30 January 2020
Monday 27 January 2020
Shrewsbury hold the European and World Club champions to a draw in the FA Cup.
Shrewsbury hold the European and World Club champions to a draw in the FA Cup.
Who said that the FA Cup had lost its way, its identity, its soul and spirit, that indefinable something that just can't be explained? Maybe we thought the FA Cup had been robbed of its ineffable charm, its lovable sentimentality, its capacity to shock us. But then little Shrewsbury came along and put the cat among the pigeons. You question the FA Cup at your peril.
Just when you thought the FA Cup had lost its sense of humour, its appropriateness, its relevance and importance, here was an FA Cup tie that confounded the critics. It left most of us breathless with wonder and admiration, a genuine FA Cup classic with all the trappings that come with that package. It was a game that defied the form book, disproved the many urban myths that may have attached themselves to the FA Cup and almost left us stunned and lost for words. This must be allowed to happen over and over again because this could be addictive and besides we do love the underdog.
In the heart of deepest Shropshire, Shrewsbury, who once produced their very own spot of FA Cup giant killing on several occasions, almost did it again and how we willed them on when it looked as though the game might have been slipping away from them. But they suddenly discovered that the TV cameras were there to catch them for posterity and promptly decided that they were indeed photogenic.
When the fourth round of the FA Cup pitted Shrewsbury against European Champions and World Club champions Liverpool, it occurred to us that David should forget all about overcoming Goliath because this was a complete mismatch, a no contest so there seemed little point. But Shrewsbury, surrounded by some of the prettiest, picture postcard landscapes in England, had other ideas and you suspected that just around the corner, the immaculate meadows, fields and snug country pubs were ready to provide the home side with the warmest welcome and a right old knees up at the end.
The club that once boasted a coracle that fished out footballs landing amusingly in the River Severn with hilarious frequency, were pulling a fast one on the FA Cup. It is now 41 years ago since Shrewsbury, under the amiable Graham Turner, knocked Manchester City out of the FA Cup at the old Gay Meadow. Several seasons ago Shrewsbury sent Premier League Everton out of the FA Cup as well so this could hardly be considered as a major surprise.
Now Shrewsbury, at their new home of the grandiosely titled Montgomery Waters Meadow stadium, faced a Liverpool team who have more or less won this season's Premier League title and were in no mood to surrender. The bookmakers odds made Liverpool such overwhelming favourites for this tie, that perhaps Shrewsbury needn't have bothered to turn up for this game. But hold on, this was the FA Cup and sometimes the obvious becomes rather less so because we all know how the FA Cup can make fools of the experts, making a complete mockery of the current status of both teams.
But when the men in blue and yellow stripes crossed the line and emerged from the tunnel, we believed that the remote possibility might just become a real probability. When the stout hearted Donald Love, Aaron Pierre, Josh Laurent, Sean Goss and Callum Long all stepped up to the mark with their doughty determination and tireless commitment to the cause, we must have thought that Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool team should have been amply warned against complacency.
Shrewsbury, full of surprising finesse on the ball and more than capable of weaving together their attractive strands of good, honest passing to feet, poured forward on more than one occasion. And so after a nervous opening where the European Champions lived up to their name, Shrewsbury recovered their poise and clawed their way back admirably into the game in the second half. The fighting spirit which eventually brought the scores level was quite unlike anything we've seen in recent times.
On a muddy throwback of a pitch, Shrewsbury were full of pluck, resolve and bravery, an assured intelligence in possession that occasionally belonged to a much higher sphere of football. The home team, far from being daunted and scared, were full of Old Salopian joie de vivre, stringing their neat cameos of dinky passes that moved them further and further up the pitch than they might have expected. At times there was an understandable naivety about their football but their second half comeback was a sight to behold.
Now though Liverpool's shrewd midfield creator Pedro Chirivera lanced Shrewsbury's somewhat brittle defence with an impeccably weighted ball to Curtis Jones who, with one memorable shot had toppled Merseyside rivals Everton in the last round of the FA Cup. Now the twinkle toed Jones broke through again with a perfectly timed run before guiding the ball into the net for Liverpool's opening goal.
From that point onwards it seemed as if Liverpool were set fair for another exhibition, an artistic demonstration of their pedigree, their refined ball control and their marvellously fluid movement. At times their passing became magnetic, almost hypnotic, a series of electrical impulses, effortless touches and a team absolutely inspired.
With Dejan Lovren, Joel Matip and Yasser Lakouci making rare first team appearances for Jurgen Klopp's Premier League champions elect, Fabinho, stabilising Liverpool's midfield, always on the hunt for a goal and Pedro Chirivella brimming with wit and invention, Liverpool were about to leave their League One opponents all tangled up in knots. Liverpool's wonderkids Harvey Elliot and Curtis Jones were pulling Shrewsbury every which way, Divock Origi was always available to bind together all of Liverpool's smart approach play and then Tukami Minamino Liverpool's Japanese international, added his variety and delicate touch on the ball.
After Liverpool had added a second with a horrendously unfortunate own goal from Donald Love who, with nobody around him, succeeded only in turning the ball past Shrewsbury keeper Max O'Leary, the game could have been over for the home side. But the blue and yellow stripes came storming back into the match with pulsating conviction and a complete disregard of everything that had gone before.
So it was that Shrewsbury brought on their Saturday evening knight in shining armour. Jovial Jason Cummings, who had long been billed as a potential match winner, came bounding onto the pitch. The response was almost immediate. Yasser Lakouci, in a stupidly impetuous tackle just inside the Shrewsbury penalty area, brought down Cummings for a penalty to the home side. The heavily tattooed Cummings rolled the ball down the centre for the goal for a deserved equaliser. Shrewsbury were now in fantasy land and it would have been a travesty of justice had the game drifted away from them.
Then with minutes to go Cummings conjured another trick. A long goal kick from goalkeeper Max O'Leary sailed all the way towards Cummings who, with a delightfully feathery touch, ran onto the ball before firing joyfully past the despairing legs of Liverpool goalkeeper Adrian. The game was now level and suddenly Shrewsbury began to think that this was too good to be true. Perhaps just perhaps they could achieve the impossible but not quite.
Still, Shrewsbury had held the European Champions to a draw and that seemed good enough. That perhaps had been their game plan. We should have known all along. The underdogs with no chance whatsoever had taught Liverpool all about the FA Cup's famous fables. You should never underestimate those you may think are beneath you. Anfield will almost certainly mark the end for Shrewsbury but the cash injection and much higher profile they will gain from a replay with Liverpool may be all the consolation they need. If only they could bottle FA Cup ties such as this.
Who said that the FA Cup had lost its way, its identity, its soul and spirit, that indefinable something that just can't be explained? Maybe we thought the FA Cup had been robbed of its ineffable charm, its lovable sentimentality, its capacity to shock us. But then little Shrewsbury came along and put the cat among the pigeons. You question the FA Cup at your peril.
Just when you thought the FA Cup had lost its sense of humour, its appropriateness, its relevance and importance, here was an FA Cup tie that confounded the critics. It left most of us breathless with wonder and admiration, a genuine FA Cup classic with all the trappings that come with that package. It was a game that defied the form book, disproved the many urban myths that may have attached themselves to the FA Cup and almost left us stunned and lost for words. This must be allowed to happen over and over again because this could be addictive and besides we do love the underdog.
In the heart of deepest Shropshire, Shrewsbury, who once produced their very own spot of FA Cup giant killing on several occasions, almost did it again and how we willed them on when it looked as though the game might have been slipping away from them. But they suddenly discovered that the TV cameras were there to catch them for posterity and promptly decided that they were indeed photogenic.
When the fourth round of the FA Cup pitted Shrewsbury against European Champions and World Club champions Liverpool, it occurred to us that David should forget all about overcoming Goliath because this was a complete mismatch, a no contest so there seemed little point. But Shrewsbury, surrounded by some of the prettiest, picture postcard landscapes in England, had other ideas and you suspected that just around the corner, the immaculate meadows, fields and snug country pubs were ready to provide the home side with the warmest welcome and a right old knees up at the end.
The club that once boasted a coracle that fished out footballs landing amusingly in the River Severn with hilarious frequency, were pulling a fast one on the FA Cup. It is now 41 years ago since Shrewsbury, under the amiable Graham Turner, knocked Manchester City out of the FA Cup at the old Gay Meadow. Several seasons ago Shrewsbury sent Premier League Everton out of the FA Cup as well so this could hardly be considered as a major surprise.
Now Shrewsbury, at their new home of the grandiosely titled Montgomery Waters Meadow stadium, faced a Liverpool team who have more or less won this season's Premier League title and were in no mood to surrender. The bookmakers odds made Liverpool such overwhelming favourites for this tie, that perhaps Shrewsbury needn't have bothered to turn up for this game. But hold on, this was the FA Cup and sometimes the obvious becomes rather less so because we all know how the FA Cup can make fools of the experts, making a complete mockery of the current status of both teams.
But when the men in blue and yellow stripes crossed the line and emerged from the tunnel, we believed that the remote possibility might just become a real probability. When the stout hearted Donald Love, Aaron Pierre, Josh Laurent, Sean Goss and Callum Long all stepped up to the mark with their doughty determination and tireless commitment to the cause, we must have thought that Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool team should have been amply warned against complacency.
Shrewsbury, full of surprising finesse on the ball and more than capable of weaving together their attractive strands of good, honest passing to feet, poured forward on more than one occasion. And so after a nervous opening where the European Champions lived up to their name, Shrewsbury recovered their poise and clawed their way back admirably into the game in the second half. The fighting spirit which eventually brought the scores level was quite unlike anything we've seen in recent times.
On a muddy throwback of a pitch, Shrewsbury were full of pluck, resolve and bravery, an assured intelligence in possession that occasionally belonged to a much higher sphere of football. The home team, far from being daunted and scared, were full of Old Salopian joie de vivre, stringing their neat cameos of dinky passes that moved them further and further up the pitch than they might have expected. At times there was an understandable naivety about their football but their second half comeback was a sight to behold.
Now though Liverpool's shrewd midfield creator Pedro Chirivera lanced Shrewsbury's somewhat brittle defence with an impeccably weighted ball to Curtis Jones who, with one memorable shot had toppled Merseyside rivals Everton in the last round of the FA Cup. Now the twinkle toed Jones broke through again with a perfectly timed run before guiding the ball into the net for Liverpool's opening goal.
From that point onwards it seemed as if Liverpool were set fair for another exhibition, an artistic demonstration of their pedigree, their refined ball control and their marvellously fluid movement. At times their passing became magnetic, almost hypnotic, a series of electrical impulses, effortless touches and a team absolutely inspired.
With Dejan Lovren, Joel Matip and Yasser Lakouci making rare first team appearances for Jurgen Klopp's Premier League champions elect, Fabinho, stabilising Liverpool's midfield, always on the hunt for a goal and Pedro Chirivella brimming with wit and invention, Liverpool were about to leave their League One opponents all tangled up in knots. Liverpool's wonderkids Harvey Elliot and Curtis Jones were pulling Shrewsbury every which way, Divock Origi was always available to bind together all of Liverpool's smart approach play and then Tukami Minamino Liverpool's Japanese international, added his variety and delicate touch on the ball.
After Liverpool had added a second with a horrendously unfortunate own goal from Donald Love who, with nobody around him, succeeded only in turning the ball past Shrewsbury keeper Max O'Leary, the game could have been over for the home side. But the blue and yellow stripes came storming back into the match with pulsating conviction and a complete disregard of everything that had gone before.
So it was that Shrewsbury brought on their Saturday evening knight in shining armour. Jovial Jason Cummings, who had long been billed as a potential match winner, came bounding onto the pitch. The response was almost immediate. Yasser Lakouci, in a stupidly impetuous tackle just inside the Shrewsbury penalty area, brought down Cummings for a penalty to the home side. The heavily tattooed Cummings rolled the ball down the centre for the goal for a deserved equaliser. Shrewsbury were now in fantasy land and it would have been a travesty of justice had the game drifted away from them.
Then with minutes to go Cummings conjured another trick. A long goal kick from goalkeeper Max O'Leary sailed all the way towards Cummings who, with a delightfully feathery touch, ran onto the ball before firing joyfully past the despairing legs of Liverpool goalkeeper Adrian. The game was now level and suddenly Shrewsbury began to think that this was too good to be true. Perhaps just perhaps they could achieve the impossible but not quite.
Still, Shrewsbury had held the European Champions to a draw and that seemed good enough. That perhaps had been their game plan. We should have known all along. The underdogs with no chance whatsoever had taught Liverpool all about the FA Cup's famous fables. You should never underestimate those you may think are beneath you. Anfield will almost certainly mark the end for Shrewsbury but the cash injection and much higher profile they will gain from a replay with Liverpool may be all the consolation they need. If only they could bottle FA Cup ties such as this.
Saturday 25 January 2020
Brentford Bees lose their FA Cup sting.
Brentford Bees lose their FA Cup sting.
This was Brentford's last ever FA Cup match at their cosy and compact Griffin Park ground. Brentford have always remained firmly rooted in football's backwaters, never really challenging the big boys at any time in their history and just trapped in one of those obscure cul de sacs where nobody takes a great deal of notice of you and the neighbours just ignore you because somehow you're socially inferior to them. Poor Brentford. It doesn't really seem fair.
It's hard to believe now but Brentford once rubbed shoulders with the so called titled classes of the old First Division. Just after the Second World War Brentford, for whom England's once prolific striker Tommy Lawton spent his twilight years with, were fraternising with the upper classes of the top flight, a side not exactly to be reckoned with but still respected at the time. Football, at the time, was still recovering from the hellish depredations of war and trying desperately to recover from the twisted wreckage of broken lives, families, buildings and homes.
But, for one of London's lesser known teams the lunchtime kick off against confident and frequently stylish Premier League high fliers Leicester City proved a positive bellwether of what Brentford might find they're up against should they secure promotion to the Premier League next season. At the moment they're floating promisingly in the top six of the Championship and their Danish manager Thomas Frank has built a forward thinking and progressive team in the League's second tier.
Yet here we were at the only football team in the whole of Britain that boasts four pubs on every corner of the ground, a fact that may or may not be well documented. In this FA Cup fourth round tie, Brentford looked distinctly punch drunk but by the end of this moderately intoxicating game, they'd more or less sobered up.
Throughout the ages Griffin Park, shortly to be demolished so that Brentford can move into their new home next season, has always looked very snug and happy rather like its bibulous boozers. The rickety stands and terraces are beginning to creak and groan quite ominously although as pointed out Griffin Park stood intact in the face of Hitler's punishing bombardment. Now the time has come for Brentford to move onto greener pastures although, like their London neighbours, this may take some getting used to.
This time the lower class proletarians of Brentford were eventually shown the exit door of this year's FA Cup despite some spirited resistance in the second half. Sadly though they simply couldn't break down Leicester's wall of stubbornness. a well organised squadron of blue shirts who may find that Liverpool can't be caught in the Premier League title chase. Instead Leicester have switched their focus to the FA Cup, a competition in which they have lost the Final on three occasions when Spurs overcame them in 1961, Manchester United just swept them aside in 1963 and neighbours City narrowly beat them six years later.
So here was the incentive for Leicester to make up for lost time. Four years have now passed since the ever smiling Claudio Ranieri led the Foxes to the Premier League title. Since then there was the tragic helicopter crash which killed their owners, a general levelling out in their performances and an acceptance of the fact that both the club and its supporters may never witness such mammoth achievements again in the immediate future although you never know.
Still when the ever dependable Wes Morgan found himself capable of linking up proficiently with James Justin, Christian Fuchs and the rock solid Caglar Soyuncu, Leicester knew that they could count on all of the most essential tools to peel back the layers of Brentford's stage struck team. With Hamza Choudury, a consistently responsible and intelligent influence, Dennis Praet, scheming and creating productively in the heart of Leicester's well stocked midfield, the Premier League side were opening up Brentford with some of the neatest and well constructed football Leicester have played since the heyday of Claudio Ranieri.
Further forward there were yet more eye catching displays from full back Marc Allbrighton, surging dangerously forward on the overlap and always willing to lend a helping hand to Leicester's now smoothly flowing attack. Demarai Gray is yet another one of England's blooming youngsters who may find that England manager Gareth Southgate will find hard to resist at Euro 2020. Here Gray was full of the unpredictable, a player of spellbinding sorcery, lovely ball control at close quarters and a natural aptitude for doing the simple things at the right time. Gray was here, there and everywhere.
When the superbly brilliant Ayoze Perez found his footing and started leading Brentford a merry dance, the home side were living on borrowed time. Perez was quick, elusive and a striker of predatory instincts, dragging Brentford one way and then the other. With every game Perez is beginning to look the genuine article and there was a moment during the game when Leicester didn't really miss the direct and lethal Jamie Vardy.
The game's only goal of the game came from Kelechi Ineancho, a straightforward and yet classically executed movement that seemed as if it had come Leicester's training ground. A beautiful, diagonal ball went like an arrow through the heart of Brentford's hapless back four and James Justin latching onto the ball cleanly. Justin, at full pelt, brought the ball down cleverly and then drove the ball low across the Londoners penalty area where Kelechi Ineacho was on hand to slide the ball over the line.
At this point the red and white stripes of Brentford finally discovered what they had to do to haul themselves manfully back into the Cup tie. At first there were the tentative prods and the kind of fluent short passing that wouldn't have looked out of place in the Premier League. But there was still a lack of punch, cutting edge and potent penetration about the home side that couldn't really dent any damaging holes in Brendan Rodgers Leicester.
The likes of Julian Jeanvier, Dominic Thompson, Dru Yearwood, Kamohelo Mokotjo and the impressive Emiliano Marcondes did give Brentford a clear outline and purpose at times but their attacking scissors were missing. Of course there were moments of fleeting creativity and a sound structure to their football but the club with four pubs on every corner of the ground had found themselves at the Last Chance Saloon. Even John Wayne would have given up the wild goose chase.
And so it was that the team who will always find themselves permanently overshadowed by more glamorous neighbours such as Chelsea it was time to check out of the FA Cup. Your thoughts turned to football's eternal underdogs, the teams who may never reap their deserved rewards because their loftier or supposedly aristocratic betters always seem to know far more than they ever will. Still, for Brentford and Griffin Park this is certainly not the time for long goodbyes. The Premier League is the ultimate objective and who knows where the Bees may be going? They may be hoping that it's in the right direction. We wish them the very the best.
This was Brentford's last ever FA Cup match at their cosy and compact Griffin Park ground. Brentford have always remained firmly rooted in football's backwaters, never really challenging the big boys at any time in their history and just trapped in one of those obscure cul de sacs where nobody takes a great deal of notice of you and the neighbours just ignore you because somehow you're socially inferior to them. Poor Brentford. It doesn't really seem fair.
It's hard to believe now but Brentford once rubbed shoulders with the so called titled classes of the old First Division. Just after the Second World War Brentford, for whom England's once prolific striker Tommy Lawton spent his twilight years with, were fraternising with the upper classes of the top flight, a side not exactly to be reckoned with but still respected at the time. Football, at the time, was still recovering from the hellish depredations of war and trying desperately to recover from the twisted wreckage of broken lives, families, buildings and homes.
But, for one of London's lesser known teams the lunchtime kick off against confident and frequently stylish Premier League high fliers Leicester City proved a positive bellwether of what Brentford might find they're up against should they secure promotion to the Premier League next season. At the moment they're floating promisingly in the top six of the Championship and their Danish manager Thomas Frank has built a forward thinking and progressive team in the League's second tier.
Yet here we were at the only football team in the whole of Britain that boasts four pubs on every corner of the ground, a fact that may or may not be well documented. In this FA Cup fourth round tie, Brentford looked distinctly punch drunk but by the end of this moderately intoxicating game, they'd more or less sobered up.
Throughout the ages Griffin Park, shortly to be demolished so that Brentford can move into their new home next season, has always looked very snug and happy rather like its bibulous boozers. The rickety stands and terraces are beginning to creak and groan quite ominously although as pointed out Griffin Park stood intact in the face of Hitler's punishing bombardment. Now the time has come for Brentford to move onto greener pastures although, like their London neighbours, this may take some getting used to.
This time the lower class proletarians of Brentford were eventually shown the exit door of this year's FA Cup despite some spirited resistance in the second half. Sadly though they simply couldn't break down Leicester's wall of stubbornness. a well organised squadron of blue shirts who may find that Liverpool can't be caught in the Premier League title chase. Instead Leicester have switched their focus to the FA Cup, a competition in which they have lost the Final on three occasions when Spurs overcame them in 1961, Manchester United just swept them aside in 1963 and neighbours City narrowly beat them six years later.
So here was the incentive for Leicester to make up for lost time. Four years have now passed since the ever smiling Claudio Ranieri led the Foxes to the Premier League title. Since then there was the tragic helicopter crash which killed their owners, a general levelling out in their performances and an acceptance of the fact that both the club and its supporters may never witness such mammoth achievements again in the immediate future although you never know.
Still when the ever dependable Wes Morgan found himself capable of linking up proficiently with James Justin, Christian Fuchs and the rock solid Caglar Soyuncu, Leicester knew that they could count on all of the most essential tools to peel back the layers of Brentford's stage struck team. With Hamza Choudury, a consistently responsible and intelligent influence, Dennis Praet, scheming and creating productively in the heart of Leicester's well stocked midfield, the Premier League side were opening up Brentford with some of the neatest and well constructed football Leicester have played since the heyday of Claudio Ranieri.
Further forward there were yet more eye catching displays from full back Marc Allbrighton, surging dangerously forward on the overlap and always willing to lend a helping hand to Leicester's now smoothly flowing attack. Demarai Gray is yet another one of England's blooming youngsters who may find that England manager Gareth Southgate will find hard to resist at Euro 2020. Here Gray was full of the unpredictable, a player of spellbinding sorcery, lovely ball control at close quarters and a natural aptitude for doing the simple things at the right time. Gray was here, there and everywhere.
When the superbly brilliant Ayoze Perez found his footing and started leading Brentford a merry dance, the home side were living on borrowed time. Perez was quick, elusive and a striker of predatory instincts, dragging Brentford one way and then the other. With every game Perez is beginning to look the genuine article and there was a moment during the game when Leicester didn't really miss the direct and lethal Jamie Vardy.
The game's only goal of the game came from Kelechi Ineancho, a straightforward and yet classically executed movement that seemed as if it had come Leicester's training ground. A beautiful, diagonal ball went like an arrow through the heart of Brentford's hapless back four and James Justin latching onto the ball cleanly. Justin, at full pelt, brought the ball down cleverly and then drove the ball low across the Londoners penalty area where Kelechi Ineacho was on hand to slide the ball over the line.
At this point the red and white stripes of Brentford finally discovered what they had to do to haul themselves manfully back into the Cup tie. At first there were the tentative prods and the kind of fluent short passing that wouldn't have looked out of place in the Premier League. But there was still a lack of punch, cutting edge and potent penetration about the home side that couldn't really dent any damaging holes in Brendan Rodgers Leicester.
The likes of Julian Jeanvier, Dominic Thompson, Dru Yearwood, Kamohelo Mokotjo and the impressive Emiliano Marcondes did give Brentford a clear outline and purpose at times but their attacking scissors were missing. Of course there were moments of fleeting creativity and a sound structure to their football but the club with four pubs on every corner of the ground had found themselves at the Last Chance Saloon. Even John Wayne would have given up the wild goose chase.
And so it was that the team who will always find themselves permanently overshadowed by more glamorous neighbours such as Chelsea it was time to check out of the FA Cup. Your thoughts turned to football's eternal underdogs, the teams who may never reap their deserved rewards because their loftier or supposedly aristocratic betters always seem to know far more than they ever will. Still, for Brentford and Griffin Park this is certainly not the time for long goodbyes. The Premier League is the ultimate objective and who knows where the Bees may be going? They may be hoping that it's in the right direction. We wish them the very the best.
Thursday 23 January 2020
National Pie Day.
National Pie Day.
It had to arrive sooner rather than later. We've all been licking our lips surely and quite literally. Our taste buds have been craving this moment for ages. Our stomachs have been rumbling for some time although some of us may have finished off a late lunch. We'll be watching the clock on the office wall, while frantically rummaging through our coat pockets in case a bar of chocolate just happens to be at the bottom of them. The time ticks away remorselessly and painfully because we're starving and supper seems hours away.
So we finish off our daily labours, tidy up our desks, shuffle a couple of papers in the in tray and then race out of the doors early in case the Tube railway station is shut for no obvious reason. The dynamics of the day have taken their toll and we just can't wait to get home and dive into the freezer for culinary satisfaction. We just want to get home, put our feet up, soak in a hot bath or shower for at least an hour, cursing both the delays and infrequencies of the London train networks before plunging eagerly into the evening's hot meal. Dinner is about to be served courtesy of your good self or your loving, supportive wife, girlfriend, boyfriend or anybody else who happens to be available. What's on the menu tonight?
Now the realisation kicks in with a vengeance. We've spent two hours in a stifling, packed, overcrowded train, arms and shoulders akimbo, I-Pads locked into some gripping game of zap the Ninja Turtle or noughts and crosses before it hits you. Is there something in the fridge or will we have to resort to our favourite supper staple? As a matter of urgency, we must eat and we know exactly what we'll do.
Ladies and Gentlemen. Today is National Pie Day! Now maybe you knew that it was National Pie Day and this is not entirely newsworthy but it has to be revealed to the nation. Yes everybody, today is perhaps the first day of the year when permission should be given to think about food again. Of course we should think about eating because it doesn't seem like yesterday since we were doing nothing but on the most bumper scale. But so what! It was Christmas and that's the one time of the year when, symbolically, we should all eat and be merry without thinking for a moment about the dietary repercussions.
Still, today is National Pie Day, a celebration of the humble pie, that invariably warm, piping hot and nutritious comestible where we all delight in the simple joys of savouring something very meaty or fruity that makes us feel remarkably good about ourselves. The pie is that delicious supper offering that is perhaps the highlight of a plate surrounded by either chips, potatoes and those vital vegetables.
Pies are probably uppermost in our minds in case we might have run out of food at home. So let's pop down to the fish and chip shop because as an alternative to haddock or cod we can still rely on the pie. So what is it going to be tonight? The meat and potato pie perhaps or the beef and onion pie? Now, in a radical departure from the norm, we might have the chicken and mushroom pie simply by way of a change. The fact is we're simply spoilt for choice and just to be awkward, we may well decide to go for the kebab option.
For as long as any of us can remember Britain and, almost certainly the whole of the world, does like to sink its ravenous teeth into a pie of any description or content. The steak and kidney pie is somehow quintessentially English, fashionable throughout the ages and never less than a treat for tea. We adore pies because they're safe and comfortable, comfort eating perhaps but an absolute necessity when the hunger pangs get to us.
You know where you stand with pies. They just happen to be the most dominant, most appealing and prominent item on the supper plate. They sit easily on the plate with lashings of gravy, luring you, beckoning you, inviting you to dig into that first delectable crust of pastry. The pie has taken your digestive system and alimentary canal into a world of its own. The pie has taken complete ownership of your appetite. It has provided us with that lovely feeling of relaxation and pleasure that makes us want to sit down on our sofas for the evening and just take it nice and easy.
During the summer of course the fruit pie has to be the centre of attention. Sunday lunches or pub carvery lunches are normally accompanied by our friendly apple pie with tons of custard or ice cream. Now who could possibly resist apple pie? Or maybe you'll find rhubarb crumble more to your liking but then again that isn't really a pie so let us move on.
Here we should perhaps make the important distinction between what some of us may consider to be a pie and what could be interpreted as a flan or cheesecake. The cheesecake, berry fruit crumble or the strawberry flan could be mistaken for a pie but on reflection it simply doesn't resemble a pie. The debate may go on for ages but since this is National Pie Day we feel sure that nobody will mind one way or the other.
Since we're in January thoughts may be turning almost inevitably to diets, losing weight and exercising vigorously in the local gym. Pies should therefore be a taboo subject, forbidden at all costs, never allowed to enter our heads at any time. Besides they're full of fat, a cholesterol nightmare and how many times have we been told that if we eat too many pies we may have cause to regret it? The guilty pleasure that is the famous pie has now taken hold on our senses and consciousness.
But some of us are just delighted that today is National Pie Day because pies are very quiet and unassuming, content to be one of Britain's favourite edibles, glowing in the glory of being recognised as the nation's pre-eminent dinner. It enjoys the high esteem in which we hold it and would like it to be known that even though it has to compete with cheesecake for our affections it doesn't really mind because we all love a pie. It's as simple as that. Happy National Pie Day everybody.
It had to arrive sooner rather than later. We've all been licking our lips surely and quite literally. Our taste buds have been craving this moment for ages. Our stomachs have been rumbling for some time although some of us may have finished off a late lunch. We'll be watching the clock on the office wall, while frantically rummaging through our coat pockets in case a bar of chocolate just happens to be at the bottom of them. The time ticks away remorselessly and painfully because we're starving and supper seems hours away.
So we finish off our daily labours, tidy up our desks, shuffle a couple of papers in the in tray and then race out of the doors early in case the Tube railway station is shut for no obvious reason. The dynamics of the day have taken their toll and we just can't wait to get home and dive into the freezer for culinary satisfaction. We just want to get home, put our feet up, soak in a hot bath or shower for at least an hour, cursing both the delays and infrequencies of the London train networks before plunging eagerly into the evening's hot meal. Dinner is about to be served courtesy of your good self or your loving, supportive wife, girlfriend, boyfriend or anybody else who happens to be available. What's on the menu tonight?
Now the realisation kicks in with a vengeance. We've spent two hours in a stifling, packed, overcrowded train, arms and shoulders akimbo, I-Pads locked into some gripping game of zap the Ninja Turtle or noughts and crosses before it hits you. Is there something in the fridge or will we have to resort to our favourite supper staple? As a matter of urgency, we must eat and we know exactly what we'll do.
Ladies and Gentlemen. Today is National Pie Day! Now maybe you knew that it was National Pie Day and this is not entirely newsworthy but it has to be revealed to the nation. Yes everybody, today is perhaps the first day of the year when permission should be given to think about food again. Of course we should think about eating because it doesn't seem like yesterday since we were doing nothing but on the most bumper scale. But so what! It was Christmas and that's the one time of the year when, symbolically, we should all eat and be merry without thinking for a moment about the dietary repercussions.
Still, today is National Pie Day, a celebration of the humble pie, that invariably warm, piping hot and nutritious comestible where we all delight in the simple joys of savouring something very meaty or fruity that makes us feel remarkably good about ourselves. The pie is that delicious supper offering that is perhaps the highlight of a plate surrounded by either chips, potatoes and those vital vegetables.
Pies are probably uppermost in our minds in case we might have run out of food at home. So let's pop down to the fish and chip shop because as an alternative to haddock or cod we can still rely on the pie. So what is it going to be tonight? The meat and potato pie perhaps or the beef and onion pie? Now, in a radical departure from the norm, we might have the chicken and mushroom pie simply by way of a change. The fact is we're simply spoilt for choice and just to be awkward, we may well decide to go for the kebab option.
For as long as any of us can remember Britain and, almost certainly the whole of the world, does like to sink its ravenous teeth into a pie of any description or content. The steak and kidney pie is somehow quintessentially English, fashionable throughout the ages and never less than a treat for tea. We adore pies because they're safe and comfortable, comfort eating perhaps but an absolute necessity when the hunger pangs get to us.
You know where you stand with pies. They just happen to be the most dominant, most appealing and prominent item on the supper plate. They sit easily on the plate with lashings of gravy, luring you, beckoning you, inviting you to dig into that first delectable crust of pastry. The pie has taken your digestive system and alimentary canal into a world of its own. The pie has taken complete ownership of your appetite. It has provided us with that lovely feeling of relaxation and pleasure that makes us want to sit down on our sofas for the evening and just take it nice and easy.
During the summer of course the fruit pie has to be the centre of attention. Sunday lunches or pub carvery lunches are normally accompanied by our friendly apple pie with tons of custard or ice cream. Now who could possibly resist apple pie? Or maybe you'll find rhubarb crumble more to your liking but then again that isn't really a pie so let us move on.
Here we should perhaps make the important distinction between what some of us may consider to be a pie and what could be interpreted as a flan or cheesecake. The cheesecake, berry fruit crumble or the strawberry flan could be mistaken for a pie but on reflection it simply doesn't resemble a pie. The debate may go on for ages but since this is National Pie Day we feel sure that nobody will mind one way or the other.
Since we're in January thoughts may be turning almost inevitably to diets, losing weight and exercising vigorously in the local gym. Pies should therefore be a taboo subject, forbidden at all costs, never allowed to enter our heads at any time. Besides they're full of fat, a cholesterol nightmare and how many times have we been told that if we eat too many pies we may have cause to regret it? The guilty pleasure that is the famous pie has now taken hold on our senses and consciousness.
But some of us are just delighted that today is National Pie Day because pies are very quiet and unassuming, content to be one of Britain's favourite edibles, glowing in the glory of being recognised as the nation's pre-eminent dinner. It enjoys the high esteem in which we hold it and would like it to be known that even though it has to compete with cheesecake for our affections it doesn't really mind because we all love a pie. It's as simple as that. Happy National Pie Day everybody.
Monday 20 January 2020
Rugby union's reputation takes a hefty blow.
Rugby union's reputation takes a hefty blow.
It is safe to assume that all is not well in the world of rugby union. Sport of course is treading familiar ground here. Remember those formidable and hugely muscled, female East German shot putters and discus throwers who so blackened and disgraced their nation at Olympic Games from yesteryear?Remember Ben Johnson the 100metres sprinter at the 1988 Olympics in Seoul? You could hardly forget him since he was a cheat, caught in the act of taking drugs.
In the 100m final Johnson ran like the wind, took the sport to breathtaking levels of super perfection only to find that he'd been cheating with narcotic substances. For a few brief moments he was Olympic gold champion only to discover that he'd been penalised, sanctioned with the severest penalty and then told he hadn't won.
Over the weekend sport bowed its head in shameful notoriety once again and this time the crime was equally as heinous and unforgivable. It was all about money. Yes money, the so called root of all evil, the road to ruination, a seedy tale of financial machinations, financial wrongdoing, penny pinching chicanery, greed, salary capping, monetary mismanagement and general naughtiness. Every so often sport gets stuck in a muddy quagmire of corruption. It gets well and truly up to its neck in a trouble of its own making and then wonders why everybody gets so heated and angry when fingers of accusation and blame are pointed at it.
This time it was the Premiership powerhouse known as Saracens, a hitherto well run, richly successful rugby union team based in North London who have now crossed the line. Four time Premiership titles to their name, European Champions par excellence and a glittering trophy cabinet that is their pride and joy, Saracens have now fallen out of favour with rugby union's top brass because somehow they thought they could get away with it, cheating brazenly when they must have thought we hadn't noticed and then pleading protestations of innocence when all of the incriminating evidence gave them no chance.
The club that has given us World Cup giants in England captain Owen Farrell, the brothers Mako and Billy Vunipola and Maro Itoje have now been deducted 35 points. But the ultimate punishment has been relegation from the Premiership at the end of the season. It isn't often that sport gets it disastrously wrong but when rugby union, once a bastion of fair and rough play in equal measure, gazes at the mirror today, it may find an ugly blemish on its face that may take a considerable amount of time to remove.
Rugby union is still one of those raw boned, rugged and rumbustious sports where rucks, mauls and line outs frequently punctuate its ebb and flow. It is a sport for crushing, crunching and crashing tackles, where muscular beefcakes are flipped into the air like pancakes and players of the highest quality charge headlong into each other like battering rams. It is a game where prop forwards collide into fly halves as if it were some accidental meeting of heads where no injury or harm was intended.
This time sport tripped up on another banana skin, blinded by some insatiable desire to keep on the right side of legality when quite clearly that was never going to happen. Sarries have not exactly fiddled the books but they have overstepped the mark this time and now they will suffer the consequences of their actions.
We all know what happens when we break the rules in any of life's many scenarios. We pay the price for our foolhardiness, our sloppy negligence, that moment when judge and jury make our judgments of guilt that hits you so hard in your pocket that when microphones are pointed at you and you have to answer for your actions, there can be no hiding place.
And so it is that Saracens face the music at the end of the season. They will be relegated from the Premiership and rather like the condemned men they must be feeling at the moment, it won't feel very pleasant. It is the proverbial bitter pill that when swallowed could take ages to dissolve. It does seem a crying shame that a club with such an impeccable pedigree and status in the game should now be reduced to a piteous wreck with nothing to look forward to apart from mediocrity. Somehow you feel that Saracens deserve much better. At the moment though it's hard to feel any sorrow.
It is safe to assume that all is not well in the world of rugby union. Sport of course is treading familiar ground here. Remember those formidable and hugely muscled, female East German shot putters and discus throwers who so blackened and disgraced their nation at Olympic Games from yesteryear?Remember Ben Johnson the 100metres sprinter at the 1988 Olympics in Seoul? You could hardly forget him since he was a cheat, caught in the act of taking drugs.
In the 100m final Johnson ran like the wind, took the sport to breathtaking levels of super perfection only to find that he'd been cheating with narcotic substances. For a few brief moments he was Olympic gold champion only to discover that he'd been penalised, sanctioned with the severest penalty and then told he hadn't won.
Over the weekend sport bowed its head in shameful notoriety once again and this time the crime was equally as heinous and unforgivable. It was all about money. Yes money, the so called root of all evil, the road to ruination, a seedy tale of financial machinations, financial wrongdoing, penny pinching chicanery, greed, salary capping, monetary mismanagement and general naughtiness. Every so often sport gets stuck in a muddy quagmire of corruption. It gets well and truly up to its neck in a trouble of its own making and then wonders why everybody gets so heated and angry when fingers of accusation and blame are pointed at it.
This time it was the Premiership powerhouse known as Saracens, a hitherto well run, richly successful rugby union team based in North London who have now crossed the line. Four time Premiership titles to their name, European Champions par excellence and a glittering trophy cabinet that is their pride and joy, Saracens have now fallen out of favour with rugby union's top brass because somehow they thought they could get away with it, cheating brazenly when they must have thought we hadn't noticed and then pleading protestations of innocence when all of the incriminating evidence gave them no chance.
The club that has given us World Cup giants in England captain Owen Farrell, the brothers Mako and Billy Vunipola and Maro Itoje have now been deducted 35 points. But the ultimate punishment has been relegation from the Premiership at the end of the season. It isn't often that sport gets it disastrously wrong but when rugby union, once a bastion of fair and rough play in equal measure, gazes at the mirror today, it may find an ugly blemish on its face that may take a considerable amount of time to remove.
Rugby union is still one of those raw boned, rugged and rumbustious sports where rucks, mauls and line outs frequently punctuate its ebb and flow. It is a sport for crushing, crunching and crashing tackles, where muscular beefcakes are flipped into the air like pancakes and players of the highest quality charge headlong into each other like battering rams. It is a game where prop forwards collide into fly halves as if it were some accidental meeting of heads where no injury or harm was intended.
This time sport tripped up on another banana skin, blinded by some insatiable desire to keep on the right side of legality when quite clearly that was never going to happen. Sarries have not exactly fiddled the books but they have overstepped the mark this time and now they will suffer the consequences of their actions.
We all know what happens when we break the rules in any of life's many scenarios. We pay the price for our foolhardiness, our sloppy negligence, that moment when judge and jury make our judgments of guilt that hits you so hard in your pocket that when microphones are pointed at you and you have to answer for your actions, there can be no hiding place.
And so it is that Saracens face the music at the end of the season. They will be relegated from the Premiership and rather like the condemned men they must be feeling at the moment, it won't feel very pleasant. It is the proverbial bitter pill that when swallowed could take ages to dissolve. It does seem a crying shame that a club with such an impeccable pedigree and status in the game should now be reduced to a piteous wreck with nothing to look forward to apart from mediocrity. Somehow you feel that Saracens deserve much better. At the moment though it's hard to feel any sorrow.
Saturday 18 January 2020
Three o'clock in the old First Division.
Three o'clock in the old First Division
There was a time when football kicked off at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, trams and trolley buses would normally run on time, BBC Radio 2 would announce the classified football results with James Alexander Gordon on a crackling turquoise transistor radio, teams still played at Highbury, White Hart Lane, Upton Park, Filbert Street, Roker Park and the Baseball Ground while at home mum would be busy whipping up a mouth watering plate of egg and chips.
At lunchtime some of us would be running furiously towards Upton Park with all the fervent enthusiasm of a much younger child thumping the ball vehemently against a garden wall and then cracking the ball with the loudest thud against a battered fence in the hope that some talent scout from the Boleyn Ground would notice my very youthful skills and endeavours.
But then the ball would rather unfortunately plunge into my parents prickly thorns and blossoming roses before flopping forlornly into a state of plaintive despair. The match was over for this carefree blithe spirit, a four or five year old frustratingly thwarted when he must have thought that the devious body swerve, the inch perfect crossfield pass and the thunderous shot from the half way line would never ever be acknowledged.
However, years later you soon realised that football was full of wonderful surprises, comforting certainties, amusing rituals and, above all, three o'clock kick offs. You could put our watch on it quite literally and you knew you would never be disappointed. You would dash away from the bus before embarking on one of the clumsiest runs ever seen by this teenage football devotee. You would rush frantically past the hustling, bustling shopping throng in East Ham High Street before tearing around the corner and then making a comical sprint down the Barking Road.
With breathless anticipation, we imagined and hoped that the TV cameras would be ready and waiting for our regular pilgrimage to Upton Park. You could never explain why you wanted the cameras to be there but you thought that at some point during the game your faces would be clearly exposed to a captive TV audience and at school the following Monday morning our mates would plead persistently for our autograph.
So you trudged optimistically past the always commercially prosperous bakeries, jam packed department stores and those glittering emporiums that would provide the very latest in bargains, special offers and shops with tempting offers. And then you would arrive at your destination, the footballing Academy, the club who once converted a single Saturday afternoon on one of the last days of July 1966 into one of the greatest days of our footballing lives.
The club is West Ham United and when the team in claret and blue kick off this afternoon at three o'clock you would think back to that routine time frame which invariably meant that the referee would blow the whistle for kick off at the appointed time. Our nerves were irreparably frayed, our finger nails bitten to the quick and the woman carrying those enormous bags of monkey nuts would glamorously purvey the pre match snack around the perimeter of the pitch, happily chucking them into the deliriously excited Chicken Run terrace named after chicken wire from many decades before.
You would now walk up the steps of the South Bank end with that devotional tread of some religious worshipper hoping against hope that their visit would prove a beneficial one. You would look towards the centre of the pitch, savouring, relishing and salivating, waiting patiently for a cascade of Bubbles to float towards the battleship grey skies of a wintry afternoon in East London before finding your spot. You would gaze in some incredulity at the brass band assembled near the players tunnel and convince yourself that it simply couldn't get any better.
Suddenly, loudly and quite musically, the Upton Park tannoy system would blare out quite magnificently the opening bars of Whistling Jack Smith, a quaint 1960s pop group from that electrifying decade and you knew what to expect. The DJ request show was an integral part of the pre-match entertainment and for the next two hours you would be regaled by the whole of the pop music spectrum including those you hadn't heard for years and years.
Then you would flick idly through the match programme with footballing lore and literature that was somehow unequalled. Unlike most of the fans around me, a pen would be missing so when the teams were announced you were unable to change the names of players who had been injured before the game. But you were safe and secure, establishing an instant rapport, common ground, a kinship, a vital connection to the drama and spectacle that was about to unfold before us. I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles would release its first stunning chorus and verse.
The West Ham fans of course were just a joy to behold, masses of claret and blue scarves wrapped around their necks, some wearing those distinctive rosettes, thick coats and bobble hats reinforcing their identity and then there were the refreshments. Now this was the point when some of us could only chuckle under our breath. Lunchtime had well and truly arrived at Upton Park.
For some time whole batches of West Ham supporters would cling on desperately to thick rolls or baps oozing with giant sized hot dogs, hamburgers the size of maisonettes and tomato ketchup that seemed to be dripping down their mouths like torrential rain from the top of a roof. The pangs of hunger had to be satisfied so this was normal behaviour. Before we knew it polystyrene cups of tea, coffee or the traditional Bovril would be gulped down gratefully, thirsts slaked and ready for the football.
And so the brass band would continue to strike up that very pleasing cacophony of old musical hall classics, famous film soundtracks and a whole host of 1960s classics. The trombones would slide up and down in unison and the fans, by now well and truly replete with alcohol, would belt out their weekly repertoire of gallows humour and some of the saltiest of industrial language. Every so often the good natured abuse and the stream of Anglo Saxon expletives would drift gently towards the South Bank end of West Ham's Upton Park.
There was a very appealing and eye catching theatricality about the whole experience. At half time, whatever the score, particularly in the chilliest reaches of November and December, the floodlights would flicker on nervously in case one of the bulbs had gone and you had to watch the second half in semi darkness. Then there was the North Bank light show, hundreds of cigarettes lighting up in a blue haze of nicotine Nirvana
By now the fans, either fed up or disgruntled, would simply resign themselves to the fate of their team. If West Ham were losing heavily or winning convincingly the fans would take out all their pent up frustration with their very literary grievances. If the claret and blue fans were unhappy with the visitors they would tell them in no uncertain terms. You can probably fill in the blanks. The sentences were, to say the very least, aggressively threatening in their tone and for a while you privately wished that the referee would blow his whistle sooner rather than later.
Still, this afternoon the current West Ham team will step out of the London Stadium against Everton at three o'clock this afternoon which is perhaps the way it should always be but can never be possible in today's game. You never know whether to feel fear or foreboding, delight or relief when the team in claret and blue step across the white line. Some of us though will look at our watches and just smile at tradition.
There was a time when football kicked off at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, trams and trolley buses would normally run on time, BBC Radio 2 would announce the classified football results with James Alexander Gordon on a crackling turquoise transistor radio, teams still played at Highbury, White Hart Lane, Upton Park, Filbert Street, Roker Park and the Baseball Ground while at home mum would be busy whipping up a mouth watering plate of egg and chips.
At lunchtime some of us would be running furiously towards Upton Park with all the fervent enthusiasm of a much younger child thumping the ball vehemently against a garden wall and then cracking the ball with the loudest thud against a battered fence in the hope that some talent scout from the Boleyn Ground would notice my very youthful skills and endeavours.
But then the ball would rather unfortunately plunge into my parents prickly thorns and blossoming roses before flopping forlornly into a state of plaintive despair. The match was over for this carefree blithe spirit, a four or five year old frustratingly thwarted when he must have thought that the devious body swerve, the inch perfect crossfield pass and the thunderous shot from the half way line would never ever be acknowledged.
However, years later you soon realised that football was full of wonderful surprises, comforting certainties, amusing rituals and, above all, three o'clock kick offs. You could put our watch on it quite literally and you knew you would never be disappointed. You would dash away from the bus before embarking on one of the clumsiest runs ever seen by this teenage football devotee. You would rush frantically past the hustling, bustling shopping throng in East Ham High Street before tearing around the corner and then making a comical sprint down the Barking Road.
With breathless anticipation, we imagined and hoped that the TV cameras would be ready and waiting for our regular pilgrimage to Upton Park. You could never explain why you wanted the cameras to be there but you thought that at some point during the game your faces would be clearly exposed to a captive TV audience and at school the following Monday morning our mates would plead persistently for our autograph.
So you trudged optimistically past the always commercially prosperous bakeries, jam packed department stores and those glittering emporiums that would provide the very latest in bargains, special offers and shops with tempting offers. And then you would arrive at your destination, the footballing Academy, the club who once converted a single Saturday afternoon on one of the last days of July 1966 into one of the greatest days of our footballing lives.
The club is West Ham United and when the team in claret and blue kick off this afternoon at three o'clock you would think back to that routine time frame which invariably meant that the referee would blow the whistle for kick off at the appointed time. Our nerves were irreparably frayed, our finger nails bitten to the quick and the woman carrying those enormous bags of monkey nuts would glamorously purvey the pre match snack around the perimeter of the pitch, happily chucking them into the deliriously excited Chicken Run terrace named after chicken wire from many decades before.
You would now walk up the steps of the South Bank end with that devotional tread of some religious worshipper hoping against hope that their visit would prove a beneficial one. You would look towards the centre of the pitch, savouring, relishing and salivating, waiting patiently for a cascade of Bubbles to float towards the battleship grey skies of a wintry afternoon in East London before finding your spot. You would gaze in some incredulity at the brass band assembled near the players tunnel and convince yourself that it simply couldn't get any better.
Suddenly, loudly and quite musically, the Upton Park tannoy system would blare out quite magnificently the opening bars of Whistling Jack Smith, a quaint 1960s pop group from that electrifying decade and you knew what to expect. The DJ request show was an integral part of the pre-match entertainment and for the next two hours you would be regaled by the whole of the pop music spectrum including those you hadn't heard for years and years.
Then you would flick idly through the match programme with footballing lore and literature that was somehow unequalled. Unlike most of the fans around me, a pen would be missing so when the teams were announced you were unable to change the names of players who had been injured before the game. But you were safe and secure, establishing an instant rapport, common ground, a kinship, a vital connection to the drama and spectacle that was about to unfold before us. I'm Forever Blowing Bubbles would release its first stunning chorus and verse.
The West Ham fans of course were just a joy to behold, masses of claret and blue scarves wrapped around their necks, some wearing those distinctive rosettes, thick coats and bobble hats reinforcing their identity and then there were the refreshments. Now this was the point when some of us could only chuckle under our breath. Lunchtime had well and truly arrived at Upton Park.
For some time whole batches of West Ham supporters would cling on desperately to thick rolls or baps oozing with giant sized hot dogs, hamburgers the size of maisonettes and tomato ketchup that seemed to be dripping down their mouths like torrential rain from the top of a roof. The pangs of hunger had to be satisfied so this was normal behaviour. Before we knew it polystyrene cups of tea, coffee or the traditional Bovril would be gulped down gratefully, thirsts slaked and ready for the football.
And so the brass band would continue to strike up that very pleasing cacophony of old musical hall classics, famous film soundtracks and a whole host of 1960s classics. The trombones would slide up and down in unison and the fans, by now well and truly replete with alcohol, would belt out their weekly repertoire of gallows humour and some of the saltiest of industrial language. Every so often the good natured abuse and the stream of Anglo Saxon expletives would drift gently towards the South Bank end of West Ham's Upton Park.
There was a very appealing and eye catching theatricality about the whole experience. At half time, whatever the score, particularly in the chilliest reaches of November and December, the floodlights would flicker on nervously in case one of the bulbs had gone and you had to watch the second half in semi darkness. Then there was the North Bank light show, hundreds of cigarettes lighting up in a blue haze of nicotine Nirvana
By now the fans, either fed up or disgruntled, would simply resign themselves to the fate of their team. If West Ham were losing heavily or winning convincingly the fans would take out all their pent up frustration with their very literary grievances. If the claret and blue fans were unhappy with the visitors they would tell them in no uncertain terms. You can probably fill in the blanks. The sentences were, to say the very least, aggressively threatening in their tone and for a while you privately wished that the referee would blow his whistle sooner rather than later.
Still, this afternoon the current West Ham team will step out of the London Stadium against Everton at three o'clock this afternoon which is perhaps the way it should always be but can never be possible in today's game. You never know whether to feel fear or foreboding, delight or relief when the team in claret and blue step across the white line. Some of us though will look at our watches and just smile at tradition.
Wednesday 15 January 2020
Spurs on the road with the FA Cup.
Spurs on the road with the FA Cup.
It is almost 40 years since two Argentinian charmers had a decisive bearing on the FA Cup. In 1981 Ricky Villa and Ossie Ardilles were almost wholly responsible for Spurs replayed victory against Manchester City in the FA Cup Final of that year. Roll forward to last night and two more Argentinians decided to get in on the act as well. Isn't football a wonderful sport? It is uncanny how football keeps finding coincidences when least expected.
When Paul Gascoigne, that impish midfield genius, went on a journey of self destruction for Spurs 10 years later, the world of football must have thought Tottenham had developed a unique knack of winning trophies at the beginning of a new decade. Gascoigne of course fully embraced rebelliousness and non conformity rather like parents greeting the birth of their new child. He would poke his tongue out at the Establishment, belching rudely at waiting reporters in airports, throwing himself to the ground and then being soaked with water after scoring spectacularly against Scotland at Euro 96. He would then generally lark about quite happily like a child on the swings.
Last night though at the now wonderfully new Tottenham Hotspur stadium there was no such tomfoolery but there were Argentinians in the house and how the Spurs fans revelled in their presence. 39 years ago Ricky Villa slalomed brilliantly through a forest of Manchester City legs and ankles before tucking the ball under Joe Corrigan, the City keeper for what would prove to be Spurs winning goal. We settled down to watch the current crop of Argentinian playmakers with a sigh of pleasure in our hearts and hoping against hope that history would come round full circle.
When Eric Lamella jinked and dinked inside and outside a very sluggish Middlesboro defence he might have thought back, just for a minute or so, to the very profound influence that his fellow countrymen had exerted on Spurs in 1981. Lamella joyously rounded his defenders, cut back sharply and then drilled the ball into the net for Spurs second goal. Mission accomplished for Spurs and a trip to St Mary's for a fourth round FA Cup tie against Southampton.
On the touchline for Spurs was one Jose Mourinho, allegedly the Special One but more of the exasperating one, maybe a pain in the proverbial neck for others but still glaring at his players like a disapproving uncle who shows little gratitude when he finds that sombody has given the same set of cufflinks for his birthday again. Mourinho, complete in dark navy tracksuit, hovered around his technical area, occasionally smiling almost reluctantly and very sardonically rather like an impatient commuter who discovers that his bus or train has been delayed for at least an hour.
We all know that Mourinho is the very model of impatience, a demanding perfectionist quite obviously and whenever Spurs missed perfectly decent opportunities he would spin on his heels, smack his hand against his forehead and then wonder how on earth his team had missed that goal. It could be said that Mourinho is a psychologist's dream but he couldn't possibly comment. Of course he loses his temper with every justification, of course he pleads for more from his players and training grounds in Mourinho's company are probably very revealing and insightful.
At Chelsea Mourinho deservedly won back to back Premier League titles but so did Brian Clough with Nottingham Forest in the old First Division and you didn't see him throwing bottles of water into the air or throwing his toys out of the pram in a childish outburst. Admittedly, Cloughie did grab hold of a bunch of unruly QPR supporters in an early League Cup tie but then that was Brian Clough.
Once again Mourinho just stood rooted in his technical area, waving and gesticulating at his players from time to time, severely reprimanding them privately and wishing wearily that he was still playing the game rather than managing other players. Mourinho is, as we all know, a ruthless taskmaster and knows only too well that Spurs fans are still yearning for another 1981 and 1991.
Last night though Spurs wasted no time in making sure of their fourth round FA Cup tie against Bournemouth with a businesslike and white collar performance. A goalkeeping blunder meant that all Giovani Lo Celso had to do was snatch the ball from a panicky Boro defence, dropping his shoulder, weaving his way subtly past another defender before steering the ball neatly home for Spurs first goal on the night.
Then after Lamella had added an inevitable second for Spurs it was more or less game over. From that point onwards Spurs simply joined in with a veritable street party of handsome passing, sharp, staccato passes to feet, wide circles of more passing, rectangular and diamond shaped passes, neat and dainty triangles of passes before driving Middlesboro to distraction with a festival of fleet feet. It was football straight from the coaching manual of Arthur Rowe in the 1950s and logically Bill Nicholson during the 1960s.
Oh glory glory Tottenham. Some of their supporters may just be hoping that another decade and another year can bring the rich promise of that big old jug eared FA Cup pot. When Eric Dier, Tottenham's rugged and dependable defender, began loping forward into attack, the ever zestful Ryan Sessegnon ventured through the centre of Spurs midfield with meaningful menace and Lo Celso began to beat players with embarrassing ease, Spurs were in full flow. With the splendidly maturing Harry Winks sending deliciously diagonal long passes from one side of the pitch to the other and Japhet Tanganga full of delightful runs overlapping on the flank, Spurs may well have produced another of their own.
By half time this third round FA Cup tie was merely history for Middlesboro. Under Jonathan Woodgate, Boro are struggling at the wrong end of the Championship which would never have done for one of their former bosses Jack Charlton. This is not to suggest that our Jack would have read the riot act but rather like his reaction to bringing on John Aldridge for the Republic of Ireland during the 1994 World Cup in the baking heat of USA, Charlton would not have been best pleased.
For almost the whole of the second half Spurs switched on another conveyor belt of passes, the ball flying and whizzing around in a blizzard of passing movements. Soon though the steam would pour out of Spurs overheating engine and the home team began to burn themselves out. The tempo had gone and minutes from the end Boro's George Saville took Spurs on at their own game, shrugging off a white wall of Tottenham's defenders and planting the ball firmly past the Spurs keeper.
Alarmingly for Spurs the game was teetering on the edge but in the end it would be all right on the night for the team from North London who will now look to the FA Cup as their only avenue leading to silverware. The Premier League (formerly the old First Division championship) looks certain to go back to Anfield after a 30 year gap and Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool are in pole position to re-claim the domestic game's biggest prize.
Meanwhile back at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium the light show before the game, which lent itself favourably in comparison to a major heavyweight boxing match, had been and gone. Storm Brendan had blown itself out in North London, the gusty, blustery winds had subsided and Spurs could dream again. Even Jose Mourinho would have allowed himself the luxury of a small smile. Cheer up Jose, it may never happen!
It is almost 40 years since two Argentinian charmers had a decisive bearing on the FA Cup. In 1981 Ricky Villa and Ossie Ardilles were almost wholly responsible for Spurs replayed victory against Manchester City in the FA Cup Final of that year. Roll forward to last night and two more Argentinians decided to get in on the act as well. Isn't football a wonderful sport? It is uncanny how football keeps finding coincidences when least expected.
When Paul Gascoigne, that impish midfield genius, went on a journey of self destruction for Spurs 10 years later, the world of football must have thought Tottenham had developed a unique knack of winning trophies at the beginning of a new decade. Gascoigne of course fully embraced rebelliousness and non conformity rather like parents greeting the birth of their new child. He would poke his tongue out at the Establishment, belching rudely at waiting reporters in airports, throwing himself to the ground and then being soaked with water after scoring spectacularly against Scotland at Euro 96. He would then generally lark about quite happily like a child on the swings.
Last night though at the now wonderfully new Tottenham Hotspur stadium there was no such tomfoolery but there were Argentinians in the house and how the Spurs fans revelled in their presence. 39 years ago Ricky Villa slalomed brilliantly through a forest of Manchester City legs and ankles before tucking the ball under Joe Corrigan, the City keeper for what would prove to be Spurs winning goal. We settled down to watch the current crop of Argentinian playmakers with a sigh of pleasure in our hearts and hoping against hope that history would come round full circle.
When Eric Lamella jinked and dinked inside and outside a very sluggish Middlesboro defence he might have thought back, just for a minute or so, to the very profound influence that his fellow countrymen had exerted on Spurs in 1981. Lamella joyously rounded his defenders, cut back sharply and then drilled the ball into the net for Spurs second goal. Mission accomplished for Spurs and a trip to St Mary's for a fourth round FA Cup tie against Southampton.
On the touchline for Spurs was one Jose Mourinho, allegedly the Special One but more of the exasperating one, maybe a pain in the proverbial neck for others but still glaring at his players like a disapproving uncle who shows little gratitude when he finds that sombody has given the same set of cufflinks for his birthday again. Mourinho, complete in dark navy tracksuit, hovered around his technical area, occasionally smiling almost reluctantly and very sardonically rather like an impatient commuter who discovers that his bus or train has been delayed for at least an hour.
We all know that Mourinho is the very model of impatience, a demanding perfectionist quite obviously and whenever Spurs missed perfectly decent opportunities he would spin on his heels, smack his hand against his forehead and then wonder how on earth his team had missed that goal. It could be said that Mourinho is a psychologist's dream but he couldn't possibly comment. Of course he loses his temper with every justification, of course he pleads for more from his players and training grounds in Mourinho's company are probably very revealing and insightful.
At Chelsea Mourinho deservedly won back to back Premier League titles but so did Brian Clough with Nottingham Forest in the old First Division and you didn't see him throwing bottles of water into the air or throwing his toys out of the pram in a childish outburst. Admittedly, Cloughie did grab hold of a bunch of unruly QPR supporters in an early League Cup tie but then that was Brian Clough.
Once again Mourinho just stood rooted in his technical area, waving and gesticulating at his players from time to time, severely reprimanding them privately and wishing wearily that he was still playing the game rather than managing other players. Mourinho is, as we all know, a ruthless taskmaster and knows only too well that Spurs fans are still yearning for another 1981 and 1991.
Last night though Spurs wasted no time in making sure of their fourth round FA Cup tie against Bournemouth with a businesslike and white collar performance. A goalkeeping blunder meant that all Giovani Lo Celso had to do was snatch the ball from a panicky Boro defence, dropping his shoulder, weaving his way subtly past another defender before steering the ball neatly home for Spurs first goal on the night.
Then after Lamella had added an inevitable second for Spurs it was more or less game over. From that point onwards Spurs simply joined in with a veritable street party of handsome passing, sharp, staccato passes to feet, wide circles of more passing, rectangular and diamond shaped passes, neat and dainty triangles of passes before driving Middlesboro to distraction with a festival of fleet feet. It was football straight from the coaching manual of Arthur Rowe in the 1950s and logically Bill Nicholson during the 1960s.
Oh glory glory Tottenham. Some of their supporters may just be hoping that another decade and another year can bring the rich promise of that big old jug eared FA Cup pot. When Eric Dier, Tottenham's rugged and dependable defender, began loping forward into attack, the ever zestful Ryan Sessegnon ventured through the centre of Spurs midfield with meaningful menace and Lo Celso began to beat players with embarrassing ease, Spurs were in full flow. With the splendidly maturing Harry Winks sending deliciously diagonal long passes from one side of the pitch to the other and Japhet Tanganga full of delightful runs overlapping on the flank, Spurs may well have produced another of their own.
By half time this third round FA Cup tie was merely history for Middlesboro. Under Jonathan Woodgate, Boro are struggling at the wrong end of the Championship which would never have done for one of their former bosses Jack Charlton. This is not to suggest that our Jack would have read the riot act but rather like his reaction to bringing on John Aldridge for the Republic of Ireland during the 1994 World Cup in the baking heat of USA, Charlton would not have been best pleased.
For almost the whole of the second half Spurs switched on another conveyor belt of passes, the ball flying and whizzing around in a blizzard of passing movements. Soon though the steam would pour out of Spurs overheating engine and the home team began to burn themselves out. The tempo had gone and minutes from the end Boro's George Saville took Spurs on at their own game, shrugging off a white wall of Tottenham's defenders and planting the ball firmly past the Spurs keeper.
Alarmingly for Spurs the game was teetering on the edge but in the end it would be all right on the night for the team from North London who will now look to the FA Cup as their only avenue leading to silverware. The Premier League (formerly the old First Division championship) looks certain to go back to Anfield after a 30 year gap and Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool are in pole position to re-claim the domestic game's biggest prize.
Meanwhile back at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium the light show before the game, which lent itself favourably in comparison to a major heavyweight boxing match, had been and gone. Storm Brendan had blown itself out in North London, the gusty, blustery winds had subsided and Spurs could dream again. Even Jose Mourinho would have allowed himself the luxury of a small smile. Cheer up Jose, it may never happen!
Monday 13 January 2020
Harry and Meghan.
Harry and Meghan- a right royal summit.
It should be pointed out that as an ardent royalist some of us have nothing but unqualified admiration for everything that the Royal Family do, say or are alleged to have said without any plausible case for the defence. They continue to act as symbolic figureheads who in turn supplement the British tourist industry with a valuable and commercial income that has to be good for the country.
In recent years the lives of the late Princess Diana's sons have been dramatically turned upside down by damagingly sleazy and salacious gossip, private speculation that has simply fallen on stony ground and the chatty magazines who thrive on the latest developments of both Harry and Meghan's admirable charity work and what both have for breakfast in the morning.
Now into the second year of the marriage Harry and Meghan are now facing the first mini crisis of their matrimonial life. It all seemed to be going ever so smoothly until somebody discovered that there were several murmurs of disenchantment. But surely this was all just tittle tattle, hurtful innuendo and just a pack of lies. Meghan was just fed up with all of the unnecessary intrusion into her private life, the persistent sniping, the endless criticism and incessant whispering when silence would have been the more preferable option.
Of course we've all been here before because those who just resent the Royal Family can't leave them in a state of permanent privacy. They snigger and cackle with laughter when anything goes wrong and that fragile veneer of regal respectability is suddenly blown out of the water. Suddenly, one of the children do something out of the ordinary that doesn't conform to the norm. Still, there are some of us who feel deeply sorry for the Royals for quite clearly they are indeed the victims of unfortunate circumstances.
There remains a section of society who insist that the Royal Family are just pampered, inordinately wealthy, enormously privileged and totally oblivious to the everyday realities of the public who can only look on with a whole mix of disparate emotions. The elements of jealousy and envy are obvious reactions when mention is made of the Royal Family, an archaic institution that no longer has any relevance to a society that feels it has to either move on or would rather ignore the royals. Or so the cynics and anti royals would say.
And yet for almost 65 years now Her Majesty has quite literally lived up to her title. The Queen is a majestic, unifying, calming, re-assuring, reliable and utterly composed woman who continues to radiate serenity, an aura of stability and continuity that has never wavered while holding the country together with a firm anchor in the face of stormy seas. The Queen has met umpteen Prime Ministers throughout the decades, hosted innumerable summer garden parties and shaken the hands of kings, queens, presidents and those who raise substantial amounts of charity without any publicity.
But here we are almost half way through the first year of a new decade and there is a tremor of panic and major differences of opinion. Do Harry and Meghan relinquish their public duties by flying off to Canada or do they just remain exactly where they are and face the music? It's an interesting dilemma if only because both have expressed their desire to do what they want to do rather than being held back in dark, wintry Britain where spring seems so far away that we may be in need of binoculars to see when it might arrive again.
The fact is though that Meghan has had enough of all the small talk, the people who are determined to undermine her, question her, humiliate her and generally reduce her to a figure of fun and ridicule. With young baby son Archie to think of, your sympathies are reinforced by the knowledge that both Harry and Meghan can do nothing right at the moment however hard they try. Meghan has made it abundantly clear that she can no longer abide the sarcastic jibes and those petty comments that should be kept within the twitching curtains of those gossip mongers who can barely hold themselves back.
So it is then that Her Majesty brought together her concerned family with the express purpose of sorting things out. This morning at Sandringham there was a royal summit meeting which sounds rather more vitally important than it should be. Within a couple of days we were told that a resolution would be announced sooner rather than later and the family will find an amicable solution.
It is hard to believe that right at the beginning of the year and after those brief and horrifically harrowing images of fire torn Australia, thoughts should turn to the Royal Family. You feel sure that Harry and Meghan will reach a happy agreement with those who just have their best interests at heart. There are the deeply significant issues relating to Brexit and Britain's withdrawal from the European Union which has now been scheduled for the last day of this month. Hold on folks it could get very exciting. You feel sure though that Harry and Meghan would rather have nothing to do with such political shenanigans.
It should be pointed out that as an ardent royalist some of us have nothing but unqualified admiration for everything that the Royal Family do, say or are alleged to have said without any plausible case for the defence. They continue to act as symbolic figureheads who in turn supplement the British tourist industry with a valuable and commercial income that has to be good for the country.
In recent years the lives of the late Princess Diana's sons have been dramatically turned upside down by damagingly sleazy and salacious gossip, private speculation that has simply fallen on stony ground and the chatty magazines who thrive on the latest developments of both Harry and Meghan's admirable charity work and what both have for breakfast in the morning.
Now into the second year of the marriage Harry and Meghan are now facing the first mini crisis of their matrimonial life. It all seemed to be going ever so smoothly until somebody discovered that there were several murmurs of disenchantment. But surely this was all just tittle tattle, hurtful innuendo and just a pack of lies. Meghan was just fed up with all of the unnecessary intrusion into her private life, the persistent sniping, the endless criticism and incessant whispering when silence would have been the more preferable option.
Of course we've all been here before because those who just resent the Royal Family can't leave them in a state of permanent privacy. They snigger and cackle with laughter when anything goes wrong and that fragile veneer of regal respectability is suddenly blown out of the water. Suddenly, one of the children do something out of the ordinary that doesn't conform to the norm. Still, there are some of us who feel deeply sorry for the Royals for quite clearly they are indeed the victims of unfortunate circumstances.
There remains a section of society who insist that the Royal Family are just pampered, inordinately wealthy, enormously privileged and totally oblivious to the everyday realities of the public who can only look on with a whole mix of disparate emotions. The elements of jealousy and envy are obvious reactions when mention is made of the Royal Family, an archaic institution that no longer has any relevance to a society that feels it has to either move on or would rather ignore the royals. Or so the cynics and anti royals would say.
And yet for almost 65 years now Her Majesty has quite literally lived up to her title. The Queen is a majestic, unifying, calming, re-assuring, reliable and utterly composed woman who continues to radiate serenity, an aura of stability and continuity that has never wavered while holding the country together with a firm anchor in the face of stormy seas. The Queen has met umpteen Prime Ministers throughout the decades, hosted innumerable summer garden parties and shaken the hands of kings, queens, presidents and those who raise substantial amounts of charity without any publicity.
But here we are almost half way through the first year of a new decade and there is a tremor of panic and major differences of opinion. Do Harry and Meghan relinquish their public duties by flying off to Canada or do they just remain exactly where they are and face the music? It's an interesting dilemma if only because both have expressed their desire to do what they want to do rather than being held back in dark, wintry Britain where spring seems so far away that we may be in need of binoculars to see when it might arrive again.
The fact is though that Meghan has had enough of all the small talk, the people who are determined to undermine her, question her, humiliate her and generally reduce her to a figure of fun and ridicule. With young baby son Archie to think of, your sympathies are reinforced by the knowledge that both Harry and Meghan can do nothing right at the moment however hard they try. Meghan has made it abundantly clear that she can no longer abide the sarcastic jibes and those petty comments that should be kept within the twitching curtains of those gossip mongers who can barely hold themselves back.
So it is then that Her Majesty brought together her concerned family with the express purpose of sorting things out. This morning at Sandringham there was a royal summit meeting which sounds rather more vitally important than it should be. Within a couple of days we were told that a resolution would be announced sooner rather than later and the family will find an amicable solution.
It is hard to believe that right at the beginning of the year and after those brief and horrifically harrowing images of fire torn Australia, thoughts should turn to the Royal Family. You feel sure that Harry and Meghan will reach a happy agreement with those who just have their best interests at heart. There are the deeply significant issues relating to Brexit and Britain's withdrawal from the European Union which has now been scheduled for the last day of this month. Hold on folks it could get very exciting. You feel sure though that Harry and Meghan would rather have nothing to do with such political shenanigans.
Saturday 11 January 2020
Fallon Sherrock beats Ted Evetts- darts and women strike another blow for equality.
Fallon Sherrock beats Ted Evettts at darts and women strike another blow for equality.
Shortly before Christmas a hairdresser by the name of Fallon Sherrock struck a vitally important blow for women in their constant search for equality. She beat a man called Ted Evetts at darts and for those us not easily surprised this may not have come as quite the shock as even the most hardened cynics would have you believe. It was almost inevitable and besides it has happened before, albeit in another sport and nobody was either unduly stunned or lost for words.
During the 1970s Billie Jean King, one of the most revered tennis players of all time, was a renowned feminist and active campaigner on behalf of her own sport. King beat Bobby Riggs in one of those well mannered and polite one off tennis events where everybody thinks the impossible should remain as such. But King swept her male opponent off the court with the most disdainful air as if she could do so over and over again with her eyes shut.
But let us return to Alexander Palace, one of the most famous hotbeds of the darts world. For years now the masses have flocked to Ally Pally at this time of the year. They have packed the main hall at Alexandra Palace because they are just besotted with darts for no particular reason. They're hooked on the spectacle to the point of infatuation, crazy about it and loving every single moment of every dart that has ever flown from the tips of their heroes fingers.
Now for those of us who have never wanted anything to do with darts the problem we have with it is that it simply doesn't constitute sport in the way that others may perceive it. Of course judgements are subjective and we all have our opinions on darts but for some of us it should never fall into the category of sport because essentially darts is a pub game and always will be. If it is considered for inclusion at any future Olympic Games then you feel sure that dominoes and bar billiards should also be added to the itinerary.
During the 1970s darts enjoyed an impressive popularity and high profile image because the London Weekend ITV Saturday lunchtime programme World of Sport gave darts credibility, a kind of social status, a remarkable recognition and masses of publicity. Suddenly, we were taken to those giant darts arenas such as Lakeside, Thurrock in Essex, Alexandra Palace and every leisure centre which would willingly accommodate darts. Wow, what extensive TV coverage darts seemed to get. We scratched our heads in complete disbelief, promptly dismissed it as just a passing fad but then realised that we were wasting our time.
The nation would be transfixed by those happy and wildly enthusiastic fans cheering, roaring, drinking copious amounts of lager, smoking like chimneys and then punching their fists with delight as the men and women in silk shirts flexed their shoulders and arms. They then focus on a darts board with the most intense concentration, hoping that their entire family will be watching them on TV as well. For those who maybe watching them live it is the fulfilment of every dream they've ever had.
And yet for those who remain utterly sceptical about its merits as a sporting event then perhaps we may have missed something. We then convince ourselves that darts is still that wonderful pub game where, having swallowed 15 pints of lager and several packets of crisps the only way to finish the evening off with a flourish is to stand on the oche, that white line on the floor from which said tungsten arrows are thrown at a board and are then flung accurately at the said board.
Up and down Britain in every darts community around the world, friends, family and colleagues will casually drop into their local for a sociable laugh and chat. Then around the corner from one end of the pub, somebody will turn on the electricity. The black board will turn into a colourful explosion of chalk , numbers and crossed out numbers. They will place their pint in a strategic corner of the bar, walk over to the oche before leaning forward, taking careful aim and then just attempting to elicit that celebrated cry of 180 from who ever cares to mention it.
Over the years the professionals themselves have kept us fully entertained. Who will ever forget the likes of Eric Bristow, that down to earth and unassuming man who loved playing darts with an almost permanent smile on his face? He was cheeky, a man of the people, oozing banter and bonhomie, never short of a word to say on his chosen lifestyle. Bristow was always confident, composed under pressure and some might have said fanatically driven. But he did win tournaments and even bigger financial prizes although, to all outward appearances, there were never any airs or graces or crass, big headed affectations that could have lost all of his fans.
Then there was Jocky Wilson, a larger than life Scotsman who, rather like Bristow, was never averse to a number of those alcoholic pints of the amber nectar. Both Bristow and Wilson did share a lifelong addiction to cigarettes and even now in the mind's eye you can still see the whole of Ally Pally being engulfed in a huge white fog of thick cigarette smoke. But the truth is that darts will always be associated with pubs or working men's clubs or those venues that can readily identify with its enduring charms.
And so we return to the battle of the sexes where Fallon Sherrock beat, fair and square, a gentleman named Ted Evetts, an estimable and agreeable man quite clearly but when they come to write the definitive history of darts they will remember Fallon Sherrock. Dressed in pink silk shirt emblazoned with betting companies along the sleeve, Sherrock showed us quite conclusively that anything the blokes can do the women can do a hundred times better.
But before we forget we should now rightly hail the achievements of another one of our up and coming ladies darts players. Beau Graves is 16 and probably about to take her GCSE end of term examinations which will obviously determine her future while all the time harbouring a heartfelt ambition to become the greatest female darts player of all time. And who could blame her? We know little about Greaves since few of us have heard of her and only those in the know can guess what exactly darts has in store for her.
So there you are folks the World Darts Championships has finally pushed back all of its boundaries, broken through the gender barrier and simply delivered its most telling results. Above all darts has proven once and for all that women can also step up to the mark, thrash a man at his own sport and then perhaps one day hint at world domination. Watch your step Phil 'The Power' Taylor. The women are after your crown. Be warned, darts.
Shortly before Christmas a hairdresser by the name of Fallon Sherrock struck a vitally important blow for women in their constant search for equality. She beat a man called Ted Evetts at darts and for those us not easily surprised this may not have come as quite the shock as even the most hardened cynics would have you believe. It was almost inevitable and besides it has happened before, albeit in another sport and nobody was either unduly stunned or lost for words.
During the 1970s Billie Jean King, one of the most revered tennis players of all time, was a renowned feminist and active campaigner on behalf of her own sport. King beat Bobby Riggs in one of those well mannered and polite one off tennis events where everybody thinks the impossible should remain as such. But King swept her male opponent off the court with the most disdainful air as if she could do so over and over again with her eyes shut.
But let us return to Alexander Palace, one of the most famous hotbeds of the darts world. For years now the masses have flocked to Ally Pally at this time of the year. They have packed the main hall at Alexandra Palace because they are just besotted with darts for no particular reason. They're hooked on the spectacle to the point of infatuation, crazy about it and loving every single moment of every dart that has ever flown from the tips of their heroes fingers.
Now for those of us who have never wanted anything to do with darts the problem we have with it is that it simply doesn't constitute sport in the way that others may perceive it. Of course judgements are subjective and we all have our opinions on darts but for some of us it should never fall into the category of sport because essentially darts is a pub game and always will be. If it is considered for inclusion at any future Olympic Games then you feel sure that dominoes and bar billiards should also be added to the itinerary.
During the 1970s darts enjoyed an impressive popularity and high profile image because the London Weekend ITV Saturday lunchtime programme World of Sport gave darts credibility, a kind of social status, a remarkable recognition and masses of publicity. Suddenly, we were taken to those giant darts arenas such as Lakeside, Thurrock in Essex, Alexandra Palace and every leisure centre which would willingly accommodate darts. Wow, what extensive TV coverage darts seemed to get. We scratched our heads in complete disbelief, promptly dismissed it as just a passing fad but then realised that we were wasting our time.
The nation would be transfixed by those happy and wildly enthusiastic fans cheering, roaring, drinking copious amounts of lager, smoking like chimneys and then punching their fists with delight as the men and women in silk shirts flexed their shoulders and arms. They then focus on a darts board with the most intense concentration, hoping that their entire family will be watching them on TV as well. For those who maybe watching them live it is the fulfilment of every dream they've ever had.
And yet for those who remain utterly sceptical about its merits as a sporting event then perhaps we may have missed something. We then convince ourselves that darts is still that wonderful pub game where, having swallowed 15 pints of lager and several packets of crisps the only way to finish the evening off with a flourish is to stand on the oche, that white line on the floor from which said tungsten arrows are thrown at a board and are then flung accurately at the said board.
Up and down Britain in every darts community around the world, friends, family and colleagues will casually drop into their local for a sociable laugh and chat. Then around the corner from one end of the pub, somebody will turn on the electricity. The black board will turn into a colourful explosion of chalk , numbers and crossed out numbers. They will place their pint in a strategic corner of the bar, walk over to the oche before leaning forward, taking careful aim and then just attempting to elicit that celebrated cry of 180 from who ever cares to mention it.
Over the years the professionals themselves have kept us fully entertained. Who will ever forget the likes of Eric Bristow, that down to earth and unassuming man who loved playing darts with an almost permanent smile on his face? He was cheeky, a man of the people, oozing banter and bonhomie, never short of a word to say on his chosen lifestyle. Bristow was always confident, composed under pressure and some might have said fanatically driven. But he did win tournaments and even bigger financial prizes although, to all outward appearances, there were never any airs or graces or crass, big headed affectations that could have lost all of his fans.
Then there was Jocky Wilson, a larger than life Scotsman who, rather like Bristow, was never averse to a number of those alcoholic pints of the amber nectar. Both Bristow and Wilson did share a lifelong addiction to cigarettes and even now in the mind's eye you can still see the whole of Ally Pally being engulfed in a huge white fog of thick cigarette smoke. But the truth is that darts will always be associated with pubs or working men's clubs or those venues that can readily identify with its enduring charms.
And so we return to the battle of the sexes where Fallon Sherrock beat, fair and square, a gentleman named Ted Evetts, an estimable and agreeable man quite clearly but when they come to write the definitive history of darts they will remember Fallon Sherrock. Dressed in pink silk shirt emblazoned with betting companies along the sleeve, Sherrock showed us quite conclusively that anything the blokes can do the women can do a hundred times better.
But before we forget we should now rightly hail the achievements of another one of our up and coming ladies darts players. Beau Graves is 16 and probably about to take her GCSE end of term examinations which will obviously determine her future while all the time harbouring a heartfelt ambition to become the greatest female darts player of all time. And who could blame her? We know little about Greaves since few of us have heard of her and only those in the know can guess what exactly darts has in store for her.
So there you are folks the World Darts Championships has finally pushed back all of its boundaries, broken through the gender barrier and simply delivered its most telling results. Above all darts has proven once and for all that women can also step up to the mark, thrash a man at his own sport and then perhaps one day hint at world domination. Watch your step Phil 'The Power' Taylor. The women are after your crown. Be warned, darts.
Wednesday 8 January 2020
Arsenal through to the fourth round of the FA Cup.
Arsenal through to the fourth round of the FA Cup.
In a repeat of the 1972 FA Cup Final Arsenal dished out the sweetest revenge with a 1-0 victory over Leeds United at the Emirates Stadium. But this time only the memories of Don Revie, the Leeds boss 48 years ago and the stiff suited Bertie Mee, the Gunners boss, remain for those who can only look back with rose tinted glasses at what was the Centenary FA Cup Final. For Arsenal this was payback time for that famous cross from Leeds heroic winger Mick Jones which resulted in Alan Clarke sending a diving header flying past helpless Arsenal keeper Geoff Barnett.
Roll back the clock forward to 2020 and a mild evening in North London where the tables were turned. A third round tie between these two sides was rather less dramatic than an FA Cup Final that threatened to burst into life in 1972 but then became a tense, closely contested Cup Final. That day Billy Bremner and Norman Hunter were pre-occupied with the task of hunting down the likes of Arsenal's Charlie George and Peter Storey with merely dishonourable intentions but only succeeded in reaching their left ankles before George Graham came valiantly to rescue with the voice of pacifism.
In the preamble to the 2020 edition of the Arsenal and Leeds United contest it was widely felt that Leeds, now under the globally respected coach Marcelo Bielsa, would provide Arsenal with genuinely awkward and dangerous opposition. Bielsa is one of those thorough and hugely knowledgeable bosses who leave nothing to chance. Last season Bielsa was unfairly accused of spying on his opponents with what seemed like illegal intent. Now we all know of course that the Argentine bears no resemblance to John Le Carre so perhaps we should have known better.
On Monday evening Leeds, full of flair, expressive football and sweet, one touch passing, were stretching Arsenal from one side to the pitch to the other like the proverbial elastic band. In their not so white shirts Leeds were, from time to time, reminiscent of the old Leeds, the glorious Johnny Giles, the tough and aggressive Billy Bremner, the explosive Peter Lorimer and the wing wizardry of Mick Jones.
Perhaps Bielsa had reminded his players that Don Revie wasn't quite the cunning rascal that some might have portrayed him as at times. Revie was the brilliant tactician, a manager full of huge footballing intelligence, cleverly designed football teams and canny formations. But during a blatantly one sided first half in January 2020 the Leeds of Bielsa toyed with Arsenal, moving their players into positions like pawns, knights and bishops on a chess board, blurs of perpetual motion.
Leeds United currently sit at the top of the Championship and are seemingly destined to return to the top flight. Under Revie 48 years ago you never knew quite what you were going to get. There was the cynical, hard tackling and sometimes negative Leeds who refused to do as they were told while on another day, with the wind blowing in the right direction, their football oozed class and refinement.
For the best part of the first 45 minutes Leeds dominated this third round tie with first time passes that ricocheted around the centre of midfield like one of those silver balls on the pinball machine. With their young hard core of Englishmen such as Patrick Bamford and Jack Harrison carving open Arsenal at will, Leeds were models of subtlety and subterfuge, a pleasure to watch in much the way that the Leeds of the early 1970s were. But their goal scoring chances came and went without any success and the Leeds of today must have known that they'd blown it. And they had.
In the second half Arsenal came out for the game and were an altogether different proposition. In their last home Premier League match against Manchester United they had taken the game to United and finally looked the kind of team new manager Mikel Arteta was hoping to find. A 2-0 victory for the Gunners was much more positive, cohesive and sharply incisive. Once again Arsenal were in the mood to show Leeds just how revitalised they had become after the interval.
At long last Mezut Ozil, their chief midfield orchestrator, picked up his baton and found his groove. To all outward appearances it does look as Ozil is clearly not enjoying his football and when he meekly waved at the Arsenal fans on his way off the pitch it looked like a taxing chore rather than something to be savoured with joy. Ozil is a wonderfully talented playmaker but the German did look as though he still had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
With Ozil, accompanied by the hard working Sead Kolisanic, the busybody effervescence of Gabriel Martinelli, the commanding Rob Holding at the back and Nicolas Pepe finally discovering the trickery that Arsenal spent millions on, Arsenal are beginning to emerge from the doldrums that former manager Unai Emery may have unwittingly dragged them into.
After an intensive period of Arsenal pressure and much prettiness in possession, an obvious throwback to the halcyon days of Arsene Wenger, Arsenal finally opened up the Leeds fortress. Their whirlwind bout of incessant passes to feet was rewarded with a deserved match winning goal. Breaking fluently down the flank, Arsenal moved forward steadily before a low cut back cross was bundled home gratefully into the net by Reiss Nelson. It certainly wasn't the tidiest goal Arsenal will score this season but it could be the most significant.
When the final whistle went and Arsenal realised that a fourth round FA Cup tie at Bournemouth had been rubber stamped, a section of Arsenal fans may have privately been relieved that the first half of this game had been successfully negotiated and no harm had been done. As for Leeds this will inevitably be a dress rehearsal for the Premier League next season. Rather like the class of 1972, this time may be the right time.
In a repeat of the 1972 FA Cup Final Arsenal dished out the sweetest revenge with a 1-0 victory over Leeds United at the Emirates Stadium. But this time only the memories of Don Revie, the Leeds boss 48 years ago and the stiff suited Bertie Mee, the Gunners boss, remain for those who can only look back with rose tinted glasses at what was the Centenary FA Cup Final. For Arsenal this was payback time for that famous cross from Leeds heroic winger Mick Jones which resulted in Alan Clarke sending a diving header flying past helpless Arsenal keeper Geoff Barnett.
Roll back the clock forward to 2020 and a mild evening in North London where the tables were turned. A third round tie between these two sides was rather less dramatic than an FA Cup Final that threatened to burst into life in 1972 but then became a tense, closely contested Cup Final. That day Billy Bremner and Norman Hunter were pre-occupied with the task of hunting down the likes of Arsenal's Charlie George and Peter Storey with merely dishonourable intentions but only succeeded in reaching their left ankles before George Graham came valiantly to rescue with the voice of pacifism.
In the preamble to the 2020 edition of the Arsenal and Leeds United contest it was widely felt that Leeds, now under the globally respected coach Marcelo Bielsa, would provide Arsenal with genuinely awkward and dangerous opposition. Bielsa is one of those thorough and hugely knowledgeable bosses who leave nothing to chance. Last season Bielsa was unfairly accused of spying on his opponents with what seemed like illegal intent. Now we all know of course that the Argentine bears no resemblance to John Le Carre so perhaps we should have known better.
On Monday evening Leeds, full of flair, expressive football and sweet, one touch passing, were stretching Arsenal from one side to the pitch to the other like the proverbial elastic band. In their not so white shirts Leeds were, from time to time, reminiscent of the old Leeds, the glorious Johnny Giles, the tough and aggressive Billy Bremner, the explosive Peter Lorimer and the wing wizardry of Mick Jones.
Perhaps Bielsa had reminded his players that Don Revie wasn't quite the cunning rascal that some might have portrayed him as at times. Revie was the brilliant tactician, a manager full of huge footballing intelligence, cleverly designed football teams and canny formations. But during a blatantly one sided first half in January 2020 the Leeds of Bielsa toyed with Arsenal, moving their players into positions like pawns, knights and bishops on a chess board, blurs of perpetual motion.
Leeds United currently sit at the top of the Championship and are seemingly destined to return to the top flight. Under Revie 48 years ago you never knew quite what you were going to get. There was the cynical, hard tackling and sometimes negative Leeds who refused to do as they were told while on another day, with the wind blowing in the right direction, their football oozed class and refinement.
For the best part of the first 45 minutes Leeds dominated this third round tie with first time passes that ricocheted around the centre of midfield like one of those silver balls on the pinball machine. With their young hard core of Englishmen such as Patrick Bamford and Jack Harrison carving open Arsenal at will, Leeds were models of subtlety and subterfuge, a pleasure to watch in much the way that the Leeds of the early 1970s were. But their goal scoring chances came and went without any success and the Leeds of today must have known that they'd blown it. And they had.
In the second half Arsenal came out for the game and were an altogether different proposition. In their last home Premier League match against Manchester United they had taken the game to United and finally looked the kind of team new manager Mikel Arteta was hoping to find. A 2-0 victory for the Gunners was much more positive, cohesive and sharply incisive. Once again Arsenal were in the mood to show Leeds just how revitalised they had become after the interval.
At long last Mezut Ozil, their chief midfield orchestrator, picked up his baton and found his groove. To all outward appearances it does look as Ozil is clearly not enjoying his football and when he meekly waved at the Arsenal fans on his way off the pitch it looked like a taxing chore rather than something to be savoured with joy. Ozil is a wonderfully talented playmaker but the German did look as though he still had the weight of the world on his shoulders.
With Ozil, accompanied by the hard working Sead Kolisanic, the busybody effervescence of Gabriel Martinelli, the commanding Rob Holding at the back and Nicolas Pepe finally discovering the trickery that Arsenal spent millions on, Arsenal are beginning to emerge from the doldrums that former manager Unai Emery may have unwittingly dragged them into.
After an intensive period of Arsenal pressure and much prettiness in possession, an obvious throwback to the halcyon days of Arsene Wenger, Arsenal finally opened up the Leeds fortress. Their whirlwind bout of incessant passes to feet was rewarded with a deserved match winning goal. Breaking fluently down the flank, Arsenal moved forward steadily before a low cut back cross was bundled home gratefully into the net by Reiss Nelson. It certainly wasn't the tidiest goal Arsenal will score this season but it could be the most significant.
When the final whistle went and Arsenal realised that a fourth round FA Cup tie at Bournemouth had been rubber stamped, a section of Arsenal fans may have privately been relieved that the first half of this game had been successfully negotiated and no harm had been done. As for Leeds this will inevitably be a dress rehearsal for the Premier League next season. Rather like the class of 1972, this time may be the right time.
Monday 6 January 2020
The magic of the FA Cup.
The magic of the FA Cup.
They keep telling us about the magic and romance of the FA Cup, one of football's oldest and still much loved competitions. They insist that although the Cup may have lost some of its sheen, animal magnetism and mystical allure in recent years it still has the capacity to surprise us, making us go all weak at the knees and letting out the most remarkable whooping noise because none of us saw that one coming and besides the concept of giant killing is still stitched into the game's fabric.
But hang on a minute. The romance of the FA Cup? What on earth are they talking about? The FA Cup, it may confidently be asserted, has absolutely nothing to do with either Barbara Cartland or Mills and Boon classic books. Certainly, football has no connection with flowers and chocolates because if it did many of us would begin to suspect that something wasn't quite right.
For those of us who still cherish football's Saturday night Cup heroes with mud on their shirt and a broad smile on their faces nobody can deny that there is still a sadistic satisfaction to be derived in seeing a team at the bottom of the National League North dumping Manchester City out of the FA Cup. Of course this will never come to pass in any form or guise of the competition in any season or any year. The fantasists and idealists will still argue to the contrary but even this season's last non League survivors AFC Fylde couldn't overcome Premier League newcomers Sheffield United.
Still, there is much more of the egalitarian spirit about the FA Cup than used to be the case. Only the likes of non League Leatherhead, who once knocked out Brighton during the 1970s, the then non League Yeovil overcoming high flying old First Division Sunderland in 1949 and Sutton frightening the life out of then top flight Coventry in the late 1980s with a famous victory over the Midlanders, have upset football's status quo. And yet how close Plymouth Argyle came to beating Watford in the 1984 FA Cup semi final and Chesterfield found themselves 90 minutes from an FA Cup Final.
Essentially though football will always find its level and the cabinet makers and engineers, the supermarket shelf stackers and the lorry drivers will never really be able to realistically challenge the established order. Years ago sleepy market towns would readily busy themselves making rosettes and banners while proudly proclaiming local and lifelong, even emotional attachments to their club. Watching those supporters climbing their coaches to travel the length and breadth of the country to support their team always did leave you giggling at the sheer love of the game that football can still command.
Yesterday football was up to its old tricks again. When Liverpool and Everton were drawn together in the third round of the FA Cup we somehow knew that this was no joke. In 1986 and 1989 these fierce Merseyside rivals battled it out for bragging rights in their city in the FA Cup Final and there have been countless occasions in the same competition when both have collided like old school friends at a re-union.
And yet here they were again in this year's third round of the FA Cup. Liverpool, seemingly running away with this season's Premier League, were up against an Everton side now managed by the unsmiling, lugubrious and grumpy Carlo Ancelotti who once worked wonders with Chelsea but now finds himself lumbered with the demanding and never entirely happy Everton. One of these days Everton will actually discover a manager capable of reviving them to their dizzy heights and will then get up fed up with moaning and groaning about their team's perilous plight. This may be wishful thinking.
For the best part of the first half Everton had the inspirational Theo Walcott running at his defenders with that ferocious burst of pace that used to distinguish his football at Arsenal. There was Morgan Schneiderlin, still crafting and grafting ceaselessly at the heart of Everton's midfield, Gylfi Sigurdsson forever picking locks alongide Schneiderlin. Everton also had Lucas Digne probing and pestering Liverpool with nuggety persistence. Everton had innumerable opportunties with shots brilliantly blocked by Liverpool keeper Adrian. Frustratingly this was not to be Everton's day.
When Mason Holgate, another Goodison Park whizzkid, powered his header straight at Adrian, Everton must have known that once again Anfield would once again be their bogey ground as Holgate failed to find the target. Everton simply ran out of collective steam and reverted to type rather like kids at a fairground who just can't hit the coconut. For a moment or two you were reminded of Gordon Lee and Harry Catterick, former managers, just snarling helplessly into the middle distance as Everton laboured and toiled.
In the second half though the youngsters and whipper snappers of Liverpool demonstrated the kind of bright eyed vim and vitality that Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley would never have stopped gloating about. From Neco Williams. Nathaniel Phillips and Joe Gomez bringing a precocious maturity to their defensive roles to James Milner now the elder statesman, Liverpool, although outplayed by Everton in the first half, somehow found a second wind in the second half.
With the ever impressive Adam Lallana still re-producing the kind of form that should have brought him further England recognition, Liverpool began to crank up their cultured passing game to the highest level. Pedro Chrivella, another youthful kid on the block, moved through the gears easily and with Harvey Elliott chasing and dashing after every lost cause, Liverpool re-discovered their season long authority on the game.
But if this was Liverpool's collection of wonderkids on display then it may be safe to assume that manager Jurgen Klopp has got the most outstanding crop of talent ever seen since Sir Alex Ferguson once delivered the golden generation of David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs for their Premier League bow at Manchester United over 20 years ago.
Liverpool were purring, humming and carving out their neatly precise attacking movements with their familiar and almost genetically short, quickfire passes to feet. After building up a head of steam in the second half, Liverpool were now firmly in control. It seemed only a matter of time before Liverpool would break their deadlock and what a goal it would prove to be. You thought back to Kevin Keegan's debut goal for Liverpool when just a spring chicken against Nottingham Forest.
With Divock Origi at his trickiest and devious, the ball fell to Origi who instantaneously nicked the ball square to the very young Curtis Jones, barely out of football's nappies. Jones, eyes eager and darting all over the Anfield pitch steadied himself, cut inside his defender and then sent the most glorious, curling shot that flew high over Everton goalkeeper Jordan Pickford and into the net. Oh for the exuberance of youth. What a precious asset.
So it was that Livepool have progressed into the fourth round of the FA Cup and a bright eyed and bushy tailed Liverpool young man named Curtis Jones must have thought that all his birthdays had indeed come at once. The FA Cup has produced its most bejewelled moment, when the diamonds glitter and the world seems a much better place to be because of it. If Curtis Jones does reach an FA Cup Final with Liverpool he may care to think back to that one moment of brilliance when the side from the other side of Stanley Park were given their marching orders out of the FA Cup. The FA Cup is still here and it's still shining.
They keep telling us about the magic and romance of the FA Cup, one of football's oldest and still much loved competitions. They insist that although the Cup may have lost some of its sheen, animal magnetism and mystical allure in recent years it still has the capacity to surprise us, making us go all weak at the knees and letting out the most remarkable whooping noise because none of us saw that one coming and besides the concept of giant killing is still stitched into the game's fabric.
But hang on a minute. The romance of the FA Cup? What on earth are they talking about? The FA Cup, it may confidently be asserted, has absolutely nothing to do with either Barbara Cartland or Mills and Boon classic books. Certainly, football has no connection with flowers and chocolates because if it did many of us would begin to suspect that something wasn't quite right.
For those of us who still cherish football's Saturday night Cup heroes with mud on their shirt and a broad smile on their faces nobody can deny that there is still a sadistic satisfaction to be derived in seeing a team at the bottom of the National League North dumping Manchester City out of the FA Cup. Of course this will never come to pass in any form or guise of the competition in any season or any year. The fantasists and idealists will still argue to the contrary but even this season's last non League survivors AFC Fylde couldn't overcome Premier League newcomers Sheffield United.
Still, there is much more of the egalitarian spirit about the FA Cup than used to be the case. Only the likes of non League Leatherhead, who once knocked out Brighton during the 1970s, the then non League Yeovil overcoming high flying old First Division Sunderland in 1949 and Sutton frightening the life out of then top flight Coventry in the late 1980s with a famous victory over the Midlanders, have upset football's status quo. And yet how close Plymouth Argyle came to beating Watford in the 1984 FA Cup semi final and Chesterfield found themselves 90 minutes from an FA Cup Final.
Essentially though football will always find its level and the cabinet makers and engineers, the supermarket shelf stackers and the lorry drivers will never really be able to realistically challenge the established order. Years ago sleepy market towns would readily busy themselves making rosettes and banners while proudly proclaiming local and lifelong, even emotional attachments to their club. Watching those supporters climbing their coaches to travel the length and breadth of the country to support their team always did leave you giggling at the sheer love of the game that football can still command.
Yesterday football was up to its old tricks again. When Liverpool and Everton were drawn together in the third round of the FA Cup we somehow knew that this was no joke. In 1986 and 1989 these fierce Merseyside rivals battled it out for bragging rights in their city in the FA Cup Final and there have been countless occasions in the same competition when both have collided like old school friends at a re-union.
And yet here they were again in this year's third round of the FA Cup. Liverpool, seemingly running away with this season's Premier League, were up against an Everton side now managed by the unsmiling, lugubrious and grumpy Carlo Ancelotti who once worked wonders with Chelsea but now finds himself lumbered with the demanding and never entirely happy Everton. One of these days Everton will actually discover a manager capable of reviving them to their dizzy heights and will then get up fed up with moaning and groaning about their team's perilous plight. This may be wishful thinking.
For the best part of the first half Everton had the inspirational Theo Walcott running at his defenders with that ferocious burst of pace that used to distinguish his football at Arsenal. There was Morgan Schneiderlin, still crafting and grafting ceaselessly at the heart of Everton's midfield, Gylfi Sigurdsson forever picking locks alongide Schneiderlin. Everton also had Lucas Digne probing and pestering Liverpool with nuggety persistence. Everton had innumerable opportunties with shots brilliantly blocked by Liverpool keeper Adrian. Frustratingly this was not to be Everton's day.
When Mason Holgate, another Goodison Park whizzkid, powered his header straight at Adrian, Everton must have known that once again Anfield would once again be their bogey ground as Holgate failed to find the target. Everton simply ran out of collective steam and reverted to type rather like kids at a fairground who just can't hit the coconut. For a moment or two you were reminded of Gordon Lee and Harry Catterick, former managers, just snarling helplessly into the middle distance as Everton laboured and toiled.
In the second half though the youngsters and whipper snappers of Liverpool demonstrated the kind of bright eyed vim and vitality that Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley would never have stopped gloating about. From Neco Williams. Nathaniel Phillips and Joe Gomez bringing a precocious maturity to their defensive roles to James Milner now the elder statesman, Liverpool, although outplayed by Everton in the first half, somehow found a second wind in the second half.
With the ever impressive Adam Lallana still re-producing the kind of form that should have brought him further England recognition, Liverpool began to crank up their cultured passing game to the highest level. Pedro Chrivella, another youthful kid on the block, moved through the gears easily and with Harvey Elliott chasing and dashing after every lost cause, Liverpool re-discovered their season long authority on the game.
But if this was Liverpool's collection of wonderkids on display then it may be safe to assume that manager Jurgen Klopp has got the most outstanding crop of talent ever seen since Sir Alex Ferguson once delivered the golden generation of David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs for their Premier League bow at Manchester United over 20 years ago.
Liverpool were purring, humming and carving out their neatly precise attacking movements with their familiar and almost genetically short, quickfire passes to feet. After building up a head of steam in the second half, Liverpool were now firmly in control. It seemed only a matter of time before Liverpool would break their deadlock and what a goal it would prove to be. You thought back to Kevin Keegan's debut goal for Liverpool when just a spring chicken against Nottingham Forest.
With Divock Origi at his trickiest and devious, the ball fell to Origi who instantaneously nicked the ball square to the very young Curtis Jones, barely out of football's nappies. Jones, eyes eager and darting all over the Anfield pitch steadied himself, cut inside his defender and then sent the most glorious, curling shot that flew high over Everton goalkeeper Jordan Pickford and into the net. Oh for the exuberance of youth. What a precious asset.
So it was that Livepool have progressed into the fourth round of the FA Cup and a bright eyed and bushy tailed Liverpool young man named Curtis Jones must have thought that all his birthdays had indeed come at once. The FA Cup has produced its most bejewelled moment, when the diamonds glitter and the world seems a much better place to be because of it. If Curtis Jones does reach an FA Cup Final with Liverpool he may care to think back to that one moment of brilliance when the side from the other side of Stanley Park were given their marching orders out of the FA Cup. The FA Cup is still here and it's still shining.
Thursday 2 January 2020
Another decade, another year.
Another decade, another year.
So here we are at the beginning of a new decade and the New Year is but two days old. This is another chapter of our lives, the next page in our lives, the first words of this brand new book or novel and another decade stretches in front of us rather like that long journey into the unknown, uncharted territory perhaps but nonetheless intriguing. This is the time to put everything into some kind of sober perspective and just face the challenges that may test us to the limit with a philosophical shrug and just get on with it.
Now let's see. Where are we? It's back to work, school or university and you're still shrugging off the effects of too much alcohol, over consumption, prodigious amounts of food and drink, relatives who may still be cracking Christmas crackers and then finally, when all the festivities are over, you begin to re-discover your bearings, a re-orientation with the real world because the real world seemed to be put on temporary hold for the whole duration of Christmas.
Here we are at the start of 2020, which does sound like the working title of an Arthur C. Clarke science fiction novel that can confidently predict the future with an uncanny accuracy. American soul singer George Benson once penned the lyrics of a song called 2020. If we are to believe those who takes these things lightly 2020 should be the year when all of us should have far sighted and peripheral vision.
But it's January and we all know what that means. This is the longest month of the calendar year and for some of us January seems to go on indefinitely. Still, we can do the kind of things that we normally do at this time of the year. We can once again trot down to our local gyms, forking out substantial amounts of money in order to get fit and healthy. Our intentions are worthy but by the start of February when the appetite for hard work has gone and desire is wilting, we stop going to the gym because the incentive has vanished without trace and besides who are we kidding?
Over the years the routine has been a familiar one. We eat ravenously over the whole of Christmas and by the end of Boxing Day our trousers, once so reliable, are no longer fit, the shirt buttons are popping like balloons and the midriff is on the point of exploding. Our stomachs, which may have served us so faithfully, are now rebelling and crying out for help. We feel unreasonably bloated, ridiculously overweight and never quite sure why we allowed ourselves to get into this state in the first place.
The pounds and stones are piled on, we wish we hadn't eaten too many of those mouth watering mince pies, polished off too many boxes of Celebrations and Quality Street chocolates and those delicious biscuits that had to be devoured because, quite frankly who can resist a biscuit? Then by New Year's Eve we look at ourselves in a mirror and for some of us this is rather like laughing at ourselves in one of those distorted fairground mirrors.
Oh for those calories, the cholesterol, the vast quantities of the kind of refreshments that would have been considered as both forbidden or just unnecessary at either lunch or tea time at any other time of the year. It is the time of the year when we begin that punishing quest for bodily perfection, muscular flawlessness, the body beautiful, the six pack from paradise, the gorgeously defined pectorals, the handsome tan and that unmistakable resemblance to an Adonis.
We hurl ourselves committedly onto the running machine, pedal like crazy on the bikes, pulling, stretching, sweating until we're red in the face and then gasping for breath. It is full blooded exertion and exercise on a quite monumental scale and all of us are convinced that if we keep going like this for at least the next three weeks Arnold Schwarzenegger, when even his stomach was as flat as an ironing board and muscles were bursting out of every part of his body, would be deeply envious if he could see us now.
In theory it seemed like the most advisable of all ideas but in theory it really does seem like some deluded pipe-dream. We pay our yearly subscriptions for the gyms in January and then discover that the rest of the year is a long time and we'll never reach the required standard and ambition. So we resign ourselves to defeat or perhaps a moral victory in as much that we have got this far. Suddenly those sweatbands, now the fashion statements that never go out of fashion, are now consigned to the attic or the back of a cupboard, the trainers are thrown into a local re-cycling plant and your morale has now reached rock bottom.
And so we move onto that famous yearly set of New Year's resolutions. Now these are the classic old chestnuts as old as time itself. We promise at the beginning of a New Year that we're going to be very good to ourselves, paragons of virtue, models of self restraint, giving up both smoking, drinking immediately, doing anything that remotely resembles unhealthy living and vowing that we'll never do anything that will either harm us permanently or endanger our lifespan with disgustingly debauched behaviour.
So we set up these rigorously strict dietary regimes such as sticking to the vegan lifestyle where meat has now been abolished from meal times, chips are now history, ice-cream is a swear word, pizzas have been abandoned from tea times for ever and booze is perfectly outrageous. Oh for the sacrifices we make, the rationing of all the tea time treats we used to look forward to with great anticipation and the simple pleasures of the palate we used to take for granted. Oh yes and don't forget to ban those moreish chocolates, the prettily wrapped sweets that surrounded our childhood.
Of course it's the beginning of a New Year and we're all entitled to be delusional or naturally optimistic. Of course we seek self improvement, betterment, a cleaner bill of health and a dedication to the cause of looking like Mr or Mrs Universe. Realistically though it may be time to get on with the job of booking that dream summer holiday, climbing Mount Everest, swimming the Atlantic, bungee jumping from the highest bridge in the world, completing 100 marathons by June and then travelling the world in double quick time.
But why oh why do we make these grandiose plans in the depths of a wintry January when it would be much simpler to take one step at a time. The department stores are still holding their winter sales, you probably need those practical pullovers, warm as toast thick coats while not forgetting a cabinet of medical potions and tablets to keep colds and coughs at bay. Besides, the weather forecasters will shortly be delivering those gloomy prognoses of freezing winds, buckets of snow, interminable periods of cold and rain, icy pavements, unwelcome slush on the ground and more ice on the car windscreen wipers. The New Year hey! What a winter wonderland! There can be nothing to match it.
So here we are at the beginning of a new decade and the New Year is but two days old. This is another chapter of our lives, the next page in our lives, the first words of this brand new book or novel and another decade stretches in front of us rather like that long journey into the unknown, uncharted territory perhaps but nonetheless intriguing. This is the time to put everything into some kind of sober perspective and just face the challenges that may test us to the limit with a philosophical shrug and just get on with it.
Now let's see. Where are we? It's back to work, school or university and you're still shrugging off the effects of too much alcohol, over consumption, prodigious amounts of food and drink, relatives who may still be cracking Christmas crackers and then finally, when all the festivities are over, you begin to re-discover your bearings, a re-orientation with the real world because the real world seemed to be put on temporary hold for the whole duration of Christmas.
Here we are at the start of 2020, which does sound like the working title of an Arthur C. Clarke science fiction novel that can confidently predict the future with an uncanny accuracy. American soul singer George Benson once penned the lyrics of a song called 2020. If we are to believe those who takes these things lightly 2020 should be the year when all of us should have far sighted and peripheral vision.
But it's January and we all know what that means. This is the longest month of the calendar year and for some of us January seems to go on indefinitely. Still, we can do the kind of things that we normally do at this time of the year. We can once again trot down to our local gyms, forking out substantial amounts of money in order to get fit and healthy. Our intentions are worthy but by the start of February when the appetite for hard work has gone and desire is wilting, we stop going to the gym because the incentive has vanished without trace and besides who are we kidding?
Over the years the routine has been a familiar one. We eat ravenously over the whole of Christmas and by the end of Boxing Day our trousers, once so reliable, are no longer fit, the shirt buttons are popping like balloons and the midriff is on the point of exploding. Our stomachs, which may have served us so faithfully, are now rebelling and crying out for help. We feel unreasonably bloated, ridiculously overweight and never quite sure why we allowed ourselves to get into this state in the first place.
The pounds and stones are piled on, we wish we hadn't eaten too many of those mouth watering mince pies, polished off too many boxes of Celebrations and Quality Street chocolates and those delicious biscuits that had to be devoured because, quite frankly who can resist a biscuit? Then by New Year's Eve we look at ourselves in a mirror and for some of us this is rather like laughing at ourselves in one of those distorted fairground mirrors.
Oh for those calories, the cholesterol, the vast quantities of the kind of refreshments that would have been considered as both forbidden or just unnecessary at either lunch or tea time at any other time of the year. It is the time of the year when we begin that punishing quest for bodily perfection, muscular flawlessness, the body beautiful, the six pack from paradise, the gorgeously defined pectorals, the handsome tan and that unmistakable resemblance to an Adonis.
We hurl ourselves committedly onto the running machine, pedal like crazy on the bikes, pulling, stretching, sweating until we're red in the face and then gasping for breath. It is full blooded exertion and exercise on a quite monumental scale and all of us are convinced that if we keep going like this for at least the next three weeks Arnold Schwarzenegger, when even his stomach was as flat as an ironing board and muscles were bursting out of every part of his body, would be deeply envious if he could see us now.
In theory it seemed like the most advisable of all ideas but in theory it really does seem like some deluded pipe-dream. We pay our yearly subscriptions for the gyms in January and then discover that the rest of the year is a long time and we'll never reach the required standard and ambition. So we resign ourselves to defeat or perhaps a moral victory in as much that we have got this far. Suddenly those sweatbands, now the fashion statements that never go out of fashion, are now consigned to the attic or the back of a cupboard, the trainers are thrown into a local re-cycling plant and your morale has now reached rock bottom.
And so we move onto that famous yearly set of New Year's resolutions. Now these are the classic old chestnuts as old as time itself. We promise at the beginning of a New Year that we're going to be very good to ourselves, paragons of virtue, models of self restraint, giving up both smoking, drinking immediately, doing anything that remotely resembles unhealthy living and vowing that we'll never do anything that will either harm us permanently or endanger our lifespan with disgustingly debauched behaviour.
So we set up these rigorously strict dietary regimes such as sticking to the vegan lifestyle where meat has now been abolished from meal times, chips are now history, ice-cream is a swear word, pizzas have been abandoned from tea times for ever and booze is perfectly outrageous. Oh for the sacrifices we make, the rationing of all the tea time treats we used to look forward to with great anticipation and the simple pleasures of the palate we used to take for granted. Oh yes and don't forget to ban those moreish chocolates, the prettily wrapped sweets that surrounded our childhood.
Of course it's the beginning of a New Year and we're all entitled to be delusional or naturally optimistic. Of course we seek self improvement, betterment, a cleaner bill of health and a dedication to the cause of looking like Mr or Mrs Universe. Realistically though it may be time to get on with the job of booking that dream summer holiday, climbing Mount Everest, swimming the Atlantic, bungee jumping from the highest bridge in the world, completing 100 marathons by June and then travelling the world in double quick time.
But why oh why do we make these grandiose plans in the depths of a wintry January when it would be much simpler to take one step at a time. The department stores are still holding their winter sales, you probably need those practical pullovers, warm as toast thick coats while not forgetting a cabinet of medical potions and tablets to keep colds and coughs at bay. Besides, the weather forecasters will shortly be delivering those gloomy prognoses of freezing winds, buckets of snow, interminable periods of cold and rain, icy pavements, unwelcome slush on the ground and more ice on the car windscreen wipers. The New Year hey! What a winter wonderland! There can be nothing to match it.
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