It's 29th February- a leap year.
You may have taken a look at your calendar and wondered whether you were imagining things. You must have known that we were approaching the end of February but not sure what day it was. Then you might have blinked once and overlooked the fact that it was indeed the last day of the month. But hold on it isn't quite March yet so it's best to relax for another day and contemplate the month that ushers us quietly into the spring equinox. It'll be the season of cuckoos singing their first melodies and a new set of green clothes draping themselves around the branches of blossoming trees.
A stunning array of cherry blossom will make its presence felt and everybody will finally convince themselves that the chilly blasts of winter are now history. But there's still the little matter of the last day of February to attend before we march into March and stride purposefully towards April.
The daffodils have yet to grace us with their bright yellow complexion and the spring lawnmowers are yet to be dragged out of the garden shed. So where are we? It's the 29th February and that can only mean one thing. It's a leap year and that can only mean one thing. An extra day has been added onto the end of the month and for the superstitious this could mean anything. In the general scheme of things it just means that the shortest month of the year has been extended by another day. This could be an encouraging omen for some while others will be dreading today if only because they might have missed a birthday or several.
So what happens to those who celebrate their birthday on the 29th February? Do they complain to some high authority in no uncertain terms since leap years occur only once in every four years? Or do they wait another four years to be accepted into the fold of those who age another year? Maybe they mark their special day on the day before or after just for the sheer fun of it. Here is the dilemma. How do those people born on this day of this month actually fill the day because a birthday should indicate the day of your birth? This sounds like a case of being caught up in the middle of nowhere.
There are important decisions to be made since who can look forward to a birthday that doesn't really exist numerically? It is dreadfully confusing and perhaps you should be left to your own devices and just throw the party of a lifetime among family and friends. Whose idea was it to invent the Gregorian calendar when that calendar so spitefully deprives you of a birthday? Or maybe not. Sometimes you've just got to go with your gut instinct and hope nobody minds.
Outside, the last of the gender based storms are whistling their last tune hopefully and the first day of the March is literally hours away. Bravo. But then we realise that we've got to take a leap of faith right over the leap year. There has to be an acceptance that Easter may be earlier or later depending on your point of view and the Jewish festival of Pesach falls on a bizarrely early time of the month.
For those whose birthday coincides with Christmas Day or who simply forget what day or date it may be over the festive period, some of us will become ever so slightly disoriented. Time can often be immaterial and besides we can always glance back to our calendar in the hope that the week hasn't flown away.
The reality is of course that there are still those of us who genuinely forget what day it is during the Bank Holidays even though we should know. The weekend suddenly turns into the longest weekend and briefly the day leaves us in a state of temporary flux and absent mindedness. We awake on the Monday of the Bank Holiday ready to throw on our working clothes only to find that this is the one day when we should be relaxing, taking it easy and just indulging in a spot of decorating or gardening.
Even so today, lest we forget, is the 29th February and there may be some who may disregard the event without a single thought. So here we are on the final day of the month of this leap year and according to the calendar your birthday will have to be postponed for a more convenient day of the year. You may be questioning this unfortunate lapse in this astrological time frame but so what? It's only the one day of the month. You could pretend that it's March and besides it's stopped raining and there's a fleeting glimpse of spring sunshine. Yippee!
Saturday 29 February 2020
Wednesday 26 February 2020
Snow and ice on the way or maybe not.
Snow and ice on the way or maybe not.
At some point during the winter we knew it would happen eventually. Or perhaps we were hoping that it wouldn't happen and all the rumours were totally untrue. Here in Britain very little in the way of preparations or contingency plans have been made. We've just got to hope that when the said event does take place it won't bring the whole country to a complete standstill.
Now according to those at the British weather centre tomorrow it'll snow all day or possibly rain at the same time which could cause inevitable chaos, disruption and no small amount of inconvenience to those who may have to catch the early bus or train to work, college, school or university. It is at times like this when you begin to wonder how we coped in the Victorian or Edwardian era when the sight of horse and cart or barouche would lift the spirits before ploughing through thick layers of snow, a time when life was much slower and there weren't as many leaves on any railway line.
Still, we'll all get up tomorrow morning, look out of our windows and sigh with varying degrees of pleasure or even anguish and pretend that all is well in the world. We'll marvel at the pretty picturesqueness of it all, turn over the duvet and blankets and think about going straight back to sleep. Surely not the snow again. It shouldn't really snow in Britain because the snow is far more synonymous with the Alps and countries such as Switzerland, France, Austria and Italy. But then we realise that of course it snows in Britain but only in isolated spells when most of us aren't ready for it.
Across the land the nation will pull on its traditional layers of thick pullovers, natty scarves, heartwarming coats and just get on with the business of everyday living. We'll scrape off the mini mountains of snow that have collected on our car windscreens, chop off lumps of the white stuff that may have accumulated on our bike handlebars and then trudge our way along the road for the day's workaday responsibilities.
And then it'll hit us with a shivering realisation. The complexities of the morning will unravel rather like the most idyllic picture we're ever likely to see. How long will it take us to get to work? Will the bosses be suitably sympathetic or how on earth are we going to get home and how long will that arduous journey take? Snow tends to bring with it all manner of logistical problems before we've even had time to brush our teeth in the morning.
The truth is of course that snow in Britain invariably catches us off our guard and most of us simply don't know what to do when it falls with a vengeance. This time we've been warned in advance although this always seems to be the case anyway. We'll stumble out of our homes, toast in hand and car keys in the other, hoping against hope that we've got this one under control. Then we'll tread very gingerly in case we slip over and then there are the roads and streets to think of.
Now this is the point when our day begins to resembles a military operation. Either by car or bus travelling becomes a major obstacle. Suddenly the morning turns into some very tiresome army exercise where all of us have to wait for hour upon hour in whatever your chosen method of transport. This is probably the moment when we either lose patience with the heavy traffic in front of us or we simply close our eyes and long for the nightmare to end. There's no other description for it. We're stuck.
By some ridiculously late hour we eventually turn up for work, school, college or university, seething and cursing, steam pouring from our collective ears when some smart alec comes out with what can only be described as the sarcastic remarks you must have heard a million times. Don't tell me. You're late because of the snow. What a telling observation on their part. Tell us something we didn't already know.
In recent winters Britain seems to have got off lightly with the snow so to speak. Last winter the country had to cope with unusual amounts of sleet and occasional bouts of snow which seemed to melt on the ground immediately after a night of heavy rain. There were no storms as such certainly not the kind with names of men or women to trouble us. But the cold snap did bite on more than one occasion which necessitated gloves at all times in case our fingers developed frost bite.
Regrettably though tonight could be one of the coldest this winter since the Ice Age. Seriously though you'll have to tell your children to get out the toboggans or tea trays because tomorrow kids you'll be sliding to school in tons of snow. Tomorrow folks it'll officially be considered as sleigh day. Then the thought may occur to us that your school may have to close tomorrow because the central heating isn't working, the pipes are blocked and the kids may have to cultivate new friendships on either Facebook or Twitter.
But then again we could always just stay at home, working from home, playing umpteen games of Monopoly or catching up on our extensive in boxes of e-mails from companies you've never heard of and never hope to hear of again. Outside though you could be forgiven for thinking that it was Christmas when quite clearly it isn't. The roads will become veritable carpets of snow, the pavements mini ice rinks and the milkman or woman simply indistinguishable. How often though have we been proven wrong?
And so tomorrow morning will arrive bright and early, the rooftops of houses quaintly decorated with wondrous ridges of white snow, gleeful children screaming with joy and then millions of young gloves proceeding to chuck snowballs at each other as has been the case for almost as long as some of us can remember. Then the predictable snowman with a carrot for a nose and sultanas for eyes will appear before our eyes and we'll all greet the snow with that wide eyed delight that we've always reserved for snow even though some of us may think otherwise. It may be winter outside but in my heart it's spring. Now that would make a great song.
At some point during the winter we knew it would happen eventually. Or perhaps we were hoping that it wouldn't happen and all the rumours were totally untrue. Here in Britain very little in the way of preparations or contingency plans have been made. We've just got to hope that when the said event does take place it won't bring the whole country to a complete standstill.
Now according to those at the British weather centre tomorrow it'll snow all day or possibly rain at the same time which could cause inevitable chaos, disruption and no small amount of inconvenience to those who may have to catch the early bus or train to work, college, school or university. It is at times like this when you begin to wonder how we coped in the Victorian or Edwardian era when the sight of horse and cart or barouche would lift the spirits before ploughing through thick layers of snow, a time when life was much slower and there weren't as many leaves on any railway line.
Still, we'll all get up tomorrow morning, look out of our windows and sigh with varying degrees of pleasure or even anguish and pretend that all is well in the world. We'll marvel at the pretty picturesqueness of it all, turn over the duvet and blankets and think about going straight back to sleep. Surely not the snow again. It shouldn't really snow in Britain because the snow is far more synonymous with the Alps and countries such as Switzerland, France, Austria and Italy. But then we realise that of course it snows in Britain but only in isolated spells when most of us aren't ready for it.
Across the land the nation will pull on its traditional layers of thick pullovers, natty scarves, heartwarming coats and just get on with the business of everyday living. We'll scrape off the mini mountains of snow that have collected on our car windscreens, chop off lumps of the white stuff that may have accumulated on our bike handlebars and then trudge our way along the road for the day's workaday responsibilities.
And then it'll hit us with a shivering realisation. The complexities of the morning will unravel rather like the most idyllic picture we're ever likely to see. How long will it take us to get to work? Will the bosses be suitably sympathetic or how on earth are we going to get home and how long will that arduous journey take? Snow tends to bring with it all manner of logistical problems before we've even had time to brush our teeth in the morning.
The truth is of course that snow in Britain invariably catches us off our guard and most of us simply don't know what to do when it falls with a vengeance. This time we've been warned in advance although this always seems to be the case anyway. We'll stumble out of our homes, toast in hand and car keys in the other, hoping against hope that we've got this one under control. Then we'll tread very gingerly in case we slip over and then there are the roads and streets to think of.
Now this is the point when our day begins to resembles a military operation. Either by car or bus travelling becomes a major obstacle. Suddenly the morning turns into some very tiresome army exercise where all of us have to wait for hour upon hour in whatever your chosen method of transport. This is probably the moment when we either lose patience with the heavy traffic in front of us or we simply close our eyes and long for the nightmare to end. There's no other description for it. We're stuck.
By some ridiculously late hour we eventually turn up for work, school, college or university, seething and cursing, steam pouring from our collective ears when some smart alec comes out with what can only be described as the sarcastic remarks you must have heard a million times. Don't tell me. You're late because of the snow. What a telling observation on their part. Tell us something we didn't already know.
In recent winters Britain seems to have got off lightly with the snow so to speak. Last winter the country had to cope with unusual amounts of sleet and occasional bouts of snow which seemed to melt on the ground immediately after a night of heavy rain. There were no storms as such certainly not the kind with names of men or women to trouble us. But the cold snap did bite on more than one occasion which necessitated gloves at all times in case our fingers developed frost bite.
Regrettably though tonight could be one of the coldest this winter since the Ice Age. Seriously though you'll have to tell your children to get out the toboggans or tea trays because tomorrow kids you'll be sliding to school in tons of snow. Tomorrow folks it'll officially be considered as sleigh day. Then the thought may occur to us that your school may have to close tomorrow because the central heating isn't working, the pipes are blocked and the kids may have to cultivate new friendships on either Facebook or Twitter.
But then again we could always just stay at home, working from home, playing umpteen games of Monopoly or catching up on our extensive in boxes of e-mails from companies you've never heard of and never hope to hear of again. Outside though you could be forgiven for thinking that it was Christmas when quite clearly it isn't. The roads will become veritable carpets of snow, the pavements mini ice rinks and the milkman or woman simply indistinguishable. How often though have we been proven wrong?
And so tomorrow morning will arrive bright and early, the rooftops of houses quaintly decorated with wondrous ridges of white snow, gleeful children screaming with joy and then millions of young gloves proceeding to chuck snowballs at each other as has been the case for almost as long as some of us can remember. Then the predictable snowman with a carrot for a nose and sultanas for eyes will appear before our eyes and we'll all greet the snow with that wide eyed delight that we've always reserved for snow even though some of us may think otherwise. It may be winter outside but in my heart it's spring. Now that would make a great song.
Sunday 23 February 2020
The Gypsy King beats the Bronze Bomber- Tyson Fury knocks out Deontay Wilder in a heavyweight boxing thriller.
The Gypsy King beats the Bronze Bomber- Tyson Fury knocks out Deontay Wilder in a heavyweight boxing thriller.
Heavyweight boxing has often witnessed early mornings such as this one but rarely one that has been so brutal and bloodthirsty as this one. This was boxing at its most clinically decisive and utterly dramatic, one Englishman at the height of his powers while his American opponent was reeling and rocking like a pub drinker who refuses to listen to the landlord and simply finds himself thrown onto the pavement with only his pride hurt.
You were reminded of those halcyon days when Muhammad Ali would indulge in those hugely enjoyable displays of cabaret, tap dance and Hollywood vaudeville, when Ali teased, taunted and challenged his opponent to a game of psychological jiggery pokery. There was the relentless skipping, the light as a feather dancing on fleet feet, the cunning manoeuvring of his opponent to every corner and those graceful demolitions of George Foreman and Joe Frazier.
But last night in the fevered atmosphere of a Las Vegas boxing ring an Englishman by the name of Tyson Fury beat his American opponent Deontay Wilder in a wild blizzard of savage jabbing and a frightening fusillade of body shots that could almost be heard in Texas. Then there was a clumping, thudding barrage of body shots that invariably landed flush on Wilder's head before finally delivering that dramatic knockout blow in the seventh round. Tyson, complete with vivid green gloves, sent Wilder toppling into the ropes on a number of occasions and eventually Wilder, cut face now bleeding, was pulled away from this violent massacre as his corner thankfully threw in the towel.
From a brutally damaging first round when Fury charged into his American opponent like a caged tiger smelling red meat, this blood and thunder heavyweight contest looked as if it would only detain us briefly. Fury was fierce, ferocious, wildly swinging his punches to Wilder's head before then engaging in violent blows that seem to leave Wilder pleading for mercy. On more than one occasion Wilder was sent staggering to the canvas with bludgeoning, murderous jabs and powerful hooks that increased in both intensity and volume as the fight progressed.
In the second round Fury continued the onslaught this time weighing up his punches then raining down a torrent of jabs that connected beautifully and sending out the loudest of statements to Wilder's corner that this was no tea party. Fury meant business and when Wilder began to think that this would never be his night, Fury just launched another massacre. This would be boxing at its most patiently methodical for Fury where every punch seemed to drain the life force out of Wilder's resistance.
By round three Wilder was simply cowering and moving away swiftly away from the scene of the crime, a fighter whose carefully prepared mind games would just dissolve and melt away. Towards the end of the third round, a now besieged Wilder had now taken cover, holding up his gloves desperately and praying for the end of the fight. For the first time in the fight Wilder was knocked down, toppling over like a giant redwood tree that had been there for thousands of years.
In the fourth round, the measured authority of Fury's punching seemed to be dictating the inevitable outcome of this now very one sided heavyweight slugfest. Fury was now hammering home his supremacy, grappling and scuffling at times but always in perfect control. Fury had now got Wilder exactly where he wanted him, squirming in the corner like a child whose mother won't give them any pocket money or the right amount for sweets.
The fifth round almost had a primeval and fatal air about it as Fury's clubbing fists seemed to get stronger and harder. You were reminded of a factory worker clocking on for a day of businesslike toil and drudgery. Fury was now piling into his American opponent, smothering Wilder with beefy hits to the neck, head and the shoulders. It was boxing from the old days, the old fashioned fairground booths, giant, muscular prizefighters who showed a clean pair of fists before waving their arms about like Dutch windmills.
Round six was rather like the final curtain for Wilder, now crouching in the corner and almost pinned to the ropes as the Fury bombardment seemed to just build in momentum. Wilder's legs were now betraying him, as Fury pounded and battered the American almost senseless. It wasn't long before Wilder's corner were preparing their surrender. This would be Wilder's last hurrah, the coup de grace and now he was just living on borrowed time.
In what would be the final and seventh round for the American, Fury blasted away at Wilder, fists pumping away almost heartlessly, the Englishman bobbing, ducking and dodging the occasional bullet from Wilder. Now Fury drilled home a whole flurry of punches that left Wilder begging for the intervention of the referee. One final punch from Fury took Wilder's legs away from him and that was it for the bullish American.
So an Englishman called Tyson Fury reclaimed the heavyweight title away from Deontay Wilder who must have been longing for the refuge for the treatment room at the end of the fight. It should be interesting to see where such a major fight now takes us. Does Fury now rise to the ultimate challenge of what would be a memorably fascinating eye balling contest with Antony Joshua or will he now launch a sustained bout of boasting and bragging?
As the flashing search lights began to fade you reflected on a triumphant night for British sport. You thought of that heavily sponsored boxing ring, a riot of betting companies, Irish whisky and that celebrated TV channel that wasn't Sky but ESPN. Boxing loves a rousing punch up and most of the nation could celebrate its latest hero. Well done Tyson Fury.
Heavyweight boxing has often witnessed early mornings such as this one but rarely one that has been so brutal and bloodthirsty as this one. This was boxing at its most clinically decisive and utterly dramatic, one Englishman at the height of his powers while his American opponent was reeling and rocking like a pub drinker who refuses to listen to the landlord and simply finds himself thrown onto the pavement with only his pride hurt.
You were reminded of those halcyon days when Muhammad Ali would indulge in those hugely enjoyable displays of cabaret, tap dance and Hollywood vaudeville, when Ali teased, taunted and challenged his opponent to a game of psychological jiggery pokery. There was the relentless skipping, the light as a feather dancing on fleet feet, the cunning manoeuvring of his opponent to every corner and those graceful demolitions of George Foreman and Joe Frazier.
But last night in the fevered atmosphere of a Las Vegas boxing ring an Englishman by the name of Tyson Fury beat his American opponent Deontay Wilder in a wild blizzard of savage jabbing and a frightening fusillade of body shots that could almost be heard in Texas. Then there was a clumping, thudding barrage of body shots that invariably landed flush on Wilder's head before finally delivering that dramatic knockout blow in the seventh round. Tyson, complete with vivid green gloves, sent Wilder toppling into the ropes on a number of occasions and eventually Wilder, cut face now bleeding, was pulled away from this violent massacre as his corner thankfully threw in the towel.
From a brutally damaging first round when Fury charged into his American opponent like a caged tiger smelling red meat, this blood and thunder heavyweight contest looked as if it would only detain us briefly. Fury was fierce, ferocious, wildly swinging his punches to Wilder's head before then engaging in violent blows that seem to leave Wilder pleading for mercy. On more than one occasion Wilder was sent staggering to the canvas with bludgeoning, murderous jabs and powerful hooks that increased in both intensity and volume as the fight progressed.
In the second round Fury continued the onslaught this time weighing up his punches then raining down a torrent of jabs that connected beautifully and sending out the loudest of statements to Wilder's corner that this was no tea party. Fury meant business and when Wilder began to think that this would never be his night, Fury just launched another massacre. This would be boxing at its most patiently methodical for Fury where every punch seemed to drain the life force out of Wilder's resistance.
By round three Wilder was simply cowering and moving away swiftly away from the scene of the crime, a fighter whose carefully prepared mind games would just dissolve and melt away. Towards the end of the third round, a now besieged Wilder had now taken cover, holding up his gloves desperately and praying for the end of the fight. For the first time in the fight Wilder was knocked down, toppling over like a giant redwood tree that had been there for thousands of years.
In the fourth round, the measured authority of Fury's punching seemed to be dictating the inevitable outcome of this now very one sided heavyweight slugfest. Fury was now hammering home his supremacy, grappling and scuffling at times but always in perfect control. Fury had now got Wilder exactly where he wanted him, squirming in the corner like a child whose mother won't give them any pocket money or the right amount for sweets.
The fifth round almost had a primeval and fatal air about it as Fury's clubbing fists seemed to get stronger and harder. You were reminded of a factory worker clocking on for a day of businesslike toil and drudgery. Fury was now piling into his American opponent, smothering Wilder with beefy hits to the neck, head and the shoulders. It was boxing from the old days, the old fashioned fairground booths, giant, muscular prizefighters who showed a clean pair of fists before waving their arms about like Dutch windmills.
Round six was rather like the final curtain for Wilder, now crouching in the corner and almost pinned to the ropes as the Fury bombardment seemed to just build in momentum. Wilder's legs were now betraying him, as Fury pounded and battered the American almost senseless. It wasn't long before Wilder's corner were preparing their surrender. This would be Wilder's last hurrah, the coup de grace and now he was just living on borrowed time.
In what would be the final and seventh round for the American, Fury blasted away at Wilder, fists pumping away almost heartlessly, the Englishman bobbing, ducking and dodging the occasional bullet from Wilder. Now Fury drilled home a whole flurry of punches that left Wilder begging for the intervention of the referee. One final punch from Fury took Wilder's legs away from him and that was it for the bullish American.
So an Englishman called Tyson Fury reclaimed the heavyweight title away from Deontay Wilder who must have been longing for the refuge for the treatment room at the end of the fight. It should be interesting to see where such a major fight now takes us. Does Fury now rise to the ultimate challenge of what would be a memorably fascinating eye balling contest with Antony Joshua or will he now launch a sustained bout of boasting and bragging?
As the flashing search lights began to fade you reflected on a triumphant night for British sport. You thought of that heavily sponsored boxing ring, a riot of betting companies, Irish whisky and that celebrated TV channel that wasn't Sky but ESPN. Boxing loves a rousing punch up and most of the nation could celebrate its latest hero. Well done Tyson Fury.
Friday 21 February 2020
Oh to be a celebrity.
Oh to be a celebrity.
Oh for the trials and tribulations of being a celebrity. How to explain the tragic death of reality TV star Caroline Flack? One day the host of ITV's Love Island next the appalling victim of a celebrity culture that can often be ruthless and uncompromising, a world where anybody in the public eye finds themselves exposed to the harsh glare of the media and social media camera. For those on the outside looking on it often has the feel of the cattle market where only the fittest survive. How cliched the world must seen to those who permanently put themselves up onto the parapet.
For Caroline Flack that world came crumbling down when the headlines portrayed her in quite the most brutal and damaging light. Accused rightly or wrongly of attacking her boyfriend, Flack found herself facing the full force of the judiciary when the slanderous accusations made life almost unbearable. The natural reactions are one of overwhelming sympathy and overflowing condolences to both her family and friends. The questions though may never cease.
Fifty two years ago the great but horribly tormented funnyman Tony Hancock committed suicide in a lonely Australian hotel bedroom. During the 1950s, in one of the most savage grillings by TV, a BBC interviewer in a popular Face to Face programme had relentlessly peppered Hancock with a series of awkward and embarrassing questions designed to leave the helpless comedian with nowhere to go. Hancock spent the whole interview smoking heavily, nervously shifting from side to side and then surrendering himself to another barrage of interrogation.
But this was trial by TV, a seemingly cruel exposure of the cult of celebrity, a world inhabited by reality TV wannabes who seek instant gratification and heartfelt approval wherever they go. Theirs is a world of transient fame, a world where front cover pictures on constantly inquisitive gossip magazines can so frequently lead to the kind of tragedy that led to Caroline Flack's death.
It would be unfair though to point the finger of blame at the illustrious likes of British gossip mags such as OK and Hello since theirs is an agenda that could be considered completely at odds with such sleazy revelations. Flack was simply in the wrong place, the wrong mindset and the wrong circumstances. What we have here is simply a case of a bright woman with a considerable talent who fell dramatically into the blackest of holes because the whispers and the unending scrutiny of her private life became too much for her.
Examples of the downfall and decline of the celebrity are both innumerable and sobering. Towards the end of the 1980s the openly gay and effeminate comedian Kenneth Williams also took his life when the media lens was firmly focused on him. Williams of course was a comic genius, a man with a joyously eloquent turn of phrase, a man with a passionate love of saucy innuendo and a continuous repertoire of showbiz stories from Second World War anecdotes to those richly intelligent gags. But when Williams was on his own and the dressing room seemed such a painfully isolated place to be, Williams would become a loner, recluse, an introspective doubter who never thought he was good enough.
Eventually Williams woke up one day and found that for all of his vast comic gifts, the world was still hostile and viciously vitriolic. The diaries may have been written and his place in TV and radio history had been assured. He may have been surrounded by those who genuinely cared and loved him for who he was, but Williams was the perfectionist, self critical and unreasonably demanding of himself.
And so it is that we return to the case of Caroline Flack. In the cold light of day it still feels as though the world has been deprived of a decent woman just trying to get on with the every day business of life. Her crime it seems was to listen to the sniping critics. In an age where everybody from the Royal Family to our inimitable politicians are always on the verge of a media meltdown, it may be advisable to remember how volatile and dysfunctional the world of celebrity can be. Sadly, none of us will ever know what was going through the mind of Caroline Flack. And perhaps that's the terrible pity.
Oh for the trials and tribulations of being a celebrity. How to explain the tragic death of reality TV star Caroline Flack? One day the host of ITV's Love Island next the appalling victim of a celebrity culture that can often be ruthless and uncompromising, a world where anybody in the public eye finds themselves exposed to the harsh glare of the media and social media camera. For those on the outside looking on it often has the feel of the cattle market where only the fittest survive. How cliched the world must seen to those who permanently put themselves up onto the parapet.
For Caroline Flack that world came crumbling down when the headlines portrayed her in quite the most brutal and damaging light. Accused rightly or wrongly of attacking her boyfriend, Flack found herself facing the full force of the judiciary when the slanderous accusations made life almost unbearable. The natural reactions are one of overwhelming sympathy and overflowing condolences to both her family and friends. The questions though may never cease.
Fifty two years ago the great but horribly tormented funnyman Tony Hancock committed suicide in a lonely Australian hotel bedroom. During the 1950s, in one of the most savage grillings by TV, a BBC interviewer in a popular Face to Face programme had relentlessly peppered Hancock with a series of awkward and embarrassing questions designed to leave the helpless comedian with nowhere to go. Hancock spent the whole interview smoking heavily, nervously shifting from side to side and then surrendering himself to another barrage of interrogation.
But this was trial by TV, a seemingly cruel exposure of the cult of celebrity, a world inhabited by reality TV wannabes who seek instant gratification and heartfelt approval wherever they go. Theirs is a world of transient fame, a world where front cover pictures on constantly inquisitive gossip magazines can so frequently lead to the kind of tragedy that led to Caroline Flack's death.
It would be unfair though to point the finger of blame at the illustrious likes of British gossip mags such as OK and Hello since theirs is an agenda that could be considered completely at odds with such sleazy revelations. Flack was simply in the wrong place, the wrong mindset and the wrong circumstances. What we have here is simply a case of a bright woman with a considerable talent who fell dramatically into the blackest of holes because the whispers and the unending scrutiny of her private life became too much for her.
Examples of the downfall and decline of the celebrity are both innumerable and sobering. Towards the end of the 1980s the openly gay and effeminate comedian Kenneth Williams also took his life when the media lens was firmly focused on him. Williams of course was a comic genius, a man with a joyously eloquent turn of phrase, a man with a passionate love of saucy innuendo and a continuous repertoire of showbiz stories from Second World War anecdotes to those richly intelligent gags. But when Williams was on his own and the dressing room seemed such a painfully isolated place to be, Williams would become a loner, recluse, an introspective doubter who never thought he was good enough.
Eventually Williams woke up one day and found that for all of his vast comic gifts, the world was still hostile and viciously vitriolic. The diaries may have been written and his place in TV and radio history had been assured. He may have been surrounded by those who genuinely cared and loved him for who he was, but Williams was the perfectionist, self critical and unreasonably demanding of himself.
And so it is that we return to the case of Caroline Flack. In the cold light of day it still feels as though the world has been deprived of a decent woman just trying to get on with the every day business of life. Her crime it seems was to listen to the sniping critics. In an age where everybody from the Royal Family to our inimitable politicians are always on the verge of a media meltdown, it may be advisable to remember how volatile and dysfunctional the world of celebrity can be. Sadly, none of us will ever know what was going through the mind of Caroline Flack. And perhaps that's the terrible pity.
Monday 17 February 2020
Manchester City are banned from the Champions League.
Manchester City are banned from the Champions League.
The cliches are unavoidable. Yes, the chickens have come home to roost and what goes around does indeed come around. They should have seen it coming but didn't so perhaps they deserved what was coming to them. This is a roundabout way of saying that a Premier League football club have been punished accordingly for breaking the rules. They should have been warned properly but chose not to heed the advice and guidance so they will now have to suffer in silence. This might seem a tad unfair but the harsh truth is that they simply wouldn't be told and anyway they should have known anyway.
Last Friday Manchester City were banned from taking any further part from participating in the Champions League as from next season and the season following that one. Their crime was that they didn't obey the clearly explained rules and regulations which were stated quite categorically over and over again. Sadly though City thought, somewhat arrogantly it has to be said that they were above such petty bureaucracy and thought they could get away with it because they were Manchester City and they were Premier League champions of England.
Now under the auspices of the Financial Fair Play committee, City fans will have to get used to the fact that prestigious and glamorous Champions League encounters against Barcelona, Bayern Munich, AC Milan, Inter Milan and Borussia Dortmund may be a thing of the past. Here we have a classic example of a famous English football club spending far too much money without thinking about the disastrous consequences. City were a team playing above their means and naivety doesn't even come remotely close to describing their foolhardiness and hubris.
We know for a fact that City earned the ludicrously extortionate sum of £100 million in last year's Champions League before bowing out to the losing finalists Spurs. We also know that their wage bill, currently at £135 million, is somehow staggeringly beyond belief and the mere pittance of their profit was £10 million. We have also been informed that their commercial and sponsorship income totalled a criminally shocking £229 million. So why do we express our surprise when the powers that be at UEFA rap City's collective knuckles and make them stay behind at school, writing a thousand lines on protocol and how not to behave because sanctions will be imposed if you don't listen to us?
For ages now, football's well documented greed and financial gluttony have been widely spread all over the national newspapers back pages. We have read in chapter and verse about the latest multi million pound transfer involving players who could only have dreamt about such ridiculous riches 40 or 50 years ago. They say it's all about market forces and wildly inflated valuations but when the likes of John Terry, in his playing days at Chelsea, was stuffing over £150,000 week into his well endowed trousers pocket and Wayne Rooney demanded much the same at Manchester United you had to question football's sanity.
But here we are deep into the second half of the Premier League season and the Greed is Good League, once coined by the hugely distinguished and immensely knowledgeable Sunday Times football writer Brian Glanville, is once again well and truly alive and flourishing. Football, it would seem, is its own worst enemy, a sport that once prided itself on its proud working class values now disfigured, defaced, debased and demeaned by wondrously wealthy Arab owners who quite obviously think that money does indeed grow on trees.
Admittedly the Sheikh Mansour family did their utmost to salvage an ailing football club who were firmly marooned in the old Third Division and playing at a Maine Road ground that once witnessed the outlandish gifts of Rodney Marsh, Colin Bell and Francis Lee. But then the glory days disappeared and shortly City would have to overcome Gillingham in their quest to re-capture top flight status. They did win that day and the rest, as they say, is history.
Now though your thoughts go back to the late Peter Swales, accountant and top bigwig at Manchester City who often presided over all the high profile transfers at City. What on earth would Swales have made of all these crazy financial indiscretions, these fraudulent tactics, these shifty, nudge nudge wink wink strategies, these noses in trough antics, rampant capitalism at its ugliest? City are now facing their very own come uppance, a dose of their own medicine and perhaps football needs that sharp prod in the back when it tries to fool all of the people all the time.
City of course without necessarily being in a state of crisis, must now face a future which once looked paved with gold but has now faded into a sorry looking predicament. If they fail to overturn this ban from the Court of Arbitration panel which will be appealed then the rumour factory may have to work overtime. Will Pep Guardiola, their vastly talented manager, walk out on City and will City have the spare change to keep the likes of Kevin De Bruyne and Raheem Sterling? Or will City simply fall apart like a deck of cards?
The Premier League is now certainly beyond their reach and on Wednesday they welcome relegation candidates West Ham to the Etihad Stadium. It seems safe to assume that City will have far too much firepower in attack for West Ham but what of this season's Champions League? There is a school of thought that believes that maybe they are so heartbroken about the latest developments that the Champions League may, quite ironically, be the last thing on their minds at the moment.
Naturally City will be busting a gut to win this season's Champions League for the first time in their history but the cynics would have us believe that their minds are far too pre-occupied with weightier matters. This is not the time for sober reflection and regret but City, you feel sure, may be wondering where exactly they may be going. Will they be deducted points retrospectively for their careless transgressions or will they be given a reprieve and the benefit of the doubt?
It is at times like this when you think back to that famous last match of the season when the Manchester City which boasted Denis Law condemned their neighbours United to relegation to the old Second Division. The tables have been turned and although City are still in temporary charge of proceedings at football's top table the back heel that once sent United toppling into the old Second Division must feel as if it's kicking City back from whence they came. Oh to be a fly on the wall at Manchester City's next Annual General Meeting. Watch this space.
The cliches are unavoidable. Yes, the chickens have come home to roost and what goes around does indeed come around. They should have seen it coming but didn't so perhaps they deserved what was coming to them. This is a roundabout way of saying that a Premier League football club have been punished accordingly for breaking the rules. They should have been warned properly but chose not to heed the advice and guidance so they will now have to suffer in silence. This might seem a tad unfair but the harsh truth is that they simply wouldn't be told and anyway they should have known anyway.
Last Friday Manchester City were banned from taking any further part from participating in the Champions League as from next season and the season following that one. Their crime was that they didn't obey the clearly explained rules and regulations which were stated quite categorically over and over again. Sadly though City thought, somewhat arrogantly it has to be said that they were above such petty bureaucracy and thought they could get away with it because they were Manchester City and they were Premier League champions of England.
Now under the auspices of the Financial Fair Play committee, City fans will have to get used to the fact that prestigious and glamorous Champions League encounters against Barcelona, Bayern Munich, AC Milan, Inter Milan and Borussia Dortmund may be a thing of the past. Here we have a classic example of a famous English football club spending far too much money without thinking about the disastrous consequences. City were a team playing above their means and naivety doesn't even come remotely close to describing their foolhardiness and hubris.
We know for a fact that City earned the ludicrously extortionate sum of £100 million in last year's Champions League before bowing out to the losing finalists Spurs. We also know that their wage bill, currently at £135 million, is somehow staggeringly beyond belief and the mere pittance of their profit was £10 million. We have also been informed that their commercial and sponsorship income totalled a criminally shocking £229 million. So why do we express our surprise when the powers that be at UEFA rap City's collective knuckles and make them stay behind at school, writing a thousand lines on protocol and how not to behave because sanctions will be imposed if you don't listen to us?
For ages now, football's well documented greed and financial gluttony have been widely spread all over the national newspapers back pages. We have read in chapter and verse about the latest multi million pound transfer involving players who could only have dreamt about such ridiculous riches 40 or 50 years ago. They say it's all about market forces and wildly inflated valuations but when the likes of John Terry, in his playing days at Chelsea, was stuffing over £150,000 week into his well endowed trousers pocket and Wayne Rooney demanded much the same at Manchester United you had to question football's sanity.
But here we are deep into the second half of the Premier League season and the Greed is Good League, once coined by the hugely distinguished and immensely knowledgeable Sunday Times football writer Brian Glanville, is once again well and truly alive and flourishing. Football, it would seem, is its own worst enemy, a sport that once prided itself on its proud working class values now disfigured, defaced, debased and demeaned by wondrously wealthy Arab owners who quite obviously think that money does indeed grow on trees.
Admittedly the Sheikh Mansour family did their utmost to salvage an ailing football club who were firmly marooned in the old Third Division and playing at a Maine Road ground that once witnessed the outlandish gifts of Rodney Marsh, Colin Bell and Francis Lee. But then the glory days disappeared and shortly City would have to overcome Gillingham in their quest to re-capture top flight status. They did win that day and the rest, as they say, is history.
Now though your thoughts go back to the late Peter Swales, accountant and top bigwig at Manchester City who often presided over all the high profile transfers at City. What on earth would Swales have made of all these crazy financial indiscretions, these fraudulent tactics, these shifty, nudge nudge wink wink strategies, these noses in trough antics, rampant capitalism at its ugliest? City are now facing their very own come uppance, a dose of their own medicine and perhaps football needs that sharp prod in the back when it tries to fool all of the people all the time.
City of course without necessarily being in a state of crisis, must now face a future which once looked paved with gold but has now faded into a sorry looking predicament. If they fail to overturn this ban from the Court of Arbitration panel which will be appealed then the rumour factory may have to work overtime. Will Pep Guardiola, their vastly talented manager, walk out on City and will City have the spare change to keep the likes of Kevin De Bruyne and Raheem Sterling? Or will City simply fall apart like a deck of cards?
The Premier League is now certainly beyond their reach and on Wednesday they welcome relegation candidates West Ham to the Etihad Stadium. It seems safe to assume that City will have far too much firepower in attack for West Ham but what of this season's Champions League? There is a school of thought that believes that maybe they are so heartbroken about the latest developments that the Champions League may, quite ironically, be the last thing on their minds at the moment.
Naturally City will be busting a gut to win this season's Champions League for the first time in their history but the cynics would have us believe that their minds are far too pre-occupied with weightier matters. This is not the time for sober reflection and regret but City, you feel sure, may be wondering where exactly they may be going. Will they be deducted points retrospectively for their careless transgressions or will they be given a reprieve and the benefit of the doubt?
It is at times like this when you think back to that famous last match of the season when the Manchester City which boasted Denis Law condemned their neighbours United to relegation to the old Second Division. The tables have been turned and although City are still in temporary charge of proceedings at football's top table the back heel that once sent United toppling into the old Second Division must feel as if it's kicking City back from whence they came. Oh to be a fly on the wall at Manchester City's next Annual General Meeting. Watch this space.
Saturday 15 February 2020
A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood.
A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood.
Every time Tom Hanks makes an appearance on a movie screen you can be assured that the said film will have a golden hallmark on it and a vastly lucrative potential on the global circuit. Hanks is one of our most polished, consummate and consistent of Hollywood actors, a comic actor par excellence, richly gifted at any role that comes his way and a master of his craft.
In his current film A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood Hanks hits the jackpot endearingly and brilliantly as the American children's TV presenter who then finds himself unwittingly in the role of charming peacemaker and lovable intermediary in fractured relationships. It is a film that thoroughly lives up to expectations and a movie whose adorable feelgood factor can't help you from falling in love with the cinema.
A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood is a majestic film, a masterclass and quite the cleverest movie to roll out of Hollywood for some time. It is a shining masterpiece that is much more than a simple morality tale. It takes you on a joyously meandering journey through human emotions at their tenderest and leaves you with the valuable re-assurance that it'll all turn up for the best if you can just count to ten and hold together all of those wounded feelings that might have been left to fester for too long.
Tom Hanks is the infinitely charming TV presenter Mr Rogers or Fred Rogers whose soft, gentle, warm and wonderfully avuncular persona provides the film with its most easily identifiable character, a man whose warm and friendly manner runs soothingly through the film like a smooth flowing stream. Not for the first time Hanks is stunning as Mr Rogers in the kind of role that was tailor made for him, a man referred to as a saintly figure who would never dream of talking down to young children and then comes across as almost permanently virtuous throughout.
We join Mr Rogers as he introduces us to a picture board in the children's TV programme where he reveals several characters with readily recognisable childlike personalities. There are puppets, elderly kings and, then, in complete contrast, Matthews Rhys as Lloyd Vogel, the hard hitting investigative magazine writer cum slightly cynical journalist who just wants to expose the celebrities in the most realistic light.
On Mr Rogers final picture board figure is Vogel, a man with the bruised ravages of a scar on his forehead. This has been the result of a family wedding bust up where his wife Susan Kelechi Watson as Andrea with their new born baby, breaks up the fight with a maternal arm around her husband's shoulder. Then there is Vogel's bitter and resentful father Chris Cooper as a superbly hard bitten Jerry while the family struggle to come to terms with petty differences of opinion. It all kicks off when Jerry Vogel becomes embroiled in a nasty punch up with his son and all of the bad blood that comes with that dynamic.
Then we follow the ups and downs, the peaks and troughs of Lloyd Vogel's career from the moment he enters the magazine editor's office to the moment when Vogel comes face to face with Fred Rogers and then confronting his own demons. Initially Vogel is told in no uncertain terms by his editor the no- nonsense Ellen, here played with typical forthrightness by Christine Lahti, to just do as he was told. Ellen demands that Vogel give him a 400 word piece on one of the many American heroes featured in the magazine. Or else.
Now the film gets much deeper under the surface of a children's TV presenter who just wants to paint the world in its most favourable light. Vogel quite literally scratches that surface when invited into the TV studio where Mr Rogers hosts his daily children's show. Scepticism is replaced by insatiable curiosity as Vogel tracks Rogers all over the country before the dawning realisation hits him that there is much more to the naked eye as this admirably positive and upbeat story telling uncle continues his crusade of good messages to young children.
Slowly but surely Jerry Vogel digs deep into the flawless character who is Mr Rogers and discovers much more than he thought he'd find. In a number of the film's memorable scenes Rogers calmly passes on some delightful advice on life, several meaningful words about his broken relationship with Vogel's father and fatherly words of encouragement when it all looked as if Vogel's life was falling apart.
In another outstanding cameo where Vogel rushes from the hospital bed where his dying father lies. Vogel is transported hilariously into a mock up of a hospital in Mr Rogers TV studio. In one of the many highlights of the film Hanks proceeds gloriously to explain to Vogel that hospitals are where sick and ill people come to when they're not feeling well. Yes, Rogers tells his journalist friend, hospitals are nice places where nice people have to go to if they were in pain or hurt.
After refusing to see his father in his sick bed, Vogel flees back to look for Mr Rogers and then is gently lectured once again as if he ever needed any more sharp reminders about families, supportive families and the realities of life that he has to come to terms with. Along with his father's new partner, Vogel's father Jerry lies on his death bed, sharing beery, manly confidences and a partial reconciliation is completed.
Finally when all of the family are gathered to discuss and analyse Vogel's now full length 10.000 word feature article on Mr Rogers, the film ties up all the loose ends with almost poetic perfection. Vogel's brother and sister in law are re-united again with a family get together including pizza and jokey banter.
And so it is that our lovely man Fred Rogers with the bright red cardigan and easy going manner reels out some more homespun philosophies. The puppets in the TV studio come to life, nodding sagely and heartwarmingly at Vogel as if Rogers has to be told that there's nothing wrong in making rash decisions. We're all human after all and Vogel is just as emotionally vulnerable as the rest of us.
A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood is one of those true stories that should be told to everybody. The one minute of silence where Rogers is gently coaxed into venting his true feelings. This is one of those films where, on leaving the cinema, you will walk away from the big screen with the warmest glow in your heart all the while recognising that they still make gorgeous films such as this one. You feel sure that there is a place for compassion in the world wherever we go in life. It's not too late. You have to see this film. It's a laugh a minute.
Every time Tom Hanks makes an appearance on a movie screen you can be assured that the said film will have a golden hallmark on it and a vastly lucrative potential on the global circuit. Hanks is one of our most polished, consummate and consistent of Hollywood actors, a comic actor par excellence, richly gifted at any role that comes his way and a master of his craft.
In his current film A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood Hanks hits the jackpot endearingly and brilliantly as the American children's TV presenter who then finds himself unwittingly in the role of charming peacemaker and lovable intermediary in fractured relationships. It is a film that thoroughly lives up to expectations and a movie whose adorable feelgood factor can't help you from falling in love with the cinema.
A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood is a majestic film, a masterclass and quite the cleverest movie to roll out of Hollywood for some time. It is a shining masterpiece that is much more than a simple morality tale. It takes you on a joyously meandering journey through human emotions at their tenderest and leaves you with the valuable re-assurance that it'll all turn up for the best if you can just count to ten and hold together all of those wounded feelings that might have been left to fester for too long.
Tom Hanks is the infinitely charming TV presenter Mr Rogers or Fred Rogers whose soft, gentle, warm and wonderfully avuncular persona provides the film with its most easily identifiable character, a man whose warm and friendly manner runs soothingly through the film like a smooth flowing stream. Not for the first time Hanks is stunning as Mr Rogers in the kind of role that was tailor made for him, a man referred to as a saintly figure who would never dream of talking down to young children and then comes across as almost permanently virtuous throughout.
We join Mr Rogers as he introduces us to a picture board in the children's TV programme where he reveals several characters with readily recognisable childlike personalities. There are puppets, elderly kings and, then, in complete contrast, Matthews Rhys as Lloyd Vogel, the hard hitting investigative magazine writer cum slightly cynical journalist who just wants to expose the celebrities in the most realistic light.
On Mr Rogers final picture board figure is Vogel, a man with the bruised ravages of a scar on his forehead. This has been the result of a family wedding bust up where his wife Susan Kelechi Watson as Andrea with their new born baby, breaks up the fight with a maternal arm around her husband's shoulder. Then there is Vogel's bitter and resentful father Chris Cooper as a superbly hard bitten Jerry while the family struggle to come to terms with petty differences of opinion. It all kicks off when Jerry Vogel becomes embroiled in a nasty punch up with his son and all of the bad blood that comes with that dynamic.
Then we follow the ups and downs, the peaks and troughs of Lloyd Vogel's career from the moment he enters the magazine editor's office to the moment when Vogel comes face to face with Fred Rogers and then confronting his own demons. Initially Vogel is told in no uncertain terms by his editor the no- nonsense Ellen, here played with typical forthrightness by Christine Lahti, to just do as he was told. Ellen demands that Vogel give him a 400 word piece on one of the many American heroes featured in the magazine. Or else.
Now the film gets much deeper under the surface of a children's TV presenter who just wants to paint the world in its most favourable light. Vogel quite literally scratches that surface when invited into the TV studio where Mr Rogers hosts his daily children's show. Scepticism is replaced by insatiable curiosity as Vogel tracks Rogers all over the country before the dawning realisation hits him that there is much more to the naked eye as this admirably positive and upbeat story telling uncle continues his crusade of good messages to young children.
Slowly but surely Jerry Vogel digs deep into the flawless character who is Mr Rogers and discovers much more than he thought he'd find. In a number of the film's memorable scenes Rogers calmly passes on some delightful advice on life, several meaningful words about his broken relationship with Vogel's father and fatherly words of encouragement when it all looked as if Vogel's life was falling apart.
In another outstanding cameo where Vogel rushes from the hospital bed where his dying father lies. Vogel is transported hilariously into a mock up of a hospital in Mr Rogers TV studio. In one of the many highlights of the film Hanks proceeds gloriously to explain to Vogel that hospitals are where sick and ill people come to when they're not feeling well. Yes, Rogers tells his journalist friend, hospitals are nice places where nice people have to go to if they were in pain or hurt.
After refusing to see his father in his sick bed, Vogel flees back to look for Mr Rogers and then is gently lectured once again as if he ever needed any more sharp reminders about families, supportive families and the realities of life that he has to come to terms with. Along with his father's new partner, Vogel's father Jerry lies on his death bed, sharing beery, manly confidences and a partial reconciliation is completed.
Finally when all of the family are gathered to discuss and analyse Vogel's now full length 10.000 word feature article on Mr Rogers, the film ties up all the loose ends with almost poetic perfection. Vogel's brother and sister in law are re-united again with a family get together including pizza and jokey banter.
And so it is that our lovely man Fred Rogers with the bright red cardigan and easy going manner reels out some more homespun philosophies. The puppets in the TV studio come to life, nodding sagely and heartwarmingly at Vogel as if Rogers has to be told that there's nothing wrong in making rash decisions. We're all human after all and Vogel is just as emotionally vulnerable as the rest of us.
A Beautiful Day in the Neighbourhood is one of those true stories that should be told to everybody. The one minute of silence where Rogers is gently coaxed into venting his true feelings. This is one of those films where, on leaving the cinema, you will walk away from the big screen with the warmest glow in your heart all the while recognising that they still make gorgeous films such as this one. You feel sure that there is a place for compassion in the world wherever we go in life. It's not too late. You have to see this film. It's a laugh a minute.
Tuesday 11 February 2020
Storm Ciara.
Storm Ciara.
It's probably safe to assume that Storm Ciara has completely blown herself out by now. The vagaries of the British weather are now almost legendary if only because there are times when the main topic of discussion used to revolve exclusively around the British climate. You may have forgotten about the winter solstice climate because other infinitely more riveting subjects have taken precedence. How relieved we must be to finally see the back of Brexit and everything that tested our nerves for the best part of three years- in fact beyond endurance at times.
But over the weekend we had other things to worry about. We were given more than sufficient warning and when the weather forecasters told us that the whole of Britain would be swept off our feet and then told us to batten down the hatches indoors we knew exactly what to expect. This one shook the foundations, played havoc with the occasionally creaking infrastructure of the country, left trains, buses and railway stations in a state of complete disarray and flux with little indication that it would get any better at some point this century.
This was called Storm Ciara and what a storm it was. It is at times like this when we begin to wonder why this meteorological phenomenon suddenly changes gender every time it arrives on British shores. What next? We could advance the case for Storm Donald but that would incur the wrath of a certain American president. The blond one from the White House would become mortally offended and fake storms the recurring theme in the Oval Office. You can see Donald Trump now, bristling with red blooded fury and indignation, ready to take any Fox TV weather forecaster to court.
Here in England though we were more less calm and restrained if only because we've seen weather like this in all of its many manifestations during the winter. We are now at the beginning of February and so far so good. After the usual torrents of biblical rain that never really looked like letting up for quite a while it was somehow inevitable that there was something behind all of all those drenching downpours. What we could never have bargained for was a major storm with a female influence.
For the last week the acoustics and sound systems have dominated our every day lives. In fact for some time it almost felt as if we were living in some eerie medieval castle, a gothic sanctuary ideally suited for some lyrical story written by Edgar Allan Poe. So there we were sitting on our sofa when, suddenly, somebody turned up the volume. For the best part of an hour it bombarded our ear drums, a whistling, wailing, crying, whimpering, sobbing, pleading, calling noise that sounded rather pathetic and heartbreaking. It was as if Mother Nature was airing her grievances, bawling out her objections and not best pleased.
And yet at times like this that you feel at your cosiest, protected safely from the howling, the rattling, the caterwauling, the shaking and swaying of our neighbours washing line, the blustering gales, the incessant tapping against the walls, the statement of discontent and the emphatic announcement of a British storm. The winds strengthened appreciably and most certainly vociferously, shouting angrily at the top of their voices and then reaching a most moving crescendo.
At some point you half expected the weeping violins to join in with the rest of the orchestra. There was somehow a deep, emotional resonance to Storm Ciara that almost moved you to tears. Then the shrieking and whistling seemed to reach a peak and you felt sure that a clap of thunder would be heard or a flash of lightning would light up the dark Manor House sky in North London before Peter Cushing and Vincent Price entered the stage with that sinister laugh and cackle.
Outside on the streets the telegraph poles were dancing about quite majestically, tree branches flung and twisted about wildly and wantonly while in the distance umbrellas were salvaged after another windy outburst. Somewhere small figures could be seen scurrying for the cover of warm and welcoming bus shelters. The rain against our window sounded like a memorable Gene Kelly tap dance intent on winning an Oscar.
Storm Ciara has undoubtedly made her presence felt. She's blown through our shires, counties, cities, our farmhouses, our winding country lanes, our terraced homes, our flats, the concrete jungles and the houses that seem to be strung together like a set of pearls before sloping off to distant hills. By the end of the week Storm Ciara will be consigned to history, a slightly disconcerting memory perhaps but nonetheless fresh in the mind.
We may only be in February but it can't be long before somebody mentions snow, freezing cold days that seem to go on for ever. Then the doom and gloom of another British winter will probably make its entrance although it is hoped that if it does it won't hang around for too long. We are still hoping that the first reminders of spring are about to make a welcome appearance. Some of us recently spotted the first snowdrops which in itself is pretty remarkable given that snowdrops normally come out at the same time as the cuckoos.
Wherever you are though Storm Ciara has now come and gone. It was an alarming visitation and maybe we'll never see its like again. Rumours of global warming have to be taken with a pinch of salt and the experts will undoubtedly tell us that something strange is going on out there. Still, we can only hope that when Storm Donald does materialise a certain American president will not be issuing threats to all and sundry. Don't panic Donald Trump! It may never happen.
It's probably safe to assume that Storm Ciara has completely blown herself out by now. The vagaries of the British weather are now almost legendary if only because there are times when the main topic of discussion used to revolve exclusively around the British climate. You may have forgotten about the winter solstice climate because other infinitely more riveting subjects have taken precedence. How relieved we must be to finally see the back of Brexit and everything that tested our nerves for the best part of three years- in fact beyond endurance at times.
But over the weekend we had other things to worry about. We were given more than sufficient warning and when the weather forecasters told us that the whole of Britain would be swept off our feet and then told us to batten down the hatches indoors we knew exactly what to expect. This one shook the foundations, played havoc with the occasionally creaking infrastructure of the country, left trains, buses and railway stations in a state of complete disarray and flux with little indication that it would get any better at some point this century.
This was called Storm Ciara and what a storm it was. It is at times like this when we begin to wonder why this meteorological phenomenon suddenly changes gender every time it arrives on British shores. What next? We could advance the case for Storm Donald but that would incur the wrath of a certain American president. The blond one from the White House would become mortally offended and fake storms the recurring theme in the Oval Office. You can see Donald Trump now, bristling with red blooded fury and indignation, ready to take any Fox TV weather forecaster to court.
Here in England though we were more less calm and restrained if only because we've seen weather like this in all of its many manifestations during the winter. We are now at the beginning of February and so far so good. After the usual torrents of biblical rain that never really looked like letting up for quite a while it was somehow inevitable that there was something behind all of all those drenching downpours. What we could never have bargained for was a major storm with a female influence.
For the last week the acoustics and sound systems have dominated our every day lives. In fact for some time it almost felt as if we were living in some eerie medieval castle, a gothic sanctuary ideally suited for some lyrical story written by Edgar Allan Poe. So there we were sitting on our sofa when, suddenly, somebody turned up the volume. For the best part of an hour it bombarded our ear drums, a whistling, wailing, crying, whimpering, sobbing, pleading, calling noise that sounded rather pathetic and heartbreaking. It was as if Mother Nature was airing her grievances, bawling out her objections and not best pleased.
And yet at times like this that you feel at your cosiest, protected safely from the howling, the rattling, the caterwauling, the shaking and swaying of our neighbours washing line, the blustering gales, the incessant tapping against the walls, the statement of discontent and the emphatic announcement of a British storm. The winds strengthened appreciably and most certainly vociferously, shouting angrily at the top of their voices and then reaching a most moving crescendo.
At some point you half expected the weeping violins to join in with the rest of the orchestra. There was somehow a deep, emotional resonance to Storm Ciara that almost moved you to tears. Then the shrieking and whistling seemed to reach a peak and you felt sure that a clap of thunder would be heard or a flash of lightning would light up the dark Manor House sky in North London before Peter Cushing and Vincent Price entered the stage with that sinister laugh and cackle.
Outside on the streets the telegraph poles were dancing about quite majestically, tree branches flung and twisted about wildly and wantonly while in the distance umbrellas were salvaged after another windy outburst. Somewhere small figures could be seen scurrying for the cover of warm and welcoming bus shelters. The rain against our window sounded like a memorable Gene Kelly tap dance intent on winning an Oscar.
Storm Ciara has undoubtedly made her presence felt. She's blown through our shires, counties, cities, our farmhouses, our winding country lanes, our terraced homes, our flats, the concrete jungles and the houses that seem to be strung together like a set of pearls before sloping off to distant hills. By the end of the week Storm Ciara will be consigned to history, a slightly disconcerting memory perhaps but nonetheless fresh in the mind.
We may only be in February but it can't be long before somebody mentions snow, freezing cold days that seem to go on for ever. Then the doom and gloom of another British winter will probably make its entrance although it is hoped that if it does it won't hang around for too long. We are still hoping that the first reminders of spring are about to make a welcome appearance. Some of us recently spotted the first snowdrops which in itself is pretty remarkable given that snowdrops normally come out at the same time as the cuckoos.
Wherever you are though Storm Ciara has now come and gone. It was an alarming visitation and maybe we'll never see its like again. Rumours of global warming have to be taken with a pinch of salt and the experts will undoubtedly tell us that something strange is going on out there. Still, we can only hope that when Storm Donald does materialise a certain American president will not be issuing threats to all and sundry. Don't panic Donald Trump! It may never happen.
Sunday 9 February 2020
England beat Scotland in the rugby union Calcutta Cup.
England beat Scotland in the rugby union Calcutta Cup.
Forget the Battle of Bannockburn or the Battle of Culloden. This was the real thing, the genuine article, England against Scotland in the battle for the Calcutta Cup, a blood and thunder contest where no quarter is either given nor taken. But yesterday was quite definitely different. It was rugby union played in incessant, torrential rain, wild, stormy weather and ferocious gale force winds. Storm Ciara was battering and pounding the rooftops of Edinburgh with a relentless intensity the like of which Scotland may not have seen for some time.
From as far as the eye could see there were massed ranks of both Scottish and English supporters huddled together in plastic rain coats, hoods on heads and rain dripping from heads while all around them there was an air of resignation, a sense that things simply couldn't get any worse even if they tried to do so. Scotland is used to this kind of inclement weather since the country is more or less ready and waiting for its wintry tempests, its blustery, flag stiffening winds that tug away at everything that stands in their way and those cloud bursting, monsoon type conditions that drench every Scottish soul.
Once again the Scottish weather behaved in such a way that most of us felt that we'd witnessed the same kind of experience that had always been this way at this time of the year. This was very much typical rugby union weather, navy blue Scotland shirts clashing with the red rose white England shirt in swirling, gusting winds that suggested chaos and pandemonium but then blew themselves out when England finally confirmed their dominance.
This was never the most attractive or crowd pleasing of Calcutta Cup matches, a game that seemed to be sucked into some meaningless rut of mediocrity as the ball seemed to slip out of players hands like a bar of soap. Now they failed to achieve any of the flow and fluency that would have converted it into a mini epic. Whenever England kicked into touch for obvious advantage the ball seemed to have a mind of its own, the ball floating and flopping into areas which were neither damaging or significant.
England, still smarting from their opening Six Nations defeat to France in Paris and possibly hurting from World Cup Final defeat to South Africa approached their match against the Auld Enemy Scotland with a slightly wounded air about them but confident nonetheless that this time they had the measure of the opposition and would never roll over and just capitulate. Over and over again England props and flankers would drive the Scots back into their own half, navy shirt after navy shirt rumbling into attack only to be pinned to the ground near the goal posts. Never could this be regarded as easy on the eye, more of a gritty, scrappy, gutsy and no holds barred, attritional match that kept stopping and starting.
For much of the 80 minutes Murrayfield was subjected to a gruelling and gruesome England- Scotland battle royal where little in the way of hand to hand passing ever really broke out. Instead we were restricted to a dull succession of kicking competitions where the ball was haphazardly kicked high into the darkening Scottish skies with a mind blowing and tedious frequency.
Then the game descended into some strategic and ploddingly methodical no man's land where neither side could ram home their technical superiority. The collective prop power of Mako Vunipola and Kyle Sinckler was squeezed into submission by a Scotland side merely content to push England further and further back towards their own goal. The hustling and bustling and creative play making of flanker Tom Curry was powerfully supported by wing Jonny May, always a threat while Sam Underhill burrowed forward as England's most influential flanker.
Meanwhile hooker Jamie George was full of heart, industry and endeavour invariably breaking up the Scottish attack and Willi Heinz was always on hand at scrum half to tidy up and busy himself in tight rucks and mauls. With the magnificent Mako Vunipola always prominent with his muscular presence and Maro Itoje beavering and snapping away at every navy blue Scottish shirt, England looked full of burning, bristling menace, running at the Scottish defence purposefully and directly at every opportunity.
When England captain Owen Farrell kicked over for a penalty after a sustained burst of pressure and accurate kicking, Scotland, with the likes of Stuart Hogg, Adam Hastings, Rory Sutherland, Huw Jones, Stuart Cummings and Fraser Brown, slowly ran out of useful ideas and constructive counter attacks. Their rugby was severely blunted by some classic England pushing and shoving. Slowly but surely the Scottish pack was being nullified and rendered non existent.
And yet Scotland did level the game shortly into the second half when Alex Hastings, picking up the ball quickly from a scrum literally on England's post, struck a penalty to give a touch of spice to proceedings. Briefly England were rattled and for a while Eddie Jones looked a worried man, constantly communicating through his ear piece. England were both wayward and slovenly with their passing, dropping important kicks and struggling to establish any kind of coherent rhythm.
Now it was that England were awarded another penalty duly converted and England were back in charge. Finally England would score the game's one and only decisive try, the result of intensive scrums and driving phase play that would eat its way towards the Scottish line. In front of the Scottish posts a mass of bodies formed and before you could blink an eye, there was much heaving and hoeing, grabbing, shoving, shoulder charging, ear pulling, locked arms and shoulders trying desperately to make sense of it all. It was rugby union doing what it does best.
Suddenly, out of the most confusing collision of bodies England's Ellis Genge barrelled his way through a mass of white shirted torsos. Genge, body now trapped seemingly inextricably in a body sandwich, somehow crawled over the try line and touched the ball down for the winning English try. Owen Farrell once again floated over another penalty and one of the great British sporting rivalries had once again been decided against a backdrop of British wintry weather. You could have hardly expected anything else.
Forget the Battle of Bannockburn or the Battle of Culloden. This was the real thing, the genuine article, England against Scotland in the battle for the Calcutta Cup, a blood and thunder contest where no quarter is either given nor taken. But yesterday was quite definitely different. It was rugby union played in incessant, torrential rain, wild, stormy weather and ferocious gale force winds. Storm Ciara was battering and pounding the rooftops of Edinburgh with a relentless intensity the like of which Scotland may not have seen for some time.
From as far as the eye could see there were massed ranks of both Scottish and English supporters huddled together in plastic rain coats, hoods on heads and rain dripping from heads while all around them there was an air of resignation, a sense that things simply couldn't get any worse even if they tried to do so. Scotland is used to this kind of inclement weather since the country is more or less ready and waiting for its wintry tempests, its blustery, flag stiffening winds that tug away at everything that stands in their way and those cloud bursting, monsoon type conditions that drench every Scottish soul.
Once again the Scottish weather behaved in such a way that most of us felt that we'd witnessed the same kind of experience that had always been this way at this time of the year. This was very much typical rugby union weather, navy blue Scotland shirts clashing with the red rose white England shirt in swirling, gusting winds that suggested chaos and pandemonium but then blew themselves out when England finally confirmed their dominance.
This was never the most attractive or crowd pleasing of Calcutta Cup matches, a game that seemed to be sucked into some meaningless rut of mediocrity as the ball seemed to slip out of players hands like a bar of soap. Now they failed to achieve any of the flow and fluency that would have converted it into a mini epic. Whenever England kicked into touch for obvious advantage the ball seemed to have a mind of its own, the ball floating and flopping into areas which were neither damaging or significant.
England, still smarting from their opening Six Nations defeat to France in Paris and possibly hurting from World Cup Final defeat to South Africa approached their match against the Auld Enemy Scotland with a slightly wounded air about them but confident nonetheless that this time they had the measure of the opposition and would never roll over and just capitulate. Over and over again England props and flankers would drive the Scots back into their own half, navy shirt after navy shirt rumbling into attack only to be pinned to the ground near the goal posts. Never could this be regarded as easy on the eye, more of a gritty, scrappy, gutsy and no holds barred, attritional match that kept stopping and starting.
For much of the 80 minutes Murrayfield was subjected to a gruelling and gruesome England- Scotland battle royal where little in the way of hand to hand passing ever really broke out. Instead we were restricted to a dull succession of kicking competitions where the ball was haphazardly kicked high into the darkening Scottish skies with a mind blowing and tedious frequency.
Then the game descended into some strategic and ploddingly methodical no man's land where neither side could ram home their technical superiority. The collective prop power of Mako Vunipola and Kyle Sinckler was squeezed into submission by a Scotland side merely content to push England further and further back towards their own goal. The hustling and bustling and creative play making of flanker Tom Curry was powerfully supported by wing Jonny May, always a threat while Sam Underhill burrowed forward as England's most influential flanker.
Meanwhile hooker Jamie George was full of heart, industry and endeavour invariably breaking up the Scottish attack and Willi Heinz was always on hand at scrum half to tidy up and busy himself in tight rucks and mauls. With the magnificent Mako Vunipola always prominent with his muscular presence and Maro Itoje beavering and snapping away at every navy blue Scottish shirt, England looked full of burning, bristling menace, running at the Scottish defence purposefully and directly at every opportunity.
When England captain Owen Farrell kicked over for a penalty after a sustained burst of pressure and accurate kicking, Scotland, with the likes of Stuart Hogg, Adam Hastings, Rory Sutherland, Huw Jones, Stuart Cummings and Fraser Brown, slowly ran out of useful ideas and constructive counter attacks. Their rugby was severely blunted by some classic England pushing and shoving. Slowly but surely the Scottish pack was being nullified and rendered non existent.
And yet Scotland did level the game shortly into the second half when Alex Hastings, picking up the ball quickly from a scrum literally on England's post, struck a penalty to give a touch of spice to proceedings. Briefly England were rattled and for a while Eddie Jones looked a worried man, constantly communicating through his ear piece. England were both wayward and slovenly with their passing, dropping important kicks and struggling to establish any kind of coherent rhythm.
Now it was that England were awarded another penalty duly converted and England were back in charge. Finally England would score the game's one and only decisive try, the result of intensive scrums and driving phase play that would eat its way towards the Scottish line. In front of the Scottish posts a mass of bodies formed and before you could blink an eye, there was much heaving and hoeing, grabbing, shoving, shoulder charging, ear pulling, locked arms and shoulders trying desperately to make sense of it all. It was rugby union doing what it does best.
Suddenly, out of the most confusing collision of bodies England's Ellis Genge barrelled his way through a mass of white shirted torsos. Genge, body now trapped seemingly inextricably in a body sandwich, somehow crawled over the try line and touched the ball down for the winning English try. Owen Farrell once again floated over another penalty and one of the great British sporting rivalries had once again been decided against a backdrop of British wintry weather. You could have hardly expected anything else.
Wednesday 5 February 2020
Newcastle knock Oxford out of the FA Cup.
Newcastle knock Oxford out of the FA Cup.
In the dreaming spires of Oxford the dons and undergraduates normally do things at a very leisurely pace. Deep within the college cloisters and quadrangles the students get their heads down and absorb as much knowledge as they can, invariably turning their thoughts to either politics or a career in law. Some become professors or scientists, others doctors or mathematicians. Many throw themselves into something so sufficiently challenging and intellectually rewarding that football could be regarded as a last resort.
Last night though Oxford United of League two took Premier League powerhouses Newcastle United all the way to the finishing line and only stumbled at the last hurdle. By the end Steve Bruce, the Newcastle United manager, was blowing out his cheeks and hoping that he won't have to find any team quite as stubborn on the FA Cup route. This is familiar territory for Newcastle since the FA Cup is more or less a hot potato which they simply can't digest and every so often things get very fraught and complicated.
Newcastle United, perhaps much to their own embarrassment, haven't won the FA Cup since 1955 when the greyness that had hung over the nation since the end of the Second World War still glowered over the whole of Britain like a threatening cloud. Back then the classical pairing of Jackie Milburn and Bobby Mitchell made hay in the Wembley sunshine with a comprehensive 3-1 victory over Manchester City. Ever since then though Newcastle have laboured through the decades like hod carriers on a building site.
In 1976 Newcastle once again came a cropper in a Cup Final against the same opposition in the League Cup Final at Wembley. Denis Tueart's remarkable bicycle kick took much of the stuffing out of Newcastle and City deservedly won all the plaudits. No change there then. Newcastle have won the old Fairs Cup and a couple of other wholly insignificant pre season Cups but generally the Tyneside famine is still waiting for the long overdue feast.
Then two years before, the moping and melancholy Joe Harvey could only watch in stunned amazement as Bill Shankly's mesmerising Liverpool sliced open the black and white shirts like the proverbial tin of sardines. In the 1974 FA Cup Final Newcastle were overpowered and completely outclassed by the dynamic Kevin Keegan and the educated feet of Steve Heighway. Newcastle must have felt like alienated strangers at some private party so convincing was the margin of the 3-0 victory.
Yet yesterday evening the 2020 edition of this year's FA Cup brought with it the hope of something much better. It is hard to know with Newcastle because most of their demanding supporters keep dreading the worst case scenario so victory over Oxford United in the fourth round of the FA Cup would have lifted their spirits no end. There is still a gallows humour at the Gallowgate end and the Geordies are both naturally restless and understandably cynical about everything that happens to their club.
Mega wealthy owner Mike Ashley still looks like one of those businessman who ply their trade out of the back of a suitcase. Some have called him a shifty and scheming operator while others at the club simply want to see the back of him. For years now Ashley has spent most of his life in a directors box grinning endlessly at nothing in particular. Some would say that there is a palpable air of the deceitful spiv about Ashley who, when he isn't selling Newcastle down the river, is selling cheap DVDs in the local market.
For a while though last night Ashley sat in the directors box content and possibly delighted with life because finally Newcastle had banished the blues and besides it was about time Newcastle finally won something. This seemed to be the case as Newcastle showed all the polish and streetwise Premier League experience that looked as though it had been enough to brush aside lower league opposition like dust on a carpet.
Last autumn of course Oxford had won their first of their personal conquests over Premier League side West Ham when the now relegation threatened Hammers were demolished by Oxford in a 4-0 stroll in the park at the Kassam Stadium. The late and much loved Jim Smith though was probably looking down with a broad smile of satisfaction at Oxford's latest Cup heroics. Smith, along with a whole host of other clubs, once presided over Oxford like a proud father and Newcastle, another one of Smith's port of calls, scored a winning goal in extra time after both Oxford and Newcastle could not find any daylight between them.
For most of the first half though Newcastle seemed to be coasting into the fifth round of the FA Cup, a side of symmetrical patterns and mathematical angles, quick, short and precise passes to each other, stretching their League two opponents from one side of the pitch to the other. Newcastle were quicker of thought and deed than Oxford, moving the ball around the pitch with an efficiency, skill and adroitness that simply left the home side in a state of complete perplexity.
When Sean Longstaff gave Newcastle the lead after a swift break across and around the yellow shirted Oxford, it seemed that the home side would be in for a long and punishing ordeal. Joe Linton laid the ball off neatly to Longstaff who turned his man beautifully before drilling the ball home. With the likes of Sean Longstaff, Nabil Bentaleb, Matt Ritchie and the dangerous Miguel Almiron running forcefully behind the Oxford defence, Newcastle surged forward like a black and white tidal wave. Almiron was leaving a trail of havoc behind him with teasing and taunting runs behind the Oxford back four. while Matt Ritchie led a full blooded cavalry charge for the visitors.
Before Oxford could so much as come up for air, Newcastle, penning the yellow shirts firmly into their own half, kept pressing and pressing. clustering and clustering, prompting and probing before swarming around and picking off the university city as if they were Newcastle's intellectual inferiors. It wasn't long before Newcastle increased the lead.
The young whippersnapper Sean Longstaff who had undone Oxford all evening, was once again the man for the occasion. Subtly threading a handsome through ball to Joe Linton, the Brazilian simply raced through to fire the ball powerfully into the net for Newcastle's second goal. Now it was that Oxford looked as though they'd suffered for much longer than they might have thought they would. Their attacks began to look stodgier, slower and more ponderous. There was though a crispness and sharpness about their passing but the game looked up for them.
But in the second half everything changed quite astoundingly. The Kassam Stadium, sensing Tyneside vulnerability, broke forward harmoniously and began to think that their club was about to embark on a miraculous revival. Oxford went for Newcastle like a pack of hungry wolves with Mark Sykes nagging away at Newcastle defenders with hurtling and careering runs that caught them completely by surprise.
Now it was that Josh Ruffels began to burrow his way forward with all of the confidence he could muster on a night such as this. FA Cup nights can often transform the careers of lower league players who can only fantasise about an FA Cup Final in May. Ruffels had captured the mood of the evening with some of the most quick witted touches on the ball. Both Alex Gorrin and Cameron Brannagan were also indulging their flights of fancy with elaborate step overs and drag backs that one Johan Cruyff would have been proud of.
The man of the match though for Oxford was the West Ham loanee Nathan Holland, a player of pace, trickery and skulduggery, shifting the ball from one foot to the other in a blur of bewildering speed. Holland's impeccable close control might have rescued Oxford at a much earlier point in the game. But suddenly Jamie Mackie finally came to life for the home side up front and after a series of half chances Oxford appeared to have scored a consolation goal.
Liam Kelly, a spritely and fresh pair of legs for Oxford, jogged on as a substitute for Oxford boss Karl Robinson. With the game slowly ebbing away for the home side, Kelly prepared for a free kick on the edge of the penalty area. Kelly stepped forward, took aim, spotted a gap in the Newcastle wall and blasted the ball into the back of the Newcastle net. Delirium fell over Oxford. It felt as though the whole city had won both the Pools and the National Lottery. Oh joy of joys.
Then with literally seconds left in a tremendously intriguing FA Cup fourth round tie, Oxford saw gold embossed, back page newspaper headlines in front of their eyes. A long free kick was tantalisingly floated into the Newcastle box, a brief scramble of legs appeared before Nathan Holland, sizing up the ball perfectly, sent the meatiest volley high into the net for a rip roaring equaliser. The FA Cup had indeed done it again. We'd never doubted it for a minute.
Sadly though this would not be Oxford's night. It may be that Oxford will have to wait for the traditional Boat Race in the spring for any crumbs of comfort. Mid way through extra time the formidable flair of Frenchman Allan Saint Maximin, complete with gold headband, saw him dribbling magnificently, swaying, shimmying and dropping his shoulder, before cutting the ball onto his right, scoring feet and driving the ball thrillingly past the Oxford keeper for a sensational Newcastle winner. The FA Cup hey! It's a timeless classic, an epic tale of derring do. It simply never disappoints.
In the dreaming spires of Oxford the dons and undergraduates normally do things at a very leisurely pace. Deep within the college cloisters and quadrangles the students get their heads down and absorb as much knowledge as they can, invariably turning their thoughts to either politics or a career in law. Some become professors or scientists, others doctors or mathematicians. Many throw themselves into something so sufficiently challenging and intellectually rewarding that football could be regarded as a last resort.
Last night though Oxford United of League two took Premier League powerhouses Newcastle United all the way to the finishing line and only stumbled at the last hurdle. By the end Steve Bruce, the Newcastle United manager, was blowing out his cheeks and hoping that he won't have to find any team quite as stubborn on the FA Cup route. This is familiar territory for Newcastle since the FA Cup is more or less a hot potato which they simply can't digest and every so often things get very fraught and complicated.
Newcastle United, perhaps much to their own embarrassment, haven't won the FA Cup since 1955 when the greyness that had hung over the nation since the end of the Second World War still glowered over the whole of Britain like a threatening cloud. Back then the classical pairing of Jackie Milburn and Bobby Mitchell made hay in the Wembley sunshine with a comprehensive 3-1 victory over Manchester City. Ever since then though Newcastle have laboured through the decades like hod carriers on a building site.
In 1976 Newcastle once again came a cropper in a Cup Final against the same opposition in the League Cup Final at Wembley. Denis Tueart's remarkable bicycle kick took much of the stuffing out of Newcastle and City deservedly won all the plaudits. No change there then. Newcastle have won the old Fairs Cup and a couple of other wholly insignificant pre season Cups but generally the Tyneside famine is still waiting for the long overdue feast.
Then two years before, the moping and melancholy Joe Harvey could only watch in stunned amazement as Bill Shankly's mesmerising Liverpool sliced open the black and white shirts like the proverbial tin of sardines. In the 1974 FA Cup Final Newcastle were overpowered and completely outclassed by the dynamic Kevin Keegan and the educated feet of Steve Heighway. Newcastle must have felt like alienated strangers at some private party so convincing was the margin of the 3-0 victory.
Yet yesterday evening the 2020 edition of this year's FA Cup brought with it the hope of something much better. It is hard to know with Newcastle because most of their demanding supporters keep dreading the worst case scenario so victory over Oxford United in the fourth round of the FA Cup would have lifted their spirits no end. There is still a gallows humour at the Gallowgate end and the Geordies are both naturally restless and understandably cynical about everything that happens to their club.
Mega wealthy owner Mike Ashley still looks like one of those businessman who ply their trade out of the back of a suitcase. Some have called him a shifty and scheming operator while others at the club simply want to see the back of him. For years now Ashley has spent most of his life in a directors box grinning endlessly at nothing in particular. Some would say that there is a palpable air of the deceitful spiv about Ashley who, when he isn't selling Newcastle down the river, is selling cheap DVDs in the local market.
For a while though last night Ashley sat in the directors box content and possibly delighted with life because finally Newcastle had banished the blues and besides it was about time Newcastle finally won something. This seemed to be the case as Newcastle showed all the polish and streetwise Premier League experience that looked as though it had been enough to brush aside lower league opposition like dust on a carpet.
Last autumn of course Oxford had won their first of their personal conquests over Premier League side West Ham when the now relegation threatened Hammers were demolished by Oxford in a 4-0 stroll in the park at the Kassam Stadium. The late and much loved Jim Smith though was probably looking down with a broad smile of satisfaction at Oxford's latest Cup heroics. Smith, along with a whole host of other clubs, once presided over Oxford like a proud father and Newcastle, another one of Smith's port of calls, scored a winning goal in extra time after both Oxford and Newcastle could not find any daylight between them.
For most of the first half though Newcastle seemed to be coasting into the fifth round of the FA Cup, a side of symmetrical patterns and mathematical angles, quick, short and precise passes to each other, stretching their League two opponents from one side of the pitch to the other. Newcastle were quicker of thought and deed than Oxford, moving the ball around the pitch with an efficiency, skill and adroitness that simply left the home side in a state of complete perplexity.
When Sean Longstaff gave Newcastle the lead after a swift break across and around the yellow shirted Oxford, it seemed that the home side would be in for a long and punishing ordeal. Joe Linton laid the ball off neatly to Longstaff who turned his man beautifully before drilling the ball home. With the likes of Sean Longstaff, Nabil Bentaleb, Matt Ritchie and the dangerous Miguel Almiron running forcefully behind the Oxford defence, Newcastle surged forward like a black and white tidal wave. Almiron was leaving a trail of havoc behind him with teasing and taunting runs behind the Oxford back four. while Matt Ritchie led a full blooded cavalry charge for the visitors.
Before Oxford could so much as come up for air, Newcastle, penning the yellow shirts firmly into their own half, kept pressing and pressing. clustering and clustering, prompting and probing before swarming around and picking off the university city as if they were Newcastle's intellectual inferiors. It wasn't long before Newcastle increased the lead.
The young whippersnapper Sean Longstaff who had undone Oxford all evening, was once again the man for the occasion. Subtly threading a handsome through ball to Joe Linton, the Brazilian simply raced through to fire the ball powerfully into the net for Newcastle's second goal. Now it was that Oxford looked as though they'd suffered for much longer than they might have thought they would. Their attacks began to look stodgier, slower and more ponderous. There was though a crispness and sharpness about their passing but the game looked up for them.
But in the second half everything changed quite astoundingly. The Kassam Stadium, sensing Tyneside vulnerability, broke forward harmoniously and began to think that their club was about to embark on a miraculous revival. Oxford went for Newcastle like a pack of hungry wolves with Mark Sykes nagging away at Newcastle defenders with hurtling and careering runs that caught them completely by surprise.
Now it was that Josh Ruffels began to burrow his way forward with all of the confidence he could muster on a night such as this. FA Cup nights can often transform the careers of lower league players who can only fantasise about an FA Cup Final in May. Ruffels had captured the mood of the evening with some of the most quick witted touches on the ball. Both Alex Gorrin and Cameron Brannagan were also indulging their flights of fancy with elaborate step overs and drag backs that one Johan Cruyff would have been proud of.
The man of the match though for Oxford was the West Ham loanee Nathan Holland, a player of pace, trickery and skulduggery, shifting the ball from one foot to the other in a blur of bewildering speed. Holland's impeccable close control might have rescued Oxford at a much earlier point in the game. But suddenly Jamie Mackie finally came to life for the home side up front and after a series of half chances Oxford appeared to have scored a consolation goal.
Liam Kelly, a spritely and fresh pair of legs for Oxford, jogged on as a substitute for Oxford boss Karl Robinson. With the game slowly ebbing away for the home side, Kelly prepared for a free kick on the edge of the penalty area. Kelly stepped forward, took aim, spotted a gap in the Newcastle wall and blasted the ball into the back of the Newcastle net. Delirium fell over Oxford. It felt as though the whole city had won both the Pools and the National Lottery. Oh joy of joys.
Then with literally seconds left in a tremendously intriguing FA Cup fourth round tie, Oxford saw gold embossed, back page newspaper headlines in front of their eyes. A long free kick was tantalisingly floated into the Newcastle box, a brief scramble of legs appeared before Nathan Holland, sizing up the ball perfectly, sent the meatiest volley high into the net for a rip roaring equaliser. The FA Cup had indeed done it again. We'd never doubted it for a minute.
Sadly though this would not be Oxford's night. It may be that Oxford will have to wait for the traditional Boat Race in the spring for any crumbs of comfort. Mid way through extra time the formidable flair of Frenchman Allan Saint Maximin, complete with gold headband, saw him dribbling magnificently, swaying, shimmying and dropping his shoulder, before cutting the ball onto his right, scoring feet and driving the ball thrillingly past the Oxford keeper for a sensational Newcastle winner. The FA Cup hey! It's a timeless classic, an epic tale of derring do. It simply never disappoints.
Sunday 2 February 2020
The Personal History of David Copperfield
The Personal History of David Copperfield.
You feel sure that had Charles Dickens still been alive then he may well have been a multi- billionaire by now and probably more famous than he was when he passed away in 1870. Then the quill and pen were his only means of self expression, whole chapters neatly scribbled away in the dim light of a flickering candle and his only distraction a night at the local theatre or ironically a well bound leather book by one of his contemporaries. He would have retired to bed with a hot cup of cocoa and another fertile collection of thoughts and images from the mind of a literary genius.
Little could he have imagined that at the beginning of the second decade of the 21st century his name and reputation would still be preserved and one of his typically delightful novels would be once again transferred so easily to the movie silver screen. You wonder what Dickens would have made of Hollywood, the studio system, the wildly inflated egos, the lavish film premieres, the red carpets, the glittering Oscar and Emmy awards ceremonies, the torturous private lives, the prima donnas and the big bucks.
And then another Dickens adaptation makes its way onto the cinema screens and all of your fond imaginings are once again brought to vivid life. Throughout the ages we've been bombarded with TV adaptations, much acclaimed and loved musicals and a whole host of varied interpretations of his vast output. It is perhaps a testament to his greatness that Dickens is still regarded as one of the greatest authors of all time, a novelist who observed life in its all shades and nuances, a man with the most remarkable imagination and almost certainly the most perceptive social commentator of any era.
In he Personal History of David Copperfield, we are taken on a journey as seen through the eyes of a man who witnessed both the poverty and wealth of a time and place when nothing else seemed to matter and laughter had to be the best medicine. Copperfield was very much a man for all seasons, a Victorian man about town who embraced all aspects of his social status and showed just how adaptable he could be when the chips were down.
We follow The Personal History of David Copperfield with a simple amusement and a jolly good laugh at the eccentricities and gentle witticisms that seemed to light up most of Dickens novels. Copperfield is a smart gentleman of honour, well dressed and invariably equipped with a humorous turn of phrase. He invites himself almost enchantingly into the company of the well to do and then joins in with the light hearted banter of the working classes as if he were somehow ideally suited to the lifestyle.
At the beginning of David Copperfield we are led into a world that is more or less an autobiographical account of Dickens early years. With his father John imprisoned in a debtors jail, a young Dickens is forced to make a living in a bottling and blacking factory. Here we see David Copperfield guided around the hard, gruelling environment of a workplace where a thousand bottles would be hammered, bashed and pushed around a conveyor belt. Jairat Varsani was a young David Copperfield, shy and nervous but superb nonetheless. Dickens is of course galvanised into action when he realises that the harsh realities of Victorian society have left him with little alternative but to leave novel writing to a later date.
Now the wonderful Dev Patel as David Copperfield, the busybody Bronagh Gallagher as Mrs Micawber, the equally as charmingly downtrodden Nikki Amuka Bird as Mrs Steerforth and Darren Boyd as the prim, proper and puritanical Edward Murdstone are marvellously rounded and brilliantly illustrated characters who never fail to endear and enchant with their lightning quick wit.
Then we are introduced to the magnificently versatile Tilda Swinton, an actress of supreme accomplishment and verve, perfectly snobbish and condescending as Betsey Trotwood. Swinton is the comical, extremely likeable Trotwood, full of airs and graces, a woman with ideas way above her station.
And then there were the engagingly whimsical characters such as Mrs Gummidge played by Rosalen Lineman, the hard working butcher as performed by Phalput Sharma and the boatman aka Andy McSorley who gets into all kind of naval trouble in one of the film's more bizarre scenes. Daniel Fearn is a materialistic and money grabbing pawnbroker and finally there is the one man who seemed to capture the very essence of The Personal History of David Copperfield.
Peter Capaldi, recently of Paddington and Doctor Who fame, is quite the most resplendent and fabulous Mr Micawber. Wearing a coat of many colours and threadbare patches, Mr Micawber is funny, silly, dotty but always debonair. He carries a kite with him for all occasions with strange notes scattered all over the kite. His unforgettable kite flying moment, with the always calmly consummate Hugh Laurie as Mr Dick, is physical comedy at its best.
So go on treat yourself to another Dickens blockbuster. The literary craftsman whose global influence now straddles many a generation, has done it again in the multi layered film industry. If only the man who spun the most glorious of yarns could see what the class of 2020 has done to just one of his artworks then you suspect he would have been enormously flattered. How the man would have loved a good, old fashioned carton of popcorn. What a feast for the eyes!
You feel sure that had Charles Dickens still been alive then he may well have been a multi- billionaire by now and probably more famous than he was when he passed away in 1870. Then the quill and pen were his only means of self expression, whole chapters neatly scribbled away in the dim light of a flickering candle and his only distraction a night at the local theatre or ironically a well bound leather book by one of his contemporaries. He would have retired to bed with a hot cup of cocoa and another fertile collection of thoughts and images from the mind of a literary genius.
Little could he have imagined that at the beginning of the second decade of the 21st century his name and reputation would still be preserved and one of his typically delightful novels would be once again transferred so easily to the movie silver screen. You wonder what Dickens would have made of Hollywood, the studio system, the wildly inflated egos, the lavish film premieres, the red carpets, the glittering Oscar and Emmy awards ceremonies, the torturous private lives, the prima donnas and the big bucks.
And then another Dickens adaptation makes its way onto the cinema screens and all of your fond imaginings are once again brought to vivid life. Throughout the ages we've been bombarded with TV adaptations, much acclaimed and loved musicals and a whole host of varied interpretations of his vast output. It is perhaps a testament to his greatness that Dickens is still regarded as one of the greatest authors of all time, a novelist who observed life in its all shades and nuances, a man with the most remarkable imagination and almost certainly the most perceptive social commentator of any era.
In he Personal History of David Copperfield, we are taken on a journey as seen through the eyes of a man who witnessed both the poverty and wealth of a time and place when nothing else seemed to matter and laughter had to be the best medicine. Copperfield was very much a man for all seasons, a Victorian man about town who embraced all aspects of his social status and showed just how adaptable he could be when the chips were down.
We follow The Personal History of David Copperfield with a simple amusement and a jolly good laugh at the eccentricities and gentle witticisms that seemed to light up most of Dickens novels. Copperfield is a smart gentleman of honour, well dressed and invariably equipped with a humorous turn of phrase. He invites himself almost enchantingly into the company of the well to do and then joins in with the light hearted banter of the working classes as if he were somehow ideally suited to the lifestyle.
At the beginning of David Copperfield we are led into a world that is more or less an autobiographical account of Dickens early years. With his father John imprisoned in a debtors jail, a young Dickens is forced to make a living in a bottling and blacking factory. Here we see David Copperfield guided around the hard, gruelling environment of a workplace where a thousand bottles would be hammered, bashed and pushed around a conveyor belt. Jairat Varsani was a young David Copperfield, shy and nervous but superb nonetheless. Dickens is of course galvanised into action when he realises that the harsh realities of Victorian society have left him with little alternative but to leave novel writing to a later date.
Now the wonderful Dev Patel as David Copperfield, the busybody Bronagh Gallagher as Mrs Micawber, the equally as charmingly downtrodden Nikki Amuka Bird as Mrs Steerforth and Darren Boyd as the prim, proper and puritanical Edward Murdstone are marvellously rounded and brilliantly illustrated characters who never fail to endear and enchant with their lightning quick wit.
Then we are introduced to the magnificently versatile Tilda Swinton, an actress of supreme accomplishment and verve, perfectly snobbish and condescending as Betsey Trotwood. Swinton is the comical, extremely likeable Trotwood, full of airs and graces, a woman with ideas way above her station.
And then there were the engagingly whimsical characters such as Mrs Gummidge played by Rosalen Lineman, the hard working butcher as performed by Phalput Sharma and the boatman aka Andy McSorley who gets into all kind of naval trouble in one of the film's more bizarre scenes. Daniel Fearn is a materialistic and money grabbing pawnbroker and finally there is the one man who seemed to capture the very essence of The Personal History of David Copperfield.
Peter Capaldi, recently of Paddington and Doctor Who fame, is quite the most resplendent and fabulous Mr Micawber. Wearing a coat of many colours and threadbare patches, Mr Micawber is funny, silly, dotty but always debonair. He carries a kite with him for all occasions with strange notes scattered all over the kite. His unforgettable kite flying moment, with the always calmly consummate Hugh Laurie as Mr Dick, is physical comedy at its best.
So go on treat yourself to another Dickens blockbuster. The literary craftsman whose global influence now straddles many a generation, has done it again in the multi layered film industry. If only the man who spun the most glorious of yarns could see what the class of 2020 has done to just one of his artworks then you suspect he would have been enormously flattered. How the man would have loved a good, old fashioned carton of popcorn. What a feast for the eyes!
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