Another day.

Another day.

It is another day. Of course it is. There are times though when it must feel as if we've lost track of time, that the things we used to take for granted in our everyday lives have now been snatched away from us. Maybe we've become very blase since all those conventional patterns of our everyday lives are no longer the structured routines we had been accustomed to. We have now been sucked into a time warp, frightened of our shadows, walking on the other side of the road or street if the thought had even occurred to us.

A dark cloak of melancholy has fallen over the West End of London and the City of London. It is almost as though the whole of the capital city has been evacuated because some unexploded bomb can't be traced and all hope is gone. The traffic lights look devastated and crestfallen, neglected by humanity, sad and sorrowful as if all hope had gone, thrown into a permanently depressive state.

Everybody and everything has been taken away from the metropolis. The sound system is broken and it could be some time before somebody switches on the electricity and dynamism is restored to Britain and the world. There was a time when Piccadilly Circus was alive with the sound of inquisitive tourists, swarming around Eros, sitting, jumping, smiling, standing, scuttling, running up and down steps shuffling, buoyant, upbeat, full of the joys of whatever the season was. But now, for the time being at least, all that is gone.

There is a sense of desertion and rejection, of frustrated ambitions, scuppered dreams, daily normality now disrupted, the feeling that we can no longer do the things we'd like to do because of coronavirus. We used to go out everyday and go somewhere, be somewhere, do something, gathering together as friends and families, using our time positively, sharing pleasantries, verbalising and socialising, making small talk and pleasant conversation.

This sounds like the bleakest of social commentaries rather like one of George Orwell's more maudlin of post War essays. But you would never ever claim to be an Orwell because Orwell lived through those times and knew what he was talking about. These are the observations of the present day and besides what on earth would Orwell have made about high tech and social media in the 21st century. But the principle feels much the same. The people are scared stiff, a vast human population held down, held back, locked down, prevented from doing the simple things because they've now become impossibly complicated.

We keep hearing the familiar mantra every day all the time, sombre TV public commercials informing us that we are not to go out at all. We have all been reduced to a state of individuality because the collective has now been banned. If we go to the park we have to make sure that we're all at least three or four feet from each other. All contact with each other is now strictly taboo. We have become officially dehumanised, a very obvious liability and, dare you say it, social pariahs.

At the moment it probably feels as if we're living in some impenetrable fortress, barricaded in, gates pulled down, portcullis drawn, high security barbed wire and fence in place. You are not imprisoned as such since you can go for a walk, run or cycle. But where are you to go with that liberation, that rare luxury?

We are now living lives in mock celebration, pretending to do the things that we used to do but are no longer allowed to do so. Live web cam parties among families and friends are now very de rigeur, fashionably accepted as the norm. We can still talk to each other and see each other but can no longer share drink or food with kith and kin. There is still that horrible sense of detachment and alienation from each other that none of us thought we'd ever experience in our lifetimes.

The doom and gloom mongers will insist that the a nuclear bomb is about to go off, that a deadly radiation will finally get rid of the human race. Oh crazy man. What complete balderdash and nonsense. Where are we going to go? A hermetically sealed underground bunker perhaps. Or are we forever destined to walk around with those daft looking masks over our faces?

But fear not. Slowly but surely it does feel as if the coronavirus is no longer the deadly threat it has been up until now. Of course thousands and thousands of lives have been horrifically lost in both Spain, Italy and England. In Belarus, the footballers of the world have stuck up the proverbial two fingers at the wretchedly terrifying disease. They're playing football in front of thousands of fans and they just don't care if anybody becomes seriously ill. Make of that what you will. There can be no words.

For the time being though it seems as though small pockets of the world are criminally oblivious to the coronavirus, shrugging it off as just a rather nagging cold or a brief bout of severe flu. If Donald Trump had his way the whole of America would be behind its office desks immediately, bargaining with the rest of the world as though nothing had ever happened. And yet Trump just loves the publicity which insists all is well and that the coronavirus is just a simple piece of propaganda designed to unnerve him or unsettle his American people.

In the English Premier League football season the mad speculation, the rumour factory and the silly season is still upon us. Only the most foolish and foolhardy could possibly consider a continuation or resumption of a Premier League season which is now only nine matches from completion. Both the Olympic Games in Tokyo, the London Marathon, almost certainly Wimbledon tennis and all of Test cricket during the summer has now been either postponed or rightly cancelled.

Why oh why are both UEFA or the FA even thinking about a restart of the Premier League season at the beginning of May- perhaps? Of course football means a lot to all of us and is still the result we look for on either on a Saturday, Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday or Friday. As youngsters the creaky football terraces were effectively our second home and for some of us, still are. We now sit rather than stand which always seemed like the logical option. But now the stipulation is that all crowds and human gatherings are not to be allowed for the foreseeable future. Football has to recognise the harsh realities of the wider world rather than some fantasy land that nobody can believe. It has to be the only way to go.

So here is how it should be. Give the Premier League title to Liverpool now, scrap all relegation and promotion issues, expand the Premier League to 22 teams next season and start from scratch again in August. We would love to think that by August the health of the world will no longer be regarded as an emergency case. But let both Leeds and West Brom reach the promised land of the Premier League and we can all get back to doing what we were all doing before. It is time to forget the preposterous notion that the rest of the season should be played behind closed doors. How absurd!

This desert of nothing.

This desert of nothing.

With every passing day you begin to feel like one of those lost tribes wandering through the desert. We are now in Biblical times where David, Abraham, Issac, Jacob, Rachel and Sarah once so tirelessly roamed or perhaps it only seemed as though they had. Through dusty storms, turbulent times, endless trudging, all they had were their worldly belongings and perhaps a couple of sheep to keep them company. They wiped the sweat from fevered foreheads and made the best of it all. It must have seemed at the time that they were completely lacking in any sense of direction since there was nothing to guide them at all at the time.

The world has, quite literally turned into a real life version of Radio 4's timeless and celebrated Desert Island Discs in which none of us could possibly tell you what your favourite music was if they were marooned for an indefinite time. The late Roy Plomley would ask those intriguing questions, flirt with the women if the occasion was fitting and then we would all close our eyes in some romantic reverie, thinking back to  those rock and roll masters of their craft such as Bill Haley, Elvis Presley, Little Richard, Cliff Richard, Marty Wilde and Jerry Lee Lewis. Anything to lift the mood, shake off the despondency and relieve the prevailing worry.

But there are no desert islands around here and besides it can't be that bad. We are still an island and we are still a civilisation but increasingly the footsteps of humanity are becoming less audible with every hour, week, month and year. The streets of London are turning into a blank canvas, a crumpled piece of paper with little in the way of constructive suggestions or meaningful value on it. It is a yellowing parchment from many centuries ago where the small print is more or less illegible.

Wherever we go we find ourselves in the ultimate ghost town, a Wild West town where the saloon doors creak open ominously and the cowboys spit out their cigarettes with a brooding menace. Then the cavalry arrive in a procession of horses galloping towards the cactus bushes and firing off their rifles and guns just to remind you that they still rule the West. But there are no swinging doors here and there are no cowboys with stetson hats on their heads. This is much more serious than that.

For the last month or so the coronavirus disease has swept the globe rather like one of those unwelcome wintry blasts that bring with it barrel loads of snow, freezing winds, slush, ice and then yet more and more rain. It began in China, landed in Italy and then the rest of the world. This is the kind of disastrous pandemic which has killed thousands and left most of us completely dumbfounded.

Of course there was the Black Death during the Middle Ages, the Spanish flu that left a wretched trail of death during the First World War but now the 21st century is beginning to experience the same kind of fear and dread. There is a very chronic state of stagnation here, a nation gripped by something totally inexplicable, a nation frozen and immobilised by disease, pain and suffering.

Suddenly we find ourselves in a vaccum, our minds well and truly numbed, our coping mechanisms totally held hostage by events that none of us can possibly handle without the latest news and even then we're none the more enlightened. We get a whole sets of contradictory messages every day, repetitive slogans and a whole ticker tape of warm reassurances. The best advice of course is to stay at home which begins to sound more and more irritating and condescending by the day.

For those with the coronavirus this is not the kind of advice or guidance we may be looking for. Besides it's not as if any of us are going anywhere since everything is shut and even if we do venture out for a while we're likely to be arrested by the police. The wine bars have put up their shutters, the pubs are no go areas, the nightclubs have switched off the background music and everything is off limits, banned, postponed, banished to history and not about to open until somebody tells us that normal service can be resumed.

Yesterday you scanned the desolation that was the West End of London and thought you were dreaming yet again. Trafalgar Square left you with a broken heart, Piccadilly Circus looked as if it had been evacuated owing to the detonation of a Second World War unexploded bomb and Waterloo Bridge was just a grey landscape of lifeless roads, a River Thames that sparkled in the spring sunshine but was totally lacking in any kind of movement. Where once vast masses of marching feet had trodden there was now nothing but silence, solitude and despair.

We are now living lives that have changed dramatically if temporarily stifled, restricted and overwhelmed by a disease and illness that only the most erudite of doctors and professors can even begin to explain or clarify. The coronavirus, we are told, is not a severe bout of flu but something that has the potential to kill and thank goodness we may never suffer from. It'll leave you with a draining fever, a cough from hell and little else.

We are housebound for hours on end, allowed to go out for a specific period of time but then ordered to return to your warm, cosy home and just put your feet up. It is, after all Sunday and for those of a religious persuasion you should have been in church this morning. But hold on all churches have been shut so where do you take your place of worship? In the old days everything was closed anyway and only the local laundry was open for your dirty washing. You remembered carrying baskets of washing for your mum as a kid and suddenly discovering the paradise that was the drinks machine in the corner. A cup of hot chocolate was just what the doctor ordered and it was six old pence shrewdly spent.

But even religion has had to take a back seat or pew if your local chapel still has a closed door. There are no contemplative prayers or hymns, none of those resounding pieces of ancient ditties paying homage. The shopping malls have little to offer in the way of attractively priced merchandise, shelves still echoing and hollow now, tumbleweeds of crisp packets and sweet wrappers flying off into the distance.

And so here we are again baffled, weary and wary, listless and sluggish, confined to our castles of contentment, locked down, chained down, shackled by the laws and strictures, following the Government's hardline if sensible words of wisdom. We will continue to take our daily exercise routine of one exertion only, keep away from our families and friends before just being dictated by commonsense. It's hard, of course it's hard. It was never likely to be easy. But there will be light at the end of the tunnel.

In America, president Donald Trump is doing his utmost to play down the gravity of coronavirus. The country should go back to work as soon as possible. Don't panic Mr Trump. We're all immune from this destructive disease and once we get hold of vital supplies of ventilators everything will be just fine in the not too distant future. Trump has never been anything other than businesslike and pragmatic so we're all getting flustered about nothing. Soon the highways, byways and freeways of America will be seething with activity, men and women in Wall Street earning obscene amounts of money, millions of dollars changing hands in the blink of an eyelid.

So that's where we've been going wrong throughout this crisis. The end of the world is not nigh and we've all been reacting, unnecessarily melodramatic and if you listen to doctor Trump you'll all wake up tomorrow, heart pumping, blood pumping, arms and legs stretching with vigorous vim and vitality. If you go back to work and stop dwelling on coronavirus then nothing can possibly go wrong.

Here in Britain Prime Minister Boris Johnson has been laid low with the symptoms of coronavirus. He conducts his interviews from the safety of his video conference room. Johnson still looks careworn, eyes narrowing, hair noticeably blonder than ever before and in desperate need of a good, old fashioned dose of lemon and honey. He must be wishing that he'd seen the last of those tough, challenging days of Brexit and the future would just be plain sailing. Sadly the duties of a Prime Minister are always difficult, taxing and onerous. For Johnson coronavirus may represent his most daunting task of all. Keep well everybody and please stay at home. None of us can really go anywhere as such, anyway.

Applause, applause but what happened to London?

Applause, applause but what happened to London?


Last night the whole of Britain and the world broke out into spontaneous applause, a stunning show of hand clapping at its loudest, strongest and most resonant. There was a thunderous standing ovation, a rapturous reception for the National Health Service. For at least five minutes it genuinely felt as if we knew all our neighbours. There we were in front of our homes, standing proudly on our flat balconies, cheering hoarsely on our roads and streets from all points of the compass. We were united, harmonious, singing from the same hymn sheets and  powerful voices for the good things in life.

Of course it was time for mutual appreciation because we knew that the NHS were fully deserving of our fulsome praise, our vast national eulogy for everything the NHS stands for. We could never thank them enough, for being at the front line, fighting and attacking the rampant disease that is coronavirus. Some of us may have been reduced to floods of tears because our emotions have taken a severe pummelling but our gratitude will forever be forthcoming.

There is a very real sense that the entire world has ground to a standstill. But last night we wiped our eyes with a handkerchief, looking around us in a state of bewilderment and not knowing where to turn our heads. We were effusively thankful to the National Health Service because we knew that without them we would never be able to claim, at any point during our lives, that we were in the rudest health and when we needed them they were just there to offer a comforting shoulder to cry on or an understanding face.

And so we acknowledged for perhaps the millionth time the remarkable contribution made by all of those wonderfully knowledgeable doctors, nurses, surgeons and medical maestros who have performed such astonishing feats in the face of extreme adversity. Somehow though we have carried on with lives both stoically and bravely, exercising once a day, keeping a respectful distance from our fellow human beings but still worrying, still deeply concerned, not agonising about our own health as such because at the moment life is still healthy, sweet and straightforward.

At the back of our minds though is the lingering anxiety, a private anguish about the prospect of going outdoors in case we bump into somebody who simply can't help their coughing or an unexpected bout of sneezing. There has been a conscious and determined effort to keep a calm head and not to think about anything that could be remotely considered as negative. We look at the TV news, listening to our radios, checking social media quite rigorously and then just sticking together since there can be no other alternative.

But yesterday you couldn't help but wonder at the hugely detrimental effect that the coronavirus is having on not only the whole of Britain but for those of us who live on the outskirts of London. It was now that you cast your curious eyes on the West End of London. You gasped with shock and horror at the capital city, the once thriving theatre land that had now been darkened and silenced, now closed for business for the duration and how long would be anybody's guess. It almost seems as if somebody has pulled the plug out of the socket and turned the volume right down.

Piccadilly Circus, that flashing, flickering, dancing, bustling, bristling and electrifying hub of everything entertaining, had now been subdued, a no man's land, empty husk, a haunting wilderness, a picture of gravity, sombreness and almost grief. The buskers in the Tube station had long gone and there was not a soul in sight on the streets. A pitiful handful of Route Master buses were inching forward painfully and awkwardly, as if acutely aware of some deeply unfortunate set of circumstances.

All around Eros there were those colourful, high tech neon signs that once promoted a whole host of electrical goods, junk food and endless varieties of soft drinks which were no longer the visible presence they had once been so prominently. You could, quite literally, count the number of people on your fingers since they knew that the West End had felt lost, deserted and betrayed, abandoned for the time being because we were all frightened to visit it. It must have felt a deep sense of loneliness and of course the obvious isolation, privately crying and totally inconsolable because nobody wanted it anymore.

Briefly, you turned your attention to Trafalgar Square, once the home of a million pigeons and now just a soulless playground with just acres of desolate pavements. The National Portrait Gallery and the National Gallery had no identity, no tourists at all or very few that we could see and around the whole of Trafalgar Square there was nothing to commend it as one of the most atmospheric squares in the world.  Those magnificent lions, alongside the formidable Nelson's Column, once the pride and joy of the West End of London, were on their own.

These are extraordinary times and it's hard to remember a time in our lives when anything like this has ever been experienced on such a monumental scale. It almost feels as if 2020 hasn't really begun if only because very little of any significance has happened. January and February have gone through the motions, shivering and getting ever so slightly wet and drenched at times but then the rains seem to have petered out. But March! Well, don't get us started on that one. We were doing very nicely thanks until we stopped talking about Brexit. Then we found ourselves trying desperately hard to focus on some unknown but destructive disease and pandemic.

This morning it was revealed that Prime Minister Boris Johnson has now been diagnosed with COVID 19 or the symptoms of the coronavirus. It may have been before your time but you can possibly compare the events of the present day to the 1950s TV science fiction horror show that was Quatermass where aliens with menacing intent would wipe out massive swathes of the human population. HG Wells would grimly recount tales of apocalyptic destruction and spacecrafts would hover over the world with equally as menacing force. But this has to be a horrible dream, It will go away and we know it will.

But this is not the time for gloom and pessimism, fearful and portentous events which could lead to a hellish breakdown of communication. There will be an imminent recovery because this can't be allowed to continue or get out of our control. Thousands of lives have been lost and many more have been quarantined, self isolated and told quite categorically that they had to stay at home. However, this is time to look forwards rather than back.

Eventually though we will pull through and we will get there.  The renowned British resilience, the strong spine of resolve and determination will undoubtedly triumph. The scientific experts know for a fact that vaccines can be discovered in productive laboratories so surely this can only be a matter of time. We will conquer coronavirus and we will strike out into greener pastures, breathing the brisk, invigorating air of the Yorkshire Dales and the Lake District. We will get back to some semblance of normal life, we can shop once again to our heart's delight and we will travel around the cities, the shires, counties, towns and market stalls of Britain free from fear and apprehension.

Across the council estates, the snug villages with their distinctive air of privacy, the semi detached and terraced houses, the lush green fields, the richly melodious farmlands with their ageless sheep and cows, hope will be restored. Britain will once again revisit its gyms and libraries, its post offices and chemists with a song in its heart. Of course it may not seem like it at the moment but to those who may despair we have to believe that the world will indeed be given a complete bill of good health. Hold on everybody. We've been told to stay safe repeatedly and we will. Rest assured.

Coronavirus - no more Olympic heroes

Coronavirus.

So here we are again desperately trying to avoid each other, making sense of it all, diagnosing and self diagnosing. It's at times like this when your heart goes out to the ever benevolent National Health Service, the warmly compassionate and naturally caring NHS. Suddenly, every hospital and doctors surgery in the land has now become the centre of the universe. This is now a critical breaking point for those whose job it is to extend the warm hand of love, solicitude, affection and tenderness.

Yesterday we were informed of the latest casualty of coronavirus. To say we were distinctly unsurprised would be a understatement because we knew that it was inevitable and, to be perfectly honest, it should have been one of the first sporting events to be postponed until further notice. The International Olympic Committee, in its infinite wisdom, have called off this year's Olympic Games scheduled to be held in Tokyo. We celebrated the announcement if only because we knew that it would have been utter madness to even contemplate holding the Games when most of the globe is now suffering the worst medical crisis of, quite possibly, all time.

By now most of us should know everything there is to know about those traditional, well entrenched Olympian ideals: togetherness, unity, sportsmanship and fair play. The four rings that have always represented athletic excellence and physical virtuosity will now have to be briefly condemned to another place in history. Now the Games will have to be delayed and postponed until next year. The spirit of taking part coined by Baron De Coubertin all those decades and centuries ago now sounds quite hollow. Now commonsense should tell us that everyday health takes complete priority to the distance that a discus is propelled, a hammer is thrown or the speed achieved in a 100metres Final.

Of course we were looking forward to the middle distance athletes striving and straining to break every record in the book. We couldn't wait to see those phenomenal 800 and 1500 metres runners jostling together in a pack for the final back straight before the valiant pace setter almost politely allowed the more experienced performer the right to kick for the finishing line. We celebrated the gold, the silver and the bronze medals, the pulsating drama, the engrossing spectacle, the memorable cheering from the crowds, the thrilling accomplishment of it all.

There was the glorious crowning of the fastest men and women in the world, the sad recognition that Usain Bolt has now retired and we wouldn't be acknowledging Bolt's successor. We gasped with stunned admiration when Bolt sprinted like a cheetah, lengthened those basketball type legs and glided majestically over the finishing line at the end of a 100metres Final. We knew we were witnessing history since we were sure that here was one man who had so completely monopolised one sporting discipline for so long. We knew that although Bolt was ever so slightly sluggish out of the starting block he would still eat up the ground and win the 100m by several country miles.

Then we would think about the Olympic gymnasium hall where the supple, lissome and gracefully perfect Olga Korbut and Nadia Comaneci had once so enchanted an Olympic audience. We were wowed by their grace, their almost feline flexibility, their flip flopping, their acrobatic dexterity, their unique artistry on the mat, the poetic interpretations of their routines and those quaint finger gestures as they somersaulted magnificently, swung on the pommel horse and then executed miracles on the bars.

And then we realised that the Olympic swimming pool would not be occupied by its aquatic heroes with their all seeing goggles, those powerful shoulders, their ripped, muscular physique, that insatiable hunger and appetite for victory. We remembered the American Mark Spitz in the tragic 1972 Munich Olympic Games who mopped up seven gold medals and swum like the proverbial fish. We willed home Sharon Davies, Plymouth's finest, home to a gold medal, Duncan Goodhew and all those world beating British heroes of the Olympic swimming pool.

Now we recalled that astonishing Olympic Games of Moscow 1980 when sporting politics threatened its continuation. Then, in a bat of an eyelid, we rightly saluted the eye popping achievements of Steve Ovett and Sebastian Coe who were supposed to win gold medals in their event but then discovered that both had got slightly mixed up. Coe and Ovett won both of their middle distance conflicts in the wrong order. But who cared since we were just delighted that both had captured the nation's imagination.

Sadly though now this year's Olympics in Tokyo has to be completely forgotten for the most obvious reasons. Sport has been banished to the sidelines, an utter irrelevance, totally meaningless and just a historical footnote. Coronavirus has been relegated sport to the sidelines, a small and remote corner of our consciousness.

Yesterday Boris Johnson effectively shut down a vast majority of the nation's everyday life. Shops selling non essential products have been ordered to put the shutters up, libraries, gyms, churches and schools have now faced a similar fate and the society that had hitherto been functional, thriving and healthy is no longer the force it once was. We must wish and hope that sooner rather than later normal service will be restored and the world engage with each other with all the enthusiasm that most of us would have taken granted. Stay safe and keep well everybody.

Are we all OK?

Are we all OK?

So how are we out there everybody? Are we bearing up under the strain of it all? This could be a very long and drawn out ordeal and the sooner we get used to it the better it's likely to be for us all. Yes folks. We're all in this together. This maybe the ideal time for global solidarity, worldwide composure and just a thought for the cats and dogs out there who probably haven't got a clue what's going on in the human world.

It is hard to know whether to laugh or cry, mope or sulk, fret or worry, thinking too deeply on what might have been had the coronavirus remained just a temporary news story that simply vanished as soon as it had arrived. But now this is getting too serious for words and we've certainly read, seen or heard plenty about COVID 19, the virus that has tragically killed hundreds and thousands in Italy, ripped the heart out of most of Europe and left most of us clinging on desperately for any hint of good news. The world is now confronting perhaps one of the most deadly diseases in recent history.

But we're not going to be downhearted or are we? After all, we fought two world wars, the English civil war, the Wars of the Roses, overcome the evil of tinpot dictators and then emerged with a relieved smile when the IRA reached a Good Friday agreement. Sadly though, we are now faced with a viral war which isn't our fault but is altogether more insidious, a disease that is much more than infectious in as much as most of us wake up now every day hoping that the coronavirus will simply pass us by.

Still though we remain in a parlous state of lockdown. Now we have yet another topical viral word to add to our medical dictionary. Did anybody see that one coming? How to explain a lockdown? This one sounds too threatening and frightening for anybody's imagination to handle. You're reminded of that notorious radio broadcast made by actor Orson Welles on American radio that was so terrifying that the whole of America hid behind the sofa, teeth chattering, sweat pouring off their foreheads and then quaking at the awful realisation that the world was about to end.

And yet here we are stranded, stuck, playing the waiting game, biting our fingernails and not at all sure whether to go out for some fresh air or just vegetate indoors while privately wishing that it is indeed a bad dream. We spend most of our days hanging on to the every word of the BBC, ITV, Channel 4 and 5 or Sky news agenda before just accepting what will be will be.

The official Government line and Boris Johnson take on matters is, it has to be said, inexplicably patronising and pathetically incomprehensible. For a man with a huge intellect and academic brilliance, Johnson reminds you of a man who doesn't quite know what to do when something which should have been explained to him over and over again is just lost in the translation.

The Johnson podium tells us that the NHS is still protecting us but for all the world, Johnson is none the wiser as to what plan of action he should resort to when the NHS might be having difficulties in protecting themselves. Doctors, surgeons and all of those admirably qualified medical experts are frantically rushing around hospital wards, scampering and scurrying around laboratories, Accident and Emergency before a mad, chaotic bedlam ensues that sadly looks as though it may get worse before it gets better.

It's very much a case of all hands to the pump. Of course there is the spirit of wartime defiance and a relentless insistence that eventually the coronavirus will disappear as soon as the first summer breeze drifts languidly over Britain's bracing seaside resorts. We are stuck and we are trapped. Then Boris orders us to stay at home in case we're all struck with a sudden thunderbolt. If you don't stay at home then Boris may feel compelled to lock you inside your humble dwelling and not let you out until you behave yourself at either the supermarkets or any place where the presence of humanity is still among us.

It's time for lockdown, social distancing, and self isolation. These are the three voguish expressions that have captured the imagination of every person who takes a careful, mental note of this constantly evolving English language. Every evening now Boris Johnson is joined by a distinguished professor or medical genius with words that sound so much more constructive than Johnson's mealy mouthed words of comfort.

Every day now Johnson continues to rattle off a whole artillery of bullet points and clarifications of Press releases that he may have been required to remember in a matter of seconds. He eventually runs out of pertinent advice, bumbling, tripping over his sentences and grasping at something profoundly moving before just ending his speeches with three quick soundbites if only to remind the nation that he has got a handle on this seemingly interminable crisis. Regrettably though, it all peters out into verbal anti climax.

We know what he's trying to say but for the life of us there is nothing joined up or coherent about him. The Old Etonian cadences are still smooth and roll off the tongue quite neatly but there are moments through the daily updates when he needs somebody to prompt him or keep up his spirits. He jabs his fingers at TV crews, health editors on the national newspapers and then wipes away beads of sweat once again. He stares intently at any friendly face in the Press audience prepared to listen to him and understand his thinking. He looks as though he may be fighting a losing battle.

The Johnson eyes are forever swivelling from side to side, darting across the room in the hope that something of a radical breakthrough might come to his rescue. But woe betide anybody with the revolutionary vaccine that will stop this coronavirus in its tracks permanently. He continues to address members of the Press with that chummy first name reference but never knows whether anything is hitting the mark or indeed reaching out to his British public.

The thought occurs to you that Johnson could reasonably be compared to his wartime hero and fellow Tory Winston Churchill. At the end of the Second World War, Churchill was rightly claimed to be the hero of all time and the ultimate saviour of the British people. The truth of the matter though was that for all his bravura and derring do Churchill was still regarded as a middle class toff who spent most of his time smoking expensive cigars at posh dinner parties. And this is the point where Johnson finds himself completely misunderstood.

Johnson, for all of his bright and shiny positivity and sunny optimism, is now surrounded by much darker clouds. He promised Britain that once the country had achieved Brexit and the withdrawal from the European Union then we'd all be jolly for the rest of our lives.  That was all well and good. That one has been ticked off. Now though he will gaze out of his Downing Street window with a gloom and foreboding that even he couldn't have expected. A worldwide disease is wrecking his image and only he can fix this one.

Still, Britain we may trust that we'll all get through this one as we always have throughout the dusty archives of history. We'll close our doors on the outside world, becoming stiflingly claustrophobic into the bargain and afraid to venture out for so much as a pint of milk. We'll queue patiently outside chemists because only one individual may be allowed across the threshold. We'll talk to people with a sympathetic smile, wonder at the sheer variety of masks on show and then walk onwards and upwards, rationalising all the time something that is beyond our comprehension while also twiddling our thumbs. Hold on though Britain. We've done this before and we'll do it again. Keep smiling everybody.

It's all very worrying and unnerving.

It's all very worrying and unnerving.

Slowly but surely the streets are emptying, the roads almost completely devoid of any semblance of traffic and the whole world now seems to be on tenterhooks. It feels like one of those frequently frightening Doctor Who episodes where the daleks have already invaded, the cyber men have left a trail of wreckage and millions of people around the world have locked their doors fearful of something quite calamitous and fin de siecle. We haven't quite reached the end of the world or the century for that matter but to judge by the state of some of our leading supermarkets it could all be over by midnight tonight.

The coronavirus has hijacked all of our innermost feelings, held hostage our ability to think lucidly and sensibly and then made us think twice about going anywhere for the rest of the year. Surely this can't last and there has to be an end in sight. For roughly the best part of a fortnight the good citizens of the world have been disabled, restricted, restrained, limited and constrained by forces completely out of their control. They can no longer function in a way that would have been considered as both acceptable, normal or straightforward. They have been instructed to behave in a way that is totally anathema to them because it doesn't seem right and besides you just have to get on with it.

And yet we can't. We've become social outcasts, no longer allowed to mix comfortably with our fellow human beings in case everybody around is chronically infected. Social interaction has been strictly forbidden and if you so much as sneeze or cough you're likely to be quarantined or arrested, sentenced to an indefinite period in your living room and then just left to find things to do which can alleviate any sense of boredom or fatigue. At this rate we may have to climb several walls or just summon our powers of improvisation.

Not for the first time since the declaration of the coronavirus crisis certain new buzzwords and phrases have suddenly entered our everyday dialogue and speech. Isn't it interesting how the news agendas of recent years have engendered a whole new language? For three complete years Brexit dominated every TV news bulletin and radio phone in to the exclusion of almost every other subject. Then Brexit was joined by Brexiteers followed hard on the heels by snowflakes and finally both hard and soft Brexit just to spice up the syntax. We were being introduced to a curious and totally baffling set of words that simply beggared belief.

So it is that we have now been lumbered with another collection of verbal oddities. This is the course of action we should take if we're afflicted with coronavirus or its symptoms. Yes folks. Here's the sage medical advice from the powers that be. We have to live in a state of self isolation because if we don't we'll have to make sure that we do because nobody is likely to come anywhere near you. Let's just partake in a spot of self isolating since this is the stern directive from the Government and our eminent medical officers.

Now we're all aware of the meaning of the word 'isolation'. The Oxford English Dictionary, you feel sure defines 'isolation' as a state of being alone, lonely, without company, on your own or secluded and seclusion in a manner of speaking. But self isolation has now assumed its very own place in the modern vernacular. In fact right up to today those with the symptoms of coronavirus have been told to self isolate which sounds just a bit sinister but isn't really when you think about it.

Then Ladies and Gentlemen we find that we have to adopt yet more grammatical eccentricity. Not content with 'self isolation' which  in itself sounds slightly disconcerting we also have to deal with 'social distancing' which sounds like something you'd find in any updated version of any sociology text book. Are we to assume here that Britain should just cut off all links with every other human being in both Britain and the rest of the world? Do all families and friends simply sever all links with each other entirely or do we just keep a wide berth from each other for at least the rest of the year.

Of course this is not the time for flippancy or sarcasm because all of us are both anxious, nervous and ever so slightly petrified. But now we have to make absolutely sure that we just keep us far away from each other as its possible to be. These are desperately worrying times since none of us can be sure how to approach each other. We've been gelling and washing our hands vigorously for quite a while now but the truth is that our hands have never been cleaner and you could almost reach the point of the Obsessive Compulsive Disorder syndrome.

The facts are these though. All UK schools will shut gates sometime this afternoon for the duration, students taking their GCSEs and A Levels will have to wait another year or perhaps the education authorities will come up with some brilliant plan to keep the minds of their pupils stimulated. But surely the incentive to swot up on those life changing exams has now gone. Who on earth would be a politician at the moment? More importantly who would be either a GP, virologist or surgeon in the current climate? It is quite the most unenviable task for anybody in the medical profession and oh what a nightmare.

But then we look at our great Prime Minister Boris Johnson and those daily medical updates. Faced with the world media, Johnson continues to give the impression of a man who as a child paid absolutely no attention in biology classes at school. Of course he has to keep us informed of the latest developments and surely knows what he's talking about but then there comes a point in a Prime Minister's life when you just haven't got definitive answers to seemingly insoluble problems.

Ever since the appearance of those daily press conferences Johnson has been constructing a whole host of stock answers without quite being prepared for the next question. Then when it all seems to dry up on him he looks to his medical officers and scientists for comfort and solace. You'll have to forgive Boris Johnson because he's not a doctor and there are so many variations on a theme.

At the moment Johnson looks a bit pale, under the weather, understandably stressed out and tired. The body language is that of a man who would much rather be catching up with his sleep or just concentrating on a follow up to his book on Sir Winston Churchill. The eyes look puffy and glazed. The hair has more or less given up on him and that suit has almost become attached to him permanently. Apart from that, all is well but you suspect that here is a man who longs to be free of a crisis which he must have thought had gone away from his attention last year. Then there was the next one.

Still, Britain has to remain calm and composed. We've been here before and we know what to do. If you're off to the supermarket or anywhere for that matter then please be careful. There are only so many bottles of washing up liquid, tins of food, eggs and loo paper you can squeeze into that trolley of yours. There is still an air of desperation in Britain but bulking up on everyday supplies of food to bursting point can never be the answer.

This is not the age of war time rationing nor will the nation run out of Corn Flakes or baked beans. The world will not, assuredly finish tomorrow afternoon at 3.25pm. Nor will all of our notable food emporiums run out of soap, water, Easter eggs, matzo, chutney sauce, eggs, flour, bread or milk. The supermarket shelves tell their own story however and that has to be a source of major concern.

Perhaps the most moving image of yesterday's news agenda could be found in a sobbing nurse at the end of her tether at the steering wheel of her car. Tears pouring from her eyes she explained to us that there was no fruit or vegetables to be found in her local shops and that people should just stop panicking. So people of the world it may be advisable to listen to our caring and compassionate nurse. She has our best interests at heart and simply wants us to be healthy and well. 

Coronavirus confusion.

Coronavirus confusion.

It is hard to know what to make of this all. Our senses have been seemingly suspended, our mindsets gripped with fear, anxiety, terror, cynicism, total confusion and utter bewilderment. We have never experienced anything on such a monumental scale and we really don't know which way to go or to whom we should communicate with because reports from all sides suggest that the end of the world is nigh. But oh definitely not and we can exercise both rational thinking, commonsense and calm reasoning. There is a logic here, a proper medical and scientific explanation for coronavirus.

And yet coronavirus is here, a terrifying reality and something that may be with us for some time. For well over a month the TV and radio news bulletins have announced a series of stringent measures reminding  everybody regardless of age, class and background that coronavirus is here to stay and has to be cured sooner rather than later. The unsettling circumstances are such that all of us have been  left  in a state of high voltage dread, trembling trepidation and a sense that control has been completely taken away from us.

Around the world panic buying in vast supermarkets has spread throughout the globe in a way that none of us could have possibly predicted. How though do we categorise coronavirus because if we are to believe some this could turn into a national catastrophe? But then a small, still voice at the back of our minds keeps pleading us not to over react, not to empty shelves of commerce, food, drink, clothes, basic necessities and the kind of products that could be considered as essential to everyday existence.

At the moment though quite literally everything seems to have ground to a standstill, the pavements are more or less deserted, the trains and buses winding down and slowly disappearing, people wandering the streets on egg shells, nervously looking behind them in case they may be in too close  proximity to each other.

For this the way it has to be. Suddenly a horrendous outbreak of surgical looking masks have appeared on the faces of Britain. If they're not covered up against deeply apprehensive eyes, necks or cheeks then at all times there has to be some subconscious assurance that the mask will simply fend off any airborne diseases with the potential to lead to some far more serious condition. We are far from reaching the point of chronic paranoia but the truth is that there are some of us who would be entitled to feel extremely scared.

On a Piccadilly Line London tube train, you spotted a number of people with faces that had been totally submerged by either hoodie coats or balaclava hats. The bobble hat is very much the fashion statement of the moment. Throughout all the carriages there must have been an atmosphere the like of which would have seemed impossible to comprehend at the beginning of the year. You could, quite literally, count the number of people in any of the carriages and an eerie emptiness rapidly filled the train. The morning rush hour had subsided and so had the train itself on a horribly distressing scale.

There is a very real sense of dumbfounded bemusement, a genuine feeling that none of us have a clue what to do next, an aching desire to know much more than has been told to us so far. The critics have led us to believe that there has been a complete lack of leadership from the government, very little in the way of a comprehensive report on the subject of coronavirus and at this rate the whole country may to have to be shut down indefinitely.

Back in the supermarkets of the world, supplies of toilet paper, eggs, pasta, bread and milk while not quite disturbingly slow are still sufficiently worrying for a wider public who are still baffled. Groaning shopping trolleys are full to the brim with masses of tinned, frozen or everyday products that were once thought to be plentiful. The shelves are of course are a wasteland, a hollow wilderness where everything was once filled to capacity but are now just sadly bare, barren and frighteningly out of stock for who knows how long.

For sports fans around the world, stadiums and grounds are now nothing more than desert lands, audience participation at some of the most welcoming and accessible events now reduced to just a muted whisper. In Britain, football, tennis, the Grand National, the Boat Race and the London Marathon have been postponed, cancelled and sidelined by a disease that has somehow defied any description if only because very few of us know anything about it.

It is at times like this that we begin to wonder whether normal service will ever be resumed. How long will the tribalism and communal belonging that have come to define football ever be seen again this season? Football fans love to be in the same company as each other, love to cheer and swear cathartically perhaps because there is a vital need to let out all their pent up frustrations. Call it the herd or the pack mentality but the game has now become sanitised, purged off its fun, excitement and tension.

Everything has been stopped, paused, left hanging by a thread and the world has been condemned to a dark room, a place where the sound and fury of modern society has now been silenced, subdued and deprived of its natural stage. At the moment there is no environment, no recreational space for play, the wholesome joys of exercise or sport. We have been advised not to socialise, emotionally or physically interact with each other until the strictures have been lifted. We have been ordered to wash our hands thoroughly, to go through the whole process over and over again.

Above all, human interaction, once regarded as a given and a perfectly normal activity, has now assumed a different position in our everyday business with each other. We can still talk to each other and be in the same room as each other but the sense of keeping a distance and apartness is now much more acceptable and the preferred choice.

We are, certainly for the time being, no longer the architects of our destiny since the things we used to take for granted are no longer part of our traditional routine. How often should we clean our hands? When are we going to be given the green light to go back to enjoying the things that came naturally to us and are now wary of with a truly ingrained suspicion?

It is at times like this when we fall back on our coping mechanisms because the life that had hitherto been so settled and smooth running has now been severely disrupted and disturbed. We are now understandably jumpy, sensitive, restless, prepared for whatever the immediate future may hold but the vulnerable side of our personalities may be affected because the plans we might have made are now in tatters- at least temporarily.

Of course this may be the time to re-schedule the timetable of our lives in a way that somehow feels appropriate for us. This is not for the time for the apocalypse, nor are we heading for a global calamity. There has to be a part of us that recognises the severity of the situation we find ourselves in but would like to feel that life will return to its conventional rhythms and themes as soon as possible.So it's onwards and upwards for the global population. Coronavirus will be beaten and the good folk of the world will once again find its everyday footing. So let's keep calm and remain positive. It's the only way to be. 

Roy Hudd- a gentleman and showbiz entertainer par excellence.

Roy Hudd- a gentleman and showbiz entertainer par excellence.

Roy Hudd, who today died at the age of 83, was the quiet man of showbusiness, a man with no airs or graces, no skeletons in any cupboard and no hidden agenda. For well over 60 years Hudd trod the boards of some of Britain's grandest and oldest music halls and theatres with his very unique and distinctive style.

He was, by turns, extremely funny, charming, sharply observant, irreverent at times, full of occasional end of pier seaside innuendo, witty asides and overflowing with tales of fellow professionals, capturing the absurdities of the era with wonderfully measured gags about politics and politicians. There was a salty flavour about Hudd's sense of humour which never really deserted him and by the time the 1950s  had become the second decade of the 21st century, Hudd was still biting, acerbic and garrulously gossipy.

Above all though Hudd will always be remembered for the long running BBC Radio 2 Sunday lunchtime programme the News Huddlines, a perfect vehicle for a man of Hudd's rich seam of many talents. Accompanied by the always enchanting June Whitfield, Roy Hudd was never short of a humorous remark about everything and anything, his finger on the pulse of all the latest news developments and the giddy 1960s pop culture that surrounded him almost constantly./

But it was his encyclopaedic knowledge of the music hall, old comedians and comediennes that set him apart from his peers. He would think nothing of holding court on the likes of the great, old time comics such as Will Hay, Max Miller, the inimitable Flanagan and Allen with their unforgettable Underneath the Arches and most of the more modern contemporaries who had done so much tickle his funny bone as well.

During the 1970s Hudd was a frequent guest on the BBC's glorious The Good Old Days, a variety show that wallowed in Victorian nostalgia, insisting that the whole audience to join in with jaunty versions of music hall songs in the costume of that period. Hudd's infectious smile and jolly hockey sticks routine endeared him fully to his vast network of admirers. Hudd had a natural rapport with his fans that spanned four decades before age rapidly mellowed him.

There was a gentle and inoffensive naughtiness about Hudd's comedy that could be considered as quite definitely politically incorrect in the modern era. Hudd was mischievous, impudent, cutting at times but never outrageous. Frequently taking the role of wartime comedian Bud Flanagan, Hudd loved to stroll across the stage with the Flanagan coat and hat as if it were something he was destined to do on stage.

Naturally Hudd fondly indulged himself in frequent trips down memory lane, wartime reminiscences that seemed to flood from his act like a warm tap of beer that spills over a pub pint. Hudd would often talk about his parents, grandparents, cousins, aunts and uncles with all the affection that he could muster. There were references to the Blitz, the pounding that London had taken by Hitler and the Luftwaffe and the Anderson shelter that his family would always retreat to when the guns were at their loudest and bombs were raining down from the war scarred skies.

Hudd, Croydon born, continued to entertain Britain through bleakness and triumph, jubilation and disaster. Throughout the News Huddlines, Hudd would never take life seriously and always see the lighter side of life even when it all looked as if the darker shades would drag everybody into the ground.

With the passing of Roy Hudd, Britain has not only lost one of its upright gentlemen but a man for all seasons. Hudd was never seen stumbling out of seedy nightclubs, a man of courtesy and dignity, a showman who deeply respected the manners of the day and believed quite fervently that the audience who had come along to see him should never ever be disappointed. The world of showbusiness story tellers has lost one of its more cherished friends.

Spectator sports, the football Premier League season postponed until further notice.

Spectator sports, the football Premier League postponed until further notice.

It hardly seems possible but it's true. All public gatherings and sporting spectacles will now be postponed until further notice. The shocking news was announced to gasps of disbelief and stunned amazement. The Premier League, Championship, Leagues One and Two and Scottish Premier League  will now be hidden away from view because the epidemic and now pandemic coronavirus has struck its biggest blow into the heart of not only football but all manner of events where sport attracts its biggest audiences.

Even now it is hard to believe that for roughly three weeks - or perhaps longer- all of those highly anticipated sporting perennials will have to go on hold at least until such time as vaccines are to be found for what is slowly turning into the most frightening setback to both the remainder of the Premier League season and of course a whole variety of sports where huge droves of people gather.

Next month of course the London Marathon was once again scheduled to take place on the friendly streets of London, a force for good and the most unifying of influences where some of the finest long distance athletes pit their wits against a whole host of diligent club runners. Then there are  the inevitable procession of colourful costumes and frivolous souls who just love to dress up for the day.

But for football in Britain and across the world, the lack of any football may leave some of us with more than just a case of pining for a lost friend. This is one of those unprecedented developments within the game that none of us could have legislated for under any circumstances. Football is sometimes a matter of routine and habit for most football supporters and when that continuity is suddenly halted by a major health issue it is hard to find any of the appropriate words to soothe the fevered brow.

It should be pointed out that this is not the end of the world for football nor should this ever be considered as such. But the facts are simple. Liverpool are literally hours away from wrapping up their first Premier League title and their first League title of any description since 1990. But quite incredibly, fate may come to rob them of their most triumphant moment at Anfield for a number of generations.

Even now Liverpool's personable boss Jurgen Klopp must be hoping and wishing desperately that the corona virus will just leave these shores as quickly as possible. The intervention of a devastating global pandemic is the last thing football needs at a time during the season when critical relegation and promotion battles are resolved. We are now into the final stages of a ridiculously one sided Premier League season where the red of Liverpool have followed in the identical footsteps of their sky blue North West neighbours Manchester City in clinching the Premier League title before the first cuckoos of spring.

Usually football seasons are normally interrupted by the weather. In the 1962- 63 season the old First Division was trapped by the deepest of wintry freezes. From just before Christmas to early springtime football was frozen out by incessant snow, thick piles of snow which signified a complete lockdown of the game for weeks and months. By the time Manchester United beat Leicester City in the 1963 FA Cup Final the first daffodils had just appeared in parks and gardens across Britain.

But this time a health pandemic has rendered the game motionless, helpless in the face of something the FA or the rest of us can have no control over. The questions have to be asked and then answered. Is there any point in resuming the Premier League season at the beginning of April when quite clearly it has to be recognised that the season will have to be drawn out until at least the end of May or maybe early June?

How will the FA set out a plan of action where both players and managers will have to be both mentally and emotionally prepared for those make or break, end of season tussles? When will the FA Cup Final be pencilled in for now? What about those vital, money spinning promotion play offs, the glut of friendlies before England's European Championship campaign which could be postponed until next year now. It all begins to look impossibly crowded and complicated. In a hidden corner of Soho Square you suspect that some of the most influential FA movers and shakers are trembling with panic and fear.

There remains the distinct possibility of course that even if the Premier League does come out of its current crisis it may have to play its matches behind closed doors. Now the prospect of watching the final nail biting games of the season against a backdrop of no fans and empty terraces just doesn't seem imaginable. It is rather like asking enthusiastic theatre goers to stay at home rather than watch a memorable West End musical in their hundreds and thousands every week of the night.

Here we are though at the start of a three week footballing hiatus, a haunting, chilly silence will descend and the predominant emotion is incredulity. For almost a month now the learned commentators, the thought provoking pundits, the TV talking heads, the radio phone in callers from far and wide, will be passing on their considered and at times irrational remarks on why, how and if the game can ever be the same again. Of course they're frustrated, of course they're biting their tongues because they are the ones who spend enormous amounts of hard earned money to travel around the country with their team and then deliver complaints over and over again when it all goes wrong again.

This could prove to be a fascinating study in football fans body language and behaviour. Do they just sit at home and quite possibly think what might have been or do they occupy their Saturday afternoon in the pub reflecting on halcyon days past when everything in football had an air of certainty and finality about it? Maybe they'll retire to the bookmakers and just stare at the TV screens as the horsey racecourses of Britain try to salvage the broken wreckage of a day without football. Or perhaps they'll accompany their girlfriends and wives on that long awaited expedition to the shops and department stores of Britain?

And what treats will lie in stores for our handsomely paid footballers. Will they pass the day communicating with their social media acquaintances, fixing shelves or perhaps painting the walls in all manner of garish colours. There is a great deal of time to be usefully taken up with whatever their choice of activity is. Some with time on their hands may resort to the papers or magazines for the latest kiss and tell stories about their fellow colleagues. Perhaps they may decide to scribble derogatory tales about their fellow professionals night time habits.

For the BBC though legions of Match of the Day followers may have to forego their weekly diet of short snippet highlights because tomorrow will reveal nothing but a barren wasteland, a yawning gap in the schedules, no pretty passing movements, no clever team stratagems, no opinionated managers and coaches, no controversial VAR decisions and nothing on that hallowed green pitch. Sadly, football will now have to take what we hope will become a temporary break although three weeks could come to feel like a lifetime for those devoted masses of fans. It's often said that a week in politics does have a similar effect on most of us. We can only hope that normal service is resumed as soon as possible. 

The Budget.

The Budget.

You've had plenty of time to digest the fall out from Brexit, dwelt thoughtfully on our relatively new Prime Minister Boris Johnson and you may never find out how long it'll take our vastly talented engineers and construction workers to finish the HS2 rail network. But you can be sure that by the end of today you'll certainly know how much a packet of cigarettes or a bottle of scotch and whisky might set you back on your intermittent visits to your local newsagents.

Today the new Chancellor of the Exchequer Rishi Sunak held up that familiar red box containing all of those vitally important documents and folders which provide Britain with its annual Budget. The Budget is one of those flagship events in the political calendar where politicians keep us in a state of almost unbearable intrigue about the economic future of the country. They assess the balance sheets, survey the long list of taxes, the  endless numbers game and impossibly complicated mathematics that do their utmost to make ourselves feel as though we're much poorer than we thought we were.

In the light of recent floods which have severely disrupted the lives of millions of people across Britain and torn a gaping hole in the agricultural industry, the Government have promised to pump millions and billions into the coffers in an effort to repair the damage and now face the thankless task of breathing new life back into the villages, cities and towns who have suffered so painfully in recent months.

And then there is that eternally emotive issue of the NHS, undoubtedly one of the most precious treasures. The dreadful emergence of the coronavirus as one of the most debilitating diseases to hit the country in years, has thrown into sharp relief the severity of the condition which now threatens the immediate future of  health care and the way in which the NHS has to be seen to respond in these difficult and emotionally challenging times.

We all know about the chronic waiting lists in hospitals across the country, the life and death emergency operations that have always seemingly bedevilled the NHS at every level. We are constantly being reminded and seen at first hand the stretchers in hospital corridors, the elderly who have been left to languish unforgivably in their beds in the same corridors. At times we can only look away in horror at the Victorian neglect, pain and suffering becoming more frequent as the months and years fly past.

But this is no impassioned party political rant on anybody's part just a recognition of the harsh reality of a society weighed down by criminal shortcomings in the infrastructure of a country. It is a criticism  perhaps of a government that can barely cope under the pressure of its nerve racking drawbacks. We are always informed about crumbling schools, the heartbreaking disappearance of those wonderful old shops and department stores who can no longer break even or compete with its wealthier shopping mall counterparts. And then we become very despondent because we've no idea how things were allowed to deteriorate so dramatically.

Still, just for a while the comedians and the comediennes who have now presented Britain with its latest Budget, can sit back in their chaise longues and deep seated chesterfields luxuriously, slapping themselves on the back for another job well done. They will review their memorable one liners, the gallows humour gags and the hilarious sketches which have now left everybody rolling about in the aisles with uncontrollable laughter.

Our great and good Prime Minister Boris Johnson will probably brush back that dense foliage of blond hair from his forehead. He'll probably grin and grin, smirk and smirk and just look at perfect peace with himself. Johnson has finally got the job done and how satisfying must that be seen in any context. He's cracked Brexit, got everybody onside with him and the winds of prosperity are blowing through the shires, counties and cities with a most auspicious breeze.

Finally, the blond one who now lives in 10 Downing Street can finally kick off his shoes, plant his feet in his comfortable Hush Puppies slippers and just stare very proudly at his pregnant girlfriend. Do you know what. Let's break open a bottle of Chardonnay and just celebrate because things, to quote a former Prime Minister, are quite certainly getting better.

Then Johnson will walk down the stairs at 10 Downing Street and peer fondly at another Tory Prime Ministerial predecessor who maintained that the country had never had it so good. At this rate the balance of payments and the Gross Domestic Product that hold the nation's finances together may never have to be checked again at least in the foreseeable future. He'll take one look at Britain's thriving high tech industry, the glowing health of the white and blue collar industries and hardly believe how well things are going

Now Boris will point to the eternally productive output of Britain's manufacturing industry, congratulate himself on the far sighted initiatives taken by all communities across the country, the marvellous progress the country continues to make in the fields of both sport and art and then wonders why anybody would have the audacity to complain and criticise him quite unfairly. Factory orders are flooding in from far and wide, phenomenal profits are being made quite remarkably and who could possibly ask for more?

Back on the trading floors of the City of London, the numbers are stacking up very pleasingly, deals are being secured in both Hong Kong and Malaysia as we speak and before you can blink millions and billions are being poured into a once ailing British economy. We told you it would happen and it has. Brexit will now take us into golden dominions of power and influence previously thought unimaginable.

Today though the Chancellor, sipping quite contentedly on his tot of whisky next to him, pronounces himself as the hero of the hour. He also claimed that the job had been done parrotting the line quoted by his colleague and Prime Minister. For most of the nation the price of petrol in our cars could mean either the end of their driving years or just another small grievance about inflation. The Budget is the one day of the year when we take a very prudent look at our life savings and personal budgets and try to achieve some astonishing balancing act with our money.

For new chancellor Rishi Sunak this was a day of judgment, a time for laying the proverbial cards on the table and hoping that all the aces come up at the same time. You remember previous chancellors such as Ken Clarke who famously would down several whiskies, ease himself into his slippers and just look like a very capable hand at the tiller. The Budget has been announced. Dear old England. This is the way it is and this is the way it should always be. Smile, carry on and keep drinking coffee.

Purim- the Jewish festival of the fancy dress season.

Purim- the Jewish festival of the fancy dress season.

Admit it. Your kids have been looking forward to this day for ages- or since the last major Jewish festival. They've been nagging you crazy to get the latest Batman or Superman costume since the beginning of the year and they won't leave you alone for a minute. This is a Jewish festival rich in symbolic promise, a festival laced decoratively in the tradition and history of Judaism. It is a festival that oozes joy, happiness, optimism and, essentially, fun.

Purim is that festival in question. On Tuesday the global multitudes who make up the worldwide Jewish population will dig out their fancy dress costumes, dancing, singing and smiling the day away without a care in that world. It is a day devoted to parody, masquerade, face pulling, childish exuberance and mildly effective alcohol because the whole idea of the exercise is to drink with moderately amusing quantities of alcohol. Or maybe that's only part of the experience.

For as long as any of us can remember Purim was always the festival where the kids threw off their inhibitions, hid the homework in the cupboard so that mum and dad could never find it then running up and down the streets and roads with that careless indifference to all the more critically important issues around their world. The masks will be revealed in all their gaudy ghastliness and for hours before the big day, parents will have their work cut out painting, sticking and sewing all kinds of paraphernalia onto their beloved offspring.

And then in the evening the Purim service will be concluded by a hearty expression of hatred, disapproval and opprobrium at one evil figure. The kids will all get together and launch into a noisy tirade of booing and hissing at Haman, that bloke who carried out all of those dastardly deeds during Biblical times. They'll be stamping and stomping their feet in a ritualistic display of their contempt of Haman, their unashamed distaste and dislike of everything that Haman stands for. Haman is really the nastiest piece of work, a detestable and execrable figure who did nothing but upset and antagonise the Jewish people.

It's time to shoot down Haman in flames, cut him down to size and make his life a complete misery because he's had ideas way above his station and has to be dealt with. So while the children and their parents bite into that first wonderful mouthful of sweet Hamantaschen the rest of us will pay homage to another of those Jewish festivals where all that matters is having a great time and revelling in celebration.

Last Purim our synagogue(shul) gave some of us our first tantalising glimpse of Extinction Rebellion which at the time left us in a state of complete puzzlement. A gentleman, wearing a sandwich man board with the said slogan, proudly displayed his message to all and sundry. It was only later on in the month that we finally discovered what on earth he was wearing. Our friend was a fervent advocate of the environment, a man committed to a cleaner world, an eco warrior simply spreading the word about the purity of the fresh air that we breathe and no more poisonous gases and chemicals.

And so it is that the huge Jewish communities of Stamford Hill, Golders Green, Edgware and Hendon in the London conurbations will join together with their like minded families and friends in the rest of the country. Come the evening they'll be gathering in their hundreds of thousands and millions to read the Megillah, that very thought provoking and frequently hilarious book of commentaries on the dreaded Haman.

Even now though thoughts will be turning to the next Jewish festival. We are now on the cusp of spring and for those who simply can't wait to munch into their first matzo, Pesach will be skipping and gambolling into our consciousness like the greenest field of lambs. For the time being we await Tuesday morning because we feel sure that here in Manor House it'll be time to make way for the fancy dress mardi gras, children pretending to be the very cartoon figures that have always been an integral part of their lives for quite some time. Purim has a considerable amount to commend it, a time of raucous revelry and, above all, a day for the families of the world to unite as they've always done. Happy Purim everybody. 

Chelsea reach FA Cup quarter finals.

Chelsea reach FA Cup quarter finals

For Chelsea this has been a season of rich discoveries and positive experimentation. While the rest of the Premier League clubs continue to entrust their immediate futures at the feet of foreign players, Chelsea have turned back to more domestic roots for their continued welfare and success. Of course the widespread influence of European, African and South American footballers will always be welcomed with open arms. But the fact remains that bright and vibrant homegrown British talent has to be regarded as a fundamental necessity.

On Monday night the Chelsea of Mason Mount, Tammy Abraham, Callum- Hudson Odoi and, above all, the remarkable 18 year old Billy Gilmour had given Frank Lampard's new fangled, predominantly English attacking squad a healthy and avantgarde look. It was a throwback to the days of Stamford Bridge's favourite son Ray Wilkins when the West London conveyor belt at Chelsea also furnished the team with those other 1970s boulevardiers  such as Charlie Cooke, Peter Osgood, Alan Hudson, Mickey Droy, Ian Hutchinson and Peter Bonetti.

But in the fifth round of this year's FA Cup, Chelsea rudely dented Liverpool's all conquering Premier League season by shoving the now Premier League champions elect out of this year's FA Cup. It was one of those evenings when you just knew that something totally out of the ordinary would happen because that's what the FA Cup does when you least expect it. Sometimes the FA Cup creeps up on you when perhaps you weren't looking and just surprises you.

On Saturday Liverpool arrived at Vicarage Road and assumed quite unnecessarily that all they had to do was to turn up on the day and hand out a customary hammering of Watford. What they couldn't have foreseen was a resounding 3-0 defeat at the hands of the buzzing Hornets. One jolt to the nervous system later Liverpool gave their convincing impersonation of a team slightly shaken and leaden footed by a severe body blow.

Fully hooded up and wrapped in his grey track suit, the bearded and bespectacled Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool's very likeable German boss, must have been privately cursing, muffling obscenities under his breath, wishing it was May and the Premier League was theirs to hold and cherish. Shortly though that Premier League title will almost certainly be Liverpool's for the taking and it could be in their possession sooner rather than later.

And yet on Monday evening Klopp's free flowing, fluent and utterly sophisticated Liverpool were once again left to hang out to dry by a Chelsea side full of worldly passing sequences, precision engineering and startling breakaways when Liverpool occasionally threatened to stamp their control on the game. In the early opening exchanges of the season when the August and September sunshine burnished us with very late tanning bursts, Chelsea blew Wolves away at Molineux and then proceeded to lose three home games as the season progressed.

But this year Chelsea moved into the quarter finals of this season's FA Cup with a trip to Leicester City at the King Power Stadium. Now the jury is still out on Chelsea because at sporadic moments during their Premier League season they seemed to have quite obviously flattered to deceive. After putting on trial a variety of Italians and a seemingly egotistical managerial genius by the name of Jose Mourinho, this now was the right time to go back to one of their own. It looks as though Chelsea will now finish the season quite impressively with a top six place almost guaranteed.

When Frank Lampard was a player under Jose Mourinho he would spend most of the games in a deeply advanced midfield attacking role, always looking for the unstoppable shot from distance before breaking cleverly into the penalty area and then scoring a whole host of goals with a splendid sense of timing. As manager Lampard is still very much the sorcerer's apprentice, mixing and matching his responsive youngsters while all the time devising new schemes and formulas for achieving maximum consistency.

Not for the first time this season the defensive bedrock of Kurt Zouma, Antonio Rudiger and Marcos Alonso spread utter composure and steadiness around their defence, gently carrying the ball out of defence and spotting colleagues with sure footed class. It was in midfield though where one young man stood head and shoulders above the rest and another ensured absolute visibility when some might have forgotten all about him.

There was 18 year old Billy Gilmour, fresh faced, angelic, confidence personified, full of vim, verve and fizzing vitality. Gilmour was the perfect connecting link in Chelsea's midfield, poised in possession, switching the play swiftly and craftily from one side of the pitch to the other while acutely aware of where his colleagues were going and creating space for those around him to run into.

Then there was Ross Barkley, surely one of the most well balanced, thoughtful and perceptive midfield players England has produced in recent times. When he was introduced to the Everton faithful as a teenage prodigy some of us predicted great things of Barkley. Frustratingly for both England and now Chelsea Barkley has faded from view after niggling injuries which have completely disrupted his career.

And yet with both Barkley, Gilmour and the ever streetwise Pedro fuelling the Chelsea engine room, this FA Cup contest against Liverpool was a convenient opportunity for the home side to demonstrate the natural skills they've always possessed both on and off the ball. Chelsea shifted the ball around a red wall of Liverpool shirts with a smoothness and panache that we always knew they had. There was an easy going rotation about their passing that reminded you of some of Dave Sexton's attractive Chelsea sides during the 1970s.

After a dazzling number of diagonal crossfield passes which sliced open both teams defences with frequent threats on goal. it was Chelsea who signalled their first intent on the game. There was a good deal of artistic dabbing and prodding from the Chelsea attack with Marcos Alonso sprinting down the flank, mischievously hovering around the Liverpool goal on more than one occasion.

Then there were the winning goals for the home side. Half way through the first half the Brazilian Willian, after a speculative shot from distance that was well saved by Liverpool goalkeeper Adrian, set his sights on goal again. A short and sweet period of lightning quick passes eventually fell to Willian who sent a powerful shot goalwards and although Adrian got a hand to it, he couldn't keep out the Willian thunderbolt.

During the second half Liverpool did suggest something of the attacking majesty that had served them so well throughout the Premier League season would not to be denied. For a while Neco Williams, Joe Gomez and Andrew Robertson began to ruffle blue Chelsea feathers but then looked as though they hadn't put enough in the petrol tank. Fabinho and the always quick thinking Adam Lallana did look as though Chelsea would not be having their way after all.

With minutes to go Chelsea's attacking artillery would stoke up one more all out, sustained attack. The passes were gathering in force, blue outwitting red with eye catching movements. Then the man who could still provide England manager Gareth Southgate with a very persuasive case for European Championship inclusion in Euro 2020 this summer, scored one of the goals of the season so far.

Ross Barkley, picking the ball up on the half way line, hunched his shoulders, kept and held the ball with an almost propietorial air, shrugging off defenders insolently and then running with the ball at top speed towards the Liverpool goal. Barkley knew what he was going to do and so did the rest of us. He ran and ran before looking up briefly on the edge of the Liverpool penalty area and then firing a low, accurately struck shot that was in the back of the Liverpool net before Adrian, the Liverpool keeper had had time to adjust himself.  Game over and Liverpool out of the FA Cup.

While never a mini season crisis, Liverpool have now received back to back defeats and it would seem that the team who once single handedly dominated English football with umpteen League titles, will have to content themselves with just one trophy. It's been exactly 30 years now and if Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley are watching this Liverpool from heavenly heights then maybe they would have regarded the FA Cup as a luxury anyway. Even Jurgen Klopp could be forgiven this minor blip.     

It's the gym experience.

It's the gym experience.

You were always wary of the gym experience since the rest of Britain and the world think nothing of signing up for the gym at the beginning of the year and besides it had to be done. Every year those well intentioned members of the public who wake up on the first day of a New Year convince themselves that they're vastly overweight and that if they renew their yearly subscription for the gym then by the summer holiday season they'll have an impressively well defined six pack stomach, legs like Usain Bolt and generally feel fitter than they've ever felt  before.

So it was that you suddenly became aware that your midriff was beginning to expand and protrude rather disturbingly for anybody's liking. You'd kept up a regular running routine and considered yourself to be reasonably self disciplined when it came to working out with your body. But recently you had become aware that an asthmatic cough had rendered such an activity more or less pointless. Your sensitive chest felt very vulnerable and there seemed little in the way of benefit to be gained by running around the local streets amid blustery winds and freezing cold.

In the middle of January you took yourself around the corner to a relatively new gym that looked very tempting and after careful consideration you knew that you had to have the courage of your convictions. After much resistance and a refusal to embrace the gym experience you gave in and found yourself a new member of the gym. There comes a point in a man's life when a man's got to do what a man's got to do. It was time to consign the running and jogging regimen to the cupboard of history- at least for a while.

Now this is how my local gym works. Issued with a specific code number you tap in your code and then enter what can only be described as a space age pod. The perspex doors open up and you step very promptly into the pod. The Doctor Who tardis analogy is perhaps very real since that's exactly what it feels like. Inside the tardis you patiently wait for the pod to close before the entrance hums very quietly before allowing you to walk inside the hallowed portals or should that be a pod.

This is the moment of revelation, an HG Wells scenario, an exercise factory, acres of electronic equipment, machinery as far as the eye can see. You'd heard rumours about the gym and it all looked like too much hard work. Why go to all of that trouble of puffing and panting, sweating and aching when it was much simpler to go for a run and you didn't have to spend a penny on that kind of exercise? It all looked very supernatural and ever so slightly daunting at first but then you recognised the health advantages to be had, the rush of adrenaline and that wonderful sense of satisfaction after that first rigorous work out. But then you felt obliged to slow down, to pace yourself and simply not overdo it.

You trotted over to a series of bikes wondering all the while whether it was all the worth the effort. Your mind went back to a family cruise holiday where you first discovered the simple joys of riding a gym bike. Surely it couldn't be as straightforward as that or could it? Easing your feet onto the challenging pedals nothing could be easier. And so it was that you started pedalling away frantically before establishing your own pace and rhythm. At first you experimented with a half an hour spurt of energy and then gradually increased the time spent on the bike. This would be a piece of the proverbial cake. Nothing to it.

And then you wandered over to the rest of the facilities where your eyes would behold all manner of of gym hardware, a mass of metallic clanking, crashing and clattering weights that thud down on the ground and echo around most of the gym for 24 hours every single day of the week. You glance at the stretching, the punishing purgatory of it all, the face pulling around you, young and old men and women alike striving after the body beautiful. You can only admire the stamina sapping, hugely energetic folk, pumping pulleys and levers, steel ropes yanked to the most torturous extreme and finally, quite joyously, you stumble across the rowing machine where now you find muscles encased in your shoulders that you'd completely forgotten about. Sir Steve Redgrave eat your heart out and Matthew Pinsent had better not rest on his laurels. If you don't have a dream as the song once suggested.