The first Zoom driven Prime Minister's Question Time.
So here we are just over a month into the coronavirus lockdown and none of us can tell whether we're coming or going. Mornings are turning into afternoons at quite an alarming speed, the men and women in the House of Commons will officially be communicating via Zoom, a new fangled, high tech gadget which will now act as a temporary replacement for human conversation in the flesh. The old techniques are no longer relevant and sadly this is the way it'll have to be for the time being. Nothing is changing and nobody is going anywhere which we all privately knew anyway.
The trouble is that the politicians in their power uniforms will have to be content with an entirely new method of unburdening themselves. It had to come eventually but we might have been hoping that by now the disease that has now stopped us from functioning altogether is quite clearly intent on hanging around for quite some time and none of us can do anything about it. It feels as though we're stuck in a cul de sac or some barren wasteland where all you can hear is the occasional drilling.
We may be tearing our hair out with utter frustration and the truth is our lives have been completely turned upside down. We monitor the latest media developments and that's more or less the same brick wall we were looking at over a month ago. The voices from Westminster are beginning to sound disembodied, denuded of any kind of meaning or, dare we say it, intelligence. We are pottering around aimlessly rather than breaking into a purposeful strut. Or maybe we're using this unique period of lives both constructively and productively. Perhaps we've completed a major project at home, built a conservatory, re-decorated your home or even made up your mind to learn a new language. Or maybe you've just given up.
But that would be an entirely defeatist attitude and we won't have any of that. There will be an end result to this miserable catastrophe, an awkward conclusion perhaps but nonetheless something to hold onto when that end doesn't really look in sight. We are now in the kind of dire predicament that our tangled minds are trying to rationalise but simply can't. We are now quite literally wandering souls, hoping and wishing that the day will come when definitive remedies can be found and we can finally come out of hiding and seclusion.
This afternoon though the Foreign Secretary Dominic Raab will endeavour to conduct Prime Minister's Question Time from his living room, or quite possibly his garden shed, maybe the kitchen in which case ours is a cup of tea with two sugars and a chocolate Digestive biscuit or perhaps a slice of cake. It is hard to know how this one is going to work. Perhaps Boris Johnson may care to sit next to the window or maybe the fridge. These are head scratching times, befuddling times, mystical and surreal times where all is not what it seems.
We have already seen those empty green parliamentary seats with no occupants. Our fine, upstanding politicians from both sides of the House may have to resign themselves to quite the most alien environment of all time. You begin to wonder whether this is how things were when Winston Churchill was Prime Minister during the Second World War. No sittings, no busy committee rooms in the highest echelons, just the dull thud of Hitler's bombs and mass human murder. Nothing but blind terror.
The difference is though is quite marked this time. Then the world had to defeat a megalomaniac dictator cum murderous nutter with big designs on world domination. Roll forward 75 years and this time the war is a viral one, a deadly disease that has obliterated huge masses of the world population without giving us any prior warning. Now though we have been reduced to small clusters, close knit family units yearning and crying out for peace and reconciliation. But hold on this is not that kind of war and we all know that.
Still, it is good to see our Prime Minister Boris Johnson up and about because there was one horrendous moment when we thought we were going to lose him as well. His fiance Carrie Symonds has just given birth and Boris is a dad again. This should be the beginning of a new world for baby Johnson but we must hope that by the time his baby boy is a teenager he will grow up into a world free not only of disease but economically prosperous, healthy and conquering new global territories.
For a while society will have to content itself with a gentle recovery, slow baby steps in a manner of speaking, a painful rehabilitation and a gradual return to the way it was before Covid 19. We will continue to look aghast at the number of fatalities and casualties and we will hope that shortly the numbers will dwindle rapidly.
Politicians can be mysterious creatures of habit until somebody tells them that a dramatic medical upheaval has jolted them into some new kind of reality. For the time being though Dominic Raab and his loyal colleagues will have to talk to each other via cyberspace with faces confined to square boxes on the screen, crackling microphones at their disposal and grinning faces who keep asking you whether they can hear you or not.
You're reminded of that slightly baffling British TV quiz show from the 1970s where legendary comedian Bob Monkhouse would ask members of the public general knowledge questions. The quiz was 'Celebrity Squares' which more or less approximated to the actual title of the show. Celebrities would be questioned in square boxes on a whole variety of subjects and the prize was either a holiday or a speedboat which wouldn't have been greeted with any delight if you happened to live on a council house estate.
Politicians though are not renowned for their quiz show prowess although they are partial to a good satire. For the time being though it is time for the Foreign Secretary to announce his homely homilies on Covid 19 from maybe the privacy of his spare box room or quite possibly the attic which would be too much of a tight squeeze or far too claustrophobic for anybody's liking. Carry on everybody. Stay safe and of course at home.
PS Dominic Raab was available for duty at the House of Commons.
Wednesday 29 April 2020
Monday 27 April 2020
What happened to the London Marathon? And Donald Trump.
What happened to the London Marathon? And Donald Trump.
Oh yes. What happened to the London Marathon? In the usual scheme of things it should have been yesterday but yesterday almost sounds like just another word, a total misnomer because quite obviously it didn't happen so we know the reason why. So this may be the time to just clench our teeth, pretend that yesterday never happened nor was it ever likely to. There are some who may be cursing its postponement because for those who love the London Marathon and its sense of communal togetherness these are terribly frustrating times.
Wherever you looked around you there was a sense of freedom, an air of exhilaration, a sense that the heartbeat of London was there to be found just pumping and throbbing at the rate of knots. The London Marathon brought out the best in human behaviour, that vast gathering of the fancy dress, the fun running fraternity and then the professionals with their fast and furious pace and sprinting legs. There they go hurtling through the backstreets of Poplar and Greenwich which then took them into London's thriving Docklands.
Then the experienced runners from Nigeria, Ethiopia and Kenya would kick most impressively on their way home past the lively pubs, the infectious sounds of the jazz bands and then the public lining the streets cheering on the athletes with their hearty encouragement. Then the Mall and Buckingham Palace would appear and a hectic whirl of activity would follow. The pounding feet would send out an almost musical message of triumph and hope. It is a race quite unlike any other in the sporting calendar.
But now the London Marathon would take on a whole new dimension. The seething, mind blowing multitudes would once again have gathered on the streets of London, yelling good natured support and willing the fun runners to greater deeds of achievement. There is a wonderful esprit de corps about the London Marathon, a mass rapport between athlete and observer, a genuine understanding of the pain, the agonising pain at times but an obvious sympathy because the wall has to be hit and every bone in their body is just pleading for mercy.
Still, the London Marathon is, essentially, a celebration of the human spirit, a tribute to heroic athleticism, a ringing endorsement of sport at its finest, its stunning stamina, its classical endurance and willpower. Ever since that ancient first Olympics in Athens in 1896, the marathon has survived the ages, convinced us that anything is possible and pushed back the boundaries of sport in every sense of the word. Records are continually broken, times smashed to smithereens and the 26 miles legends have carved their personal niche.
Sadly though yesterday was not about the London Marathon since we now have to live with the knowledge that everything around us that should have been pencilled into this year's cultural agenda is now just a historical nonentity. It was something that was planned and lovingly prepared before the year crumpled to the ground, toppled over and then just vanished into the ether. Now a faint puff of smoke can be seen drifting around the streets of London and London is simply beside itself with tears, tears of defeat, tears of hurt and mortification.
The loss of life around the world in the wake of Covid 19 can never be truly measured but when a nation holds its breath in anticipation of a major street carnival, we can only shed a tear for what might have been rather than what is quite clearly not. Think though of the charity runners dressed up hilariously as hot dogs, Big Ben, the London Eye, men wearing the frilliest of skirts, the inevitable clowns, dogs and cats, fishes and hippos. It is life affirming and a joy to behold.
We shall though carry on regardless and try to imagine that yesterday did actually take place in our imaginations, that we did follow the London Marathon in our subconscious. Sunday was simply postponed for the time being and the re-scheduled date in October will tick all the right boxes. There is a feeling here that everything is just on hold, in glorious abeyance, sidelined because spiritually it may be just injured. It'll be back in October stronger, fitter and raring to go.
For the time being though we must put everything to the back of our minds. Regrettably we are now at the end of April and none of us are any the wiser or clearer. The minds of football's Premier League are still wrestling with a possible return in early June so we may wish them the best of luck with that one. Test cricket may have to wait until, quite possibly, the end of May, there's no tennis at Wimbledon, the Glastonbury rock and pop fest will just be a field in deepest Somerset with nothing but the occasional bleat of a sheep and you may have to put a bet on whether the annual cheese rolling contest will still be taking place in Middle England.
Meanwhile, back at the White House, a tremendous and incredible man who goes by the name of Donald Trump continues to bring fresh supplies of astonishment to every passing day in the United States of America. One day the President of the United States will wake from his bed and just stick up the proverbial two fingers at all his vicious opponents. This is a man who seems to live in a cloud cuckoo land where everything he says, although absurd, is still right. Now though Trump looks as if he may have gone too far. What on earth is this man talking about?
It would be perhaps slightly unfair to suggest that Trump is under the influence of some narcotic substance that even we haven't heard of. Of course you've heard the latest from the Trump factory and to those who believe Trump's alleged imbecility has reached its lowest nadir, this can be no surprise. Some of us believe that Trump can still dig his way out of this one, that there is a hint of diplomacy left in the tank and that he can exert some kind of grown up intelligence. But judging by his latest comments there could be a long way to go before he uses anything to back up his judgements.
Now it is that Trump has come up with the ultimate remedy for the coronavirus pandemic. The President of the United States has just announced to the whole of the world that where we might be going wrong with potential vaccines for Covid 19 is staring us in the face. Yes folks. Let's mix some bleach or any kind of disinfectant into the vaccine and wow what could be simpler. Eureka! Why didn't we think of that? Keep them coming Donald. What's the next wheeze and light bulb moment.
In his defence though Trump did insist that he was being sarcastic and we all know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. But regrettably this idea looks as if it might be destined for a laboratory bin or i a wastepaper basket in the Oval House. The simple truth is of course that short of killing off the whole of the human population, you begin to doubt whether it would work. Trump may well be advised to sit down for a while and just say nothing at all. Oh to be a fly on the wall in Trump's living room. There are those around the world who would like to watch next year's London Marathon all being well. Keep well and stay safe Donald Trump. You need to take a long rest.
Oh yes. What happened to the London Marathon? In the usual scheme of things it should have been yesterday but yesterday almost sounds like just another word, a total misnomer because quite obviously it didn't happen so we know the reason why. So this may be the time to just clench our teeth, pretend that yesterday never happened nor was it ever likely to. There are some who may be cursing its postponement because for those who love the London Marathon and its sense of communal togetherness these are terribly frustrating times.
Wherever you looked around you there was a sense of freedom, an air of exhilaration, a sense that the heartbeat of London was there to be found just pumping and throbbing at the rate of knots. The London Marathon brought out the best in human behaviour, that vast gathering of the fancy dress, the fun running fraternity and then the professionals with their fast and furious pace and sprinting legs. There they go hurtling through the backstreets of Poplar and Greenwich which then took them into London's thriving Docklands.
Then the experienced runners from Nigeria, Ethiopia and Kenya would kick most impressively on their way home past the lively pubs, the infectious sounds of the jazz bands and then the public lining the streets cheering on the athletes with their hearty encouragement. Then the Mall and Buckingham Palace would appear and a hectic whirl of activity would follow. The pounding feet would send out an almost musical message of triumph and hope. It is a race quite unlike any other in the sporting calendar.
But now the London Marathon would take on a whole new dimension. The seething, mind blowing multitudes would once again have gathered on the streets of London, yelling good natured support and willing the fun runners to greater deeds of achievement. There is a wonderful esprit de corps about the London Marathon, a mass rapport between athlete and observer, a genuine understanding of the pain, the agonising pain at times but an obvious sympathy because the wall has to be hit and every bone in their body is just pleading for mercy.
Still, the London Marathon is, essentially, a celebration of the human spirit, a tribute to heroic athleticism, a ringing endorsement of sport at its finest, its stunning stamina, its classical endurance and willpower. Ever since that ancient first Olympics in Athens in 1896, the marathon has survived the ages, convinced us that anything is possible and pushed back the boundaries of sport in every sense of the word. Records are continually broken, times smashed to smithereens and the 26 miles legends have carved their personal niche.
Sadly though yesterday was not about the London Marathon since we now have to live with the knowledge that everything around us that should have been pencilled into this year's cultural agenda is now just a historical nonentity. It was something that was planned and lovingly prepared before the year crumpled to the ground, toppled over and then just vanished into the ether. Now a faint puff of smoke can be seen drifting around the streets of London and London is simply beside itself with tears, tears of defeat, tears of hurt and mortification.
The loss of life around the world in the wake of Covid 19 can never be truly measured but when a nation holds its breath in anticipation of a major street carnival, we can only shed a tear for what might have been rather than what is quite clearly not. Think though of the charity runners dressed up hilariously as hot dogs, Big Ben, the London Eye, men wearing the frilliest of skirts, the inevitable clowns, dogs and cats, fishes and hippos. It is life affirming and a joy to behold.
We shall though carry on regardless and try to imagine that yesterday did actually take place in our imaginations, that we did follow the London Marathon in our subconscious. Sunday was simply postponed for the time being and the re-scheduled date in October will tick all the right boxes. There is a feeling here that everything is just on hold, in glorious abeyance, sidelined because spiritually it may be just injured. It'll be back in October stronger, fitter and raring to go.
For the time being though we must put everything to the back of our minds. Regrettably we are now at the end of April and none of us are any the wiser or clearer. The minds of football's Premier League are still wrestling with a possible return in early June so we may wish them the best of luck with that one. Test cricket may have to wait until, quite possibly, the end of May, there's no tennis at Wimbledon, the Glastonbury rock and pop fest will just be a field in deepest Somerset with nothing but the occasional bleat of a sheep and you may have to put a bet on whether the annual cheese rolling contest will still be taking place in Middle England.
Meanwhile, back at the White House, a tremendous and incredible man who goes by the name of Donald Trump continues to bring fresh supplies of astonishment to every passing day in the United States of America. One day the President of the United States will wake from his bed and just stick up the proverbial two fingers at all his vicious opponents. This is a man who seems to live in a cloud cuckoo land where everything he says, although absurd, is still right. Now though Trump looks as if he may have gone too far. What on earth is this man talking about?
It would be perhaps slightly unfair to suggest that Trump is under the influence of some narcotic substance that even we haven't heard of. Of course you've heard the latest from the Trump factory and to those who believe Trump's alleged imbecility has reached its lowest nadir, this can be no surprise. Some of us believe that Trump can still dig his way out of this one, that there is a hint of diplomacy left in the tank and that he can exert some kind of grown up intelligence. But judging by his latest comments there could be a long way to go before he uses anything to back up his judgements.
Now it is that Trump has come up with the ultimate remedy for the coronavirus pandemic. The President of the United States has just announced to the whole of the world that where we might be going wrong with potential vaccines for Covid 19 is staring us in the face. Yes folks. Let's mix some bleach or any kind of disinfectant into the vaccine and wow what could be simpler. Eureka! Why didn't we think of that? Keep them coming Donald. What's the next wheeze and light bulb moment.
In his defence though Trump did insist that he was being sarcastic and we all know that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit. But regrettably this idea looks as if it might be destined for a laboratory bin or i a wastepaper basket in the Oval House. The simple truth is of course that short of killing off the whole of the human population, you begin to doubt whether it would work. Trump may well be advised to sit down for a while and just say nothing at all. Oh to be a fly on the wall in Trump's living room. There are those around the world who would like to watch next year's London Marathon all being well. Keep well and stay safe Donald Trump. You need to take a long rest.
Saturday 25 April 2020
Has football lost the plot?
Has football lost the plot?
After everything that has now taken place, it is hard to imagine how it could possibly get any worse. But it has and we'd better believe it whether we like it or not. For well over a month the whole world has now reluctantly shut up shop, locked up the padlock, cried in a corner perhaps and accepted the status quo. This worldwide coronavirus lockdown will not be going away at any time in the immediate future and yet the glory, glory game of British football has chosen to bury its head in the sand in some delusional fantasy land that makes a mockery of everything that has come to pass so far in society as a whole.
This has to be the time for sound, rational thinking and sensible discussion but what on earth is possessing the English FA to even consider an imminent resumption of the Premier League season in a matter of weeks now? Is the FA living in some kind of weird parallel universe where nobody cares about anything or anyone anymore? Are we to believe that all at the very top of the FA hierarchy have finally lost the plot? How to explain this nagging obsession to finish the remaining matches of the Premier League when, quite clearly, there are far more important things to think about?
What English football really has to consider is its own conscience, that moral compass which really seems to pointing in some vague direction that none of us can really see at the moment. The facts, health warnings, repeated announcements to keep safe and the heartfelt pleas to kill off this wretched disease are turning into statements of the obvious. There has to be a painful acknowledgement that the season has to stop now with immediate effect. These are extenuating circumstances and nobody but nobody is to blame here.
These are not the standard, commonsense warnings from well intentioned medical officers who just want us not to panic. They are the logical assessments and conclusions from governing bodies who simply want to restart the football season at the right time and the right place. But now surely is not that time. Almost 20,000 lives have now been horrendously lost, families are now grieving on a scale that can be barely imagined and football just wants to continue as if nothing had ever happened.
You are more inclined to think that this just smacks of complete desperation, football reaching out and grasping for anything that might help to soothe the aching sorrow. What we have on our hands is total ignorance, a shamefully inhumane disregard for the sanctity of human life, a disgraceful oversight of the real core issue here. Football, essentially, needs to get its house in order and re-calibrate its priorities. Football needs to remember quite obviously that it is, ultimately, a spectator sport and the very thought of making plans for the resumption of the season behind closed doors would be totally abhorrent and reprehensible.
Football, by its very nature, is designed to be played for the benefit of its fans, its devoted, hardcore supporters and to now deprive them of the natural enjoyment of watching their team in the flesh is, quite simply, unacceptable. Let us assume of course that Liverpool have now won the Premier League without playing another game? Will their fans really feel in the mood for a huge celebration on the Mersey docks or flooding the local streets as an open top bus winds its way through the city? It is utter madness.
There is a reluctant acceptance here that fate has now intervened and the curtain has to close on the Premier League season. Sadly, the decision will have to be taken out of the FA's hands and if they can only see the bigger picture then maybe our faith in football nature may be restored. We must hope that within the next couple of weeks that the footballing community, a very close knit and friendly body of people will come round to the only way it has to be.
There are arguments and counter arguments of course and for those of us who still enjoy the game and cherish all its varying moods, nuances and melodramas, this may be the right time for taking a deep breath and just allowing the season to close down until quite possibly the end of August or even early September. Of course the pill is a bitter one to swallow and the long term ramifications for a now permanent Premier League lockdown until further notice have to be taken into consideration.
So here's the plan of action. Scrap the promotion and relegation issues in both the Premier League, Championship and Leagues One or Two, promote the teams in the Championship as well as Leagues One and Two and award the Premier League trophy to Liverpool now and that has to suit everybody. Or will it?
The truth is that the money and greed that football seems to thrive on, has to be stamped out and firmly trodden on as football's only reason for existence. Of course all of the TV channels have poured huge amounts of expenditure into the game, commercialism and sponsorship are almost a vital piece of the game's furniture and background noise but football is a sport, a game for the masses and those millions of followers may now think of it as merely a petty irrelevance. Feelings are raw and emotions high. Football, for its own good, has to think and think very deeply.
After everything that has now taken place, it is hard to imagine how it could possibly get any worse. But it has and we'd better believe it whether we like it or not. For well over a month the whole world has now reluctantly shut up shop, locked up the padlock, cried in a corner perhaps and accepted the status quo. This worldwide coronavirus lockdown will not be going away at any time in the immediate future and yet the glory, glory game of British football has chosen to bury its head in the sand in some delusional fantasy land that makes a mockery of everything that has come to pass so far in society as a whole.
This has to be the time for sound, rational thinking and sensible discussion but what on earth is possessing the English FA to even consider an imminent resumption of the Premier League season in a matter of weeks now? Is the FA living in some kind of weird parallel universe where nobody cares about anything or anyone anymore? Are we to believe that all at the very top of the FA hierarchy have finally lost the plot? How to explain this nagging obsession to finish the remaining matches of the Premier League when, quite clearly, there are far more important things to think about?
What English football really has to consider is its own conscience, that moral compass which really seems to pointing in some vague direction that none of us can really see at the moment. The facts, health warnings, repeated announcements to keep safe and the heartfelt pleas to kill off this wretched disease are turning into statements of the obvious. There has to be a painful acknowledgement that the season has to stop now with immediate effect. These are extenuating circumstances and nobody but nobody is to blame here.
These are not the standard, commonsense warnings from well intentioned medical officers who just want us not to panic. They are the logical assessments and conclusions from governing bodies who simply want to restart the football season at the right time and the right place. But now surely is not that time. Almost 20,000 lives have now been horrendously lost, families are now grieving on a scale that can be barely imagined and football just wants to continue as if nothing had ever happened.
You are more inclined to think that this just smacks of complete desperation, football reaching out and grasping for anything that might help to soothe the aching sorrow. What we have on our hands is total ignorance, a shamefully inhumane disregard for the sanctity of human life, a disgraceful oversight of the real core issue here. Football, essentially, needs to get its house in order and re-calibrate its priorities. Football needs to remember quite obviously that it is, ultimately, a spectator sport and the very thought of making plans for the resumption of the season behind closed doors would be totally abhorrent and reprehensible.
Football, by its very nature, is designed to be played for the benefit of its fans, its devoted, hardcore supporters and to now deprive them of the natural enjoyment of watching their team in the flesh is, quite simply, unacceptable. Let us assume of course that Liverpool have now won the Premier League without playing another game? Will their fans really feel in the mood for a huge celebration on the Mersey docks or flooding the local streets as an open top bus winds its way through the city? It is utter madness.
There is a reluctant acceptance here that fate has now intervened and the curtain has to close on the Premier League season. Sadly, the decision will have to be taken out of the FA's hands and if they can only see the bigger picture then maybe our faith in football nature may be restored. We must hope that within the next couple of weeks that the footballing community, a very close knit and friendly body of people will come round to the only way it has to be.
There are arguments and counter arguments of course and for those of us who still enjoy the game and cherish all its varying moods, nuances and melodramas, this may be the right time for taking a deep breath and just allowing the season to close down until quite possibly the end of August or even early September. Of course the pill is a bitter one to swallow and the long term ramifications for a now permanent Premier League lockdown until further notice have to be taken into consideration.
So here's the plan of action. Scrap the promotion and relegation issues in both the Premier League, Championship and Leagues One or Two, promote the teams in the Championship as well as Leagues One and Two and award the Premier League trophy to Liverpool now and that has to suit everybody. Or will it?
The truth is that the money and greed that football seems to thrive on, has to be stamped out and firmly trodden on as football's only reason for existence. Of course all of the TV channels have poured huge amounts of expenditure into the game, commercialism and sponsorship are almost a vital piece of the game's furniture and background noise but football is a sport, a game for the masses and those millions of followers may now think of it as merely a petty irrelevance. Feelings are raw and emotions high. Football, for its own good, has to think and think very deeply.
Thursday 23 April 2020
To be or not to be. It's St George's Day or is it?
To be or not to be. It's St George's Day or is it?
To be or not to be that is the question is why and indeed that is the question why? Here we are on St George's Day on the anniversary of William Shakespeare's birthday and all of the candles have rudely been snuffed out, a dramatic performance is out of the question and the only comedy you're likely to get is when the coronavirus has finally taken its leave right off stage and into the wings. Only then will the Merchant of Venice, Macbeth. Twelfth Night, Othello and A Midnight Summer's Dream be considered suitable for human delectation. Then we'll show our appreciation of the finest playwright England has ever produced.
But on what should have been another glorious commemoration of everything English and Englishness the whole of the world has been stalled, traumatised and psychologically heartbroken, disillusioned by everything and anything and totally flummoxed. Today should have been when the whole of Britain should have flung open its curtains and blinds, stretched its arms, embraced the day, run through cornfields, perhaps hugged perfect strangers and drunk itself into some delirious stupor.
Today should have been a day of stunning celebration, boisterous patriotism, endless knees ups outside snoring village pubs, the Union Jack rightfully unfurled to all and sundry, Morris dancing around the Maypole should the mood have taken us and publicans doing the Hokey Cokey around the twisting lanes of Middle England. And yet nobody will do anything today because to all outward appearances 2020 looks as if it's been cancelled and somebody has thrown away the key.
Today we should have been acknowledging the one figure from history who brought gushing waterfalls of rich poetry to both Britain and the world. We should have been dancing on the streets of the world, doing the conga, cavorting and carousing, line dancing around red post boxes, swigging vast quantities of Somerset cider, jumping from the Trafalgar Square fountains with boundless glee and then patting the back of your neighbour just for the fun of it.
Instead we are bowing our heads, barely able to comprehend the immensity of this disaster, the sheer magnitude of what has just taken place around us. We must feel almost anaesthetised to recent events, numbed into quiet submission and wondering what on earth William Shakespeare would have made of all this. Perhaps he'd have fallen into a moody depression, refused to pick up a quill and just moped around his home while Anne Hathaway, his loving wife, made a desperate attempt to boost his spirits.
Would Shakespeare have found alcoholic consolation in a frothing pint of mead, gnawing angrily on a thousand pieces of chicken and then abandoning himself to one continuous recital of his plays in private? Would he have listened to more and more renditions of classical music from dulcimer, harpsichord and piano or would he have just taken himself off to bed and insist on having an early night?
What we do know that across the colourful eiderdown of England's most beautiful lands there is gravity, millions of bleeding hearts, tears of loss and desolation, an abrupt halt to everyday proceedings and speechless taciturnity. With every passing day, the meadows and valleys, the otherwise fertile farmlands, combine harvesters, stone walls, bridges, restaurants, cafes, otherwise bustling markets and joyous street life, are no longer the life and soul of any party.
Across the streets and roads, the terraced and semi terraced homes, the neat procession of bungalows and maisonettes have been swallowed up by one of the most destructive diseases of perhaps any age. Comparisons have been made to the Black Death but are probably quite invalid. However, on today of all days any stirring choruses of Jerusalem or Land of Hope and Glory should simply be reserved for another day. Still, we have to keep smiling and we must heed the call of Morecambe and Wise's sunshine.
But we shall march on until the end of the road, chests puffed up with pride in the face of setbacks, drawbacks, torment and difficulty, trials and tribulations that none of us could have foreseen. So let's just dwell on the literary greatness of one William Shakespeare. Maybe he would have seen the brighter side of this period of our lives because hundreds of years after his death, the Bard's masterworks are still being performed not only in Stratford Upon Avon but across all global theatres.
So let's just spare for a thought for all those hardened Union Jack patriots who are probably feeling very aggrieved because St George's Day has once again been painfully overlooked. The common misconception of course is that nobody really takes a great deal of notice of April 23rd. We never raise a glass of best bitter, never fly the flag and never sing the National Anthem unless the occasion warrants it. But come on, it was Thursday evening and we did launch into a tumultuous ovation for the NHS and we clapped because we wanted to recognise the timelessly remarkable efforts of our key workers, the heart of gold carers and the people who think nothing of going that extra mile on our behalf. Britain, here's a massive thumbs up. You deserve it.
To be or not to be that is the question is why and indeed that is the question why? Here we are on St George's Day on the anniversary of William Shakespeare's birthday and all of the candles have rudely been snuffed out, a dramatic performance is out of the question and the only comedy you're likely to get is when the coronavirus has finally taken its leave right off stage and into the wings. Only then will the Merchant of Venice, Macbeth. Twelfth Night, Othello and A Midnight Summer's Dream be considered suitable for human delectation. Then we'll show our appreciation of the finest playwright England has ever produced.
But on what should have been another glorious commemoration of everything English and Englishness the whole of the world has been stalled, traumatised and psychologically heartbroken, disillusioned by everything and anything and totally flummoxed. Today should have been when the whole of Britain should have flung open its curtains and blinds, stretched its arms, embraced the day, run through cornfields, perhaps hugged perfect strangers and drunk itself into some delirious stupor.
Today should have been a day of stunning celebration, boisterous patriotism, endless knees ups outside snoring village pubs, the Union Jack rightfully unfurled to all and sundry, Morris dancing around the Maypole should the mood have taken us and publicans doing the Hokey Cokey around the twisting lanes of Middle England. And yet nobody will do anything today because to all outward appearances 2020 looks as if it's been cancelled and somebody has thrown away the key.
Today we should have been acknowledging the one figure from history who brought gushing waterfalls of rich poetry to both Britain and the world. We should have been dancing on the streets of the world, doing the conga, cavorting and carousing, line dancing around red post boxes, swigging vast quantities of Somerset cider, jumping from the Trafalgar Square fountains with boundless glee and then patting the back of your neighbour just for the fun of it.
Instead we are bowing our heads, barely able to comprehend the immensity of this disaster, the sheer magnitude of what has just taken place around us. We must feel almost anaesthetised to recent events, numbed into quiet submission and wondering what on earth William Shakespeare would have made of all this. Perhaps he'd have fallen into a moody depression, refused to pick up a quill and just moped around his home while Anne Hathaway, his loving wife, made a desperate attempt to boost his spirits.
Would Shakespeare have found alcoholic consolation in a frothing pint of mead, gnawing angrily on a thousand pieces of chicken and then abandoning himself to one continuous recital of his plays in private? Would he have listened to more and more renditions of classical music from dulcimer, harpsichord and piano or would he have just taken himself off to bed and insist on having an early night?
What we do know that across the colourful eiderdown of England's most beautiful lands there is gravity, millions of bleeding hearts, tears of loss and desolation, an abrupt halt to everyday proceedings and speechless taciturnity. With every passing day, the meadows and valleys, the otherwise fertile farmlands, combine harvesters, stone walls, bridges, restaurants, cafes, otherwise bustling markets and joyous street life, are no longer the life and soul of any party.
Across the streets and roads, the terraced and semi terraced homes, the neat procession of bungalows and maisonettes have been swallowed up by one of the most destructive diseases of perhaps any age. Comparisons have been made to the Black Death but are probably quite invalid. However, on today of all days any stirring choruses of Jerusalem or Land of Hope and Glory should simply be reserved for another day. Still, we have to keep smiling and we must heed the call of Morecambe and Wise's sunshine.
But we shall march on until the end of the road, chests puffed up with pride in the face of setbacks, drawbacks, torment and difficulty, trials and tribulations that none of us could have foreseen. So let's just dwell on the literary greatness of one William Shakespeare. Maybe he would have seen the brighter side of this period of our lives because hundreds of years after his death, the Bard's masterworks are still being performed not only in Stratford Upon Avon but across all global theatres.
So let's just spare for a thought for all those hardened Union Jack patriots who are probably feeling very aggrieved because St George's Day has once again been painfully overlooked. The common misconception of course is that nobody really takes a great deal of notice of April 23rd. We never raise a glass of best bitter, never fly the flag and never sing the National Anthem unless the occasion warrants it. But come on, it was Thursday evening and we did launch into a tumultuous ovation for the NHS and we clapped because we wanted to recognise the timelessly remarkable efforts of our key workers, the heart of gold carers and the people who think nothing of going that extra mile on our behalf. Britain, here's a massive thumbs up. You deserve it.
Tuesday 21 April 2020
Day by day.
Day by day.
It all seems as if our lives are slowly turning into one endless loop of TV repeats, the weeks and months now a yawning chasm and here we are desperately clinging onto the same treadmill with no apparent end in sight fighting an invisible disease that shows little sign of relenting. Initially we all thought Covid 19 would simply be some temporary medical alarm, rather like one of those annoying colds that you simply couldn't shake off. But now 2020 is gradually descending into the realms of the scary horror movie that make you want to just jump out of your seat and send your popcorn flying.
We are now conditioned to the present day and we know what's going on. What we probably don't need at the moment are those nauseating reminders of coronavirus because quite clearly the heart rending statistics tell their own story. Since the beginning of this very modern Greek tragedy, both TV, radio, newspapers and every conceivable media outlet haven't been backwards in coming forward with yet more statements of the obvious. Suddenly Ground Hog Day is gradually morphing into some very realistic drama where the fatalities and casualties are increasing almost exponentially alongside those poor people who have just been diagnosed with Covid 19 or may have thankfully recovered.
This is real life out there. The recurring narrative is almost too much to bear and the ever present atmosphere is one of fear and emotional meltdown but you probably know that anyway. The nation feels as if this paralysis, this turmoil, this sickening helplessness may never go away. It is hard to accuse anybody of being totally neurotic because everybody, quite literally everybody, is afraid to go anywhere, do anything or feel anything because we don't really know why or how this came to pass.
Last week on one of many walks in Finsbury Park you were subjected to the kind of sound that you might have associated with 'The Land that Time Forgot'. You walked around one circuit of the park and found yourself followed by a truck with a loud tannoy warning that you were only allowed to go out and exercise and that if you didn't follow the strident order you had to go home. For a while this was distinctly unsettling until you realised the damaging implications of your refusal to comply. Perhaps you'd be severely fined on the spot by some by passing park ranger or even the police. Surely not though.
Even the laying of a new pavement outside the parade of shops next to us has failed to arouse any excitement at all. You'd have thought the local mayor or mayoress would have been invited to come along and cut the tape just to lift the mood ever so slightly. Even the hairdressers has put the shutters up since the very thought of having your hair cut may not seem quite so appealing. The dry cleaners is similarly shut for the duration and the opticians can't seem to decide whether to open or not.
We are now at the critical stage whereby even the chemist isn't sure whether to keep its doors open, stagger the number of people allowed inside the chemist or just give up the ghost and just close permanently which wouldn't really benefit anybody. The local sweet shops and greengrocers are still doing an excellent trade which, to all intents and purposes, is the right way to go. How else would we able to cope without our eggs, bread, milk and - yes, you've guessed it- toilet rolls? It seems certain that the world will not come to an end and nothing unsavoury will ever happen but you'd probably think it already had.
Outside, the spring weather is at its loveliest and if you didn't know what exactly is going on around us you'd swear that everything is indeed good in the world and things are just fine. But the local streets and roads are still disturbingly quiet and eerie, almost sinister in their silence. Every so often a trickle of cars and completely unpopulated buses struggle their way around the highways and byways of life. But you can, it is true, hear a pin drop. The cyclists meander their way around the streets before everything just vanishes rather like a cheesy magic trick.
The official line is that the industrious construction workers next to us should have downed their tools because the social distancing law would render any kind of activity completely out of the question. Occasionally you hear the beeping of some massively complex piece of machinery but how to make the distinction between necessity or the deeply offensive. Even the Travelodge hotel, which is still in the process of being built, looks as though it could open in the 22nd century.
Wherever you look there are huge white sheets enveloping the framework of half built structures, cranes towering over North London with an arrogant and commanding air. None of us are really demoralised because the sun is still shining brightly and the birds are still tripping the light fantastic on telegraph poles that stretch for a good mile or so. Nothing will ever stop their daily routine and wherever you look most of the bird population will enact the same balletic movement where whole communities of birds sway across the sky with all the grace of Torvill and Dean at the very peak of their powers.
Sadly though the daily bulletins from 10 Downing Street make for nothing but grim reading. The fatalities are slowly decreasing but then we're told in the same breath that the figures don't include the number of elderly people who have died in care or nursing homes. The language though has now become frighteningly morbid and extremely garbled. This is not to suggest that we haven't a clue what our wonderful medical officers and scientists are talking about but every so often the sentences and grammar keep going around in our heads without really changing their context.
At varying times we are assured that it won't be long now before the children can finally go back to school as soon as it's safe to do so. It could be in the second week of May and then a cynical voice might suggest that that's just wishful thinking. Far too premature for the re-opening of schools. And yet we must hope that it could be imminent because both parents and their kids are at the end of their tether.
Perhaps the reel to reel tape recorder will finally make some kind of sense eventually. For the truth is that the announcements and pronouncements, the constant analysis, the scientific discourses. We have been bogged down in rousing rhetoric and would prefer a little more clarity. We hear about the ongoing arrival of patients at the newly opened Nightingale Hospital in East London and wonder whether the hard facts will ever emerge. A vast majority of people have now been sent home but has Covid19 finally disappeared over the horizon?
Today Her Majesty the Queen is celebrating her 94th birthday which would have been accompanied by that traditionally loud burst of cannon fire. But quite rightly this would be totally inappropriate and besides we can always abandon ourselves to jubilant street parties when Covid19 has finally gone. So do please stay at home and protect the NHS. It's not rocket science or is it? Keep well everybody and ensure absolute safety.
It all seems as if our lives are slowly turning into one endless loop of TV repeats, the weeks and months now a yawning chasm and here we are desperately clinging onto the same treadmill with no apparent end in sight fighting an invisible disease that shows little sign of relenting. Initially we all thought Covid 19 would simply be some temporary medical alarm, rather like one of those annoying colds that you simply couldn't shake off. But now 2020 is gradually descending into the realms of the scary horror movie that make you want to just jump out of your seat and send your popcorn flying.
We are now conditioned to the present day and we know what's going on. What we probably don't need at the moment are those nauseating reminders of coronavirus because quite clearly the heart rending statistics tell their own story. Since the beginning of this very modern Greek tragedy, both TV, radio, newspapers and every conceivable media outlet haven't been backwards in coming forward with yet more statements of the obvious. Suddenly Ground Hog Day is gradually morphing into some very realistic drama where the fatalities and casualties are increasing almost exponentially alongside those poor people who have just been diagnosed with Covid 19 or may have thankfully recovered.
This is real life out there. The recurring narrative is almost too much to bear and the ever present atmosphere is one of fear and emotional meltdown but you probably know that anyway. The nation feels as if this paralysis, this turmoil, this sickening helplessness may never go away. It is hard to accuse anybody of being totally neurotic because everybody, quite literally everybody, is afraid to go anywhere, do anything or feel anything because we don't really know why or how this came to pass.
Last week on one of many walks in Finsbury Park you were subjected to the kind of sound that you might have associated with 'The Land that Time Forgot'. You walked around one circuit of the park and found yourself followed by a truck with a loud tannoy warning that you were only allowed to go out and exercise and that if you didn't follow the strident order you had to go home. For a while this was distinctly unsettling until you realised the damaging implications of your refusal to comply. Perhaps you'd be severely fined on the spot by some by passing park ranger or even the police. Surely not though.
Even the laying of a new pavement outside the parade of shops next to us has failed to arouse any excitement at all. You'd have thought the local mayor or mayoress would have been invited to come along and cut the tape just to lift the mood ever so slightly. Even the hairdressers has put the shutters up since the very thought of having your hair cut may not seem quite so appealing. The dry cleaners is similarly shut for the duration and the opticians can't seem to decide whether to open or not.
We are now at the critical stage whereby even the chemist isn't sure whether to keep its doors open, stagger the number of people allowed inside the chemist or just give up the ghost and just close permanently which wouldn't really benefit anybody. The local sweet shops and greengrocers are still doing an excellent trade which, to all intents and purposes, is the right way to go. How else would we able to cope without our eggs, bread, milk and - yes, you've guessed it- toilet rolls? It seems certain that the world will not come to an end and nothing unsavoury will ever happen but you'd probably think it already had.
Outside, the spring weather is at its loveliest and if you didn't know what exactly is going on around us you'd swear that everything is indeed good in the world and things are just fine. But the local streets and roads are still disturbingly quiet and eerie, almost sinister in their silence. Every so often a trickle of cars and completely unpopulated buses struggle their way around the highways and byways of life. But you can, it is true, hear a pin drop. The cyclists meander their way around the streets before everything just vanishes rather like a cheesy magic trick.
The official line is that the industrious construction workers next to us should have downed their tools because the social distancing law would render any kind of activity completely out of the question. Occasionally you hear the beeping of some massively complex piece of machinery but how to make the distinction between necessity or the deeply offensive. Even the Travelodge hotel, which is still in the process of being built, looks as though it could open in the 22nd century.
Wherever you look there are huge white sheets enveloping the framework of half built structures, cranes towering over North London with an arrogant and commanding air. None of us are really demoralised because the sun is still shining brightly and the birds are still tripping the light fantastic on telegraph poles that stretch for a good mile or so. Nothing will ever stop their daily routine and wherever you look most of the bird population will enact the same balletic movement where whole communities of birds sway across the sky with all the grace of Torvill and Dean at the very peak of their powers.
Sadly though the daily bulletins from 10 Downing Street make for nothing but grim reading. The fatalities are slowly decreasing but then we're told in the same breath that the figures don't include the number of elderly people who have died in care or nursing homes. The language though has now become frighteningly morbid and extremely garbled. This is not to suggest that we haven't a clue what our wonderful medical officers and scientists are talking about but every so often the sentences and grammar keep going around in our heads without really changing their context.
At varying times we are assured that it won't be long now before the children can finally go back to school as soon as it's safe to do so. It could be in the second week of May and then a cynical voice might suggest that that's just wishful thinking. Far too premature for the re-opening of schools. And yet we must hope that it could be imminent because both parents and their kids are at the end of their tether.
Perhaps the reel to reel tape recorder will finally make some kind of sense eventually. For the truth is that the announcements and pronouncements, the constant analysis, the scientific discourses. We have been bogged down in rousing rhetoric and would prefer a little more clarity. We hear about the ongoing arrival of patients at the newly opened Nightingale Hospital in East London and wonder whether the hard facts will ever emerge. A vast majority of people have now been sent home but has Covid19 finally disappeared over the horizon?
Today Her Majesty the Queen is celebrating her 94th birthday which would have been accompanied by that traditionally loud burst of cannon fire. But quite rightly this would be totally inappropriate and besides we can always abandon ourselves to jubilant street parties when Covid19 has finally gone. So do please stay at home and protect the NHS. It's not rocket science or is it? Keep well everybody and ensure absolute safety.
Sunday 19 April 2020
Norman Hunter bites yer legs for the last time.
Norman Hunter bites yer legs for the last time.
It always seemed slightly unfair that Norman Hunter, who died a couple of days ago at the age of 76, should be always remembered for all the wrong reasons. Besides, Hunter, although as hard as nails if not harder, was quite possibly as soft as a kitten in his private life and always gave as good as he got on the football pitch. Very few of his contemporaries during the 1970s will ever be allowed to forget Hunter because he did leave his indelible legacy on more or less every bone in their bodies.
We all know that Hunter was one of those passionate, ruthless, no-nonsense defenders who sometimes allowed his aggressive approach on the pitch to get the better of him. This is not to imply that he was some bloodthirsty, bullish barbarian on a football pitch who kicked every player up into the air whenever he felt like it. Rather he was one of those old fashioned central defenders who quite literally took no prisoners and probably did eat red meat for breakfast.
Although he was born in the Geordie heartland of Gateshead, Hunter chose to join Leeds United as a youngster and never really looked back. Soon, Hunter had integrated himself into Don Revie's team of miracle workers, charmers and, some would say, scallywags. Leeds, initially, were regarded as the pantomime villains, a genuinely talented team but rather prone to violent outbursts and impetuous tantrums.
But when Hunter paired up with the now legendary likes of Jack Charlton, Paul Reaney and Paul Madeley, Leeds attracted more favourable reviews and responses from those whose scepticism had probably set in at a very early stage in Hunter's career. All the critics could see this was hulking, maybe cumbersome looking defender who only knew to hurt, kick, punch, maim and ultimately injure anybody who dared to cross him.
When Hunter was picked for Sir Alf Ramsey's original squad in the 1966 World Cup, he became no more than an on looker, a peripheral figure just there to soak up the historic atmosphere of the time. Hunter was simply a fringe member of Sir Alf''s golden boys. The Leeds centre half was surrounded by the illustrious likes of Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters, Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles and Roger Hunt but was never daunted by more high profile figures determined to create their own history.
Four years later in Mexico during the 1970 World Cup Hunter did play a more prominent role throughout the tournament but was once again rarely used. But he did use Mexico as a sturdy stepping stone for greater club moments with his club Leeds United. It surely must have been something Alan Mullery must have said to him but Hunter returned to England with the knowledge that with Don Revie around he simply couldn't go wrong.
Now firmly ensconced at the heart of the Leeds United defence, Hunter became the arch destroyer, a notorious hard man who would shove and barge players out of the way, tackling tigerishly and of course illegally which may have done nothing to enhance his profile at the time but did endear himself to fans who just loved his devil may care, dastardly approach. Hunter was Leeds shield and crest of arms, a battering ram of a player whose often good natured nastiness and bullish belligerence aroused laughter and contempt in the same breath.
It was commonly assumed that most of those old First Division defenders must have been absolutely terrified, nay less petrified of Hunter since all they really wanted at heart was the quiet life. Hunter, it must have been felt, was just a playground bully who just wanted to end a player's career with the most brutal injury. But Hunter was never a psychopath, a hardened convict determined to make all of his opponents feel as if they were wasting their time by simply sharing the same pitch as him.
But for Hunter there were two incidents which seemed to tarnish an otherwise steadfast club career with Leeds. In retrospect they may seem to have overshadowed a career that did see Leeds win two old First Division championship trophies and an FA Cup winners medal with Leeds against Arsenal in 1972. Hunter was an admirable reader of the game and although his attitude did leave a good deal to be desired, his interceptions on the ground and a natural ability to carry the ball out of his defence with some ease and aplomb were redeeming features amid all the argy bargy.
Of course the central defender of 1970s vintage were invariably encouraged to thump the ball out of the defence as quickly and with as much alacrity as possible. But there was none of the grotesquerie about Hunter's football because Leeds could be exceptionally good and attractive on the ball when the mood suited them. The famous daisy chain passing movement which must have amounted to at least 35 passes, if not more, remains one of Leeds most unforgettable footballing moments. It is hard to know how many times Hunter was involved but when Leeds finally emerged with a 7-0 victory against Southampton, most of us were simply giddy with joy and no little euphoria.
And then there was the night when it all went calamitously wrong for the England football team. Unfortunately Norman Hunter would become a tortured figure and for a full house Wembley crowd just baying for blood against Poland in a crucial World Cup qualifying game in 1973, it was not a night to recall with any fondness. For the best part of 90 minutes England threw the kitchen sink, the washing machine, the dishwasher, several canteens of cutlery while not forgetting the oven and cooker at a Polish side who must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. Admittedly there were no dishwashers around at the time to throw but you do see the point.
For love nor money Sir Alf Ramsey's England couldn't break down a rugged Polish defence. Of course they were totally committed, totally fired up and fully motivated, attacking and attacking the Polish goal with a relentless and merciless insistence and persistence. They tried everything from catapults to the cannonball to batter down a Polish goal that must have had several lucky charms attached to it. But now we were about to witness the most horrendous of all downfalls and unbearable blunders.
With the game still finely poised and not really going according to plan, the second half seemed to be ebbing away from England. Then it happened. A loose ball on the half way line lured Norman Hunter into a half baked, feeble tackle and the rest is one of those miserable footnotes in England's chequered football history. Hunter, stumbling and lunging almost embarrassingly at thin air, lost the tackle and Poland sprinted for goal with very little in the way of English resistance. Poland took the lead and although Hunter's Leeds team mate Alan Clarke tucked home an equalising penalty for England, the game was up. Sir Alf Ramsey trudged away inconsolably into obscurity, sacked almost immediately and England would not be attending the following summer's World Cup in West Germany.
But Hunter was no cowardly quitter and would continue to provide both Leeds and all football fans with his distinctively whole hearted, red blooded and abrasive style. The tackles could be heard in a number of English towns and villages, crunching and thudding their way into ankles, stomachs, necks and shoulders with some ferocity. Hunter was though hugely respected by not only his colleagues but managers and chairmen who recognised the sheer strength and presence of the man.
Sadly though there was one game where Norman Hunter quite obviously forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. It almost seemed like a dress rehearsal for an act he'd worked on for ages, the culmination of all those years of pent up anger. Maybe it was a kind of microcosm of Hunter's playing career in one mad five minute moment.
Derby County, still in their marvellously free wheeling attacking pomp and Francis Lee at his very best, must have seen Hunter coming. It was an old First Division game at the old Baseball Ground between Derby and Leeds, Lee against Hunter, a recipe for a fight behind the proverbial bike sheds. What followed was the most farcical punch up and even now on reflection it was no more than handbags at five paces. Suddenly the fists were flying, Lee aimlessly flinging punches that never looked like connecting. Hunter, never averse to a childish dust up or a petty altercation with his opponents, delivered his very own rabbit punches.
As both Lee and Hunter seemed to have settled their differences, it all seemed to flare up again. Out of the corner of the referee's eyes, both men were launching both barrels, eyes and noses flaring, hands lashing wildly at each other in some soap opera free for all. Shortly, commonsense did resume full service but the personal grudge and vendetta had yet to subside. It's safe to say that both were not on each other's Christmas list and oh to be a fly on the wall of a Dave Mackay who once grabbed hold of Billy Bremner's shirt and was in no mood for pleasantries.
Oh for the memories that Norman Hunter has now left. The tragedy of course was that Hunter died as a result of Covid 19, the now rampant global coronavirus disease. There will of course never be another Norman Hunter, never a player who would try desperately to bite anybody's legs because that of course is a physical impossibility. Or maybe Hunter would have thought it amusingly probable. After a brief spell at Bristol City and a bold attempt at management with Rotherham the after dinner circuit beckoned for Hunter. We shall never forget you Norman Hunter and nor will the collective defenders who thought they had the measure of him. Thanks Norman.
It always seemed slightly unfair that Norman Hunter, who died a couple of days ago at the age of 76, should be always remembered for all the wrong reasons. Besides, Hunter, although as hard as nails if not harder, was quite possibly as soft as a kitten in his private life and always gave as good as he got on the football pitch. Very few of his contemporaries during the 1970s will ever be allowed to forget Hunter because he did leave his indelible legacy on more or less every bone in their bodies.
We all know that Hunter was one of those passionate, ruthless, no-nonsense defenders who sometimes allowed his aggressive approach on the pitch to get the better of him. This is not to imply that he was some bloodthirsty, bullish barbarian on a football pitch who kicked every player up into the air whenever he felt like it. Rather he was one of those old fashioned central defenders who quite literally took no prisoners and probably did eat red meat for breakfast.
Although he was born in the Geordie heartland of Gateshead, Hunter chose to join Leeds United as a youngster and never really looked back. Soon, Hunter had integrated himself into Don Revie's team of miracle workers, charmers and, some would say, scallywags. Leeds, initially, were regarded as the pantomime villains, a genuinely talented team but rather prone to violent outbursts and impetuous tantrums.
But when Hunter paired up with the now legendary likes of Jack Charlton, Paul Reaney and Paul Madeley, Leeds attracted more favourable reviews and responses from those whose scepticism had probably set in at a very early stage in Hunter's career. All the critics could see this was hulking, maybe cumbersome looking defender who only knew to hurt, kick, punch, maim and ultimately injure anybody who dared to cross him.
When Hunter was picked for Sir Alf Ramsey's original squad in the 1966 World Cup, he became no more than an on looker, a peripheral figure just there to soak up the historic atmosphere of the time. Hunter was simply a fringe member of Sir Alf''s golden boys. The Leeds centre half was surrounded by the illustrious likes of Bobby Moore, Geoff Hurst, Martin Peters, Alan Ball, Nobby Stiles and Roger Hunt but was never daunted by more high profile figures determined to create their own history.
Four years later in Mexico during the 1970 World Cup Hunter did play a more prominent role throughout the tournament but was once again rarely used. But he did use Mexico as a sturdy stepping stone for greater club moments with his club Leeds United. It surely must have been something Alan Mullery must have said to him but Hunter returned to England with the knowledge that with Don Revie around he simply couldn't go wrong.
Now firmly ensconced at the heart of the Leeds United defence, Hunter became the arch destroyer, a notorious hard man who would shove and barge players out of the way, tackling tigerishly and of course illegally which may have done nothing to enhance his profile at the time but did endear himself to fans who just loved his devil may care, dastardly approach. Hunter was Leeds shield and crest of arms, a battering ram of a player whose often good natured nastiness and bullish belligerence aroused laughter and contempt in the same breath.
It was commonly assumed that most of those old First Division defenders must have been absolutely terrified, nay less petrified of Hunter since all they really wanted at heart was the quiet life. Hunter, it must have been felt, was just a playground bully who just wanted to end a player's career with the most brutal injury. But Hunter was never a psychopath, a hardened convict determined to make all of his opponents feel as if they were wasting their time by simply sharing the same pitch as him.
But for Hunter there were two incidents which seemed to tarnish an otherwise steadfast club career with Leeds. In retrospect they may seem to have overshadowed a career that did see Leeds win two old First Division championship trophies and an FA Cup winners medal with Leeds against Arsenal in 1972. Hunter was an admirable reader of the game and although his attitude did leave a good deal to be desired, his interceptions on the ground and a natural ability to carry the ball out of his defence with some ease and aplomb were redeeming features amid all the argy bargy.
Of course the central defender of 1970s vintage were invariably encouraged to thump the ball out of the defence as quickly and with as much alacrity as possible. But there was none of the grotesquerie about Hunter's football because Leeds could be exceptionally good and attractive on the ball when the mood suited them. The famous daisy chain passing movement which must have amounted to at least 35 passes, if not more, remains one of Leeds most unforgettable footballing moments. It is hard to know how many times Hunter was involved but when Leeds finally emerged with a 7-0 victory against Southampton, most of us were simply giddy with joy and no little euphoria.
And then there was the night when it all went calamitously wrong for the England football team. Unfortunately Norman Hunter would become a tortured figure and for a full house Wembley crowd just baying for blood against Poland in a crucial World Cup qualifying game in 1973, it was not a night to recall with any fondness. For the best part of 90 minutes England threw the kitchen sink, the washing machine, the dishwasher, several canteens of cutlery while not forgetting the oven and cooker at a Polish side who must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. Admittedly there were no dishwashers around at the time to throw but you do see the point.
For love nor money Sir Alf Ramsey's England couldn't break down a rugged Polish defence. Of course they were totally committed, totally fired up and fully motivated, attacking and attacking the Polish goal with a relentless and merciless insistence and persistence. They tried everything from catapults to the cannonball to batter down a Polish goal that must have had several lucky charms attached to it. But now we were about to witness the most horrendous of all downfalls and unbearable blunders.
With the game still finely poised and not really going according to plan, the second half seemed to be ebbing away from England. Then it happened. A loose ball on the half way line lured Norman Hunter into a half baked, feeble tackle and the rest is one of those miserable footnotes in England's chequered football history. Hunter, stumbling and lunging almost embarrassingly at thin air, lost the tackle and Poland sprinted for goal with very little in the way of English resistance. Poland took the lead and although Hunter's Leeds team mate Alan Clarke tucked home an equalising penalty for England, the game was up. Sir Alf Ramsey trudged away inconsolably into obscurity, sacked almost immediately and England would not be attending the following summer's World Cup in West Germany.
But Hunter was no cowardly quitter and would continue to provide both Leeds and all football fans with his distinctively whole hearted, red blooded and abrasive style. The tackles could be heard in a number of English towns and villages, crunching and thudding their way into ankles, stomachs, necks and shoulders with some ferocity. Hunter was though hugely respected by not only his colleagues but managers and chairmen who recognised the sheer strength and presence of the man.
Sadly though there was one game where Norman Hunter quite obviously forgot where he was and what he was supposed to be doing. It almost seemed like a dress rehearsal for an act he'd worked on for ages, the culmination of all those years of pent up anger. Maybe it was a kind of microcosm of Hunter's playing career in one mad five minute moment.
Derby County, still in their marvellously free wheeling attacking pomp and Francis Lee at his very best, must have seen Hunter coming. It was an old First Division game at the old Baseball Ground between Derby and Leeds, Lee against Hunter, a recipe for a fight behind the proverbial bike sheds. What followed was the most farcical punch up and even now on reflection it was no more than handbags at five paces. Suddenly the fists were flying, Lee aimlessly flinging punches that never looked like connecting. Hunter, never averse to a childish dust up or a petty altercation with his opponents, delivered his very own rabbit punches.
As both Lee and Hunter seemed to have settled their differences, it all seemed to flare up again. Out of the corner of the referee's eyes, both men were launching both barrels, eyes and noses flaring, hands lashing wildly at each other in some soap opera free for all. Shortly, commonsense did resume full service but the personal grudge and vendetta had yet to subside. It's safe to say that both were not on each other's Christmas list and oh to be a fly on the wall of a Dave Mackay who once grabbed hold of Billy Bremner's shirt and was in no mood for pleasantries.
Oh for the memories that Norman Hunter has now left. The tragedy of course was that Hunter died as a result of Covid 19, the now rampant global coronavirus disease. There will of course never be another Norman Hunter, never a player who would try desperately to bite anybody's legs because that of course is a physical impossibility. Or maybe Hunter would have thought it amusingly probable. After a brief spell at Bristol City and a bold attempt at management with Rotherham the after dinner circuit beckoned for Hunter. We shall never forget you Norman Hunter and nor will the collective defenders who thought they had the measure of him. Thanks Norman.
Friday 17 April 2020
Our hero - Captain Tom Moore.
Our hero- Captain Tom Moore.
There can be no other name on our lips at the moment. He is a gentleman in a class of his own. Amid yet another day of pain, suffering and anguish one gentleman stepped up to the plate, finishing with flying colours, an all conquering hero of quite epic proportions. If he'd been an Olympian, we'd have been singing his praises for the next 50 years. But Captain Tom Moore, 100 in a couple of weeks time, will no doubt be modestly downplaying any acclaim, adulation or deeply moving publicity. He'd have shrugged off the global compliments, taken the bouquets with a warm smile and just insisted that he is just an ordinary human being carrying out the most charitable of deeds.
Now let's stop for a minute. Captain Tom Moore fought heroically and bravely during the Second World War and made the kind of sacrifices that have to be acknowledged. Yesterday Captain Moore completed 100 laps of his garden patio with an unstinting dedication to duty in a truly noble cause. He did it without asking. He did it without any prompting. He did it because he felt an obligation to do so. He walked up and down his garden and raised millions for a charity at a time when the whole world can only turn around, applaud raucously this most magnificent achievement because he knows how we feel and he knew what it was like over 75 years ago.
In an age where religious hatred, cultural divisions and materialistic greed threaten the very backbone of our society, Captain Tom Moore looked around at the horror and appalling death and thought he'd do something that was just a simple way of giving back something to society without any fanfares or trumpets. For the truth is that Captain Moore has a heart of gold, a humble and unassuming man who merely wanted to show how easy it was to take out your walker before slowly but surely strolling up and down his Garden of England and showing his personal appreciation for everything that the NHS represents.
For what seems like ages, we've been crying out for somebody to do something that would restore our faith in human nature. Last night the whole of Britain once again clapped for its carers, its nurses, surgeons, doctors, professors, laboratory research scientists, the people who make us tick quite literally and then clapped even harder when we began to realise that although we seem to be at breaking point the people at the front line are working tirelessly and uncomplainingly in an effort to bring this dreadful lockdown to an end.
It is at times like this that you become acutely aware of the fragility of human nature, the ever present frailty of the human condition, the realisation that we are all helpless, totally dependent on science and that our vulnerabilities have never been more well documented. The figures and statistics tell their own nightmarish story, the facts and details now nothing more than the most tragic chamber music. Over 13,000 have now lost their life and the number of cases that have just been revealed send the most gruesome shiver down your spine.
Of course tragedy and disaster are almost inseparable and everything from 9/11 to the London Underground terrorist outrages in 2005 once again heighten our awareness of human fallibility, human violence and shocking aggression. There is a sense here that we are now trapped in some ever increasing circle of crime, disease, war and a political hell hole. Every time a New Year comes around we hope that just for a while that things will improve and get better. But then there comes that rude awakening when a darkness falls over the day and things simply go downhill very quickly.
Still, let us return to Captain Tom Moore, a titan among men, a colossus, the best piece of news we've had for ages and surely that has to be a good thing. At the moment our 99 year old superman from Yorkshire is still clocking up the miles and millions of pounds for charity. We can only look on with both wonder and incredulity. There is something miraculous and wholesomely uplifting about men such as Captain Moore. Of course the clamours for his knighthood are getting louder by the day and some of us would give him that ultimate accolade for Captain Moore immediately. We raise a toast to you, salute you sir and long may you live. Thank you. We can never thank you enough. Three cheers and then yet another.
There can be no other name on our lips at the moment. He is a gentleman in a class of his own. Amid yet another day of pain, suffering and anguish one gentleman stepped up to the plate, finishing with flying colours, an all conquering hero of quite epic proportions. If he'd been an Olympian, we'd have been singing his praises for the next 50 years. But Captain Tom Moore, 100 in a couple of weeks time, will no doubt be modestly downplaying any acclaim, adulation or deeply moving publicity. He'd have shrugged off the global compliments, taken the bouquets with a warm smile and just insisted that he is just an ordinary human being carrying out the most charitable of deeds.
Now let's stop for a minute. Captain Tom Moore fought heroically and bravely during the Second World War and made the kind of sacrifices that have to be acknowledged. Yesterday Captain Moore completed 100 laps of his garden patio with an unstinting dedication to duty in a truly noble cause. He did it without asking. He did it without any prompting. He did it because he felt an obligation to do so. He walked up and down his garden and raised millions for a charity at a time when the whole world can only turn around, applaud raucously this most magnificent achievement because he knows how we feel and he knew what it was like over 75 years ago.
In an age where religious hatred, cultural divisions and materialistic greed threaten the very backbone of our society, Captain Tom Moore looked around at the horror and appalling death and thought he'd do something that was just a simple way of giving back something to society without any fanfares or trumpets. For the truth is that Captain Moore has a heart of gold, a humble and unassuming man who merely wanted to show how easy it was to take out your walker before slowly but surely strolling up and down his Garden of England and showing his personal appreciation for everything that the NHS represents.
For what seems like ages, we've been crying out for somebody to do something that would restore our faith in human nature. Last night the whole of Britain once again clapped for its carers, its nurses, surgeons, doctors, professors, laboratory research scientists, the people who make us tick quite literally and then clapped even harder when we began to realise that although we seem to be at breaking point the people at the front line are working tirelessly and uncomplainingly in an effort to bring this dreadful lockdown to an end.
It is at times like this that you become acutely aware of the fragility of human nature, the ever present frailty of the human condition, the realisation that we are all helpless, totally dependent on science and that our vulnerabilities have never been more well documented. The figures and statistics tell their own nightmarish story, the facts and details now nothing more than the most tragic chamber music. Over 13,000 have now lost their life and the number of cases that have just been revealed send the most gruesome shiver down your spine.
Of course tragedy and disaster are almost inseparable and everything from 9/11 to the London Underground terrorist outrages in 2005 once again heighten our awareness of human fallibility, human violence and shocking aggression. There is a sense here that we are now trapped in some ever increasing circle of crime, disease, war and a political hell hole. Every time a New Year comes around we hope that just for a while that things will improve and get better. But then there comes that rude awakening when a darkness falls over the day and things simply go downhill very quickly.
Still, let us return to Captain Tom Moore, a titan among men, a colossus, the best piece of news we've had for ages and surely that has to be a good thing. At the moment our 99 year old superman from Yorkshire is still clocking up the miles and millions of pounds for charity. We can only look on with both wonder and incredulity. There is something miraculous and wholesomely uplifting about men such as Captain Moore. Of course the clamours for his knighthood are getting louder by the day and some of us would give him that ultimate accolade for Captain Moore immediately. We raise a toast to you, salute you sir and long may you live. Thank you. We can never thank you enough. Three cheers and then yet another.
Wednesday 15 April 2020
Today would have been National Rubber Eraser day.
Today would have been National Rubber Eraser Day.
It would have been National Rubber Eraser Day but who knows what happened to that one? Are we really in the mood for some small concession to happiness or celebration? Can we really force a smile out of something so bizarre and ludicrous, maybe a touch bonkers? A dark, grey cloud of dejection has hung over the world for what now seems like forever and it can only be a matter of time before somebody declares an extension to the coronavirus lockdown. The world has been gripped by disease, death and dread. But hold on it's National Rubber Eraser Day or is it? Don't tell me that's been postponed. Surely not.
There has to come a point when you have to believe that there should be a light at the end of the tunnel because if not, we'd have nothing to look forward at any point in the immediate or foreseeable future. And this is the whole crux of the issue. When exactly will we all lose track of the time or will that present sense of disorientation just drag and drag? The days are turning into weeks, time is taking its own personal holiday and the months are bumping along and accidentally crashing into the passing seasons.
But it is National Rubber Eraser Day so let's go for it. Hands up those who can still fondly think back to those halcyon school days when the good, old fashioned blackboard rubber was much more than some threatening, offensive weapon.We all remember when our teachers were almost driven to throw the said object at the snivelling, giggling kids at the back of the class who just refused to listen to their times tables.
Rubbers though should never be wiped or obliterated from our memory because they were rather like a metaphor for everything children were not supposed to do during a class lesson. A stubborn disobedience and a sense of reckless boisterousness were suitably punished with a swift throw of the board rubber right into the left shoulder blade of the mischievous miscreant. It was the most appropriate punishment for the kids who could never quite understand why any kind of deplorable misbehaviour or incessant talking throughout the lesson would not be acceptable. End of story.
But it may be the abiding memory of the blackboard rubber sitting snugly next to all those colourful chalks that leave you sighing with amusement. Every so often our class teacher would pick up his dusty chalks, scribble anything that came to their mind and before you knew it playtime had arrived fashionably late.
After a series of furiously scribbled dates, wobbly lines and a crazy collision of letters and words, the teacher would promptly launch into a massive session of rubbing out, smudging, wiping, dusting of the same board and then seemingly cleaning the blackboard in the same breath. Rubbers were curious looking school objects, there for painful chastisement when necessary and always on hand to just remove anything that might have unintentionally been written in some clandestine childish prank.
And yet rubbers were great were they not? How difficult would our school lives have turned out to be had the rubber not been there. We'd have spent aimless, confusing hours trying to make head or tail of hundreds of words, letters and numbers that hadn't been scrubbed from the board. Then suddenly the kids would let out the most terrific noise and rubbers disguised as missiles would be sent flying into orbit before the missiles turned into a barrage and a mini conflict would ensue.
Now though the conscientious students in the class would drop their heads into a serious pose of study, pencils and pens in hand, exercise books open at exactly the right page before embarking on the alphabet, grammar, maths, multiplication tables, division tables and cute little coloured pencil drawings to illustrate the point they were trying to make.
There was though one important item. It was that other tiny kind of rubber, perhaps the junior version of the blackboard rubber. This was some very small and probably insignificant rubber, normally grey or white which would be required when we'd accidentally used the wrong letter or word, and perish the thought, written sentences in English that were just a tad too long. The rubber was gainfully employed when you knew that your only last resort when all else failed was the rubber. You'd make that crucial mistake and rather than defacing your exercise books with innumerable crossings out and illegible ink marks, the rubber instantly solved your problem and bingo, your teacher would know exactly where you'd made the error.
The bell would signify break time and we would all frantically tuck away our rubbers, pencils, pens, protractors. compasses and slightly threadbare exercise books. Satchels and bags would act as some idyllic sanctuary for our rubbers.
Personal recollections of those spectacular primary school days would also include the famous desks and the rows of desks. Desks were our launching pad, the foundation stone for our education. Here was the one piece of furniture which would always be exposed to as much damage as the kids could possibly inflict. With thick ink blotter poised almost perfectly on the corner of the desk some of the kids would make no secret of the fact that this was the time when the desk would be converted into some Banksy like wall of graffiti.
Before we knew it blotting paper would be ruthlessly squeezed into a dark navy river of more ink and then the graffiti artists would get to work on a classroom of tables and desks. Suddenly opportunity had given way to party time. With what can only be assumed to be the back of pens or pencils the kids would painstakingly scratch love hearts on the lids of our desks, names of their favourite football teams and some vile abuse that some of us couldn't possibly comment upon.
These were the days of adolescent rebellion, exploding hormones, teenage terror and naughty insubordination. No, we would not be told what to do because we knew best. We were the hip and mainstream kids on the block and nothing would ever stand in our way. We were fonts of all knowledge, pillars of wisdom and rubbers were utterly essential, indispensable, readily available in case our hitherto imaginative minds had deserted us and left us high and dry. Oh for the humble Rubber Eraser. School life would never have been complete without it.
It would have been National Rubber Eraser Day but who knows what happened to that one? Are we really in the mood for some small concession to happiness or celebration? Can we really force a smile out of something so bizarre and ludicrous, maybe a touch bonkers? A dark, grey cloud of dejection has hung over the world for what now seems like forever and it can only be a matter of time before somebody declares an extension to the coronavirus lockdown. The world has been gripped by disease, death and dread. But hold on it's National Rubber Eraser Day or is it? Don't tell me that's been postponed. Surely not.
There has to come a point when you have to believe that there should be a light at the end of the tunnel because if not, we'd have nothing to look forward at any point in the immediate or foreseeable future. And this is the whole crux of the issue. When exactly will we all lose track of the time or will that present sense of disorientation just drag and drag? The days are turning into weeks, time is taking its own personal holiday and the months are bumping along and accidentally crashing into the passing seasons.
But it is National Rubber Eraser Day so let's go for it. Hands up those who can still fondly think back to those halcyon school days when the good, old fashioned blackboard rubber was much more than some threatening, offensive weapon.We all remember when our teachers were almost driven to throw the said object at the snivelling, giggling kids at the back of the class who just refused to listen to their times tables.
Rubbers though should never be wiped or obliterated from our memory because they were rather like a metaphor for everything children were not supposed to do during a class lesson. A stubborn disobedience and a sense of reckless boisterousness were suitably punished with a swift throw of the board rubber right into the left shoulder blade of the mischievous miscreant. It was the most appropriate punishment for the kids who could never quite understand why any kind of deplorable misbehaviour or incessant talking throughout the lesson would not be acceptable. End of story.
But it may be the abiding memory of the blackboard rubber sitting snugly next to all those colourful chalks that leave you sighing with amusement. Every so often our class teacher would pick up his dusty chalks, scribble anything that came to their mind and before you knew it playtime had arrived fashionably late.
After a series of furiously scribbled dates, wobbly lines and a crazy collision of letters and words, the teacher would promptly launch into a massive session of rubbing out, smudging, wiping, dusting of the same board and then seemingly cleaning the blackboard in the same breath. Rubbers were curious looking school objects, there for painful chastisement when necessary and always on hand to just remove anything that might have unintentionally been written in some clandestine childish prank.
And yet rubbers were great were they not? How difficult would our school lives have turned out to be had the rubber not been there. We'd have spent aimless, confusing hours trying to make head or tail of hundreds of words, letters and numbers that hadn't been scrubbed from the board. Then suddenly the kids would let out the most terrific noise and rubbers disguised as missiles would be sent flying into orbit before the missiles turned into a barrage and a mini conflict would ensue.
Now though the conscientious students in the class would drop their heads into a serious pose of study, pencils and pens in hand, exercise books open at exactly the right page before embarking on the alphabet, grammar, maths, multiplication tables, division tables and cute little coloured pencil drawings to illustrate the point they were trying to make.
There was though one important item. It was that other tiny kind of rubber, perhaps the junior version of the blackboard rubber. This was some very small and probably insignificant rubber, normally grey or white which would be required when we'd accidentally used the wrong letter or word, and perish the thought, written sentences in English that were just a tad too long. The rubber was gainfully employed when you knew that your only last resort when all else failed was the rubber. You'd make that crucial mistake and rather than defacing your exercise books with innumerable crossings out and illegible ink marks, the rubber instantly solved your problem and bingo, your teacher would know exactly where you'd made the error.
The bell would signify break time and we would all frantically tuck away our rubbers, pencils, pens, protractors. compasses and slightly threadbare exercise books. Satchels and bags would act as some idyllic sanctuary for our rubbers.
Personal recollections of those spectacular primary school days would also include the famous desks and the rows of desks. Desks were our launching pad, the foundation stone for our education. Here was the one piece of furniture which would always be exposed to as much damage as the kids could possibly inflict. With thick ink blotter poised almost perfectly on the corner of the desk some of the kids would make no secret of the fact that this was the time when the desk would be converted into some Banksy like wall of graffiti.
Before we knew it blotting paper would be ruthlessly squeezed into a dark navy river of more ink and then the graffiti artists would get to work on a classroom of tables and desks. Suddenly opportunity had given way to party time. With what can only be assumed to be the back of pens or pencils the kids would painstakingly scratch love hearts on the lids of our desks, names of their favourite football teams and some vile abuse that some of us couldn't possibly comment upon.
These were the days of adolescent rebellion, exploding hormones, teenage terror and naughty insubordination. No, we would not be told what to do because we knew best. We were the hip and mainstream kids on the block and nothing would ever stand in our way. We were fonts of all knowledge, pillars of wisdom and rubbers were utterly essential, indispensable, readily available in case our hitherto imaginative minds had deserted us and left us high and dry. Oh for the humble Rubber Eraser. School life would never have been complete without it.
Monday 13 April 2020
Sir Stirling Moss and Peter Bonetti die
Sir Stirling Moss and Peter Bonetti die.
Under ordinary circumstances this would have been like any other Easter Monday. But, sadly, unlike any other Easter Monday in our lifetimes, this is not going to be the same kind of bank holiday any of us are ever likely to witness. There is no one out there, the world is seemingly fast asleep and the kids will have to make do with their chocolate eggs without the rest of their families. Even Easter Parade isn't on the TV this year or at least so it would seem. Even the Easter bunny rabbits and bonnets are nowhere to be seen in any home around the globe.
Yesterday though even sport seemed to come out in sympathy with the current crisis. There is always an air of mourning and loss when sport loses its heroes or veteran pin up boys from another generation. But over the weekend Sir Sterling Moss from motor racing and Peter Bonetti from the world of football both died and some of us could barely take in the sadness of it all. We knew that both Moss and Bonetti had enjoyed richly garlanded careers with loads of praise, flattery and respect ringing in their ears but it still registers as the sharpest of shocks when you hear that the sportsmen you grew up with are no longer here anymore.
Personally the passing of Peter Bonetti, after a courageous battle against Alzheimer's disease, left you gasping for words and reactions since Bonetti represented football during the 1970s in a way that somehow will never be matched. Bonetti came from that outrageous era of flared trousers, platform shoes. silk scarves, The Osmonds, space hoppers, lengthy queues outside local lidos and the Chicken in a Basket feast in your local restaurant or trattoria.
Peter Bonetti was undoubtedly one of the finest Chelsea goalkeepers in the history of the club. Bonetti, nicknamed 'The Cat' owing to his uncanny resemblance to a feline's reflexes, will always be associated with Chelsea since here we had one man who was totally devoted to his club in a manner that would now seem unheard of.
Bonetti, as has always been the way for most players, experienced both the highs and lows, often uncomfortable fluctuations and dips in form that may have broken a lesser mortal. The contrasting moods of any footballer are almost inevitable but for Bonetti one moment was almost horrifically highlighted and years later it was lamented as if it were the one occasion during his career that he would never be forgiven for.
During the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Gordon Banks, another much loved and now missed goalkeeper, went down with alleged food poisoning on the eve of England's crucial quarter final against West Germany. So Banks had to sit out, quite certainly, one of the most important matches of the tournament and Bonetti would be lumbered with the onerous responsibility of taking over from Banks between the sticks.
The fresh faced and angelic Bonetti, Chelsea through and through, took guard in goal in perfect innocence without knowing at all that disaster would befall him. Franz Beckenbauer, West Germany's magisterial centre half, drilled a powerful shot from just outside the England penalty area and the ball slipped under Bonetti with almost apologetic ease. England had lost their grip on the World Cup and were out of the competition. All hell broke loose at that point and suddenly Bonetti was public enemy one. Oh for a reliable, safe and dependable Gordon Banks.
But months earlier Bonetti had been on the winning side for Chelsea, a triumphant figure in the club's first piece of silverware for what must have seemed ages. On an allotment site that was the old Wembley Stadium, Bonetti played perhaps one of his greatest matches for the Blues. A week before the 1970 FA Cup Final at Wembley, the Horse of the Year Show had ensured that much of the green turf that had once been allowed to flourish was now no more than a thick, cloying mudbath with divots all over the pitch.
The first match between Chelsea and Leeds United was a stodgy and bad tempered game as might have been expected when the two main adversaries and hard men were Norman Hunter and Ron Harris. But Bonetti was magnificent in goal and showed all the commendable skills that perhaps Chelsea might have assumed he'd display.
In the replay at Old Trafford during the following week, Bonetti was even better and even more memorable. With an almost gymnastic agility and impeccable positioning, Bonetti was stupendously outstanding. He flung himself across goal to stop all kinds of shots from Peter Lorimer, Alan Clarke and Johnny Giles and took instant command of his penalty area with an almost charming air of self confidence.
Throughout his club and international career Bonetti would continue to act as an almost impassable barrier in goal, always fit, always athletic, always dedicated to his trade, never allowing for any imperfection to spoil his game and perhaps a perfectionist. He would roll the ball around his area, gloves in spotless condition, assessing the mood of a game and always searching to place the ball in the right spot for hungry forwards. His distribution of the ball had the accuracy of a laser beam and his defenders would never show any sign of anxiety when he had the ball. His catching of the ball from deep, probing crosses was faultless and there was a calming consistency about his performances.
The world of motor racing of course also had its heart broken with the death of Sir Stirling Moss. For those who have never really shown any real enthusiasm for this most hazardous of sports, Moss, though was the notable exception. Rather like the late James Hunt, Moss attracted a whole beauty pageant of female admirers and was never less than pleased to share their company whenever the opportunity arose.
But Moss belonged to an era when juke boxes in coffee bars in Soho were the fashion of the time, rock and roll had revolutionised the music of the 1950s and and cars reminded you of one of the many toy cars that your parents had once presented you with as a child. Moss was smooth, witty, charismatic, flirtatious, immensely popular with the ladies and a marketing dream. He didn't win a major World Championship but was fast on the track, supremely confident and would enjoy more than his fair share of successful victories.
So that was the Sunday that was. We are still fastened down into a state of lockdown, none of us are going anywhere and there is stagnation wherever you look. The coronavirus has left most of us trying to establish some kind of different routine to our days and Monday occasionally feels like Thursday. But how on earth are we going to cope without Judy Garland in Easter Parade? Keep well everybody, stay safe and keep drinking either tea or coffee which ever your preferred choice of drink is.
Under ordinary circumstances this would have been like any other Easter Monday. But, sadly, unlike any other Easter Monday in our lifetimes, this is not going to be the same kind of bank holiday any of us are ever likely to witness. There is no one out there, the world is seemingly fast asleep and the kids will have to make do with their chocolate eggs without the rest of their families. Even Easter Parade isn't on the TV this year or at least so it would seem. Even the Easter bunny rabbits and bonnets are nowhere to be seen in any home around the globe.
Yesterday though even sport seemed to come out in sympathy with the current crisis. There is always an air of mourning and loss when sport loses its heroes or veteran pin up boys from another generation. But over the weekend Sir Sterling Moss from motor racing and Peter Bonetti from the world of football both died and some of us could barely take in the sadness of it all. We knew that both Moss and Bonetti had enjoyed richly garlanded careers with loads of praise, flattery and respect ringing in their ears but it still registers as the sharpest of shocks when you hear that the sportsmen you grew up with are no longer here anymore.
Personally the passing of Peter Bonetti, after a courageous battle against Alzheimer's disease, left you gasping for words and reactions since Bonetti represented football during the 1970s in a way that somehow will never be matched. Bonetti came from that outrageous era of flared trousers, platform shoes. silk scarves, The Osmonds, space hoppers, lengthy queues outside local lidos and the Chicken in a Basket feast in your local restaurant or trattoria.
Peter Bonetti was undoubtedly one of the finest Chelsea goalkeepers in the history of the club. Bonetti, nicknamed 'The Cat' owing to his uncanny resemblance to a feline's reflexes, will always be associated with Chelsea since here we had one man who was totally devoted to his club in a manner that would now seem unheard of.
Bonetti, as has always been the way for most players, experienced both the highs and lows, often uncomfortable fluctuations and dips in form that may have broken a lesser mortal. The contrasting moods of any footballer are almost inevitable but for Bonetti one moment was almost horrifically highlighted and years later it was lamented as if it were the one occasion during his career that he would never be forgiven for.
During the 1970 World Cup in Mexico, Gordon Banks, another much loved and now missed goalkeeper, went down with alleged food poisoning on the eve of England's crucial quarter final against West Germany. So Banks had to sit out, quite certainly, one of the most important matches of the tournament and Bonetti would be lumbered with the onerous responsibility of taking over from Banks between the sticks.
The fresh faced and angelic Bonetti, Chelsea through and through, took guard in goal in perfect innocence without knowing at all that disaster would befall him. Franz Beckenbauer, West Germany's magisterial centre half, drilled a powerful shot from just outside the England penalty area and the ball slipped under Bonetti with almost apologetic ease. England had lost their grip on the World Cup and were out of the competition. All hell broke loose at that point and suddenly Bonetti was public enemy one. Oh for a reliable, safe and dependable Gordon Banks.
But months earlier Bonetti had been on the winning side for Chelsea, a triumphant figure in the club's first piece of silverware for what must have seemed ages. On an allotment site that was the old Wembley Stadium, Bonetti played perhaps one of his greatest matches for the Blues. A week before the 1970 FA Cup Final at Wembley, the Horse of the Year Show had ensured that much of the green turf that had once been allowed to flourish was now no more than a thick, cloying mudbath with divots all over the pitch.
The first match between Chelsea and Leeds United was a stodgy and bad tempered game as might have been expected when the two main adversaries and hard men were Norman Hunter and Ron Harris. But Bonetti was magnificent in goal and showed all the commendable skills that perhaps Chelsea might have assumed he'd display.
In the replay at Old Trafford during the following week, Bonetti was even better and even more memorable. With an almost gymnastic agility and impeccable positioning, Bonetti was stupendously outstanding. He flung himself across goal to stop all kinds of shots from Peter Lorimer, Alan Clarke and Johnny Giles and took instant command of his penalty area with an almost charming air of self confidence.
Throughout his club and international career Bonetti would continue to act as an almost impassable barrier in goal, always fit, always athletic, always dedicated to his trade, never allowing for any imperfection to spoil his game and perhaps a perfectionist. He would roll the ball around his area, gloves in spotless condition, assessing the mood of a game and always searching to place the ball in the right spot for hungry forwards. His distribution of the ball had the accuracy of a laser beam and his defenders would never show any sign of anxiety when he had the ball. His catching of the ball from deep, probing crosses was faultless and there was a calming consistency about his performances.
The world of motor racing of course also had its heart broken with the death of Sir Stirling Moss. For those who have never really shown any real enthusiasm for this most hazardous of sports, Moss, though was the notable exception. Rather like the late James Hunt, Moss attracted a whole beauty pageant of female admirers and was never less than pleased to share their company whenever the opportunity arose.
But Moss belonged to an era when juke boxes in coffee bars in Soho were the fashion of the time, rock and roll had revolutionised the music of the 1950s and and cars reminded you of one of the many toy cars that your parents had once presented you with as a child. Moss was smooth, witty, charismatic, flirtatious, immensely popular with the ladies and a marketing dream. He didn't win a major World Championship but was fast on the track, supremely confident and would enjoy more than his fair share of successful victories.
So that was the Sunday that was. We are still fastened down into a state of lockdown, none of us are going anywhere and there is stagnation wherever you look. The coronavirus has left most of us trying to establish some kind of different routine to our days and Monday occasionally feels like Thursday. But how on earth are we going to cope without Judy Garland in Easter Parade? Keep well everybody, stay safe and keep drinking either tea or coffee which ever your preferred choice of drink is.
Sunday 12 April 2020
Baggy Trousers
Baggy Trousers
And now once again for something entirely wacky, something completely different and something designed to lift the blues in these troubled and worrying times. It'll make you laugh, chuckle, question my sanity quite frankly or just restore your faith in human nature. I hope it will. So here goes.
Nine years I completed my first and what I now realise was my first venture into the fiercely competitive world of publishing, writing books and literature. The book was called Victorian Madness Lyrics, a bonkers and totally incomprehensible homage to the brilliant British ska band from the 1970s and the 1980s. It is, quite certainly nonsensical but may I just add that this was a deliberate attempt to translate a huge part of Madness's back catalogue. No words were hurt in the act of producing this book. In fact Victorian Madness Lyrics is a festival of words, a grammatical carnival of posh metaphors and ridiculously quirky phrases that I hope will bring a smile to your faces.
If you like this brief snapshot and one of Madness's songs in an introductory way. Victorian Madness Lyrics is not a parody of the Victorian era as such. In fact this was never the intention in the first place. So sit back, enjoy your tea and biscuits and have a laugh. I hope you'll like it. Be prepared for a word fest the like of which you may never find in any other book.
Oh yes if you like the book Victorian Madness Lyrics it's available at either Foyles online, Waterstones online or Barnes and Noble online. Here goes for Baggy Trousers aka Ill Fitting Pantaloons.
Ill fitting pantaloons
Miscreant young males in malicious
groves of academia
Leading administrator of groves of
academia in violation of the
directives
Indulging in frivolity and
masquerading as poltroons
The entire set of tutors in the tavern
Discriminating the available eraser
Attempting to ponder when
The mid-day nourishment ringing
mechanism will resound on yet
another occasion
Goodness me what frivolity we
engaged in
But it did genuinely develop into a
complete fiasco
Everything I absorbed at the said
groves of academia
Was how to flex and not to violate
the directive
Goodness what frivolity we engaged in
But on the specific occasion it
appeared to be so malicious
Attempting diverse methods to
effect a revolution
The leading administrator of the
groves of academia had tolerated a
sufficient amount on this diurnal
period
The entire contingent of juveniles
have made their departure
Left the premises to engage in
skirmishes with the adjacent groves
of academia.
Striking Penny Farthings following
the nocturnal hours
Ill fitting pantaloons squalid
chemises
Tugging at the tonsure and
consuming squalid substances
Tutor arrives to achieve an
intervention
At the rear of the cranium with an
artificial container.
And so there ends a tantalising glimpse of Baggy Trousers - aka Ill Fitting Pantaloons. You'll also find the House of Fun- aka The Establishment of Amusement and Our House- One's Abode. If you're in the mood for a giggle, chortle or chuckle then Victorian Madness Lyrics is definitely the book for you. Thanks Suggs and the Madness lads.
And now once again for something entirely wacky, something completely different and something designed to lift the blues in these troubled and worrying times. It'll make you laugh, chuckle, question my sanity quite frankly or just restore your faith in human nature. I hope it will. So here goes.
Nine years I completed my first and what I now realise was my first venture into the fiercely competitive world of publishing, writing books and literature. The book was called Victorian Madness Lyrics, a bonkers and totally incomprehensible homage to the brilliant British ska band from the 1970s and the 1980s. It is, quite certainly nonsensical but may I just add that this was a deliberate attempt to translate a huge part of Madness's back catalogue. No words were hurt in the act of producing this book. In fact Victorian Madness Lyrics is a festival of words, a grammatical carnival of posh metaphors and ridiculously quirky phrases that I hope will bring a smile to your faces.
If you like this brief snapshot and one of Madness's songs in an introductory way. Victorian Madness Lyrics is not a parody of the Victorian era as such. In fact this was never the intention in the first place. So sit back, enjoy your tea and biscuits and have a laugh. I hope you'll like it. Be prepared for a word fest the like of which you may never find in any other book.
Oh yes if you like the book Victorian Madness Lyrics it's available at either Foyles online, Waterstones online or Barnes and Noble online. Here goes for Baggy Trousers aka Ill Fitting Pantaloons.
Ill fitting pantaloons
Miscreant young males in malicious
groves of academia
Leading administrator of groves of
academia in violation of the
directives
Indulging in frivolity and
masquerading as poltroons
The entire set of tutors in the tavern
Discriminating the available eraser
Attempting to ponder when
The mid-day nourishment ringing
mechanism will resound on yet
another occasion
Goodness me what frivolity we
engaged in
But it did genuinely develop into a
complete fiasco
Everything I absorbed at the said
groves of academia
Was how to flex and not to violate
the directive
Goodness what frivolity we engaged in
But on the specific occasion it
appeared to be so malicious
Attempting diverse methods to
effect a revolution
The leading administrator of the
groves of academia had tolerated a
sufficient amount on this diurnal
period
The entire contingent of juveniles
have made their departure
Left the premises to engage in
skirmishes with the adjacent groves
of academia.
Striking Penny Farthings following
the nocturnal hours
Ill fitting pantaloons squalid
chemises
Tugging at the tonsure and
consuming squalid substances
Tutor arrives to achieve an
intervention
At the rear of the cranium with an
artificial container.
And so there ends a tantalising glimpse of Baggy Trousers - aka Ill Fitting Pantaloons. You'll also find the House of Fun- aka The Establishment of Amusement and Our House- One's Abode. If you're in the mood for a giggle, chortle or chuckle then Victorian Madness Lyrics is definitely the book for you. Thanks Suggs and the Madness lads.
Saturday 11 April 2020
No Boat Race. Oh how we yearn for sport's joyous sporting pleasures.
No Boat Race. Oh how we yearn for sport's joyous sporting pleasures.
You do know what today was meant to be. Amid all the misery and heartache of recent months you may have known that it was still there at the back of your mind but could never be sure of the time and the date. You knew that it was at roughly this time of the year but couldn't recall the date in April. You knew that it was one of sport's most eye catching and compelling of events but it had gone and therein lies the crux of the problem. Sport is in cold storage, frozen out, left to kick its heels and in the case of what would have been today's spectacle, looking at its oars in complete frustration.
The annual Boat Race, one of Britain's most endearing and lovely of sporting races, had to be postponed or cancelled which ever way you look at it. The students and hard working undergraduates of Oxford and Cambridge university were due to be flexing their arms, shoulders, and feet in readiness for that yearly slog up the River Thames before finally rounding the bend of the river to Putney.
It could be described as one of the oddest sights of the whole sporting year and yet year after year, two of Britain's most famous universities, plonk themselves into a boat, easing their way slowly into their rightful position before hunching their bodies and then embarking on four miles of some of the most gruelling rowing ever seen. But then fate intervened because it does that from time to time and here we are late on a balmy spring day in Britain and dear old Father Thames is beginning to look forward to next year because this year it won't be graced with the Boat Race. It really doesn't seem possible.
You suspect that the handsome and sparkling stretch of water that threads and winds its way through the heart of London and beyond had not been informed that the two boats that it could normally be relied on to give it its customary splash of colour and vibrancy, had just gone missing. In retrospect this is not a disaster since sport doesn't really need to bother with such trivialities in a climate where the health of the world figures rather more prominently than a rowing race between two academic powerhouses.
But it would have been nice to observe the rich cultural heritage of Britain's past, thrill to its sense of ceremonial pomp and pageantry while all the time cheering for either white or blue. There they go the next generation of barristers, lawyers, scientists and professors, heaving and pulling, gritting their teeth, pulling all manner of imaginable faces and stretching every sinew in the hope of a momentous victory.
Over the years of course both universities have shared domination of the race in equal measures, monopolising the race for years on end before one year either Oxford or Cambridge just take it in turns to win it. TV cameras have always given the clearest perspective and then invariably given us an aerial viewpoint, hovering above the Thames as the race snakes its way attractively down the river, both sets of rowers reduced to tiny figures desperately thrashing their way through the water, the foam of the water trailing behind them faithfully.
This year though the agonised grimaces on faces will not be on show, that collective esprit de corps that normally exists between both universities will have to go back in the rowing shed and they will instead have to be content with perhaps virtual reality games on their I-Pads. Those red faces of health and fitness, glowing with athleticism and tons of guts, will, you can only guess, be turning their attention back to their legal books, cramming for exams that may also have to be postponed and then wracking their heads in some heart rending search for something constructive to do.
Of course we should have been celebrating either Cambridge or Oxford leaping out of their boats with unashamed delight but that'll never happen. My late and wonderful dad, fiercely anti sport, would always pin his colours to the Cambridge mast and to this day it remains a mystery but how I'll always love him for that reason alone. Still there's always next year for the Boat Race. Land ahoy and splice the mainbrace me hearties!
You do know what today was meant to be. Amid all the misery and heartache of recent months you may have known that it was still there at the back of your mind but could never be sure of the time and the date. You knew that it was at roughly this time of the year but couldn't recall the date in April. You knew that it was one of sport's most eye catching and compelling of events but it had gone and therein lies the crux of the problem. Sport is in cold storage, frozen out, left to kick its heels and in the case of what would have been today's spectacle, looking at its oars in complete frustration.
The annual Boat Race, one of Britain's most endearing and lovely of sporting races, had to be postponed or cancelled which ever way you look at it. The students and hard working undergraduates of Oxford and Cambridge university were due to be flexing their arms, shoulders, and feet in readiness for that yearly slog up the River Thames before finally rounding the bend of the river to Putney.
It could be described as one of the oddest sights of the whole sporting year and yet year after year, two of Britain's most famous universities, plonk themselves into a boat, easing their way slowly into their rightful position before hunching their bodies and then embarking on four miles of some of the most gruelling rowing ever seen. But then fate intervened because it does that from time to time and here we are late on a balmy spring day in Britain and dear old Father Thames is beginning to look forward to next year because this year it won't be graced with the Boat Race. It really doesn't seem possible.
You suspect that the handsome and sparkling stretch of water that threads and winds its way through the heart of London and beyond had not been informed that the two boats that it could normally be relied on to give it its customary splash of colour and vibrancy, had just gone missing. In retrospect this is not a disaster since sport doesn't really need to bother with such trivialities in a climate where the health of the world figures rather more prominently than a rowing race between two academic powerhouses.
But it would have been nice to observe the rich cultural heritage of Britain's past, thrill to its sense of ceremonial pomp and pageantry while all the time cheering for either white or blue. There they go the next generation of barristers, lawyers, scientists and professors, heaving and pulling, gritting their teeth, pulling all manner of imaginable faces and stretching every sinew in the hope of a momentous victory.
Over the years of course both universities have shared domination of the race in equal measures, monopolising the race for years on end before one year either Oxford or Cambridge just take it in turns to win it. TV cameras have always given the clearest perspective and then invariably given us an aerial viewpoint, hovering above the Thames as the race snakes its way attractively down the river, both sets of rowers reduced to tiny figures desperately thrashing their way through the water, the foam of the water trailing behind them faithfully.
This year though the agonised grimaces on faces will not be on show, that collective esprit de corps that normally exists between both universities will have to go back in the rowing shed and they will instead have to be content with perhaps virtual reality games on their I-Pads. Those red faces of health and fitness, glowing with athleticism and tons of guts, will, you can only guess, be turning their attention back to their legal books, cramming for exams that may also have to be postponed and then wracking their heads in some heart rending search for something constructive to do.
Of course we should have been celebrating either Cambridge or Oxford leaping out of their boats with unashamed delight but that'll never happen. My late and wonderful dad, fiercely anti sport, would always pin his colours to the Cambridge mast and to this day it remains a mystery but how I'll always love him for that reason alone. Still there's always next year for the Boat Race. Land ahoy and splice the mainbrace me hearties!
Thursday 9 April 2020
What else is left to say?
What else is left to say.
This is not the way we thought 2020 would pan out. Thousands of words have poured from your keyboard but we are still none the wiser. We are speechless, dumbfounded, mortified, devastated, totally astonished, crestfallen over and over again, convinced that somebody will just nudge us in the ribs and just tell us that it can't continue like this, that this should have been over by now and yet how misjudged were we understandably so.
Last night Jewish families all across Britain and all over the world were reduced to the very topical Zoom party, the very latest in modern technology and what can only be described as a glorified webcam facility where for those who have now been prevented from engaging in verbal interaction, could only communicate with each other via cyberspace. It was an interesting evening if only because this was our first Pesach (Passover) where none of us could sit next to each other at a table and talk to each other in close proximity.
For the first time in the history of Pesach the families of the world had to content with virtual reality seder services where parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, brothers in law and sister in laws, cousins, uncles and aunts would now find themselves in solitary confinement, speaking across the ether and cut off from all contact with their loved ones. At the moment the whole of the world feels so grief stricken that it may seem as though we may never feel like our old selves again. But we will of that you can be sure.
The whole momentum of our daily lives has been punctured and deflated, cut off in its prime, lifestyles and everyday functions completely jolted and switched off by infinitely more important priorities. But last night we had to look at our families in four boxes of high tech internet wizardry. Of course it was good to see familiar faces and, in fact, a positive joy but it simply felt unreal and cosmetic, artificial and contrived. We could hear and see each other but real human relationships had been denied. It was almost as if we were being forced to look at each other through a series of mirrors, kaleidoscopic images if you like. It was, sadly, not the same.
And yet the service was conducted in exemplary style and we were all allowed to indulge in just a couple of innocent hours of fun, family jollity and a multitude of laughs. The prayers, songs and blessings were immaculately observed, wine drunk, Elijah summoned, Miriam summoned, matzos gleefully devoured, soup sipped contentedly and lamb accompanied by potatoes and vegetables. Oh it felt so good and how good it was.
In a sense of course the very concepts of detachment, self isolation, apartness, remoteness may ironically have brought us much closer than we might have thought. Besides, we still have our immediate family to keep us company and we can still read, watch the TV and express our innermost feelings via a computer. The world has not ended and that has to be emphasised repeatedly. Of course solitude and the act of solitariness can be distressingly upsetting but perhaps we'll learn to live our lives in a way that somehow demands improvisation and adaptability.
Still, the fact remains that there are so many jigsaw puzzles you can complete even if there are 5,000 pieces to find. There are of course so many crosswords to mentally occupy our minds, so many pullovers to knit, music to listen to over and over again, miles to run in parks, tables or chairs to repair, decorating, painting and gardening to get round to doing. We are naturally creatures of habit but when that habit begins to run its course we are then left with something else to do which we hadn't quite thought of.
And therein lies in the problem. If we do go out anywhere we are made to feel extremely guilty and if we don't go out we feel as though the world has escaped from us. We are now in a state of captivity, struggling to find things to do on another stunningly warm spring day. But you've got to get out because eventually not only will our souls feel imprisoned but also our minds. We are not being held to hostage as such because that would imply that somebody is holding us to ransom. We are though bound by circumstances that have to be tolerated because this is indeed real life and not some cheap Hollywood movie although nobody would dare think of some sick and tasteless cinematic glorification of this dreadful disease. We love the Americans and besides this is global and we're all in this together.
There is now a very real sense of resignation, a genuine acceptance of the status quo, an almost quiet seclusion from the outside world which can be comforting but ever so slightly unnerving. Of course we can console ourselves with the knowledge that our family will always be there for us, our loving and supportive network, our confidants to talk to at all times. But then a yearning for the familiar and the traditional kicks in, fuelled by the necessity to just to carry out the ordinary tasks that we might have taken for granted.
The ghost town mentality though is still with us, the oasis is still in need of some kind of water and sustenance, refreshment and re- invigoration. But maybe this is the time to take stock of ourselves as human beings, to tweak things, make new re-adjustments, homegrown innovations. Maybe we should all just slow down, take life not quite so seriously as we are sometimes wont to do. Perhaps just perhaps life had become too far hectic, frantic and frenetic, a pressure cooker that needed to let off some steam, fraught with both tension and anxiety, weighed down by intensity and seriousness.
Of course there are the everyday bills that have to be paid, children to be nurtured and brought up, domestic duties that had to be attended to. But hold on when was the last time we thought we just wanted to stand back from the mad maelstrom, the ruinous intrusion of forces that just overwhelmed us when all we just want to do is sit down, think again and then look at our lives with much more objectivity rather than take sides and then be drawn into unnecessary arguments.
In years to come psychologists and anthropologists may come to view 2020 with the same kind of fascination as any other. But this time the year 2020 has challenged us to the utmost extreme, setting down new parameters and boundaries and quite possibly creating pyschological templates that would never have been thought of in any other year. There has been no rationale for the coronavirus because we weren't ready for this. So the uniqueness and bizarreness has hit us between the eyes and some of us can barely compute or register recent events.
Now of course we have become much more community minded, even more charitable than ever before and the human condition is beginning to show a much more favourable side to its personality. We now think nothing of doing the shopping for our elderly neighbours, caring wonderfully for the infirm or sick and then going beyond the call of duty.
The truth though of course is that there are immensely daunting obstacles in front of us that may take an age to overcome. There are different stages and phases in our lives that we never thought would make their presence felt. Still we are told to stay at home which now begins to smack of an imminent nuclear warfare but then we look at the masks outside our local chemists and supermarkets and then rub our eyes once again. Never mind folks Boris Johnson, the British Prime Minister is out of intensive care and of course that has to be good news.
This is not the way we thought 2020 would pan out. Thousands of words have poured from your keyboard but we are still none the wiser. We are speechless, dumbfounded, mortified, devastated, totally astonished, crestfallen over and over again, convinced that somebody will just nudge us in the ribs and just tell us that it can't continue like this, that this should have been over by now and yet how misjudged were we understandably so.
Last night Jewish families all across Britain and all over the world were reduced to the very topical Zoom party, the very latest in modern technology and what can only be described as a glorified webcam facility where for those who have now been prevented from engaging in verbal interaction, could only communicate with each other via cyberspace. It was an interesting evening if only because this was our first Pesach (Passover) where none of us could sit next to each other at a table and talk to each other in close proximity.
For the first time in the history of Pesach the families of the world had to content with virtual reality seder services where parents, grandparents, brothers, sisters, brothers in law and sister in laws, cousins, uncles and aunts would now find themselves in solitary confinement, speaking across the ether and cut off from all contact with their loved ones. At the moment the whole of the world feels so grief stricken that it may seem as though we may never feel like our old selves again. But we will of that you can be sure.
The whole momentum of our daily lives has been punctured and deflated, cut off in its prime, lifestyles and everyday functions completely jolted and switched off by infinitely more important priorities. But last night we had to look at our families in four boxes of high tech internet wizardry. Of course it was good to see familiar faces and, in fact, a positive joy but it simply felt unreal and cosmetic, artificial and contrived. We could hear and see each other but real human relationships had been denied. It was almost as if we were being forced to look at each other through a series of mirrors, kaleidoscopic images if you like. It was, sadly, not the same.
And yet the service was conducted in exemplary style and we were all allowed to indulge in just a couple of innocent hours of fun, family jollity and a multitude of laughs. The prayers, songs and blessings were immaculately observed, wine drunk, Elijah summoned, Miriam summoned, matzos gleefully devoured, soup sipped contentedly and lamb accompanied by potatoes and vegetables. Oh it felt so good and how good it was.
In a sense of course the very concepts of detachment, self isolation, apartness, remoteness may ironically have brought us much closer than we might have thought. Besides, we still have our immediate family to keep us company and we can still read, watch the TV and express our innermost feelings via a computer. The world has not ended and that has to be emphasised repeatedly. Of course solitude and the act of solitariness can be distressingly upsetting but perhaps we'll learn to live our lives in a way that somehow demands improvisation and adaptability.
Still, the fact remains that there are so many jigsaw puzzles you can complete even if there are 5,000 pieces to find. There are of course so many crosswords to mentally occupy our minds, so many pullovers to knit, music to listen to over and over again, miles to run in parks, tables or chairs to repair, decorating, painting and gardening to get round to doing. We are naturally creatures of habit but when that habit begins to run its course we are then left with something else to do which we hadn't quite thought of.
And therein lies in the problem. If we do go out anywhere we are made to feel extremely guilty and if we don't go out we feel as though the world has escaped from us. We are now in a state of captivity, struggling to find things to do on another stunningly warm spring day. But you've got to get out because eventually not only will our souls feel imprisoned but also our minds. We are not being held to hostage as such because that would imply that somebody is holding us to ransom. We are though bound by circumstances that have to be tolerated because this is indeed real life and not some cheap Hollywood movie although nobody would dare think of some sick and tasteless cinematic glorification of this dreadful disease. We love the Americans and besides this is global and we're all in this together.
There is now a very real sense of resignation, a genuine acceptance of the status quo, an almost quiet seclusion from the outside world which can be comforting but ever so slightly unnerving. Of course we can console ourselves with the knowledge that our family will always be there for us, our loving and supportive network, our confidants to talk to at all times. But then a yearning for the familiar and the traditional kicks in, fuelled by the necessity to just to carry out the ordinary tasks that we might have taken for granted.
The ghost town mentality though is still with us, the oasis is still in need of some kind of water and sustenance, refreshment and re- invigoration. But maybe this is the time to take stock of ourselves as human beings, to tweak things, make new re-adjustments, homegrown innovations. Maybe we should all just slow down, take life not quite so seriously as we are sometimes wont to do. Perhaps just perhaps life had become too far hectic, frantic and frenetic, a pressure cooker that needed to let off some steam, fraught with both tension and anxiety, weighed down by intensity and seriousness.
Of course there are the everyday bills that have to be paid, children to be nurtured and brought up, domestic duties that had to be attended to. But hold on when was the last time we thought we just wanted to stand back from the mad maelstrom, the ruinous intrusion of forces that just overwhelmed us when all we just want to do is sit down, think again and then look at our lives with much more objectivity rather than take sides and then be drawn into unnecessary arguments.
In years to come psychologists and anthropologists may come to view 2020 with the same kind of fascination as any other. But this time the year 2020 has challenged us to the utmost extreme, setting down new parameters and boundaries and quite possibly creating pyschological templates that would never have been thought of in any other year. There has been no rationale for the coronavirus because we weren't ready for this. So the uniqueness and bizarreness has hit us between the eyes and some of us can barely compute or register recent events.
Now of course we have become much more community minded, even more charitable than ever before and the human condition is beginning to show a much more favourable side to its personality. We now think nothing of doing the shopping for our elderly neighbours, caring wonderfully for the infirm or sick and then going beyond the call of duty.
The truth though of course is that there are immensely daunting obstacles in front of us that may take an age to overcome. There are different stages and phases in our lives that we never thought would make their presence felt. Still we are told to stay at home which now begins to smack of an imminent nuclear warfare but then we look at the masks outside our local chemists and supermarkets and then rub our eyes once again. Never mind folks Boris Johnson, the British Prime Minister is out of intensive care and of course that has to be good news.
Tuesday 7 April 2020
No more cricket for a while.
No more cricket for a while.
There was a time when a man, and most certainly now, a woman's thoughts would usually be turning to cricket. Cricket is that lovely summertime sport of sedateness, leisureliness, beauty, grace, village green games of picturesque artistry, schoolchildren during their summer holidays constantly scampering around the boundary, always restless and tireless but somehow emotionally connected.
Out there on England's lush playing fields most of those energetic youngsters used to sit by the boundary with scorecards in their hands, meticulously noting wickets taken and the healthy harvest of runs that the batsmen had collected with their strong, supple arms and shoulders. But here we are at the beginning of April and not only has the football season been suspended indefinitely owing to the coronavirus disease, but cricket has now been locked away in an empty pavilion and we may never find out when somebody will give them permission to play again.
For many of us cricket is the game for middle aged and elderly gentlemen and women, a game designed for mathematical and intellectual minds, reserved clearly for all classes, backgrounds, religions, thoughtful temperaments, knowing eyes, patience and concentration of the highest order. It is a game for the appreciative aficionado and the milkman, postman, baker, taxi driver, lorry driver, engineer and train driver. Cricket cuts across all class barriers, detests prejudice and loves a run chase.
But for the time being cricket is no longer considered to be even a remote possibility because there are some things that quite naturally take complete precedence to sport. Football still obsesses with playing games behind closed doors and that continuous narrative of players wages and players wage cuts. Cricket, not nearly as flush with money, just wants to get on with the business of playing its summertime rhapsodies against its traditional backdrop of churches, cathedrals, gas holders and that onion shaped media centre at Lords.
And so it is that the likes of Lords, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford, Headingley, Sophia Gardens, the Oval and a thousand other rural, urban and suburban playing fields tucked away in the middle of nowhere but quite certainly somewhere will have to go without its white flannelled cricketers. It will have to just pine for upright umpires with thick sweaters wrapped almost ritually around their waists. It will just have to miss those lively gatherings of birds at deep backward square leg, pecking and possibly squabbling away, fluttering briefly away and then watching the giants of the game heaving their imposing sixes onto a hotel balcony or into some distant shopping mall.
We shall miss them all. Summer is just synonymous with cricket. For some summer just won't be the same without cricket. It'll seem like England without its saintly vicars shaking the hands of devout parishioners, vicars riding their favourite bicycles, warm beer in an inviting pub on the corner of a vicar's rectory, an England stripped bare of its Sunday decorum, its peace and tranquillity, its shimmering streams on idyllic days but then life is always idyllic.
But then we'll wake up on a June morning when the sweet voiced crows have finished their breakfast and the men of England and the women of England won't know what to do because cricket has been abandoned, postponed and, perish the thought, cancelled. They'll be staring at their pads, varnishing their bats, endlessly practising their forward defensive prod or the much more adventurous reverse sweep.
There are those who are probably looking at their Wisden, the cricketers handbook of all handbooks and wondering if there's any point to it at all. What's the point of comparing Leicestershire's run rate, the number of Surrey's County Championship victories, reading about the timeless greats such as Denis and Leslie Compton, Len Hutton, Patsy Hendren, Bill and John Edrich, Denis Amiss, Sir Geoff Boycott, the remarkable Ian Botham, the clever Basil D'Oliveira, the schemers, the endless run makers, the blistering bowlers running in endlessly, shirts flapping and billowing on blustery summer afternoons?
For now we will just have to content ourselves with the memory of TV broadcasters, the poets of the game including John Arlott and Neville Cardus who painted landscapes and portraits with their sweetly mellifluous words. For those who listened to the magical Test Match special we will always cherish the inimitable Brian Johnson with his fruity dialogue, mischief making and a million chocolate cakes from their discerning listeners. A summer without cricket. It just doesn't seem possible.
There was a time when a man, and most certainly now, a woman's thoughts would usually be turning to cricket. Cricket is that lovely summertime sport of sedateness, leisureliness, beauty, grace, village green games of picturesque artistry, schoolchildren during their summer holidays constantly scampering around the boundary, always restless and tireless but somehow emotionally connected.
Out there on England's lush playing fields most of those energetic youngsters used to sit by the boundary with scorecards in their hands, meticulously noting wickets taken and the healthy harvest of runs that the batsmen had collected with their strong, supple arms and shoulders. But here we are at the beginning of April and not only has the football season been suspended indefinitely owing to the coronavirus disease, but cricket has now been locked away in an empty pavilion and we may never find out when somebody will give them permission to play again.
For many of us cricket is the game for middle aged and elderly gentlemen and women, a game designed for mathematical and intellectual minds, reserved clearly for all classes, backgrounds, religions, thoughtful temperaments, knowing eyes, patience and concentration of the highest order. It is a game for the appreciative aficionado and the milkman, postman, baker, taxi driver, lorry driver, engineer and train driver. Cricket cuts across all class barriers, detests prejudice and loves a run chase.
But for the time being cricket is no longer considered to be even a remote possibility because there are some things that quite naturally take complete precedence to sport. Football still obsesses with playing games behind closed doors and that continuous narrative of players wages and players wage cuts. Cricket, not nearly as flush with money, just wants to get on with the business of playing its summertime rhapsodies against its traditional backdrop of churches, cathedrals, gas holders and that onion shaped media centre at Lords.
And so it is that the likes of Lords, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford, Headingley, Sophia Gardens, the Oval and a thousand other rural, urban and suburban playing fields tucked away in the middle of nowhere but quite certainly somewhere will have to go without its white flannelled cricketers. It will have to just pine for upright umpires with thick sweaters wrapped almost ritually around their waists. It will just have to miss those lively gatherings of birds at deep backward square leg, pecking and possibly squabbling away, fluttering briefly away and then watching the giants of the game heaving their imposing sixes onto a hotel balcony or into some distant shopping mall.
We shall miss them all. Summer is just synonymous with cricket. For some summer just won't be the same without cricket. It'll seem like England without its saintly vicars shaking the hands of devout parishioners, vicars riding their favourite bicycles, warm beer in an inviting pub on the corner of a vicar's rectory, an England stripped bare of its Sunday decorum, its peace and tranquillity, its shimmering streams on idyllic days but then life is always idyllic.
But then we'll wake up on a June morning when the sweet voiced crows have finished their breakfast and the men of England and the women of England won't know what to do because cricket has been abandoned, postponed and, perish the thought, cancelled. They'll be staring at their pads, varnishing their bats, endlessly practising their forward defensive prod or the much more adventurous reverse sweep.
There are those who are probably looking at their Wisden, the cricketers handbook of all handbooks and wondering if there's any point to it at all. What's the point of comparing Leicestershire's run rate, the number of Surrey's County Championship victories, reading about the timeless greats such as Denis and Leslie Compton, Len Hutton, Patsy Hendren, Bill and John Edrich, Denis Amiss, Sir Geoff Boycott, the remarkable Ian Botham, the clever Basil D'Oliveira, the schemers, the endless run makers, the blistering bowlers running in endlessly, shirts flapping and billowing on blustery summer afternoons?
For now we will just have to content ourselves with the memory of TV broadcasters, the poets of the game including John Arlott and Neville Cardus who painted landscapes and portraits with their sweetly mellifluous words. For those who listened to the magical Test Match special we will always cherish the inimitable Brian Johnson with his fruity dialogue, mischief making and a million chocolate cakes from their discerning listeners. A summer without cricket. It just doesn't seem possible.
Sunday 5 April 2020
Sunday - let's just keep cool.
Sunday- let's just keep cool.
There was a time when Sunday meant rest, reflection, rumination, worship, prayer, taking the dogs for a walk, sauntering around your local park, feeding the ducks and swans, running, walking, cycling, sharing lively banter, exchanging all manner of civilities, cracking jokes, gathering yourself for the week's toil and endeavour, composing yourself for another week at school and then swotting furiously for those end of term exams because everything was make or break and life defining.
But all of that has gone by the wayside. The normalities are no longer considered as normal, the formalities have been delayed for who knows how long and the festivities are definitely out of the question. So where does that leave all of us? Maybe we're all caught in the middle of a no man's land, stilled and frustrated, shackled by circumstances that are none of our making. We can't function properly because the law of the land has now dictated as such and all of those mind broadening and physically stimulating activities we would usually think nothing of, have suddenly been brought up short and just ceased forthwith.
Our noble Health Secretary Matt Hancock, who could be easily mistaken for his fictitious grandfather and comedian Tony, is now seriously suggesting that all parks and recreation grounds should be padlocked up firmly and no one should ever be allowed to go anywhere near this deeply invigorating green space where the act of healthy exercise has always been permitted for every day apart from perhaps Christmas Day.
But ladies and gentlemen you have to be informed here and now that because Britain has committed the most heinous of violations and offences, the nation has to suffer the consequences. Yesterday's burst of glorious sunshine was the perfect incentive for all of us to stride out confidently into all of our lush greenery, floral beauty and those pretty parks with their yearly profusion of daisies, tulips and the first buds of luxuriant roses.
Guess what though? Mr Hancock, in his infinite foolhardiness, has decided to put his foot down and is poised to impose the ultimate sanction on the human race. If you don't obey the Government stance on the coronavirus then you may be prosecuted, arrested, hung, drawn or quartered, taken to the gallows, beaten senseless to a pulp and then warned that if we see you anywhere in the midst of a sunbathing area in your local park you'll be swiftly taken down to the police station and warned quite sternly. Never ever do that again sonny Jim or Jean if you're a woman because you may have to get used to prison food.
We are now living in absurd times, surrealism has now made its way into pop culture and one day we will almost certainly wake up and find that this was the April Fools Joke we thought we'd been the victim of a couple of days ago. But no, it's happening. Has everybody though gone stark raving bonkers though? Have we taken leave of our senses? Around us all is utter pandemonium, pettiness, hyper sensitivity and emotional chaos. Or so it would seem but with perfectly good reason.
Of course well over 4,000 lives have been tragically lost and you can only imagine the atmosphere within those closely knit families who have lost a loved one. Our compassion is naturally a given. Of course those non essential shops are now shut, some of us may have to wait for ages for another haircut, we're stocking up on milk on a much more frequent basis and the supermarkets are beginning to resemble an episode from some deeply shocking episode from the 1970s science fiction TV show Blakes Seven.
Wherever you go now you're suddenly confronted by long lines of shoppers quite literally standing on a painted footstep yards away from each other. There is a weird sense of estrangement from each other, a creepy air of solemnity, a morose mourning for no particular reason and that overwhelming hollowness that only becomes apparent when all of the commuters have left the pubs and theatres of the West End of London.
You cast your eyes around the whole of the West End in London and convince yourself that everything has just been airbrushed out of the photographs, that some very imaginative picture editor of a trendy magazine has deliberately removed any sign of human movement. But this is very much real life, authenticity in all of its harsh reality, a real life horror show that has come to life. There is no time frame and the speculation changes according to which media outlet you happen to be following.
Football and the Premier League is still deluding itself, kidding itself that sometime in the middle of May or the middle of June the football season may go ahead as if nothing had ever happened. It does seem though that the FA, in some ludicrous fantasy world, has forgotten what's happened to the game thus far.
Football, it has to be said, has lost all perspective and its moral compass seemed to desert the game when the Premier League season was initially stopped at the beginning of March. What on earth is going through the collective minds of the FA? How to reconcile the thoughts and intentions of a sporting organisation whose only concern at the moment is naturally the welfare of its players and their families while singularly insisting that the nine remaining matches of the season have to be completed?
This is the point we have now reached. There is a school of thought which believes that those remaining games have to be played behind closed doors. What a preposterous notion, the brainchild of some bone headed idiot who has no idea of the importance that football fans attach to their game and just wants to experience that unique feeling of either disappointment or heartache, joy or jubilation in either relegation or promotion issues. It is part of their rich tapestry of their life and there has to be a logical conclusion, a signature, a clear line drawn under the whole of the season. Oh what utter nonsense.
Now we have discovered that the players themselves have now been attacked for selfishness, greed and sheer ignorance. The ongoing taxes on players wages either paid or unpaid, the deferral of those wages because no player has kicked a football in anger since the start of March and all of those ethical dilemmas that have been wildly thrown up into the air leaving the game hanging its head in shame.
In mitigation of course there was that wonderful act of generosity and altruism that touched our hearts when Liverpool skipper Jordan Henderson donated millions of pounds to the NHS. In contrast we have now been told that members of staff at clubs including those working in catering have now been overlooked in that mad stampede towards the land of greater riches paid out to already wealthy and pampered footballers.
But then we look back to the broken hearted, the weeping families, the thousands who have died and you begin to question the sanity of football and its narrow minded bigwigs. When do they propose to re start the football season again? The middle of June, early July or maybe it should overlap with the beginning of the new Premier League season? Would the pre-season be foreshortened and maybe, rather like dray horses, footballers should be expected to play every weekend almost constantly until the end of the year. The latest wheeze is that TV broadcasters could show all of those remaining games live as if that would prove to be the sugar coating to satisfy all football fans. Is this is some very unfunny joke?
The fact is that every sporting event has now been postponed, every cultural event postponed and quite literally everything has been cancelled until further notice. How much clearer does that have to be? There can be no other explanation. Of course we enjoy football and quite possibly wallow in its unpredictability and capriciousness, the realms of the unexpected where nothing is quite what it seems.
The bottom line is though that yesterday's Grand National was reduced to a virtual charade, a computer generated spectacle off every scale. The London Marathon, that great family event that keeps delivering to the London streets every April, is off, and, more importantly perhaps, the Olympic Games, that four yearly sporting extravaganza where the athletes of the world come together and unite behind the four rings. There's no cricket until perhaps May, the Wimbledon tennis gathering is just a summer, strawberries and cream dream and everything is off limits, not even up for coherent discussion. These are truly historic times and it's time to hold on for a while, remain patient. We can all be victorious.
There was a time when Sunday meant rest, reflection, rumination, worship, prayer, taking the dogs for a walk, sauntering around your local park, feeding the ducks and swans, running, walking, cycling, sharing lively banter, exchanging all manner of civilities, cracking jokes, gathering yourself for the week's toil and endeavour, composing yourself for another week at school and then swotting furiously for those end of term exams because everything was make or break and life defining.
But all of that has gone by the wayside. The normalities are no longer considered as normal, the formalities have been delayed for who knows how long and the festivities are definitely out of the question. So where does that leave all of us? Maybe we're all caught in the middle of a no man's land, stilled and frustrated, shackled by circumstances that are none of our making. We can't function properly because the law of the land has now dictated as such and all of those mind broadening and physically stimulating activities we would usually think nothing of, have suddenly been brought up short and just ceased forthwith.
Our noble Health Secretary Matt Hancock, who could be easily mistaken for his fictitious grandfather and comedian Tony, is now seriously suggesting that all parks and recreation grounds should be padlocked up firmly and no one should ever be allowed to go anywhere near this deeply invigorating green space where the act of healthy exercise has always been permitted for every day apart from perhaps Christmas Day.
But ladies and gentlemen you have to be informed here and now that because Britain has committed the most heinous of violations and offences, the nation has to suffer the consequences. Yesterday's burst of glorious sunshine was the perfect incentive for all of us to stride out confidently into all of our lush greenery, floral beauty and those pretty parks with their yearly profusion of daisies, tulips and the first buds of luxuriant roses.
Guess what though? Mr Hancock, in his infinite foolhardiness, has decided to put his foot down and is poised to impose the ultimate sanction on the human race. If you don't obey the Government stance on the coronavirus then you may be prosecuted, arrested, hung, drawn or quartered, taken to the gallows, beaten senseless to a pulp and then warned that if we see you anywhere in the midst of a sunbathing area in your local park you'll be swiftly taken down to the police station and warned quite sternly. Never ever do that again sonny Jim or Jean if you're a woman because you may have to get used to prison food.
We are now living in absurd times, surrealism has now made its way into pop culture and one day we will almost certainly wake up and find that this was the April Fools Joke we thought we'd been the victim of a couple of days ago. But no, it's happening. Has everybody though gone stark raving bonkers though? Have we taken leave of our senses? Around us all is utter pandemonium, pettiness, hyper sensitivity and emotional chaos. Or so it would seem but with perfectly good reason.
Of course well over 4,000 lives have been tragically lost and you can only imagine the atmosphere within those closely knit families who have lost a loved one. Our compassion is naturally a given. Of course those non essential shops are now shut, some of us may have to wait for ages for another haircut, we're stocking up on milk on a much more frequent basis and the supermarkets are beginning to resemble an episode from some deeply shocking episode from the 1970s science fiction TV show Blakes Seven.
Wherever you go now you're suddenly confronted by long lines of shoppers quite literally standing on a painted footstep yards away from each other. There is a weird sense of estrangement from each other, a creepy air of solemnity, a morose mourning for no particular reason and that overwhelming hollowness that only becomes apparent when all of the commuters have left the pubs and theatres of the West End of London.
You cast your eyes around the whole of the West End in London and convince yourself that everything has just been airbrushed out of the photographs, that some very imaginative picture editor of a trendy magazine has deliberately removed any sign of human movement. But this is very much real life, authenticity in all of its harsh reality, a real life horror show that has come to life. There is no time frame and the speculation changes according to which media outlet you happen to be following.
Football and the Premier League is still deluding itself, kidding itself that sometime in the middle of May or the middle of June the football season may go ahead as if nothing had ever happened. It does seem though that the FA, in some ludicrous fantasy world, has forgotten what's happened to the game thus far.
Football, it has to be said, has lost all perspective and its moral compass seemed to desert the game when the Premier League season was initially stopped at the beginning of March. What on earth is going through the collective minds of the FA? How to reconcile the thoughts and intentions of a sporting organisation whose only concern at the moment is naturally the welfare of its players and their families while singularly insisting that the nine remaining matches of the season have to be completed?
This is the point we have now reached. There is a school of thought which believes that those remaining games have to be played behind closed doors. What a preposterous notion, the brainchild of some bone headed idiot who has no idea of the importance that football fans attach to their game and just wants to experience that unique feeling of either disappointment or heartache, joy or jubilation in either relegation or promotion issues. It is part of their rich tapestry of their life and there has to be a logical conclusion, a signature, a clear line drawn under the whole of the season. Oh what utter nonsense.
Now we have discovered that the players themselves have now been attacked for selfishness, greed and sheer ignorance. The ongoing taxes on players wages either paid or unpaid, the deferral of those wages because no player has kicked a football in anger since the start of March and all of those ethical dilemmas that have been wildly thrown up into the air leaving the game hanging its head in shame.
In mitigation of course there was that wonderful act of generosity and altruism that touched our hearts when Liverpool skipper Jordan Henderson donated millions of pounds to the NHS. In contrast we have now been told that members of staff at clubs including those working in catering have now been overlooked in that mad stampede towards the land of greater riches paid out to already wealthy and pampered footballers.
But then we look back to the broken hearted, the weeping families, the thousands who have died and you begin to question the sanity of football and its narrow minded bigwigs. When do they propose to re start the football season again? The middle of June, early July or maybe it should overlap with the beginning of the new Premier League season? Would the pre-season be foreshortened and maybe, rather like dray horses, footballers should be expected to play every weekend almost constantly until the end of the year. The latest wheeze is that TV broadcasters could show all of those remaining games live as if that would prove to be the sugar coating to satisfy all football fans. Is this is some very unfunny joke?
The fact is that every sporting event has now been postponed, every cultural event postponed and quite literally everything has been cancelled until further notice. How much clearer does that have to be? There can be no other explanation. Of course we enjoy football and quite possibly wallow in its unpredictability and capriciousness, the realms of the unexpected where nothing is quite what it seems.
The bottom line is though that yesterday's Grand National was reduced to a virtual charade, a computer generated spectacle off every scale. The London Marathon, that great family event that keeps delivering to the London streets every April, is off, and, more importantly perhaps, the Olympic Games, that four yearly sporting extravaganza where the athletes of the world come together and unite behind the four rings. There's no cricket until perhaps May, the Wimbledon tennis gathering is just a summer, strawberries and cream dream and everything is off limits, not even up for coherent discussion. These are truly historic times and it's time to hold on for a while, remain patient. We can all be victorious.
Friday 3 April 2020
Bill Withers dies.
Bill Withers
Just over 35 years ago a friend of mine and yours truly were privileged to be in the audience for a concert hosted by the legendary American soul artist Bill Withers. Today Bill Withers died at the age of 81 and it was with a heavy heart that a personal reminiscence is passed on to those who may or may not have been one of his fans.
It was during the mid 1980s that we both settled down to watch Withers at the Walthamstow Assembly Rooms behind the town hall which probably sounds distinctly unglamorous in retrospect. But it was an evening of soothing soul anthems, reflective songs from Withers childhood in the deep South of America, the pleasure that his music provided us with and an easy going charm offensive that he achieved with a minimum of fuss.
The lasting memory of that Withers five star performance from yesteryear was the simple setting: there was the comfortable stool in the middle of the stage and then Withers himself guitar slung casually around his neck. For the best part of just over two hours the man from Slab Fork, West Virginia rolled out his back catalogue to a devoted following who were simply mesmerised by a man who'd embraced music from an early age and never lost touch with his roots.
In an interview with Bob Harris on the Old Grey Whistle Test 47 years ago Withers spoke about his formative influences, his motivations for making music and his natural affinity with both soul and funk music. With the fashionable afro hair of the age, guitar in hand and all of the necessary gospel material by his side if his childhood had suddenly revisited him, Withers went through the golden repertoire as if it were somehow instilled into him from the cot.
The songs still resonate through the ages because they'll always be permanently lodged inside your mind. Eyes shut and totally absorbed in the moment, Withers gave us 'Grandma's Hands', a blissfully affectionate homage to Withers grandmother, a sweet lullaby, a rhapsody of love to all grandmas who thought nothing of lavishing you with kindness, tenderness and care. 'Grandma's Hands' must have reminded Withers of those gentle, innocent family gatherings where grandma would ply you with sweetcorn, honey roast chicken and hundreds of Coca Cola bottles.
But the songs which literally raised Withers to the highest pinnacle were the ones that most of us think as synonymous with the soul and smooth as silk singer for many a generation. They were Bill Withers, a personification of the man's rich and prolific songbook. 'Ain't No Sunshine' was a sad lament for the early loves and relationships which never seemed the same once the partner had left them. Withers was a born romantic, a man who would have clutched a rose between his lips and poured the first glass of red wine with his wife as and when the occasion was right. Withers adored his wife for many decades and whenever they weren't together that sunshine had literally gone. It was song that Withers must have sung to his wife every day of their marriage.
Then there was 'Lean on Me', another song of re-assurance and reliability, those intimate moments when a man turns to a woman or vice versa and declares that they'll always be there at all times. Withers had now used life as a metaphor for who he really is. Whenever things do go wrong, you know that Withers will be sincere, trustworthy and loyal to the core. You can always pour your heart and bare your soul to him because he's an excellent pair of ears.
Now there was the masterpiece that singled him out as one of the world's most outstanding lyricists. On his superb album 'Menagerie', Withers composed one of those songs that are instantly identifiable and never forgotten. 'Lovely Day' was an exquisite song that drove us irresistibly to the dance floor or disco. It was the song that allowed Withers voice to quite literally soar, hold onto that note in the middle for what seemed ages and a song that illustrated perfectly his gratitude to the perfection of the day and his love of being in love.
In 'Just the Two of Us' Withers once again enjoys the concept of just sharing his affection with his wife and describing the intimacy of that special moment. How could anything emulate or surpass that indefinable moment when the couple hold hands along a sandy beach, staring out at the unforgettable sunset and then looking deeply into each other's eyes longingly?
Bill Withers may have left us but the musical legacy will endure for many a year to come. Some of us will still have a soft spot for that glorious night at Walthamstow Assembly Rooms when social media was just some far off ambition and all you needed was a stool and guitar. We shall miss Bill Withers. Quite definitely.
Just over 35 years ago a friend of mine and yours truly were privileged to be in the audience for a concert hosted by the legendary American soul artist Bill Withers. Today Bill Withers died at the age of 81 and it was with a heavy heart that a personal reminiscence is passed on to those who may or may not have been one of his fans.
It was during the mid 1980s that we both settled down to watch Withers at the Walthamstow Assembly Rooms behind the town hall which probably sounds distinctly unglamorous in retrospect. But it was an evening of soothing soul anthems, reflective songs from Withers childhood in the deep South of America, the pleasure that his music provided us with and an easy going charm offensive that he achieved with a minimum of fuss.
The lasting memory of that Withers five star performance from yesteryear was the simple setting: there was the comfortable stool in the middle of the stage and then Withers himself guitar slung casually around his neck. For the best part of just over two hours the man from Slab Fork, West Virginia rolled out his back catalogue to a devoted following who were simply mesmerised by a man who'd embraced music from an early age and never lost touch with his roots.
In an interview with Bob Harris on the Old Grey Whistle Test 47 years ago Withers spoke about his formative influences, his motivations for making music and his natural affinity with both soul and funk music. With the fashionable afro hair of the age, guitar in hand and all of the necessary gospel material by his side if his childhood had suddenly revisited him, Withers went through the golden repertoire as if it were somehow instilled into him from the cot.
The songs still resonate through the ages because they'll always be permanently lodged inside your mind. Eyes shut and totally absorbed in the moment, Withers gave us 'Grandma's Hands', a blissfully affectionate homage to Withers grandmother, a sweet lullaby, a rhapsody of love to all grandmas who thought nothing of lavishing you with kindness, tenderness and care. 'Grandma's Hands' must have reminded Withers of those gentle, innocent family gatherings where grandma would ply you with sweetcorn, honey roast chicken and hundreds of Coca Cola bottles.
But the songs which literally raised Withers to the highest pinnacle were the ones that most of us think as synonymous with the soul and smooth as silk singer for many a generation. They were Bill Withers, a personification of the man's rich and prolific songbook. 'Ain't No Sunshine' was a sad lament for the early loves and relationships which never seemed the same once the partner had left them. Withers was a born romantic, a man who would have clutched a rose between his lips and poured the first glass of red wine with his wife as and when the occasion was right. Withers adored his wife for many decades and whenever they weren't together that sunshine had literally gone. It was song that Withers must have sung to his wife every day of their marriage.
Then there was 'Lean on Me', another song of re-assurance and reliability, those intimate moments when a man turns to a woman or vice versa and declares that they'll always be there at all times. Withers had now used life as a metaphor for who he really is. Whenever things do go wrong, you know that Withers will be sincere, trustworthy and loyal to the core. You can always pour your heart and bare your soul to him because he's an excellent pair of ears.
Now there was the masterpiece that singled him out as one of the world's most outstanding lyricists. On his superb album 'Menagerie', Withers composed one of those songs that are instantly identifiable and never forgotten. 'Lovely Day' was an exquisite song that drove us irresistibly to the dance floor or disco. It was the song that allowed Withers voice to quite literally soar, hold onto that note in the middle for what seemed ages and a song that illustrated perfectly his gratitude to the perfection of the day and his love of being in love.
In 'Just the Two of Us' Withers once again enjoys the concept of just sharing his affection with his wife and describing the intimacy of that special moment. How could anything emulate or surpass that indefinable moment when the couple hold hands along a sandy beach, staring out at the unforgettable sunset and then looking deeply into each other's eyes longingly?
Bill Withers may have left us but the musical legacy will endure for many a year to come. Some of us will still have a soft spot for that glorious night at Walthamstow Assembly Rooms when social media was just some far off ambition and all you needed was a stool and guitar. We shall miss Bill Withers. Quite definitely.
Keep smiling everybody.
Keep smiling everybody.
It could be that we'll be here for some time. Hopefully it'll go sooner rather than later but at the moment there's no telling. So here we are and if we haven't got used to it now would be as good a time as any. Of course we're fretting, of course we're dwelling and of course we're just totally nonplussed. If only we could return to doing the simple things in life but then perspective sets in and fate begins to hover over us rather like some low flying hot air balloon. It just hangs in the sky moving neither forward or backwards, sideways or any way at all.
Sadly and frustratingly everything has quite been literally either postponed or cancelled. In fact this may be the time to declare the whole of 2020 as null and void. It had all the makings of a good, strong New Year, the moon was in the right position, the stars at the right angles to each other, the omens both encouraging and deeply optimistic. It was the start of a new decade, the beginning of a new project and perhaps the start of something brand new.
But now everything has disastrously toppled over like a set of dominoes, crashing onto the table and everything looks very bleak and dire at the moment. We're at the beginning of April and the worldwide disease that is coronavirus is eating away at both the cultural and spiritual fabric of our lives. Or is it? Come on folks we have to keep strong and look on the infinitely brighter side. But nobody could possibly have known that something could be quite as impactful or hard hitting as this. And yet our everyday living seems to have been inexorably changed whether for better or worse. Life is on hold at the moment and for some of us this is both distinctly unusual and strange.
Still folks all is not lost. Next week marks the beginning of Pesach or Passover for the Jewish population and shortly it'll be Easter for the Christian community. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a cause for mass preparations, extensive spring cleaning, matzo crunching and much merriment. But this is now turning into a unique year since everything around us is now shutting up or closing down. There are to be no festivals or family gatherings, no children chomping through vast supplies of chocolate eggs and all of those plans have been left to fall into rack and ruin.
Put simply spring has been more or less cancelled, summer kicked into touch and everything we were looking forward to has been temporarily mothballed because of one terrible and now fatal disease. It is undoubtedly a worldwide catastrophe and never for a moment did we ever think that something like this would ever happen in our lifetime. You keep hoping that somebody will shake you from your sleep, insist that it was indeed some wretched nightmare and once you'd had a shower then all of the nastiness would be washed away in a matter of seconds.
Now though the world will have to be a content with a blizzard of worst case scenarios, barely believable conspiracy theories and nothing but death, illness, thousands of people on the critical list in hospitals and a plague like society. We keep looking at the rest of the world and then we look at ourselves because we keep wondering how long it'll be before the lockdown of lockdowns can find a key, releasing us from the shackles of confinement, limitation, hardship, privation and what feels like complete disconnection from our loved ones and friends.
At the moment we are repeatedly told not to give up, throw in the towel or just disintegrate into some appalling state of inertia and lethargy. We've got to keep living our lives in the way we've always lived them without feeling hemmed in by events beyond our control. Out there in the big world thousands of people are dying although it has never been anybody's intention to state the obvious. But a naked terror has grabbed hold of our mindsets and physical well being that we just couldn't have foreseen two months ago.
In East London a new hospital has just opened up to accommodate the thousands of those who may have just been struck down with coronavirus, beds have quickly been put into place and there is almost a military air about the place. There is very much a First World War aura about the Nightingale hospital and your heart sinks deeper and deeper. You half expect Florence Nightingale to quietly go about her duties with lantern in hand. This is history being made over and over again. But this is quite definitely happening and this is no ghastly hallucination.
This morning Prime Minister Boris Johnson addressed Britain with yet darker prognostications about the immediate future, of not going out at all under any circumstances, of sitting tight and doing nothing that could endanger the rest of human society. Shirt buttons open and shirt quite possibly dripping with a sweat filled temperature, Johnson looked as though he just wanted to go straight back to bed with honey and lemon, a lengthy nap and the knowledge that nobody would disturb him for the next three months.
Britain and the world has been traumatised and destabilised, hampered and hindered, broken and speechless, bruised and battered, drained and devastated by the kind of events that could leave the rest of this year in tatters. There can be nothing to look forward to watching on the TV although Netflix could come to our emotional rescue, repeats rehashed ad infinitum and all we're left with are another bombardment of 1950s, 1960s and 1970s sitcoms and plays we may have thought had been completely wiped by all of the TV channels.
And yet it may be at times like this when we do indulge in nostalgia, revelling gleefully in historic moments of our lives, the resourceful things we used to do but never ever thought we'd do again. Some of us remember the 1970s powercuts when the lights went out upon return from our school labours and the whole family would have to stagger around the house desperately searching for an old transistor radio or another set of candles to guide us around a darkened hallway or kitchen.
It could rightly be asserted that these were indeed austerity times, those severe or straitened periods of our adolescence when thank goodness our parents had a gas oven because otherwise we'd have had to survive on takeaways or just bread and water. It hardly bears thinking about but for what seemed a lifetime the miners and the electricians had created havoc with our family. But even then we summoned the requisite amount of fighting spirit, that indomitable will and that unbreakable spirit.
With every passing hour and day the coronavirus is here and present rather like the proverbial bad penny. At some point the survival rates will increase, the infection quelled and quite possibly by the end of this month - or even earlier - we'll be given the green light to enjoy ourselves, to party for as long as we like, to laugh and smile with family and friends before collapsing on the sofa with a huge grin on our faces. Lockdown though still sounds like some grisly and gruesome expression coined by somebody who was very depressed about this disease and couldn't think of anything more suitable.
Still let's just make it up on the hoof, improvising endlessly, cracking naff jokes to one and all on the street or the park and then making light of the dark. We must not be downhearted, dispirited and forlorn. We have to keep clapping, keep applauding our wonderfully commendable NHS, remaining both brave and benevolent, thankful and moved because this is the one moment in our lives when the human spirit must prevail. Keep going everybody.
It could be that we'll be here for some time. Hopefully it'll go sooner rather than later but at the moment there's no telling. So here we are and if we haven't got used to it now would be as good a time as any. Of course we're fretting, of course we're dwelling and of course we're just totally nonplussed. If only we could return to doing the simple things in life but then perspective sets in and fate begins to hover over us rather like some low flying hot air balloon. It just hangs in the sky moving neither forward or backwards, sideways or any way at all.
Sadly and frustratingly everything has quite been literally either postponed or cancelled. In fact this may be the time to declare the whole of 2020 as null and void. It had all the makings of a good, strong New Year, the moon was in the right position, the stars at the right angles to each other, the omens both encouraging and deeply optimistic. It was the start of a new decade, the beginning of a new project and perhaps the start of something brand new.
But now everything has disastrously toppled over like a set of dominoes, crashing onto the table and everything looks very bleak and dire at the moment. We're at the beginning of April and the worldwide disease that is coronavirus is eating away at both the cultural and spiritual fabric of our lives. Or is it? Come on folks we have to keep strong and look on the infinitely brighter side. But nobody could possibly have known that something could be quite as impactful or hard hitting as this. And yet our everyday living seems to have been inexorably changed whether for better or worse. Life is on hold at the moment and for some of us this is both distinctly unusual and strange.
Still folks all is not lost. Next week marks the beginning of Pesach or Passover for the Jewish population and shortly it'll be Easter for the Christian community. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a cause for mass preparations, extensive spring cleaning, matzo crunching and much merriment. But this is now turning into a unique year since everything around us is now shutting up or closing down. There are to be no festivals or family gatherings, no children chomping through vast supplies of chocolate eggs and all of those plans have been left to fall into rack and ruin.
Put simply spring has been more or less cancelled, summer kicked into touch and everything we were looking forward to has been temporarily mothballed because of one terrible and now fatal disease. It is undoubtedly a worldwide catastrophe and never for a moment did we ever think that something like this would ever happen in our lifetime. You keep hoping that somebody will shake you from your sleep, insist that it was indeed some wretched nightmare and once you'd had a shower then all of the nastiness would be washed away in a matter of seconds.
Now though the world will have to be a content with a blizzard of worst case scenarios, barely believable conspiracy theories and nothing but death, illness, thousands of people on the critical list in hospitals and a plague like society. We keep looking at the rest of the world and then we look at ourselves because we keep wondering how long it'll be before the lockdown of lockdowns can find a key, releasing us from the shackles of confinement, limitation, hardship, privation and what feels like complete disconnection from our loved ones and friends.
At the moment we are repeatedly told not to give up, throw in the towel or just disintegrate into some appalling state of inertia and lethargy. We've got to keep living our lives in the way we've always lived them without feeling hemmed in by events beyond our control. Out there in the big world thousands of people are dying although it has never been anybody's intention to state the obvious. But a naked terror has grabbed hold of our mindsets and physical well being that we just couldn't have foreseen two months ago.
In East London a new hospital has just opened up to accommodate the thousands of those who may have just been struck down with coronavirus, beds have quickly been put into place and there is almost a military air about the place. There is very much a First World War aura about the Nightingale hospital and your heart sinks deeper and deeper. You half expect Florence Nightingale to quietly go about her duties with lantern in hand. This is history being made over and over again. But this is quite definitely happening and this is no ghastly hallucination.
This morning Prime Minister Boris Johnson addressed Britain with yet darker prognostications about the immediate future, of not going out at all under any circumstances, of sitting tight and doing nothing that could endanger the rest of human society. Shirt buttons open and shirt quite possibly dripping with a sweat filled temperature, Johnson looked as though he just wanted to go straight back to bed with honey and lemon, a lengthy nap and the knowledge that nobody would disturb him for the next three months.
Britain and the world has been traumatised and destabilised, hampered and hindered, broken and speechless, bruised and battered, drained and devastated by the kind of events that could leave the rest of this year in tatters. There can be nothing to look forward to watching on the TV although Netflix could come to our emotional rescue, repeats rehashed ad infinitum and all we're left with are another bombardment of 1950s, 1960s and 1970s sitcoms and plays we may have thought had been completely wiped by all of the TV channels.
And yet it may be at times like this when we do indulge in nostalgia, revelling gleefully in historic moments of our lives, the resourceful things we used to do but never ever thought we'd do again. Some of us remember the 1970s powercuts when the lights went out upon return from our school labours and the whole family would have to stagger around the house desperately searching for an old transistor radio or another set of candles to guide us around a darkened hallway or kitchen.
It could rightly be asserted that these were indeed austerity times, those severe or straitened periods of our adolescence when thank goodness our parents had a gas oven because otherwise we'd have had to survive on takeaways or just bread and water. It hardly bears thinking about but for what seemed a lifetime the miners and the electricians had created havoc with our family. But even then we summoned the requisite amount of fighting spirit, that indomitable will and that unbreakable spirit.
With every passing hour and day the coronavirus is here and present rather like the proverbial bad penny. At some point the survival rates will increase, the infection quelled and quite possibly by the end of this month - or even earlier - we'll be given the green light to enjoy ourselves, to party for as long as we like, to laugh and smile with family and friends before collapsing on the sofa with a huge grin on our faces. Lockdown though still sounds like some grisly and gruesome expression coined by somebody who was very depressed about this disease and couldn't think of anything more suitable.
Still let's just make it up on the hoof, improvising endlessly, cracking naff jokes to one and all on the street or the park and then making light of the dark. We must not be downhearted, dispirited and forlorn. We have to keep clapping, keep applauding our wonderfully commendable NHS, remaining both brave and benevolent, thankful and moved because this is the one moment in our lives when the human spirit must prevail. Keep going everybody.
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