The John Player League, cricket and Valentines Park.

The John Player League, cricket and Valentines Park.

The late and great John Arlott allegedly once described Valentines Park, in Ilford, Essex as one of the prettiest county cricket grounds in the country. Arlott of course was always a connoisseur, a wine connoisseur, a discerning observer of all the modern movements and trends so was perhaps best judged to pass comment on the good things in life, the arts and crafts, the timeless beauties of cricket and all of the batsmen and bowlers who came before his critical eye.

So it is that on the last day of May that our thoughts turn to one of Arlott's great loves, the John Player League on a Sunday afternoon when summer's musical cadences drifted through the warm and caressing breezes of the afternoon serenity. Of course Arlott loved the cut and thrust of the five day Test match, the feisty, frisson of its fiercely competitive edge but he also had a great deal of time for the biff and bash of the John Player League, the 40 or 50 over run chase excitement that preceded Sunday evensong, the late call of the magpie, kingfisher, the gull or the swooping Canadian geese.

In the old days when BBC Two had all of Sunday afternoon to itself, the John Player League represented a light, late lunchtime aperitif just after Family Favourites with Jean Challis and Cliff Michelmore on the radio. Then, two sets of strapping and virile gentlemen from the finest that English county cricket could offer, bounded down the pavilion steps, white shirts billowing like sails on a catamaran, thick white pads firmly strapped to their ankles, batsmen's caps perched daintily on their heads and bats swinging rapidly and purposefully, arms windmilling at a fair rate of knots.

Then the fielding side would emerge as well, bowlers frantically stretching their arms and shoulders, pulling and snapping their fingers as if their lives depended on it. Then they would arch their backs somewhat awkwardly at first but then find comfort in the knowledge that their day's labours might yield the fruits of victory at roughly 6pm just before the pubs opened. The John Player League was, essentially all about the fun of it all, the knockabout nature of cricket that never took the competition seriously but still had a rip- roaring day of jollity to remember and cherish long after the last Sunday hymn.

But for those of us who grew up in the leafy, bucolic idyll of Essex Valentines Park still meant much more than a Sunday John Player League match against equally as rustic Hampshire, warm- hearted Worcestershire, lovely Leicestershire, stockbroker belt Surrey or the seaside, coastal delights of Sussex. It was about BBC commentator and ex- professional Peter Walker sidling up to a microphone at just after two in the afternoon and announcing the two teams who had now been primed for this mini- festival of cricket.

Then the heavily jumpered umpires would slowly trundle their way to the crease, pennies in their pockets, shirt and tie neatly adjusted, white coated and black trousered, models of the utmost impartiality and neutrality but nonetheless wise figures of authority, calm, detached from the afternoon's action but still engaged in the game's atmosphere and meaning.

With all the slips and gullies in their right position, mid on and off lengthening their stride to deep backward square leg and a string of cover fielders guarding the central areas of the cricket strip, cricket takes off its hat once again and allows the afternoon to take its course. John Lever or Keith Fletcher would be deep in earnest discussion about the price of apples and then admired the stature of a Basil D'Olivera tapping his bat thoughtfully on the crease and then sweeping away some irritating dust in his eyes.

Then the runs would flow, singles, twos, hasty threes, boundary fours and then the magisterial sixes into the local supermarket car park. Lever would plough a lone furrow, thundering in from one end of  Valentines Park like a man possessed. Then the arms and shoulders would seemingly open up to their widest extent and the ball would be delivered from its highest point with a splayed action. Wickets would clatter quite frequently and by the end of Essex's 40 over slog the opposition would always know that they'd been in a match.

Behind Valentines Park toffee box of a ground, you would find yourself in the midst of yet more mouth watering sights to behold. There would be and, to this day remains, the beautiful clock tower next to the relaxing boating lake with families of happy go lucky rowers. Then there is the exquisitely green bowling green where elderly gentlemen and women roll down that huge black bowling ball along grass that had quite obviously been lovingly preserved with the heaviest roller.

The bowling greens- since there is another at the other end of Valentines Park- are still there because bowling greens have always been there. Next to the bowling greens are a whole series of tennis courts with drooping nets and alarming cracks in the ground. These are reserved for both club players and whomsoever chooses to wield a racket for no price at all.

Now the eye focuses on the children's playing area, the swings, tunnels and roundabouts, the new exercise area, the relatively new black sign posts, the park cafe that seems to have been there since the Boer War. Doubling as an ice-cream parlour, the 99 and flake ice cream sign outside the cafe swings gently like a Wild West saloon door.

The long, meandering pathways lead to the bridge that leads to the boating lake and tall avenues of trees stand proudly in every available open green space. Then there are the hundreds of scurrying squirrels, more bobbing birds in secretive corners, the handsome Valentines Mansion which can tell stories from way back when, centuries of aristocratic families who were once an integral part of the Ilford landscape.

Sadly, the once immensely popular Valentines Park lido, a swimming pool of Olympian proportions, was demolished, flattened to make way for nothing at all. In the memorable summer heatwave of 1976, Valentines Park lido burst into life. In the mind's eye, the Valentines Park lido will always have a place in your youthful heart even though it is now nothing but grass, heather and bush which still has its aesthetic advantages if you're of a gardening type.

But you can still see hear the vivid splashing of the fountain inside the lido, the serried rows of light blue lockers, the screeching of the children, the running, dashing, chasing kids hurling themselves into a freezing tank of cold water that was the pool. The story was that the diving board had to be taken down because one of the kids had tragically died. Then there was the slide which always seemed to be heavily populated but was eventually dismantled as well because maybe it didn't quite have what the kids were looking for in an exciting day.

Half way through the afternoon when the feverish frenzy of the day may have been fading and burning out, the lifeguards sat comfortably on the railings, twirling their whistles endlessly, shouting and castigating those poor teenagers who just wanted to show off in front of their mates. The dive bombing into the pool had to be stopped immediately and if you were seen doing anything remotely unsavoury then you would be clipped around the ear by a local bobby. How we love the police.

Still here we are on the last day of May. Years ago Valentines Park used to be the venue chosen for Essex cricket club in a week long county championship round of games in the first week of June. Now even that's gone so now the ground has to make way for the local cricket club and that has to be ample consolation for those who still savour the game's grass roots.

Even more disappointingly and perhaps predictably the John Player League is no longer a cricketing pot of gold on a Sunday afternoon. John Arlott died in 1991 and somehow Sunday afternoons for many cricket fans will never be the same without its weekly fare of slogfest cricket and enthralling run chases before Sunday Night at the London Palladium hosted by Bruce Forsyth. Cricket loves its memories.

Football gets its way- let them eat cheesecake.

Football gets its way- let them eat cheesecake.

So football has finally got its own way and not before time. Nobody deserves it more than football. Well done and hats off to you all. This is the result you've all been waiting for and you've now been rewarded for all of those months of perseverance and sheer force of character. How can we ever thank you? Go to the top of the class, accept all of those bouquets of praise and let's get back to the hurly and burly, cut and thrust of top- flight Premier League season because you've now been given the all clear.

After weeks and months of agonising, soul searching, tormenting itself, procrastinating, dragging its heels, swabbing, testing, steam cleaning and spraying goal posts, cross bars and footballs themselves, football will find its voice again - or not as seems the case- on June 17 live from a free to air, BBC or Sky TV channel near you. You should be adequately warned that you are not to come anywhere near a football ground because if you do you'll be severely prosecuted, arrested, thrown into a medieval dungeon, questioned by the police and then sent to jail for a considerable period of time.

You see the problem we have here is that football, essentially and most delightfully, is very much a spectator sport. It has been for as long as any of us can remember. Since the early days of the 20th century when players wore laced up shirts and boots the size of the average pair of Doc Martens, football has always embraced the weekly joys of massed crowds on its heaving terraces.

It has revelled in those stirring chants, the collective tribalism of the football experience, those special moments before, during and after a game when the fans sing at the top of their voices and cheer themselves hoarse. Football loves its captive audience, the hundreds and thousands of the mellifluous multitudes who shamelessly belt out those lovely old folk songs and the salty obscenities that have always followed every club throughout the 92 club pyramid.

But yesterday football parted company with its sanity, lost its collective mind and finally discovered that none would object to finishing the remainder of the Premier League season behind closed doors. As long as football can rely on the remarkably substantial barrowloads of cash to see it through to the end of the season then this is the way it has to be. Nobody cares least of all TV or its faithful ally the Premier League because it's all about money, money being the root of all evil and the road to ruination.

Now in the general scheme of things there would be none of the objections that we might have come to expect from some quarters because football is still the Beautiful Game and the fans are the least of its problems. Or have football fans just been completely forgotten about, totally marginalised in the whole of this fierce debate. The truth is perhaps staring us in the face and maybe some of us have lost this one in the translation. Football, certainly for the time being, is no longer a spectator sport and the fans are just surplus to requirements.

Never mind that these same hardy, devoted, loyal supporters regularly shell out vast sums of hard earned money for both a large stash of increasingly expensive season tickets before the season. Who cares whether you've paid shedloads of money for the much coveted merchandise, shirts, key rings, books, programmes, players photographs and such like? Never mind that those passionate supporters think nothing of paying for refreshments before the game, those precious seats next to family and friends. Are these, above all, just minor considerations?

In the days before Covid 19 football used to take great pride in its traditional pre-match routines. You would walk into your favourite team's ground, armed with a bountiful cargo of meat pies, hot dogs dripping with tomato ketchup, Bovril, cups of tea or coffee and perhaps a packet of crisps for good measure. Then you would carefully drop down onto your well paid seat for the season, look around your magnificent ground, wave to Uncle Pete or Auntie Barbara in the stand opposite you and then chuckle at the funny messages on the electronic scoreboard opposite you.

Sadly, this has now gone, stolen from football because of the deadliest and yet most unknown global pandemic disease since whenever. Now football has do without the very people who make the game tick. without whom the game will resume on June 17 amid the kind of atmosphere you'd expect to find in a local church throughout the week. The parishioners won't be there because they no longer matter and we simply take them for granted anyway. Football is no longer sacred or sacrosanct because the idolatry and adoration that used to be part of the football going ritual no longer needs its gloriously raucous supporters.

So how does this leave us now? Do we try to close our eyes and pretend that the game will no longer feel like either a game or sport or do we just snigger and laugh at the outrageous absurdity of it all.
Do we now wait in eager anticipation of a sport whose apparently sole reason for its existence is its stunning audience participation or do we just allow football to quickly disappear down a long, dark tunnel where rows of empty seats will greet every goal scored and every goal scoring celebration. This is not a dilemma because decisions have been made and this is football's new normal.

We now stand poised on the verge of a new footballing dawn, an age of silence, deafening silence, lifelessness, hollowness, nothing but peace and quiet. Oh and incidentally you must not disturb any of their players in case their concentration is disturbed and we wouldn't want that. Are we to assume that when the players come out of the tunnel for those first few matches that the players will have to be ready for the greatest show of indifference and apathy since goodness knows when? Perhaps the players will simply wave at thin air or stare blankly at a huge concrete bowl.

Lest we forget the mascots and the complete lack of any of their families in the crowds, the gaping spaces in the ground, football impersonating mime, totally dehumanised, drained of all colour, completely sanitised, stripped off its soul, a humiliating vaccum of nothingness. The thought occurs to you that all of the matches may just as well be played out in a local park or recreation ground so futile and pointless will this exercise become.

But money talks folks and let's just bring onto the stage our million pound footballers with stars in their eyes and wallets bursting at the seams. We can hardly wait for the referee's first blast of the whistle when Manchester City play Arsenal and the Etihad Stadium will begin to sound like the reference book section in one of Manchester City's many libraries or that distant, but beautiful field in Middle England where only the cows come out for a leisurely stroll. Then we'll see all of the Etihad's lush green pastures and may be tempted to pick a punnet of strawberries for the half time cup of tea.

There is a dawning realisation here that football may be on a collision course with the summer solstice where the cricket season should have been up and running but also finds itself a casualty of Covid 19 until the beginning of August. How we may rejoice to watch football's fittest athletes slogging their way through 90 minutes of football and sweating buckets in 80 degrees of heat should that be the case.

Then there's the small matter of cramming in as many matches as possible within a couple of days in a frantic race for the finishing line of the Premier League season. Football is about to race into the fairground, jump into the dodgems, climb onto the ferris wheel, shoot a rifle at a target that might reward them with a goldfish and then nip onto that carousel again just for another quick adrenaline thrill. It'll be fun, fun, fun all the way regardless of the consequences.

And once again there is the football showpiece, the big day, the FA Cup Final which this year could coincide with the Harvest Festival when the conkers are on the ground and an autumnal chill can be felt for miles around us. Apparently, the FA Cup Final will be held on August 1 which could mean that the opening day of next season may have to be put back to Christmas Day when we'll all be opening up our presents and scoffing large quantities of turkey. The date of course for the opening fixtures of next year's FA Cup third round could be pencilled in for next Easter Sunday or maybe Whitsun. Who knows?

Whichever way you look at it football's immediate future has now assumed some radically different complexion, the like of which none of us could ever hope to guess at. The perception of the Beautiful Game has now radically changed, the mentality of the game now in the most unusual of places and the game that used to start at roughly the end of summer is now any random choice of month or season for the Premier League or the FA to take their pick from.

Today though is also of course the Jewish festival of Shavuot which means the FA and Premier League may also have their cheesecake and eat it. It is a day for consuming dairy products, gorging ourselves happily on cheesecake and then washing it all down with healthy supplies of any beverage of your choosing.  It is a time for cheesecake parties, sharing end of week tales of lockdown achievements and looking forward to re-uniting with family and friends as long as there are only five in the same room. You really couldn't make this one up. Stay safe and stay alert everybody.

The good news or is it? Possibly.

The good news or is it? Possibly.

The good news is that come the middle of June part of Britain could be on the move again. None of us can really know how things are going to pan out until we first see those first tantalising glimpses of commerce, enterprise and financial happiness. Yes, from June 15, some, if not all of our blue riband, flagship department stores in the West End of London and more of those non essential shops have been given the go- ahead to open. It should be all systems go or that's the hope.

Regrettably though, it seems that this maybe just a gradual, tentative step towards a major rehabilitation on the way to a grand, trumpet blowing, all fanfares return to normal life. Slowly but surely the layers are being peeled away in preparation for a much bigger, more momentous celebration of the full time, big time spectacular when everything opens on a much wider national scale.

At the moment things are still very much in the air, balanced uncertainly at times and not sure whether to commit itself to anything more serious than full- time family reunions, all day trading, weddings, barmitzvahs, garden parties, the inevitable summer barbecues, corporate gatherings. Then there are the business functions and endless days, weeks, and months in pub gardens swallowing huge quantities of lager, wine, beer, vodka, gin, brandy and wide varieties of cocktails while not forgetting the Sunday carvery lunches with friends and families we thought we'd never see again.

As things stand at the moment we may be compelled to think in the present rather than plan anything elaborate since the future isn't quite sure what to do with itself. We are in no man's land here, neither nor there for these are very troubling and troubled times. Others would rather settle for full-on optimism. We look around us wistfully at the parks, streets and roads and the irony is not lost on us. People are still running, walking together comfortably within their own particular family unit and yet there are those of us who can never be sure what to do in the best interests of all, how to react emotionally or whether to just accept the status quo. Acceptance and resignation are almost indistinguishable.

The corner shops next to us are still doing, you would have thought, extremely well if only because small businesses with perhaps small overheads are never likely to struggle. They wander in and out with their basic groceries, loaves of bread, milk, tins of peas, dog and cat food readily available without forgetting the scratch cards for the Lottery. How very accessible and cheap the food is in these tiny goldmines so why pay more at Sainsbury's when you can fork out peanuts in the local utility store?

But next door to us the chemist is still imposing its very strict policy on those whose needs are much greater and more urgent than those who can still cope with the cocktail of pills and tablets they may have on hand at home. The people outside wait patiently, still bemused, hot and bothered by the ever- continuing state of hardship, stress and duress. They move very slowly as if mourning the loss of old friends before realising that they themselves are still very much alive and still trying to enjoy life as best they can. Every so often the chemist pulls down its shutters as if scared of something they can't quite put their finger on. Covid 19 is quite clearly indefinable and intangible.

We know why this is happening but it almost seems as if we can't reach out and touch it. If we could only just get our hands on it we'd take it outside and deliver the most scathing lecture to Covid 19. What on earth are you doing here and why are you here? This would be the ultimate comeuppance any disease has ever had if only we could get rid of it.We are though no nearer the all- conquering vaccine or panacea that would wipe the floor with this wretched contagion. How to find the definitive cure for something that is totally invisible and somehow annoyingly elusive? There can be no time frame so let's just be philosophical and take long, deep breaths. Easier said than done.

Now we find that the dry cleaners looks as if might be open because the washing machines are spinning away quite furiously, water sloshing around mechanically and clothes bouncing around quite joyfully. Then there is a dawning realisation that, although the doors are open, people are still not being allowed in. Members of staff are, you feel sure, simply being employed to clean their customers clothes in the vague hope that one day those customers will be given the chance to pick up their washing. But nobody knows when.

The hairdressers is still shut for the time being and if you're still longing for that special Mohican or a more or less complete scalping then you may have to wait for some time. Those clippers will have to suffice at home and some of us had our follicles chopped fairly recently. The forest on your hair was beginning to look so unruly and wild that you began to feel like one of those rural sheep who simply can't wait until spring before Farmer Giles gets to work with the shears.

Still, here we are at the end of May and there is a very real sense that we may not be far away from a partial recovery if not quite the genuine article. For those among us who are desperate for a drop of alcohol or a good, old fashioned weepie at the cinema, the wait continues. You glance inside those neglected and disconsolate pubs with their wooden chairs on tables and you realise that the sociable boozers with a predilection for a Prosecco or a large jug of amber nectar may have to wait until the second week in July to get back in touch with their work mates. It can only be a matter of time.

The pizza parlours, vegan cafes, Chinese and Indian restaurants as well as a whole host of nosheries and eateries, sandwich bars, coffee shops, fish and chip shops, Costas and Pret A Mangers still look like lost souls in a windswept wilderness. There's nowhere to go to for the public who so regularly patronise their premises. These are exceptional times of course but we'll keep going because we have to and we will. We are battle hardened and we do possess the strongest backbone. We will come out of this with flying colours. We know we can.

Dominic Cummings a loose cannon, genuine asset or is he going? The latest Covid 19 bulletin.

Dominic Cummings- a loose cannon, genuine asset or is he going? The latest Covid 19 bulletin.

Scandal and controversy stalk the corridors of Westminster. What a palaver! What a disgrace! Send that man to the Tower of London, off with his head and dig out that guillotine. This man should be excommunicated, driven out of office and kicked unceremoniously out of the country. He should fall on his sword, never be allowed to hold any kind of high profile position and exalted role in the Tory government cabinet.

Heads will roll and his days as aide and adviser to Boris Johnson's top table of politicians are now numbered. Or so it would have seemed. But yesterday Dominic Cummings got out of jail without any blemishes on his career and, to all outward appearances, innocent and absolved of all blame. After all the woes, tears, heartache and suffering that have spread across the world during the last two months or so Dominic Cummings was given the benefit of the doubt. He did so because some kind of strange political immunity had rendered him clear of all charges. It wasn't my fault governor.

But here's the point. The latest politician to be dragged through the mud, tarnished by association and branded a blundering fool, is smiling like the proverbial Cheshire cat and grinning from ear to ear as if that bank robbery had nothing to do with him. Cummings was caught off guard and tried to sneak away from the scene of the crime as if the incident had nothing to do with him. There is something about the whole maddening, madcap world of politics that fails to make any sense at all. There is an underlying current of naivety, arrogance and rank stupidity that seems to follow everybody who walks into the House of Comedy. Or should that be the House of Commons.

Over the weekend though Dominic Cummings emerged blinking into the sunlight from his home and seemed mightily offended that everybody was fuming, boiling over with resentment and ready to bay for his blood. Cummings had broken every law in every legal tome known to mankind, he'd stumbled blindly into a honeytrap of his own making and thought he'd got away with murder. His crime was simple but for a man who should have known better this was just a complete embarrassment.

And yet Cummings, dressed in loose T-shirt and perhaps more suited to a game of basketball in the park with his Westminster colleagues, just dismissed the cameras and prying microphones rather like a man who thought people were genuinely invading his privacy. In fact he was furious, incandescent with rage, frothing at the mouth because nobody could prove anything and besides where are the fingerprints? He didn't do anything wrong and that's final. Get out of my way! The hands were providing a complete defensive mechanism, fingers pushing away the accusers with righteous indignation.

In those final few moments before driving off in a huff, Dominic Cummings performed like a man who'd never been anywhere near a place where he shouldn't have been. If a court of law had proven that he was guilty then where was the incriminating evidence? Go on, where are the facts, the truth, the documentary proof? How could they pin anything on him? He hadn't perpetrated any sin or wrongdoing so he'd be grateful if you could please let him get on with his Sunday. And so the day continued.

The fact is though - and it looks to be as clear as yesterday's blue early summer day- that Cummings had broken the very law of the land that his government had implemented only months before. He'd travelled up to the North East in Durham to visit his family when we all know of course that Boris, his colleague and Prime Minister on the front bench, had implicity told him not to if only because Covid 19 made it abundantly clear that everybody in both Britain should have been self isolating, staying safe and staying at home.

Now there are times throughout any government's tenure of life when maybe they should listen to logical advice, toe the party line and just obey the laws of the land. It all seemed to be going swimmingly well for Labour Prime Minister Tony Blair until the Iraq war left him in a crumpled heap on the floor. Education, Education, Education reminded you of a stuck needle on a record.

For the fairly new incumbent as Prime Minister Boris Johnson this year should have been his honeymoon period, a purple patch, a time for forward planning, radical thinking and just being free to breathe the rarefied air of a man who'd just pulled the lid off the sweet jar. It was all there waiting for him, loads of positivity, major progress on the Brexit agreement and by the end of the year, Britain would be floating on a sea of affluence, away from all those wicked old, interfering European Union busybodies with their officious airs and pompous graces.

But oh no there had to be something, the fly in the ointment, the ultimate spoiler. Who'd have believed it possible after all those years of wrangling, bickering, procrastinating, waffling, double speaking, blah, blah blah! He'd thought he'd seen the back of those problematic complications, the long, wearisome hours, weeks and months of bitter warfare, confrontational politicking, going red in the face, getting all hot and bothered about piffle, jargon, nonsense and just shouting for no apparent reason.

It was all too much for many of us but to others just a warped thrill because we do love a good, old fashioned bust up, a row over the garden fence, a big, meaty altercation where compromise is the last thing on anybody's mind. So when somebody mentioned 2020 and another year in his life, Boris Johnson just jumped up in the air with joy and wondered whether he could just have a peaceful New Year without any troubles. It would not be that though and here we are at the end of May and the demons are out to get Boris Johnson. We're going to haunt you my friend and you'd be well advised to get used to this way of life.

Come the end of February and then properly March Johnson was suddenly spiralling out of control, drowning in a sea of nightmares and waking up in cold sweats during the night. Within the first couple of weeks of March, Johnson was metaphorically up to his neck in water, waves devouring him and dragging him under. Suddenly, a couple of passengers aboard a Chinese cruise vessel had been quarantined and tested for an unheard of disease known as coronavirus and the rest is too hard to talk  about anymore.

What then followed was the stuff of calamity, worldwide panic and emergency, a deadly disease that was killing hundreds, then thousands and then millions of innocent people. Then it got worse and worse and now we can only look at all of our media and social media outlets with renewed disbelief. Now you'd have thought the last thing one of Boris Johnson's friends wanted was some village idiot type to spoil his weekend but he got it and for a minute or two you privately hoped that Johnson would do the decent thing and just give him the sack, the heave ho, go now and don't come back.

Yesterday though Johnson stood outside 10 Downing Street without any resemblance to the Worzel Gummidge look he'd assumed a couple of days beforehand and shot from the hip. He stated his case, jumped to the defence of Cummings and explained that he wasn't particularly bothered about what had happened because essentially Dominic Cummings hadn't really done anything drastically wrong.

Cummings told us that he simply wanted to travel back to Durham to see his family and that when he got there he'd just speak to his family from the bathroom if it made people any happier. He'd keep well away from his loved ones, shout downstairs to them by way of communication and then use a tannoy system to make himself even clearer. Nobody should panic but Cummings had this one all worked out. But oh no Cummings had to sit down with his family, making pleasant conversation over tea and biscuits and then sitting down next to his family over Sunday lunch with a nice roast for good measure.

Meanwhile, back in Westminster where Cummings should have been all the time, members of the Tory party were seeing red. This was nothing but the most deplorable indiscretion ever committed by any politician, a hanging offence nay less. Accusations of vile hypocrisy, dim wittedness, ignorance and plain insubordination should be rightly levelled at him and the sooner the better.

Sadly though Prime Minister Johnson missed a sitter from close range, an open goal. He didn't seize the day and the moment had passed as quickly as it had come. According to Johnson, Cummings remains a man of fine, upstanding principles, accurate judgement and honour. And yet the whole nation are up in arms because this is quite clearly not what the Prime Minister should have said. He should have told Cummings to sling his hook, exit the back door and get out of town.

And so the nation rubs its eyes again, yearns for something to cling onto by way of salvation, somebody to guide them through these anguished days, weeks and months. All they can find is some circus clown who just loves to fall over, run around the ring with a red nose and then insult the intelligence of everybody around him.

Several less than flattering expletives should be on their way to Cummings but perhaps he knew that was inevitable anyway. So Dominic Cummings here's an easy to understand warning. The next time you come out of your house and fold a bike into a car boot be sure you do it when the coast is clear and there's nobody around. The chances are that you'll be exposed to the eyes of Britain, humiliated, questioned relentlessly and then reprimanded by huge sections of society who then attack you for doing something morally incorrect and plainly daft. Make sure you don't do it again Cummings otherwise Boris Johnson may not be quite as forgiving. Now turn off the light and go to bed. Let that be the last time we tell you not to misbehave.   

The FA Cup Final that never was but still could be.

The FA Cup Final that never was but still could be.

Today marks what would have been one of football's most high profile days. It would have been one of football's most prestigious days, its blue riband day, its day of singular significance, magical memories, one club's golden day in the sun, an iconic day of global renown, millions of TV and radio listeners and watches enchanted by its enduring charms and almost genetically attached to the Beautiful Game because their grandparents, uncles, cousins and distant ancestors were also besotted with football and everything the game represented.

The occasion is the FA Cup Final, almost a sporting byword for the finest that football can ever offer by way of a conclusion and send off to the previous Premier League season. It is the signature event of the footballing calendar, the decorative flourish, the bow on the cake box, the full stop without any commas or semi- colons because football does love to finish its season- or so it would seem.

Sadly and perhaps tearfully the FA Cup Final, due to be staged today at another expectant and powerfully vociferous Wembley Stadium, is not to be because of the worldwide pandemic disease that is Covid 19. Now we all know that owing to extenuating circumstances all sport has been, understandably, either cancelled and postponed but for some of us its very absence lent the whole of this Saturday afternoon a pitiful poignancy, a sorrowful ache in the heart and the kind of feeling that only the most hardcore and loyal football supporter could ever relate to.

Of course it isn't the end of the world because, as seems more and more likely the FA Cup Final will be delayed until perhaps a week before the next football season and that's perfectly alright. Then of course the FA Cup Final will be staged amid that special atmosphere more reminiscent of a municipal library where people invariably tell you to be quiet anyway. We can hardly wait for this year's Cup Final because this year it will be inherently unique. This year the Cup Final may be played behind closed doors so let's all dance from the rooftops. We've got to see this.

It'll be the first FA Cup Final to be played against that traditional backdrop of a couple of barking dogs, an oasis of empty plastic Wembley seats and a couple of very stern, kindly and affable policemen and women patrolling the touchlines. How we've longed for this moment. Every so often the silence at Wembley will be rudely interrupted by a couple of planes going to somewhere. But the travel industry will be up and running by then so we can rest easy.

But it's the fundamental concept of an FA Cup Final possibly being played behind closed doors that still blows your mind. The Cup Final is the one day in the football calendar designed exclusively for football supporters, reserved specifically for the fans with their multi- coloured flags and banners, the swaying scarves, the fan homage to their favourite players, their handsomely rewarded stars and idols. It is an occasion tailor- made for football supporters and therein lies your grievance.

The fans are football's life blood, blood supply, its limbs and muscles, its arteries and veins, its essence, perhaps the one striking feature of the day that gives the FA Cup Final its colour, its all singing, all dancing charm, its drama, background noise, its glorious influence, its plot and characterisation, the twists and turns of fate and above all those intriguing changes of patterns and shapes.

Without its supporters football is rather like a birthday party without any of the invited guests, a West End musical simply played out for the benefit of the orchestra only and nobody else. It is a classical music or pop concert with none of those hysterically adoring fans who have paid through the nose for a ticket. It is an empty school classroom, a shop with no customers and, it has to be said, ultimately humiliating. It is a pub without lager and ale, a shopping mall with the shutters up and, in a nutshell, a joke, a derisory charade. It is a pathetically demoralising scenario that must surely never be given another thought.

What happened to the good, old days when the FA Cup Final was simply TV driven. You surfaced from bed at breakfast time, flung aside the bed covers, racing down to the living room, frantically switching on the telly before immersing yourself in the pre-match FA Cup pre-amble. There was the famous build- up to the Cup Final, the two teams travelling to the game on their respective coaches and being interviewed by both the BBC and ITV because in those days we had to make do with three channels and that was good enough for us. This was entrancing TV, right on TV, fabulous TV with bells and whistles.

Then, once the players had arrived at the old Wembley Stadium they gingerly trotted off the coach before heading for the dressing rooms and then traipsing across those lush green acres with their impeccably tailored suits, carnations on their lapels, natty hairdos of the day and a copy of the Cup Final programme firmly held between their hands.

The FA Cup then abandoned itself to showbiz celebrity silliness, tomfoolery and flim flammery. Comedians and actors were summoned for their nostalgic turns for the camera, the days when as kids they would faithfully cling onto rickety terraces with rosettes on their coats and that lovely, cacophonous rattle that belonged at an FA Cup Final.

Finally there was that spine- tingling moment half an hour before the game when the massed bands would strike up with those unforgettable strains of Abide With Me and a hundred twirling batons would capture our hearts. Roughly quarter of an hour before the Cup Final the tensions would rise like the steam pouring from a pressure cooker, an all- pervasive intensity would spread across North London and the supporters were in their element. And who could blame them. This was, after all, their day.

And therein lies the crux of the problem for those of us who still regard football as one of sport's great spectator events. Perhaps we've missed a point but since when was the last time an FA Cup Final was played out to an audience of hungry, inquisitive pigeons, perhaps a flock of seagulls and a smattering of people wearing surgical masks. Truly incredible. Football for the masses or maybe not. You could always close your eyes at home and feign interest but the hard truth is that football, until it comes to its senses, will continue to behave like the spoilt kid who expects to get everything and then finds that it may be asking for too much.

Still here we are on Cup Final day and Anonymous FC are about to play extra time with Totally Invisible FC. Those blank, faceless and emotionless Wembley seats are beginning to look very sorry for themselves and at this rate the referee and assistant linesman or woman may be in need of some matches to keep their eyes open. This game is destined to peter out in some snoozefest, soporific goal-less draw. Never mind, at least they made the effort.  At some point the referee's whistle may have to blow if only to break the stultifying tedium on the pitch. It may be that even the ballboys may have to be provided with some entertainment because this Cup Final is one very boring anti climax and a profound disappointment. Bring on the cheerleaders with their pom- poms.

Anyway we could always assemble once again at perhaps Hackney Marshes because the FA are so determined to play out the rest of the football season at a neutral venue. We adore the FA Cup Final because it used to be, in the historic past tense, the one game throughout the footballing calendar where everybody seemed to take part whether you were in the crowd or at home. For some of us the FA Cup seemed to lose its romance when Barbara Cartland passed away and David Coleman was at his most scintillatingly vocal and utterly precise in his timing.

For now though it's time to forget about the FA Cup Final because that's for another day and another month whenever they might be. Who knows we could be celebrating this year's Cup Final in the 25th century on a misty, fog shrouded February afternoon with snow on the ground. We are rubbing our hands in anticipation. Oh yes and the kick off for the game will be shrouded in mystery because we'll all have got fed up just hoping that it might take place. Roll on whenever!

Margate in lockdown but not quite lockdown.

Margate in lockdown but not quite lockdown.

Margate is heading for a full recovery although the wounds and scars of its now distant past can still be seen, heard, touched and felt. It felt good to be beside the seaside yesterday if only because the bracing, invigorating sea air seemed to be coursing through the veins of those who have struggled desperately to find anything to cheer about these last couple of months. Just to smell the salty brine of the sea and watch delightedly as the gulls swooped and wheeled in their customary ballet formation was a sight to lift the heart once again and make you feel that life is for the living and therefore precious.

After years of horrid neglect and wretched indifference, Margate is once again breathing, functioning in the way it used to and now will always be. All those decades of shabby dowdiness and ghastly dereliction are now simply bad memories from a bygone age. Although not quite as full to bursting point as it perhaps should be - and these are unfortunate circumstances-  Margate was still at its gleaming and glistening best.

Down by the Kentish riviera things are beginning to look up for this humble and unassuming seaside magnet where thousands and millions of families once converged for a good, old fashioned day of pleasurable sunbathing. Then there was the eager consumption of fish and chips by the seafront, running into the sea breathlessly, building sandcastles and then wallowing in the inevitable sea-weed. Things though have remained largely unchanged and you can still indulge at great length in  99 ice- creams with a flake because that has to be the naughtiest of indulgences regardless if you happen to be watching your waistline. Still, who cares?

But here we were once again for our first visit to the seaside of the year because the government have told us we can go to the beach without feeling as though we shouldn't be anywhere near a seaside. At long last one of the Covid 19 laws have finally been relaxed and yesterday in bright, breezy and beautifully warm Margate the good folk from the Garden of England were finally allowed to break free of the stranglehold that coronavirus had threatened to cut off Margate's everyday life indefinitely.

According to all the latest news sources most of England's bustlingly energetic coastal resorts were heaving with activity. In Southend people were happily strolling up and down the front as if the last couple of months had just been some nasty horror film that had simply been erased from their minds altogether. It is safe to assume that the promenades and esplanades of both Brighton, Blackpool, Bournemouth, Great Yarmouth and Skegness were also benefitting from a huge influx of excited kids, carefree teenagers and adults with shameless bare chests and tattoos on every part of their body.

My wife, daughter and yours truly were just delighted to be in a place where we could let our hair down and enjoy the simple pleasures of summer's traditional getaway treats. All exotic holidays have of course been cancelled, scrubbed out completely never to show their face again. We all know why but still Margate had the feel of a redeeming feature to our scheduled plans. There were no rows of palm trees, jars of sangria, fleet- footed flamenco dancers or endless drinks by Mediterranean pools but yesterday represented consolation, a domestic break in your country. Now who could possibly have said any fairer than that?

On arrival at Margate we were confronted by all of those wondrously jolly seaside distractions and attractions that may have slipped under the radar of our consciousness. We knew that at some point we would see the British seaside again in all its glory and splendour but we could have never known that we would see it in quite the most extraordinary light. Normally our holiday to some far off land would have been arranged and confirmed online ages ago but this time it was strangely different.

Still, here we were in Margate and look at what we could see again. You felt a warm glow of  reassurance and comfort because it just happened to be there unscathed by war or any other outside force. The clock tower in Margate is one of those delightful throwbacks to a time when the early 20th century was at peace with itself, women held parasols to cover themselves from the intense heat, men wore natty boaters, waistcoats and buttoned suits and then the kids scampered around feverishly as they always had and still do.

How good it was to see the Margate clock tower, a marvellous piece of engineering and architecture, tall, lofty and timeless. If you go to Margate, you have to witness the majestically old fashioned timepiece that looks as good as it did in 1889, the year it was built. Perhaps Queen Victoria might have popped along for a flying visit, grabbing hold of a beach hut and then paddling in its salubrious waters for a while.

And then you were shocked to see something you would rather not have seen because there it was rather like some grotesque eye-sore, still an annoying, dated anachronism that shouldn't be there but still is because nobody has shown any desire to get rid of it. It's the Lido sign, once a glorious outside swimming pool, the place where untold numbers of families would bring their kids for the day for a splendid splashfest. You can still see the tattered remnants of the old cafe, the ice cream parlour and those lazy, crazy days in the eternal sun. But now time stopped in the late 1920s, 30s,40s,50s and 60s and since then nothing but tumbleweed and dust has blown over the Lido.

As you approach the Lido you're reminded of the way things that were but could never quite believe would still be the case in the present day. The tall tower cum obelisk shaped Lido is still there but there is nobody around, the lights are off, the atmosphere probably went when Ena Sharples was still arguing with Elsie Tanner in Coronation Street and all that's left is some wartime memorial, a sad, forlorn monument that now looks like a dirty alleyway. Oh how our heart grieves and weeps. There remains the lettering but it does look as though somebody has ripped out the back of it and stolen the batteries.

Now it is that you return back to the wide, sandy expanses of the beach and the buzzing esplanade full of childish screams and yells of jubilation, your faith in human nature restored. The cafes may be shut and bed and breakfast hotels still darkened but you can still hear the fun, the boundless laughter, the bubbling vitality of the kids who never complain because although things are not the way they should be they can still be in the moment, enjoying the here and now, letting go and being joyful.

This is still part of chocolate box England, a country now torn and traumatised by something that goes much deeper than it should but is nonetheless undaunted, unscathed and just getting on with it. Margate, in a sense, was more or less going about its business as usual. The souvenir shops have still retained their cheekiness, their gentle innocence, their harmless postcard vulgarity. It was hard to tell whether any of them were open or not but it didn't seem to matter because Margate was oblivious to global pandemics, its gloom and doom narratives.

Margate will never be driven into the ground, beaten convincingly because Margate just loves the summer warmth, its cultural inclusiveness, its open door policy to all classes, religions, belief systems, its boyfriends and girlfriends, mothers and fathers, daughters and brothers, brother in laws and sister in laws, cousins, uncles, aunties, its ever pleasing democracy and willingness to change. The seaside always had that and much more regardless of the current events.

In the distance you can see the magnificently revitalised Dreamland, the once colossally brilliant amusement arcade empire with its astonishing variety of one armed bandits, fruit and slot machines, the one and two pence cliff hanging machines, the gaming arcades flashing, noisy, thrilling and challenging, electrifying, beeping, buzzing, electrical and electronic. Dreamland was always a children's paradise and the adults who also loved them are back again. You could once again revert to your childhood because that's acceptable and nobody can take that away from you.

And so it was that we slowly walked back to the car for the drive home. We were exhilarated, feeling good, in fact really good, fantastic, fulfilled, knowing that the day had been enormously rewarding. Of course Margate had not disappointed since nobody had thought it would for a moment. Covid 19 may be here for a while and the air of resignation is still there but just for a day and, quite possibly, more of the same, England and the Garden of England was still pretty, still vibrant, still at one with itself, content with its sense of stubborn individuality and then its collective defiance against the odds. Oh we do like to be beside the seaside? Now we've all heard that quaint little ditty before. Sing up everyone.

It's statistics, more statistics and yet more statistics and the children of the world.

It's statistics, more statistics and yet more statsitics and the children of the world.

We do seem to be getting bogged down by a multitude of statistics, percentages, columns of numbers and every conceivable set of graphs known to mankind. Covid 19 is so heavily reliant on the latest stats and figures that we're in danger of being drawn into some weird mathematical hinterland where the calculations of the obvious become even more complicated to understand than ever before.

We are now witnessing one of those immensely overwhelming moments where it all seems as if everything is spiralling out of our control. Every day the harrowing loss of life may seem too much to bear for some of us since this just seems barely believable. At the beginning Covid 19 seemed to be confined to a minor incident aboard a cruiser ship where it then proceeded to head towards China and then we looked to the heavens in horror.

Now of course the whole world has been caught up in an even more horrendous death spin that simply can't be controlled however hard we try. Or can it? Have we turned the corner? Has this despicable disease finally blown itself out. We can only hope that it has because the weeks and months are flying at a much quicker rate than we thought they would and there are only so many crossword puzzles we can do, yoga and pilates sessions we can successfully negotiate. The lockdown is gripping us but not in the favourable way that such a phrase would suggest.

The latest news is that Britain is thinking about opening up its primary schools, its groves of academia and places of very youthful learning so that has to be welcomed. But the projected date of June 1 is no more than a hope wrapped up as a definite. We are still wading through a treacly quagmire of muddy water, a thick layer of red coloured bureaucracy that just feels like quicksand. Will the kids be safe once they enter those hallowed gates of education or will they feel very susceptible to infection? Oh please not.

Yesterday we were given a revealing insight into the world of the school classroom when classes possibly resume at the beginning of June. There were rows of desks strategically spread out so far from each other that they may just as well have been on the other side of the world. We have now been told that books, pencils, pens, chalk rubbers, boards and windows will have to be thoroughly cleaned and steamed just in case because all of the necessary precautions have to be taken and under no circumstances must those books be marked. Have you heard anything like it?

The thought occurs to you that if children are allowed back into school the scheduled term would normally end in the last week or so of July. We now accept that sooner or later the kids will have to go back to school because they need to have that important structure and routine in place. They need to see the friends they used to see every day because kids need to be among their peers learning, studying and playing to their hearts content. Kids need to let off steam, be energetic, run off pent up tensions and frustrations so that's obvious. Or is it?

But the truth is that even if children are allowed back at school this leaves them with only a month or so to become truly re-acquainted and re-integrated with each other. It hardly seems worth the effort and there remains the underlying fear among parents of what might happen next? We have now been through so many cycles of suffering and uncertainty that to expose our next generation to a lifetime of panic, worry and trembling trepidation is not the kind of scenario that any of us would wish them to undergo.

Meanwhile in the wide open spaces of parks and gardens around the world the air that we breathe would seem to be that much cleaner and purer. We can now walk around these blissful idylls in slightly bigger groups than before. We can now sit down grassy spots and know that our picnics and discussion groups will not be disturbed by trucks with loud tannoys imploring us menacingly to go home if our intention was not to exercise properly.

And yet still the pubs, bars, restaurants and cinemas remind you of bomb sites. Nobody quite knows when we'll be allowed to eat and drink together and whether we can actually be bothered anymore even if the green light is shown. There remains a gracious acceptance that nothing can possibly change at the moment because if it does we may never forgive ourselves should this happen again which, or so we're led to believe, it might.

Regrettably we are no further forward than we'd like to be. We can't see our family or friends, TV news reporters have to stand a country mile from the people they're interrogating and you'd have to laugh if you couldn't cry. Extremely young children are still painting lovely NHS rainbows on their windows and there is still life out there but much of it tends to be concentrated inside. The playgrounds are deserts, the swings and roundabouts now ghosts and apparitions, pale shadows of their former lively selves.

Our hearts may be weeping but our hearts are much stronger than perhaps we give them credit for. There is a sense that we've got to this point and we're still here, models of resilience, heroes of our age, conquerors of evil demons, brave and spirited, dogged and impregnable. This may not be the story we'd have liked to send down to  future generations but at least we can tell the children that we did experience it and we survived admirably.

Meanwhile the inimitable President of the United States- for there can surely be none other like him in any walk of life- Donald Trump is taking anti- malarial drugs because he believes that they can actually work if you suspect that you have the symptoms of Covid 19. Now it can't be denied that we're all familiar with the Trump persona. The oddball idiosyncrasies have always been present and the everday White House announcements just lend themselves to satire and the comedy club. Of course Trump means well but for the time being at least he may have to keep the slapstick humour to himself before we all dissolve in helpless laughter.

So there you are ladies and gentlemen. We're approaching the last couple of weeks of May and where has that year gone? In years to come we may acknowledge that 2020 was just one of those years where everything that could go wrong did go wrong. Historians are busily sharpening their fingers on their laptops and you can almost sense a thousand weighty books on the year of Covid 19. You can anticipate the barrage of facts, figures and an abundance of stats on the subject. We'll be given chapter and verse on how, why, where and who, considered analyses, learned dissertations, frantic forecasts, wild hypothesis about whether it could come back again for another spike. Oh no oh please no. However, we'll keep battling on, we'll never give up and we do like a challenge.

Still, here we are in lockdown and that's final whether we like it or not? There are no alternatives and no options, no way of telling when we'll finally be re-assured that it has finally gone, vanished into the dust and consigned to permanent history. But for those who remain optimistic we think we're almost there even if doesn't seem as though we're not quite there. One day, you suspect the keys will be found to open up that lockdown and it'll be business as usual. We have to believe.     

Gout and arthritis

Gout and arthritis.

Oh for the joys of growing old. It's at times like this when you become sorely tempted to throw in the towel. After all the gloom and doom, the end of the world forecasts and those melancholy musings about death, disease, social distancing, world confinement and that bloke who used to wander around the West End of London with that frankly ludicrous sandwich board around his neck, it had to happen.

My left foot has now come out in sympathy with the global affliction viral disease that is Covid 19. Ahhh! Please spare me your pity. This is not an unprecedented medical condition because it has happened before and besides, in the bigger scheme of things, the tablets are being taken and it's all being dealt with internally.  So there's no need to panic and all being well you find yourself hoping that the condition will just go away as soon as it came.

But yes folks yours truly has been diagnosed with both gout and arthritis. What about that for a double whammy? Now who on earth could have seen that one coming? After a number of chronically disturbing and hacking coughs during winters that just seemed to get longer and longer two more ailments crept up on you unobtrusively. You thought the coast was clear at the beginning of February when your body took yourself off to the gym for some much- needed therapy, mental and emotional improvement and a general state of healthy stability.

And then came gout and arthritis, those twin impostors that Kipling never got around to writing about and given my advancing years this may not have come as a complete shock to the system. Much to my disappointment though they're here and you might as well resign yourself to the ever- increasing number of sharp, stabbing pains in your ankles and a hideous swelling on the back of that ankle that resembles a hot air balloon. It could be worse but thankfully it is no more than that.

Now is the time for careful re-appraisal of my badly injured foot and ankle. Gout of course has always been associated with some debilitating medieval complaint where the unfortunate owner of the condition would have been accused of over -eating, over- indulgence, a totally debauched lifestyle and drinking in an extravagant, over the top style. If you spent day after day, week after week, month and month and year after year, stuffing your face with vast quantities of cholesterol then the penalty would have to be paid.

If you had a gout you only had yourself  to blame. People with gout tucked into vast quantities of meat. Frequently, you would gorge yourself during lavish banquets where tables groaning with enormous chicken legs and gut- busting, sizeable hunks of beef and lamb would be too much of a temptation to resist. Then there were those massive pints of beer, endless supplies of wine, port, gin and vodka before mouth- watering second helpings of apple pie and custard would follow swiftly. It had to happen sooner or later though.

So you had to blame yourself because you just couldn't help yourself. The last couple of weeks or so have seen a gradual deterioration and now your only emotion was  something akin to aghast resignation. You do your utmost to maintain a well balanced diet and a genuine commitment to fitness and then this just gives you a nasty nudge in the ribs. Now there is rather an awkward hobbling and general malaise where the very act of trying to walk becomes a painstaking operation.

You find yourself cursing the vulnerability of the human condition, that alarming self awareness of the ageing process and then smiling bravely through at it all. This is not legionnaire's disease, another bout of measles or a grumbling appendix which reminds me of a particularly agonising spell in hospital in early childhood. Of course we learn to live with the preponderance of aches and pains that are bound to visit us in old age but there isn't a great deal you can do about them- just live with them.

Then you're confronted with arthritis which once again sounds something like a very common medical inconvenience that only 90 year old plus people get and you don't because, although you're approaching 60, it does feel desperately unfair. You then discover that your mum has also got arthritis which of course is not the kind of news you'd like to hear at any time when a parent is suffering as well.

At the moment it's hard to tell which is worse. Is it gout which our kindly hospital doctor insisted it was or has the arthritis has ganged up on me just to make matters considerably worse? Arthritis normally attacks the nerve endings with a vengeance, leaving all of your muscles twisted and stiff as a board. 

Today you found yourself limping heavily and looking for any way of relieving the pressure on your damaged ankle and foot. You were told by the doctor that your commendable running career would now have to end because wear and tear had caught up with you. Mind you, running is perhaps a gross over- exaggeration because jogging and trotting had replaced that blistering pace. So it was with a slight twinge of regret that you told your wonderful daughter that dad would have to stop the running - at least for a while.

There you are folks. This has been the latest medical bulletin from the domestic hearth. Now gout and arthritis have taken up residence in my personal DNA. You wonder whether these are just genetic disorders, a throwback to the days of yore, that late 19th century period where your ancestors clinked pint after pint of  ale and lager in riotous nights of bacchanalia and your long forgotten uncles played the piano for hours and hours. Then they would drink as if alcohol were going out of fashion, boozing like proverbial sailors before lengthy games of dominoes, darts and shove ha'penny would last deep into the early hours of the following morning.

The fun and games would continue with violent arguments and disagreements, the threatened scuffling and show of fists before things would really kick off. This is slowly turning into the kind of year that none of us could have had any inkling of. You must remember the beginning of 2020 filled as it was with the promise of new horizons and the fond hopes of a bright new decade. And then we had to deal with a horrific disease which rapidly spread around the world before gout and arthritis landed on your personal doorstep. Still, we're all staying alert rather than at home and geographically speaking, we're about as far away as its possible to be from each other. One day though it will all end, the milk and honey will flow and the families of the world will link arms and live happily ever after. Keep well everybody.

May or maybe not. That is the question why.

May or maybe not. That is the question why.

We have now reached a very advanced point of the coronavirus pandemic. We are still nervous, still anxious, still limited and still prevented from doing the kind of things we may have thought nothing about doing in the wider scheme of things. We'd have woken up in the morning, brushed our teeth, had a wash, shower, wolfed down our breakfast, rushed out of the front door, briefcase or bag in hand, school satchel slung over our shoulders, car ready for action, bus to be caught and train to be squeezed into because we just couldn't afford to wait for the next one.

The world is still chained down, almost seemingly gagged at the moment by a sea of light blue masks and everything has been brought to a juddering halt. The world is just a mass of metal shutters over once prosperous shops, people standing in positions that would otherwise have been considered as unnatural and abnormal while the rest of society goes about its business as if time had paled into utter insignificance.

Earlier on this week some of us had genuinely thought we'd missed a day but we hadn't so we just laughed at the absurdity of this brief lapse in memory. Wednesday felt as though it had skipped a day and although Friday now feels just about right, these are the kind of mental aberrations you could have done without. Still we're literally a day away from the weekend which is neither nor there since all the days seem to be crashing into each other and the whole schedule of our lives has somehow assumed an entirely new dimension.

But hey let's enjoy this unique period in our lives because hopefully it may never come around again and besides we do need that vital human interaction sooner rather than later. At some point though, we will smile at each other again, we will play and watch sport, revelling in wonder at art, playing those longed for games of tennis and cricket that summer is always synonymous with. When we're released by these stifling constraints we may even feel like turning the music up full blast, holding a family barbecue that lasts for the rest of the year and then hurling ourselves into the local swimming pool if only because we just want to be free, wallowing in that wonderful moment of liberation, luxury and glorious recreation.

For a while the world has completely forgotten about the troubles that used to weigh down on us for so long. At the beginning of the year we were still agonising and gnashing our teeth over that very delicate subject known as Brexit. Much to the pleasure of those of us who just wanted to just get out of the European Union we did so and now it would just be a case of plain sailing. Britain could finally look across the rest of the globe and embrace life changing trading relations. Good stuff, hey? What could be better? Then February quietly passed without incident and the year was rich with amazing potentialities, boundless possibilities and a rainbow at the end of it all.

Suddenly, March came along and just put a dampener on everything. In fact the year, or so it would seem, has been ruined, nay less scuppered by the most calamitous disease. It is the most appalling contagion ever to confront the human race since the Spanish flu epidemic of 1918 and the Black Death many centuries ago. We have fallen foul of some illness over which none of us can really get our heads around.

On reflection now it hardly seems possible that 2020 has actually got going at all. All of those sporting events we followed were banished to the back of our mind, the movies we might have been anticipating with bated breath were now frustratingly hidden away from view, the musicals in theatres that had so positively mesmerised us were now just memories and the restaurants we'd gathered at for lavish dinners or lunch were just a culinary fantasy.

Of course we miss the simple pleasures of life because we could never have foreseen this happening. The pubs are now shut for whenever the time is right for them to open again. That means we can't socialise amiably with family and friends over a pint, we can't put the world to rights and we've been deprived of the right to speak our minds, conversations and discussions now some gentle whisper behind closed doors.

This week though saw a slight relaxation of the Covid 19 laws and for one brilliant moment it really looked as though things were indeed not quite so dreary and bleak as they might have been. On Wednesday we all headed perhaps simultaneously to Homebase and a million garden centres with their vast expanse of flora and fauna, potted plants and a birthday present for your much loved auntie, uncle or cousin.

Then Boris Johnson innocently encouraged people to go back to work and all hell broke loose. Or so it seemed at the time. Therein lies a statement loaded with contradictions. If you were a builder then this was the ultimate green light. But perhaps Boris hadn't bargained for the hundreds and thousands who chose to pack the trains without for a moment thinking about the general inconvenience it would cause. It didn't really look like the best idea if only because that part of the working population were quite literally rubbing shoulders and armpits with each other. Oh for the joys of social distancing.

Inevitably huge swathes of humanity flooded out of the train carriages as if it were just another working day. In other words Johnson had told Britain to go back work but wasn't quite sure about or conscious of the farcical repercussions of that plea from the heart. You were at perfect liberty to still stay at home if you wanted to but you had the option of changing your mind if you'd felt so inclined.

Now then we could finally dash out into our local parks and sit down on park benches. Whoopee! That represented real progress since the said benches were heavily infected which really does sound bizarre but you've got to be careful. We were also given permission to play sport but only with our mates or those you live with at home. Now we really are in cuckoo land or maybe not. And finally Boris also allowed us to stay all day in our parks and gardens because they were both safe. The plot thickens.

Always mindful of social distancing, we were also relieved to hear that we could visit our parents and grandparents but only at a neutral venue. This is the point when things really become sensationally funny. You can meet up with your grandparents and you can have a natter with Aunt Flo or Uncle Tom as long as they're in Greenwich and you're in Tonbridge Wells. Not that far apart if you think about it. Kent and South London are no great distance surely.

The sight of grandparents standing quite literally, in different postcodes to each other is almost beyond parody. Then there are the tiny tots blowing kisses to their loved ones on window panes, undoubtedly the most touching image of the year. Families have now been pushed farther and farther apart and geography now sounds like some essential school subject but only if you wanted to be a weather forecaster after leaving school. The world is still spinning but there are those who may well be suffering from vertigo.

There is a sense now that we are now living in our own private bubble, goldfishes in a bowl who frequently come up for air but haven't a clue what to do next. We are now cloistered, befuddled, not exactly imprisoned as such because we can get out. And yet we have been shut down, caught in a complex muddle, perhaps now absent minded and trying desperately to remember what it was like in January and February. Forgetfulness though is forgivable because time has now taken the year off.

Here we are in the middle of May and what should be a time for looking forward has now slid backwards into some mystical land where everybody stares out you blankly. Those music aficionados who were pinning their hopes on another triumphant Glastonbury or any music festival may have to get used to nothing at all. Wimbledon is strictly off limits because we know how those strawberries and cream folks love to share a bottle of Pimms on that ivy clad terrace and the Tokyo Olympics, that wondrous festival of sport, has now been postponed until next year. It would be easy to cry bitter tears but that's pretty much the way of things. Until we all hear differently.

Even the Chelsea Flower Show, that floral paradise for those who like to show off their verdant gardens, will have to take a back seat because tourists do love to flock to this annual show of regal roses, tinkling Japanese gardens and those splendid water features. Summer may be beckoning us but daily life must feel like a permanent winter now. Of course we've got each other and this should never be overlooked but when they do give us the green light to get out there, maybe it'll give us the time to express our appreciation for the here and now, the present. How did the song go? If you don't have a dream.

National Limerick Day.

National Limerick Day.

Above the sadness and desperation, the dread and tear stained announcements we can at least reach out to think of the light hearted and absurd, the silly and the whimsical, something to make you giggle and chuckle, tickling your funny bone because it's something you haven't been able to do for quite a while. And besides, you've got to let yourself go occasionally because you'd go mad if you didn't. The problem is that however hard you try there doesn't seem a great deal to laugh about. Still, you've got to give it a go so here goes.

Ladies and Gentlemen today is National Limerick Day. You see, it's been said. Now this one is full of potential and you've already broken into a smile so that's half the battle done. Yes folks today is the day when both Ireland and presumably the rest of the world dream up some of the most imaginative rhyming jokes, play with vivacious verse and try to change the mood of the world. We all need a healthy dose of humour in our lives regardless of circumstances so what better time to dig out those wise words of wisdom, throw in a plentiful mixture of irony, root out all of those sugary lyrics and add another  a sweet coating of scintillating poetry just for good measure.

For decades and centuries we have all found comfort in words, the wonderful flexibility of the English language and always come up with some magical limerick which may have been considered cheesy or corny to those who dismiss such frothy frivolity. But when Edward Lear produced his repertoire of such simplicity and flowing rhyme you had to believe that everything was well in the world.

Of course we are still grieving over the innumerable fatalities in the light of Covid 19 but when could we fail to be amused by those ageless references to 'There was an old man or woman from Stoke who always found they were broke'? Limericks can be saucy, controversial, perhaps too vulgar for words but maybe we could find just an afternoon to dip into the works of somebody like Lear to lighten up our lives if only because there has to be something designed to make us look on the brighter side of life.

Undoubtedly we appreciate the benefits of good mental health but if somebody does come up to you with a freshly minted limerick be prepared to hold your sides together. It does seem a crying shame that the art of limerick telling would seem to have fallen out of fashion and favour. But you can be guaranteed that in the homes of Dublin, Cork and County Mayo, the wordsmiths and the street poets will be fashioning their pretty necklaces of quaint prose.

Sadly, the world of both poetry and limerick isn't quite the crowd puller it used to be in so much that none of us can really understand the finer intricacies of these lyrical genres. Words have always meant a great deal to some of us and there is a marvellous resonance and sentimentality about a limerick that can never be explained as such. Limericks take us back to our childhood, hit a very sensitive chord in some period of our lives. They may seem highly insignificant to the vast majority of those who love our literature but they do make you feel so much better about yourselves particularly if you've had a grotty day at the office.

Still, across a small cross section of the literary world, large groups will gather together on Zoom and compare notes on their own personal composition. So pick up your pen, pencil or move over to your laptop and think of anything that may just boost your sagging morale. Limericks may not be to everybody's fancy but at least they remove you from the mundane and perhaps convince you that not all in the world is beyond salvation.

It is hard to take limericks at all seriously because most of are caught up at the moment with far more urgent considerations and priorities. But if you do happen to find yourself with a spare moment it may be advisable to think of that childlike rhyme that quite suddenly shifted your pessimistic mind set.

Regrettably the pubs, clubs and literary societies who always attach an extraordinary amount of importance to the good, old fashioned limerick date back to a gentler time when literature was something to be cherished and admired. Limericks, to all intents and purposes, belong in the world of folk songs, lovely old myths, gripping stories about people and places of fascinating interest. So there you are. It's National Limerick Day and it's time to have some fun with words, literature and grammar. Edward Lear would certainly have recognised its traditional values. And there can be nothing wrong with that.

Boris Johnson- latest medical bulletin.

Boris Johnson- latest medical bulletin.

It was billed as one of the most heartwarming, poignant speeches ever delivered by a Prime Minister. It was the most passionate oratory ever heard from one politician in ages and it had to be because if didn't tick the right boxes then we'd have all been in trouble. It had all built up to this one moment. We were all waiting with bated breath, hanging by his every word, sentence, paragraph, listening to  that very eloquent, confidential address to the nation. We were hoping and waiting, enthralled and fascinated, expecting reasonably good news and then ever so slightly frustrated that it wasn't quite the one we were expecting.

So it was that Prime Minister Boris Johnson straightened his tie and shirt collar, had the briefest of conversations with his suit and gave the whole of Britain the latest update on future medical developments with that very businesslike and suitably serious air as befits the status of Prime Minister. He was frank, confessional, clear, concise, fluent and ultimately very persuasive. He did what he had to do because he, more than most, would have known exactly how the nation felt when his life was endangered and yesterday he then pulled it off with devastatingly impressive class.

There was a very real sense of professionalism about Johnson, an air of utter command and control that must have communicated itself to the nation in that most comforting way he has about him. Maybe he doesn't convey that impression all the time but on an occasion that demanded both gravitas and weight Johnson seemed to have the finger on the pulse of a nation that had so obviously felt the pressing necessity for it.

Last night in the traditionally elegant and opulent surroundings of a Downing Street broadcast friendly room, Boris Johnson sat down on his chair, stared very honestly into a TV camera and poured out all of his innermost thoughts, measured the mood perfectly and then settled into the most intimate of fireside chats in much the way that his illustrious predecessor Sir Winston Churchill had done 75 years and two days ago.

Surrounded by chandeliers, several beautifully upholstered chairs in another room, what can perhaps best be described as a white stucco fireplace and the most stunning sofa, Johnson clenched his fingers tightly together and prepared himself for another historic moment in the political history of Great Britain. There are times when the future destiny of a country can never be accurately predicted since the unexpected and suddenly dramatic may have other plans. This is one such time and this can never be more strongly emphasised.

Johnson then became very expressive, forthright, straight talking and, for a while very animated. He would engage his audience with bunched fists, every so often striking out with jerky arm movements, short, sharp jabs that reminded you of a welterweight boxer at the height of their career. But this was no act of ferocious pugilism because Boris doesn't really do aggression. Johnson is more or less a cunning strategist, never pulling his punches as such but still searching for a decisive knockout blow.

And yet on the most improbable evenings of all, Johnson set out the most peculiar and unconventional narrative many of us will get to hear. Once again he resorted to almost art nouveau language and the kind of rhetoric that some of us would never thought he would ever utter. We all know that the evolution of the English language is always fluid but yesterday evening took the biscuit.

Johnson set off on the most exciting journey where the bumps in the road will still be painfully felt but this is one adventure that he felt and we feel must end with a happy ever after story. Johnson told us about this wonderful road trip with several stops at all the relevant motorway service stations, a quick Costa coffee and a very tasty Ploughmans roll with just a dash of mouth watering chutney.

Johnston went on to condense all of the things he wanted to say in punctuated bullet points, three entirely separate stages that would encompass three very concentrated periods of the rest of the year. For the next couple of days he felt Britain was more than capable of taking vigorous exercise in local parks and sitting on park benches which, for some of us, came as an absolute relief if only because some of us are emotionally exhausted by the recent pleas and warnings. We are perfectly alright of course but there are only so many times that your ears can be exposed to the same old themes over and over again.

On Wednesday the green fingered enthusiasts will finally be able to pop down to their local garden centre if only to pick up that longed for bag of manure, some precious packets of seeds, a couple of very decorative plants for the hallway and an ornamental fish pond just for good measure. Then there are the very colourful camellias, the richly attractive rhododendrons and just a smattering of hydrangeas. Once again we will be deservedly re-introduced to our gardens because we do need that much coveted hose-pipe for the grass and that grass could do with another lawnmower.

Sadly though it does seem to some of us that the other two steps are still shrouded in mystery. Of course the Boris speech to the nation was very articulate and powerful, of course we knew what he was talking about and we did get the gist of it. But steps two and three seemed to get slightly muddled by vague time lines and a complete lack of specific dates.

We were told that we could return to work, school or university at some point in quite possibly June. But there were so many caveats and conditional circumstances that occasionally you found yourself willing the Prime Minister to announce dates and times rather than guesswork and wishful thinking. You can go fishing for a while as from Wednesday but only if you promise to keep as far away from your partner as possible. You can play tennis with a friend but only if they're immediate family and you have to stick to household members of your kith and kin.

But here's the thing. You are now allowed to go back to work but only if you're quite happy to set out on the walk of a lifetime or perhaps the bike ride of your life. There can be no train expeditions and the bus may be your only other means of transport. So that's how this one works but only for the time being until we sort out the best way of finding this elusive vaccine. But don't worry the wheels of motion are underway and by the beginning of this autumn if not sooner we'll be back up and running. You bet we will.

There are also those small businesses which are beginning to show signs of wear and tear, deteriorating rapidly and going down hill horribly. Still, there are chinks of light at the end of the cliched tunnel and before you know it, London's glamorous shops, vast department stores, furniture warehouses, haberdasheries, car mechanics, engineers, bridge builders and construction workers could be poised for action sooner rather than later. Even the postman or woman and milk man or woman will whistle their way down your path with the utmost conviction. Not that they haven't been doing so anyway.

We have now reached July and now is the moment when the cafes, restaurants, probably the much loved cinemas and theatres  will ring their cash tills as if they've never been away. However, that sounds like months away which indeed it is but time may be beginning to feel like a lifetime for some. How much longer can Britain survive without its pint of best bitter, the pub quiz machines, the pub quizzes, the Sunday roasts with family and friends and all of the pleasantries that came with those weekly public gatherings.

Still, eventually we'll get to see our lovely families and friends because we've missed their company, the homely conviviality of it all, the morale boosting laughter, the need to be among parents, our grandparents, our comedy pals, the knockabout humour. There is a sense now that the tentative first steps of the Boris road journey is rather like that A to Z atlas you used to keep under the dashboard or under the front seat; reliable, helpful and just there. It's time to take another sharp intake of breath, strap on your seatbelt, close your eyes and just chill. Good times must lie ahead.

VE Day 75th anniversary celebrations sadly overshadowed.

VE 75th anniversary celebrations sadly overlooked.

It was the greatest day of their lives, that generation and those who were simply begging for the most memorable party of all time. For six long, torturous years they had been suffering unbearably, tormented, humiliated, devastated, driven out of their homes, watched aghast as doodlebug followed one bomb after another, as they then cried rivers of tears, desperate for salvation and never believing that it would ever end even though they privately knew it would eventually.

Yesterday Britain marked the VE Day 75th celebrations in perhaps one of the most sterile, anti climactic days of our lives. When Winston Churchill, that indomitable military leader and saviour of Britain made that wonderfully rousing speech on a Whitehall balcony about peace in our time, both Britain and the world whooped with joy, and allowed itself a  complete abandonment to all of those feelings that they thought might have been lost in the charred embers of ruin and destruction before the world danced the night away.

It was 75 years ago that the whole world was resuscitated, brought back to life, warmly reassured that the guns had been silenced, the bombs were now permanent history and Britain could slowly begin to rebuild. At the time it did seem like the impossible dream but 75 years later, although now fully recovered, there is a real sense that the huge crowds of deliriously happy people who climbed onto the lions and fountains in Trafalgar Square back then are now just pale shadows of a once ecstatic day.

History and fate have a funny way of coming back to play tricks with our minds. Who could have imagined that the vast audience participation that naturally attended Victory in Europe day would now be just one gloriously isolated moment in time? Now both Britain and the rest of the world look like everything has quite literally gone back to square one. Where once there was mass rejoicing now is just a blank piece of paper, the whole of humanity now lost in the most haunted house of all time and wondering whether they'll ever see each other again. The life force has well and truly been sucked out of everybody and everything.

For a while though those of us with fond reminiscences of the Second World War could happily relate their tales of derring do, heroism above and beyond the call of duty and stirring bravura that demands a lasting admiration from those who were born 17 years after the end of  World War Two. The astonishing feats of courage, stiff upper lip stoicism and incredible fighting spirit have now been rightly acknowledged over and over again as well they should. The soldiers bore arms, went into battle, left their loved ones broken hearted and bereft but those who came back were the ones who wept into their hankies briefly, wiped the redness from their eyes and left spirits undimmed.

But on Bank Holiday Friday, the images were revived and the memories dusted down, the men in their pristine army or air force uniforms, reflecting tenderly on their yeomen service to their country, smiling at their children and grand children who may be miles away from them but nonetheless delighted to be here, thrilled to see their offspring from distant living rooms because their love will never die.

To watch a lifeless Trafalgar Square and Piccadilly Circus yesterday was to witness a solemn church service, a remembrance service, a scary looking skeleton, an evacuation on a monumental scale. It isn't dead yet but London still feels as if it's on a life support machine. There are no unexploded bombs and there are no air raid shelters but to all appearances, the lights which joyfully burst onto the streets and roads of the world in 1945 had now been switched off because of a rampant disease called Covid 19.

Still, it was heartening to see the whole of Britain standing firm, organising its local street or road parties on a much smaller scale of course but dressing up resolutely in the wartime attire and waving those timeless Union Jack flags. Those who witnessed the full horror of it all at the time could sit outside the houses that they'd lived in for the whole of their lives and think back affectionately to May 1945, gently indulging in black and white nostalgia tinged with modern day colour.

At a lovely neighbourly party you were reminded of the morale boosting music, Dame Vera Lynn and Glen Miller floating serenely into the late spring North London air, soldiers and girlfriends doing the jitterbug in distinctive gas masks. There was my wonderful dad dancing the night away shamelessly at the Hammersmith Palais, comfortably protected from the raining bombs outside but acutely aware that not only were people dying but a complete generation, people who might have been with him at the end but were never destined to survive because all the damage had been irreparably done.

For a while though you remembered the uncomplaining sacrifice that your grandparents and parents made, the years of bitterness and repression that had inevitably followed, the feelings of numbness and inconsolable grief. For those who emerged as grandsons and granddaughters of survivors of the Holocaust yesterday's deeply emotional outpouring could easily be identified with on every level.

It is hard to believe that 75 years ago we were doing the Lambeth Walk without any inhibition, getting drunk because we'd won the War, Hitler had been slain down and the time was absolutely right. Roll forward 75 years and the atmosphere could hardly be any more shockingly different. We are still locked down, gazing out of our sun kissed windows, longing for family, freedom and friends, hoping that at no point will we ever resemble those long haired hippies from the 1960s. We don't mind queuing outside supermarkets in single file but we do look on with wry amusement at people who insist on going about their business in deep sea diving suits. Oh yes, you couldn't really make this one up. The days are getting stranger.

This has to be a crazy dream.

This has to be a crazy dream.

There comes a point during our lives when you feel compelled to say exactly what may be on your mind. It may not necessarily be the right thing to say but on reflection it might hold some credence or bear some semblance of reality. You've given it some serious thought and it does seem obvious even to a complete neutral or outsider. You've chewed this one at great length and it's staring you in the face with the most agonised grimace you can possibly muster.

The German Bundesliga, for all its strengths and merits, has officially made the kind of decision that just defies belief. This is not to suggest that the German football authorities have lost their mind. But there is just a complete sense of utter incomprehension and bafflement. So here's the German grand plan of action. Why don't we re-start the football season again towards the end of May regardless of world thinking and reaction and why don't we pretend that football is some welcome distraction, a lovely diversion designed to make us feel on top of the world?

Because quite clearly the world deserves a breather now, something to bring a smile and laugh to our faces. Besides, how much longer can we be expected to take all of this. It's just abnormal, beyond a joke and surely a vaccine can be found for this wicked old disease. We're tired, we've had enough and our tolerance threshold is beginning to flag. We've enjoyed the clapping and applause for well over a month now and Thursdays will never seem the same without this very charitable act of global benevolence.

But  the German Bundesliga have taken more than they can stand. The number of fatalities and deaths has now dropped to a fairly respectable level, Angela Merkel has had enough of looking grumpy and miserable and it's about time those German workers just jumped onto a train or bus and gone back to work. The coronavirus has more or less gone now in Germany and it's time for the whole of Germany to get up from the sofa, stop eating those frankfurters and drinking its sizeable steins of foaming beer and jolly well play football.

The Germans may have come to terms with the fact that the Munich beer festival towards the end of the year may not be happening. In fact if truth be told the Germans will just have to be very philosophical and  very forbearing. Large mass public gatherings are not and will not be allowed for some time or will they? This virus is no mood for levity or celebration, booze and intoxication are not for any kind of consideration - certainly for the time being.

And yet the German Bundesliga are intent on dragging their footballers out of winter hibernation and giving it to them straight. If you don't complete the football season we may have to take some very punitive action. Bayern Munich will be trembling in their boots because at some point this century they may like to win the Bundesliga once again. Borussia Dortmund, who have enjoyed some resounding success in recent years, wouldn't mind winning the German League once again and you mustn't overlook the very genuine threat posed by Hamburg, Bayer Leverkusen, even Leipzig who used to play their football in East Germany.

Of course we understand that the whole of Germany has gone some pretty difficult, nay less turbulent times ever since the Wall came down in 1989. All of those issues such as unification, political harmony and East meeting West meeting up with each other like old pals, must have had some impact on the social fabric of both West and East Germany. So it's all hands together and time to talk again in a very civilised manner.

This may be the time for Germany to compose itself, breathe in some perspective and step back from itself for just a while, smelling the Hofmeister or whatever the Germans choice of beverage might be. This is not an end of term school sports day, not some Bavarian dance competition in fetching lederhosen, nor is it a temporary holiday in the mountains. The nation has to be prepared to go again in the Bundesliga and football has to re-connect, get real, wake up again and charge headlong into competition and confrontation.

This time though the Bundesliga will resume its footballing hostilities in front of nobody, not a soul, not a voice, not a mum, dad, brother, sister, aunt, uncle, cousin or anybody from football's vast brethren, its community, the fans who give it atmosphere, electricity and unmistakable energy. It's time to turn down the volume right down, shut out any noise completely and remove those pulsating acoustics. German football supporters are not part of anybody's plan and must be kept out of football grounds indefinitely.

It may have been my imagination but you feel sure that you saw a photo yesterday of cardboard cut out people, an idea which has now been proposed for the Bundesliga ding dong matches. This is rather like imposing a blanket ban on all West End theatre goers. They've now been  told that they can't see the Lion King, The Mousetrap or Only Fools and Horses because somebody might sneeze or cough and then they'd have to close down these very celebrated productions for a number of years.

So here we are once again seriously questioning a nation's mentality when, supposedly, that nation is both technologically clever, serial winners of footballing World Cups and generally very thoughtful. In what way can a football stadium be expected to function without any of its lifelong supporters. This one could pan out very embarrassingly for all concerned. Imagine it now. Players very tactile and physical goal scoring celebrations will now have to be scrapped and all of that cuddling will have to be nipped in the bud immediately. What nonsense!

For a country that gave us Ludwig Van Beethoven, Audi and Mercedes cars, Grundig stereos, Jurgen Klinsmann, superb West Germany manager Helmet Schon and Franz Beckenbauer, this has to be the cheapest and tawdriest of all German jokes. We all know about German thoroughness and uber efficiency but the very prospect of watching fit, professional footballers emerging from their dressing rooms and tunnels into a hollow void sends shivers down your spine.

And yet who knows it might just work? They did send a man to the moon and that man did walk on the moon 51 years ago so anything is possible. But how on earth and by any stretch of the imagination will football be able to live with itself.? No cheering from the stands and terraces, no fun loving banter or camaraderie and none of that very special bonding together in a very special sporting cause, is unthinkable, deplorably unimaginable. We'll leave it to the Germans though because they've always known best so good luck with that one.