Wimbledon- but no strawberries and cream.

Wimbledon- but no strawberries and cream.

Wimbledon, that great summer extravaganza, has been postponed until next year. Back in March that news statement had to be announced because we knew it would. Sport of course has taken the biggest hit of all in the light of the coronavirus pandemic but yesterday it could have happened. The slings and arrows of outrageous misfortune, to misquote the great Bard William Shakespeare have meant that this year tennis is a no go area and you can forget those heavenly strawberries and cream. It's time to close those hallowed gates at SW19, keep those covers on and then ensure that the retractable roof is firmly shut.

Owing to obvious circumstances Wimbledon will not be gracing our digital radio sets or TV channels until sometime next June at the very least. Those admirably patient crowds who queue up outside both Centre Court, Court One, Two and all surrounding courts will have to put everything on hold, picnic hampers on Henman hill hidden away in the larder, bottles of champagne well and truly chilled until hopefully next year and Pimms similarly on tap until the government tell us that it's safe to drink.

Wimbledon always meant middle-class gentility to some and to others a democratic feast of summer sport where everybody could join in with the fun and games. Wimbledon always made us laugh, cry, bellow and shout, yelling out encouragement to the top seeds, idolising the matinee heart-throbs, those sexy men with hairy legs and striking bandanas on their foreheads. The women, of course should never be overlooked, always feminine and demure, flicking back wispy long hair, twiddling rackets and then touching their skirts for good luck perhaps.

Wimbledon provided us with tennis of the most exquisite quality, of the finest lustre and sheen, the highest order and rank. It always seemed to start at the end of June and took us right through to American Independence Day which was a coincidence because the likes of John Mcenroe and Jimmy Connors invariably reached the Final and, in most cases, ended up squabbling with each other. For most of us it represents sport at its most accomplished, sport at its most calming and sport with a significant meaning until well into the following year.

Across the parks and recreation grounds of Britain, people of all ages, classes, belief systems, cultures, genders and demographics will fling open the gates of their local tennis court, adjust the drooping net, tighten their tennis rackets, toss a coin and then send a whole barrage of booming serves and forehands to opposite corners of the court. The public will be allowed to act out their Wimbledon fantasies in their local parks but for the likes of Rafa Nadal and Novak Djokovic, those towering giants and geniuses of the yellow ball game, this is not your year because the adoring audience you might have been expecting have been told to stay at home in their living rooms.

Of course we will miss the immensely gifted likes of Nadal and Djokovic because they elevated tennis to the highest plateau, that starry eyed pantheon of greatness. They were the ones who always conducted themselves with a grace and graciousness that only they were capable of showing. They rarely argued with umpires, rarely questioned debatable calls or foot faults and always judged the mood of a big Centre Court match perfectly.

It is at times like this, when tennis misses out on our yearly diet of summer sport, that we go back in time to the way it used to be. These were the days of wooden rackets, no chairs in between sets and games, those unforgettable five set thrillers that seemed to go on forever. You can still see those late evening encounters, those roaming in the gloaming games when those numbered slats scoreboards were the only things you could see in the fading light of a summer evening.

You remember those bright emerald grass courts, green grass courts that looked as smooth and well manicured as the traditional bowling green. Then you'd notice that those well trodden baselines would suddenly degenerate into a dust bowl, brown sandy patches scuffed beyond recognition. But we loved tennis because we didn't mind about the deteriorating condition of Wimbledon base lines since this was part of its inherent charm.

The greats of course have accompanied us on our journey into adolescence and the TV commentators could always be relied upon to give us lyrical chapter and verse on the latest fashions, the easy and natural swings of the rackets, the service deliveries, the record breaking speeds of that vital first serve and then the explosive ace that could never be returned in any lifetime.

During the 1970s tennis held us spellbound, mesmerised, hypnotised and dumbfounded at the sheer perfection of it all, those extraordinary returns of serve from the back of Centre Court, the miracles of movement. We were treated to the dashing, the rushing, the scampering, the lunging, the frustrated screams and those moments of self reproach when rackets were thrown into the air, fiercely slapped on legs and when it just didn't seem fair. There was always ample room for self improvement and the ones who were top seeded always launched a quest for the impossible, the constant search for the utterly improbable. 

We were ridiculously spoilt during the 1970s because in those good, old days we had fully qualified mischief-makers, roguish rebels, rousing renegades, hilarious rascals, intolerable tears and tantrums from the so-called bad boys perhaps but a conveyor belt of well rounded characters with even more outrageous temperaments.

We could hardly believe what we were watching because it always seemed to be too good to be true. There were those lazy summer afternoons when the crack of tennis ball on racket was like a classical music symphony, a richly fulfilling concert of sounds that echoed across the whole of London and the suburbs as if magically wafted through the air. It must have been a privilege to be there and, above all an experience to be treasured, a sporting festival that unfailingly entertained every British summer.

There were the three musketeers, John Mcenroe, Jimmy Connors and Bjorn Borg, players of sumptuous talent, majestic athletes, well proportioned, remarkable exponents of their sport and gloriously talented. Mcenroe was the wild, naughty, rebellious one, bad tempered, impetuous, spiky, arrogant, ferociously argumentative, never satisfied, always on the warpath and consumed with contempt with umpires, the ball boys and,, quite often, the net.

You always had the impression that Mcenroe had the needle with everybody and everything because there may have been a part of him that struggled to find complete happiness with not only himself but the whole world. The foul-mouthed expletives, the vicious eye balling confrontations with the umpires, the crazy explosions and the chalk that had to be on the line were never less than a minute away. But those vile and vitriolic outburts somehow came to define Mcenroe and that's why he was so widely admired wherever he went.

 For all the bluster and the pomposity though, his tennis was always instinctive, the returns of serve almost delicately picturesque, the backhands equally as astonishing and the winners down the line delivered with an almost reliable precision. He may have tested our patience but he knew how to tick all the right boxes when the occasion warranted it.

Then there was Bjorn Borg, the Swedish maestro who won five consecutive Wimbledon singles titles without ever seemingly breaking sweat at all. Borg was a handsome player, abundantly equipped with every shot in the book, cool as a cucumber, nervelessly imperturbable, always in command of Centre Court and only occasionally flicking away a bead of sweat from that rigidly placed bandana on his forehead. Borg was the complete player, at home with every surface throughout the world and never ruffled by any potential crisis. The Borg- Connors- Mcenroe era will never ever be forgotten.

Further back in time we witnessed the masterful brilliance of Lew Hoad, the wonderfully balanced and poised Rod Laver, an Australian with every trick in the book, athleticism personified, stylish and versatile, charming and courageous. There was Ken Rosewall, who some of us believed always behaved like the perfect gentleman, a man of manners and courteous at all times. From memory at least Rosewall always had time for everybody and would never break a tennis racket.

The women of course won the palpitating hearts of many a male. During the  1960s and 70s there was Billy Jean King, fast, quick witted, skilful, nimble footed, fleet of foot, returning with almost military timing and then engineering some of the most delightful ground strokes tennis had ever seen. King was a feminist, strong willed, decisive on court, controversial off it but proud of that one match when her male opponent Bobby Riggs was beaten hands down convincingly.

Then your personal tennis heroines came into view, ladies of grace, elegance, power and style. There was Chris Evert, always polite, eternally articulate and never less than fluent and fluid on court. You can still see Evert, eyes deep in concentration, fair hair blowing gently in the wind, spinning her racket with a gentle consideration in case somebody had been offended by something Evert's opponent might have been doing on the other side of the court.

There was the Australian Evonne Goolagong then Cawley, spring heeled, energetic, feisty, tenacious, committed to victory and never less than ladylike. Cawley threw herself into both services and returns, forehand and backhand permanently in tune with her natural game. Cawley was one of  tennis's greatest of expressionists, a wristy player with cunning wiles and guiles.

Further back in time there was once Little Mo Connolly, Maria Bueno and then in more modern times Martina Navratilova. a Czech who became an American, a powerhouse of a player, winner of so many Wimbledon titles that it is hard to remember a time when she wasn't a dominant force at SW19. Navratilova had some of the most muscular shoulders in the history of women's tennis, powers of endurance and stamina that frequently left us speechless and a rampant ambition that could never be quelled. She was driven, obsessed with winning over and over again. Quite clearly she wanted to rule the world of tennis for as long as she could and she did.

In more recent years both Martina Hingis and Steffi Graff have both left their artistic legacy on the game and Graff had an unbreakable monopoly over the game. We must believe that one day Johanna Konta will once again raise the profile of British tennis 43 years after the lady in the mauve cardigan Virginia Wade curtsied before the Queen in Silver Jubilee year and lifted the women's tennis singles trophy. Oh what a year that was for British tennis and how the crowds responded.

But we shall miss this year's Wimbledon's cut and thrust, its loud grunts, its noisy, high pitched yells, its twiddling rackets, its force of nature, its players constantly adjusting their clothes, tugging their shirts, squinting into the setting sun of another gorgeous Wimbledon evening. We shall miss those quirky mannerisms, the moody prowls along the baselines, the hidden torment of losing narrowly in five sets.

Above all we'll miss the permanently boisterous crowds, the barking voices of support and idolatry, the magnificent Mexican waves when they get fed up with cheering. We'll know just how long those crowds have been waiting to get onto the main courts because they may have been hanging around the outside the ivy clad walls of Wimbledon since the turn of the 19th century.

We all know about Wimbledon's illustrious past, its heroes and heroines, the court jesters, the musical hall acts, Ilie Nastase wearing a policeman's hat and then sitting next to the front row of the crowd. It will never its lose its jokers, its harlequinades and the crowd pleasers but when next June does arrive we'll be hoping that sport has not its endless capacity to laugh at itself. Let's hear it for game, set and match. We can hardly wait. 
 

Canaries tweet their last FA Cup tune. Norwich City lose to Manchester United in Cup quarter final.

Canaries tweet their last FA Cup tune. Norwich lose to Manchester United in Cup quarter final.

In an atmosphere that still reminded you of a school playground, Norwich City bowed out of this season's FA Cup with dignity intact but still there is the realisation that their residence in the Premier League may now be in grave jeopardy. After yoyoing back into this year's Premier League Norwich do seem to have taken a liking to their trampoline because the very thought of bouncing back to the top flight does seem to energise them.

It now looks inevitable though that the Canaries from Norfolk's greenest acres will be heading back from whence they came in the Championship but still it was good while it lasted. Norwich, perhaps now infamously, just can't settle in football's top flight and for what now seems an eternity have always flattered to deceive when altitude sickness seems to get the better of them.

The sight of top celebrity chef Delia Smith desperately imploring her Norwich team to victory at half time several seasons ago remains one of the game's more amusing moments. But for whatever reason Norwich remain incapable of remembering their lines and stage fright seems to follow them everywhere. Maybe they should see a footballing psychiatrist since the Carrow Road faithful must be heartily sick of all this instability.

When John Bond was their manager, Norwich were very fetching on the eye, their football spiced with all kinds of fragrant flavours. Norwich were entertaining and certainly one of the most attractive sides in the late 1970s. But since then their football has suffered an attack of the jitters, a side nervous, unsure of themselves always looking for re-assurance. Maybe they should have pretended that Liverpool, Manchester United, Spurs or Arsenal were just optical illusions.

In their FA Cup quarter final tie against a very polished Manchester United side, Norwich only briefly hinted at the kind of form that had completely outplayed their opponents neighbours City earlier on in the season. But this was not the Norwich who had once deeply impressed the neutrals when John Bond was boss roughly 40 years ago.

The truth is that Norwich now looked doomed and condemned to another season in the Championship and any distraction from the Premier League was no more than fleeting. This was never going to be an easy watch for the locals who, you suspect, would much rather have spent a lovely summer evening picking strawberries or potatoes in Norfolk's lush fields. But it was the FA Cup and we're now at the end of June with some incongruous event tacked onto the end of the season as an afterthought.

Still here we were in the FA Cup quarter finals when most of the players, you feel sure, would have much preferred an evening in a  Greek taverna or tucking into Spanish paella washed down by a Chateaux Marks and Spencer. Footballers are of course creatures of habit and had you asked any of the players on view yesterday whether a place in a Wembley FA Cup semi final now or a rest and relaxation break in the Costa Brava would be much more to their liking the choice would surely have been predictable.

Football though has to deal with whatever is placed in front of us and although very odd and maybe a touch unsettling for many a traditional football fan this was the FA Cup without its fans and that in itself cast a strange and mystical light on yesterday's fare. Of course the FA Cup has retained something of its old fashioned glamour but for those who can remember the days of rosettes and banners at any FA Cup tie from long ago this was not quite the romantic spectacle of times gone by. Besides Norwich regrettably have been nowhere near a Final appearance and Canaries only sing in coalmines.

Yesterday evening with the summer shadows lengthening and Manchester United were in town. Normally this would have vaguely recalled a David and Goliath Cup tie but by the end of extra time, Norwich were out on their feet. Their rash and careless defender Timm Klose had been sent off for a needless foul on the edge of the Norwich penalty area and the home side were whistling in the wind. Manchester United immediately sensed their moment and went for the yellow and green jugular.

The match itself played out in much the way most of us had expected. Manchester United, with the always venturesome Luke Shaw at the back, Harry Maguire, quietly domineering at the heart of the United defence, Eric Bailly, all hustle and bustle in front of the United back four, United began to assert their customary imprint on the Cup tie. Their football, once so beautifully sculpted and chiselled under Alex Ferguson, still has all those silks and subtleties that continue to give so much pleasure to the football aficionado and the purist who insists on technical correctness.

Under Ole Gunnar Solksjaer United are still a work in progress and the moment of completion may be a number of seasons away but the signs are there and the players fit the bill perfectly. Scott Mctominay may not be another David Beckham in the making as of yet but he still exudes an obvious authority in midfield. With Juan Mata still as quick witted and creative as ever even at the age of 32 and Bruno Fernandes an outstanding player with so much to give United, this is a Manchester United side that could reach the stars without quite the smooth finesse of the Beckham, Giggs, Butt and Scholes era.

We must not overlook the sterling contribution of Jesse Lingard, a home grown Old Ttrafford product,  an England international par excellence with a sweetness of touch and a desire to attack with the ball in dangerous areas that never fails to catch the eye. Lingard was forever probing, buzzing, prompting, scheming and searching, linking effectively and powerfully with his United colleagues, the busy bee that provided United with most of the honey.

United eventually made their attacking superiority count when it looked as if Norwich had possibly rumbled United's cunning plan. United took the lead early on after a dazzling passage of play where the ball seemed to be stuck in the green and yellow half like glue on paper. A neat procession of passes found Luke Shaw whose clipped cross low across the Norwich area ultimately found the feet of Odion Ighalo who, turning his defender sharply, shielded the ball carefully before flicking out a lethal foot, guiding the ball firmly past helpless keeper Tim Krul.

In the second half though Norwich surged forward and broke forward with a speed of thought that had quite clearly left United feeling hot and bothered. Their football had much greater clarity and purpose where before there had only been faint suggestions and blurred images. Jamas Lewis looked far more confident on the ball while the likes of Alexander Tettey, Emiliano Buendia and Lukas Ruff were badgering and beavering away, chipping away at United's resistance.

When the promising and forward thinking Todd Cantwell joined in with Norwich's hitherto misfiring attack, it looked as though the home side were emerging from their inhibited shell. Norwich were now seeking rather than retreating, enterprising rather than withering. With the game seemingly running away from them, Norwich were given their thoroughly deserved equaliser. After a spurt of close control and cohesive football on the touchline, Norwich worked the ball smartly across the pitch and Cantwell, latching onto the ball with great delight, cracked the ball with some finality high into the United net. It was, as they say in football parlance, a screamer.

With the game now into injury time all it took was one flash point to decide this moderately engaging Cup quarter final, Norwich, perhaps smelling blood, now saw red. The aforementioned Timm Klose grabbed hold of a United attacker in front of the referee and had to be given his marching orders. Norwich were now without a life raft and just disappeared from the game.

In the closing stages of extra time United now lay siege to a Norwich side with an extremely fragile chin. The attacks came thick and fast, United peppering the Norwich goal with a sustained assault that always looked as if it would result in a winner for United. It almost felt as though Norwich were clinging on to some metaphorical cliff and hoping that penalties would come to their rescue. It was not to be.

Now it was that Luke Shaw, still capable and competent in possession, who picked up the ball from another clever pass. Shaw, weighing up his options with both perception and shrewdness, floated a low, diagonal ball into the Norwich six yard box and after the ball had been laid off to him, Harry Maguire who had been influential in so many of Englnd's World Cup displays two years ago, nipped in front of his defender before clipping the ball past the keeper for United's winner.

And so it is that Manchester United march into another record breaking FA Cup semi final and probably another Cup Final to boot. Meanwhile most of us were still trying to imagine a Cup Final without any supporters from the two respective finalists. For those of us who have avidly followed and endured both the fortunes and misfortunes of our club side, this still feels like an insult to our intelligence rather like watching our favourite movie with the volume turned down or an art gallery without any tourists to cast admiring eyes on.

Still, football is undoubtedly living in some parallel universe, a galaxy far away from a well trodden Earth, a world that has clearly lost its bearings. We are being asked to watch football that has quite literally lost its identity, a sport undermined and humiliated by men with stupid looking blinkers over their eyes and no idea what to do with perhaps the most important influence on the game. These are not the thoughts of a bitter and resentful type more of a plea from the heart, a cry in the wilderness for some degree of sense. An FA Cup Final without its supporters still feels like another game entirely. Wembley, Wembley! Here we go. Here we go Here we go!

Time to book your holiday in the sun.

Time to book your holiday in the sun.

Set against an increasingly hostile backdrop of riots, demonstrations and irrationally aggressive behaviour it is now comforting to hear that at long last we can finally book that welcome holiday to the sun. Before that now dreadful lockdown in March most of us were optimistically waiting for the right moment to book our yearly holiday to far off places abroad where the sun shone eternally, pina coladas were drunk by the gallon next to a shimmering swimming pool and Britain was thousands of miles away from here.

Little did we know it at the time that something was ominous in the air with far-reaching implications, terrible repercussions and something that would throw all of us into full -time panic mode. We had to look forward to something but were deprived of doing so because the world became inaccessible, out of bounds, trapped in a raging pandemic disease that just kept getting worse by the day and beyond human control.

And so it is that we welcome summer 2020 and after another series of contradictory messages from both government and those talking heads in the House of Self Parody, we have now been given permission to go on holiday. Whoopee? Let's get out that passport,  stock up on those plentiful supplies of sun factor cream 72 and just pack every single piece of clothing into a fit to burst suitcase while always concerned about what might happen if we do get too close to anybody on the plane.

Still, in a couple of weeks time all of those sun kissed beaches in those quintessentially exotic lands far away from British shores will once again be heaving with sun umbrellas, Brits paddling lazily in turquoise seas and kids running in and out of the waters with cute little caps on their heads. Then the Mediterranean idyll will find all of those British tourists with unfortunate red burn marks on their body where the sun factor has failed to reach its intended spot. Then emergency measures will be called upon as dozens of after sun tan lotion bottles will be dug out of bags overflowing with sangria and donkeys.

No matter of course that we may not be up to going away on holiday just yet because the rumours of quarantine, hand sanitisers at airports and yet another consignment of masks to be worn at customs remain as true as they might have done a couple of weeks ago. So there you are already to go, suitcases packed, sun -glasses perched on the bridge of your nose, paperback books tucked away safely in your baggage and then somebody tells us that once we get to our destination we may have to deal with yet more confinement.

Suddenly, the whole concept of going away for a week to two weeks in either the Med or any other part of the world now becomes distinctly less appealing than it should. The fear factor and sense of foreboding is too much to take in and most of us may not entirely fancy the prospect of squeezing through the aisles of a plane, plonking ourselves down on our seats and then suffering the ultimate indignity of claustrophobia when we could be booking ourselves into a bed and breakfast hotel in Skegness or Blackpool.

And this is where we begin to weigh up the pros and cons of this whole bizarre set of events. Is travelling abroad a calculated risk or perhaps Spain, Italy, Greece, Cyprus, the USA, Mexico, the Far East or Israel really does feel like the ultimate temptation too good to be resisted? But hey come on we've got to get away from Britain after all these months of just becoming stressed out because the kids have been driving you mad at home and you're about to explode.

We mustn't forget all that unnecessary hassle and aggravation at the airport where everything becomes like an assault course or some perilous expedition into the unknown. Under the circumstances you probably won't be looking forward to the prospect of walking for miles around the airport concourse, dragging your cases through a minefield of annoyances, those loathsome inconveniences.

There are those tiresome customs desks, hypnotic luggage carousels, the endless parade of perfume shops, checking in with your passports and those wretched security checks where trouser belts have to be taken off, watches and jewellery removed from your pockets and everything that smacks of red tape bureaucracy just leaves you screaming with frustration.

But way back in the early 1970s when we signed up for this time consuming rigmarole at our local airport nobody knew this would happen, much less bargain for. In those days airports, although busy, must have assumed that if you had booked your holiday in either January or February you really wouldn't have to worry about such minor details as out of date passports or the Tablet you'd forgotten to pack. We could negotiate that particular problem since you could always fly off at a later date during the summer.

The blunt truth though is that nobody is going nowhere at this moment although the doors and gates could be open at either Heathrow, Luton, Gatwick and all of those wonderful regional airports around Britain very soon so just hold on and we'll get there. However after all those months of teeth- gnashing and finger biting the enthusiasm to hit the beaches and hotel swimming pools of the world may not be quite as feverish as perhaps it should be. Or maybe you're just counting the hours down before that Easy Jet plane is winging its way over the Iberian peninsula.

The fact is thankfully that we may be edging our way tentatively back to that point of the year when Easter chocolate eggs were only weeks away and spring was the most enticing prospect. Nobody can really tell where we are at the moment because the pubs and restaurants have been ordered to be ready for the beginning of July and most of those non- essential shops are, we assured, ringing those tills.

The feeling though is that half of the world is open and functioning at something that seems like semi business as usual while the other half is still kicking its heels. People are still wandering around in masks, those who aren't wearing them are beginning to ask themselves whether they should and it all feels as if we're like extras for a potential remake of Emergency Ward 10. It just feels like one of those years that really didn't happen at all and should have been scrapped on New Year's Day.

Of course we love life and our mental health but the end of June probably feels like  the end of November or the week before Christmas. The end of the world isn't nigh and we know that but the significance of the year and the energy have long since evaporated. All of the cultural and major sporting events have now been placed in cold storage and what could have been so richly satisfying and aesthetically perfect is now just a torn page in history. Or so it would seem.

For instance last night BBC Two devoted the entire evening to the many- layered history of Glastonbury, a pop and rock music festival so enshrined in the hearts of hundreds of late 1960s hippies and modern day kids that a year without it, is a gaping wound. Two presenters stood in an empty field in deepest Somerset surrounded by cows and not a lot else. There was a very lonely electricity pylon but in the place where the esteemed Motown legend who is Diana Ross should have been tomorrow night was grass and stunning scenery. It is all very demoralising but then again there's always next year.

So here's the deal everyone. Forget about Glastonbury, the tennis from Wimbledon, quite possibly cricket and every other national treasure because they won't be happening. Euro 2020 would have been approaching its final stages although the Premier League football season is still jumping up and down in the background and won't be happy until the end of July. These were all scheduled plans that didn't take place nor were they in retrospect, destined to happen.

 This is the advice for what's it worth. Close your eyes, take a deep breath and when you wake up at any time in the foreseeable future this will all be over. Trust me, you've looked into your crystal ball and the future is resplendently bright. It can only be a matter of time now. Stay safe and alert everybody and keep well.

Liverpool almost there but not quite.

Liverpool almost there but not quite.

There's one match to go and the waiting is over. Still, the feeling persists that a heavy cloud of anti climax hangs over Liverpool football club. The fact of course remains that after 30 years Liverpool will once again be acclaimed as Premier League champions( or the old First Division in the old currency) tonight if Manchester City stumble against Chelsea and lose. Finally, it all seems to be coming together for Liverpool and how good it'll feel when, as opposed to if, they hold the Premier League title aloft in maybe a matter of hours although certainly days now.

By way of an irony Manchester City's opponents Chelsea will know exactly how Liverpool are feeling since they have likewise clinched Premier League titles in recent years. And Liverpool will not need reminding of that embarrassing moment when Steven Gerrard lost the ball on the halfway line against Chelsea to hand one of their title chasing rivals Manchester City  the Premier League trophy. The image of Gerrard stumbling on the ball to allow Demba Ba to race away and score for Chelsea was all the more galling because the other title chasers Manchester City would go on to claim the Premier League.

Last night's 4-0 victory for Liverpool against Crystal Palace at Anfield must surely have felt like a coronation but the pomp and ceremony that normally marks a Premier League title- winning season will be missing and how Liverpool's fanatical fans will feel that grievous loss. There will be no fanfares, no trumpets, no adulation and, above all, no fans to witness that street carnival after winning the League, nobody on the Kop and nothing but a distinctly uneasy atmosphere.

We know it has to be this way but of all the teams to win a Premier League title Liverpool will no doubt know better than most that when you've waited for 30 years for a party invitation your supporters should be ready to celebrate the homecoming with an open top bus celebration. There are those of us who may feel an enduring sympathy for some of the most adoring and loyal football supporters in the land since Liverpool have had it all sewn up during the 1970s and 1980s and finally 1990.

Time was of course when Anfield was that impregnable fortress, that sturdy ship out at sea, a side with the most watertight and impenetrable defence, a midfield who were just models of synchronicity and an attack with an insatiable appetite for goals. Liverpool managers became legendary figures, men of wit, humour, timeless class and utter diplomacy who loved Liverpool with an almost unreasonable passion. Their names were carved into the Anfield bricks and mortar, clearly legible on tablets of stone. But the next couple of hours or days will not of course feel the same. So let's turn the clock back and remember how it all started for them.

When Bill Shankly arrived at Liverpool in 1959 Liverpool were ordinary, mediocre, almost anonymous and completely out of contention for any conceivable trophy. But then came the 1960s and an empire was built, a winning mentality implemented almost immediately and Liverpool became unbeatable. There was the rock known as Ron Yeats, midfield engineers such as Ian Callaghan, and Gordon Milne, a wondrous wing magician in Peter Thompson and the voracious Ian St John, a striker of pace, power and persistence.

During the 1970s of course as Bill Shankly handed over the reins to Bob Paisley, Liverpool seemed to get progressively stronger, more inventive, even harder to beat and full of goals from everywhere. There was Phil Thompson at the back, Phil Neal and Emlyn Hughes putting up the defensive shutters, Chris Lawler, Brian Hall and the academically comfortable Steve Heighway, a whirling dervish of a winger, teasing and tormenting with that distinctively upright style, ball firmly glued to feet.

And then there were Liverpool's trump cards up front. Throughout the 1970s Kevin Keegan and John Toshack were two of English football deadliest strikers. One was a muscular terrier of a striker, squat and stocky but full of powerful running and tirelessly busy, a livewire nuisance to hapless defenders, full of scurrying and scampering runs into space, a player of grit and industry. Kevin Keegan was here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, a pain in the neck and full of footballing stubbornness. Keegan dominated old First Division defenders and Toshack was his willing accomplice.

Then there was John Toshack, a Welsh beanpole, as tall as Blackpool tower, quite the most magnificent of presences in oppostion penalty areas and a natural aptitude for scoring goals. Bought from Cardiff, Toshack announced himself to the Liverpool with a glut of goals and from that point innumerable old First Division championships. Toshacks were scored predominantly with his head but once the scent of goals was in his nose Toshack was unstoppable, feeding off Keegan telepathically and then surging into the six yard box with an electrifying menace.

After the imperious reign of Graeme Souness, Ray Kennedy, Terry Mcdermott and still quite remarkably an ageless Ian Callaghan, Liverpool were still breathing fire during the 1980s. When Liverpool won yet more League championships during the 1970s and 1980s it almost felt as if the club had been given some special medicine that would be guaranteed to bring them home the old First Division title.

Now Liverpool would invest in one of their shrewdest signings. Kenny Dalglish was one of Celtic's most wondrous of attacking talents, a force of nature, a forward besotted with the art of scoring goals on an almost weekly basis. In the year before Liverpool's second consecutive European Cup Final victory against Bruges at Wembley, Keegan had left Liverpool with a stunning 3-1 victory against Borussia Monchengladbach and Dalglish inherited Keegan's throne. Dalglish was quite the most gifted striker, always popping up in dangerous areas, turning defenders rather like a man easing his way through a revolving door. Dalglish would score goals with effortless ease over and over again.

And so to the present day and modern times. In 1989 on that last fascinating match of the season Arsenal pipped Liverpool to the old First Division championship with that final, nail biting burst into the penalty area where the Gunners stylish midfield player Michael Thomas squeezed home the winner that stopped Liverpool in their tracks. It left the likes of John Barnes, Steve Mcnamanan and manager Kenny Dalglish stunned and speechless. Liverpool had been denied by a Thomas that certainly wasn't doubting.

The following year Liverpool redeemed themselves and this time the moon was in the right position. This time though there were no cliff hanging finales. Liverpool breezed through to the finishing line and ensured themselves of  what was then their 18th League title. Who knew then that it would take another three decades to add to their now ever- expanding collection of trophies?

Who knew that while thousands of Liverpool and Nottingham Forest were tragically losing their lives in an an FA Cup semi final that would prove the ultimate turning point in fan crowd control. And yet here we are again today proudly acknowledging Liverpool's latest escapade, a long overdue receipt of  their first Premier League trophy or the League championship. It is now only days away before the city pays homage to its beloved red idols. How deservedly so.

Frustratingly though this was not the way they would have wanted to sing their praises, eulogising and lionising the individual brilliiance of Sadio Mane, Mo Salah, James Milner, the superb Jordan Henderson, the outstanding Virgil Van Djyk at the back, the delightfully overlapping Andrew Roberston on the flank and all of those whose contribution may have been overlooked as the unsung heroes. You'd be inclined to think that they may well have been few and far between.

It does seem a crying shame that Liverpool will indeed have to do without their Kop choir, a huge congregation of natural singers whose voices will not be accompanying that final whistle when  Liverpool will be declared the new Premier League champions. In a season that now feels as though it'll go on forever, even the club's now historic anthem 'You'll Never Walk Alone' begins to sound like the most pertinent of hymns. Oh if only Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan could see the present day faces of Liverpool. Even without the Kop the roar, somewhere, will be heard the length and breadth of Britain.

Open up those pubs and restaurants but not the theatres.

Open up those pubs, restaurants but not the theatres.

Today the blond one from Uxbridge and the academically brilliant one from Eton school will stand up in the House of Comedy and announce yet another package of mind- boggling measures designed to lift the nation out of its private anguish, thus eliminating that bodily discomfort and removing that gut wrenching malaise that seems to have hovered over Britain and the rest of the world for over three months.

With his hair in some rabid state of revolt and insurrection, Boris Johnson will tell everybody whom it may concern that part, if not all of its catering and hospitality section, can get cracking on the cooking, juggling those pots and pans, checking the ovens thoroughly for rust and dirt while acutely aware that even if they do light the cooker they may find that those good, old habits may not be quite up to the usual high standards.

Wherever they look the nation is bombarded by that seemingly endless overload of TV cookery programmes and everything is quite literally organised chaos and pandemonium. Chefs with boundless enthusiasm and phenomenal reserves of energy rush around kitchens that may or may not bear any resemblance to ours. They dart and dash across pristine kitchen floors, frying pans and pots crackling with the most oleaginous oil, before sprinting across a studio floor in the hope that nothing untoward happens to them.

And so it is that the pub, cafe and restaurant kitchens of Great Britain have been given permission to re-open again on American Independence Day. July 4 is the day set aside for eager customers to gently feel their way into one of the most sociable environments outside our homes. Now we all know that the last couple of months have been fraught with difficulty which may be an understatement anyway but you get the gist of the point.

Anyway the fact is that life without that delectable pint of lager, cider, beer, Coca Cola, orange juice, sambuca, Prosecco and any other choice of alcohol has been distinctly lacking in friendly banter with your family and friends. We've missed the good humoured gossip, the topical references and gags, the in jokes and that collective levity, the carefree aura, that moment to just be with your kith and kin, your mates, your acquaintances, your colleagues at lunchtime for a quick half pint.

If all goes according to plan then entire families, uncles, cousins, dads and mums, brothers and sisters, brothers and sisters in laws, aunties and nieces and that bloke who you also play snooker with, will now be awaiting that longed- for day when we can all join forces once again for perhaps the most emotional reunion. We'll all converge on the bar, prop it up for a while because we just want to savour that indefinable feeling we once got when things were normal. And then we'll get gloriously drunk, drunk on the champagne of life. Hey, come on everybody let's celebrate this much deserved moment of release.

But yes, it's true. You can stroll down to your local watering hole- cum boozer without feeling like an alien impostor. You can shake the hands of the people you might have thought had vanished off the face of the Earth and you can be a social animal again. There is a sense here that this may take some time getting used to again since adjustments will still have to be made to our lives on an unprecedented scale. Now there's another airing for the word 'unprecedented' which you've only heard about a million times in the last three months.

Still, we've made it until now so this may be the time to take advantage of one of Britain's favourite pastimes, its way of unwinding from the stresses and travails of the day, its major source of relaxation, its focal point when things go haywire perhaps and a haven of enjoyment when things aren't going your way at work.

The reality is though that even though we think we're on the verge of some decisive breakthrough in this whole medical breakdown the truth is that we're only halfway there, that in- between period where, having just about overcome every obstacle known to humankind, we still find ourselves weighing up the pros and cons which is hard to take. Still, patience is a virtue as they say.

And yet by this time on July 4 we'll all be bellowing out the orders in the King George, the Red Lion, the Prince of Wales and every other drinking hostelry imaginable across England's fair acres. We'll be balancing fifteen pints of best bitter and Foster's with all the dexterity of a high wire trapeze act in a circus carrying nothing but a pole in their hands. It'll come quite naturally to them for since time immemorial the English pub drinker does like their creature comforts.

Sadly though those very pubs still look ever so miserable and crestfallen, small wooden stools turned upside down on well worn tables and a snug looking sofa that looks slightly sorry for itself. Then there is the small matter of those pumps and optics, the central feature of any pub but now almost lost in deep thought. It is hard to believe that back in March these impressive pieces of architecture were full to the brim with drinkers, jokers, gamblers on those fruit machines and just devoted revellers there simply to have a good night out with those you've always enjoyed the company of.

It must seem an age ago since most pubs played host to those timeless favourites of dominoes, shove ha'penny and bar billiards. But the eternally popular snooker continues to dominate the interior of most pubs these days. Presumably there are those who simply spend their evening studying the Sun and the Financial Times papers while racking their brains over the crossword. Now though we may only have to wait a fortnight before indulging those simple pleasures.

Meanwhile the restaurants of Britain will also be swinging open its doors to the hungry hordes. The West End of London without its Aberdeen Steak House, its Pizza Hut and Express, innumerable Italian, Spanish, Greek, Brazilian, French and Vietnamese eateries have been rather like any location without its human patronage. China Town must have been like a desert in recent months and all of those moreish KFC chicken shacks must have been desperately hoping that one day this would all seem like some nasty illness which indeed it was. Mcdonalds, you suspect, were probably sulking in the corner or just besides themselves with self pity.

But this is where we find ourselves even more puzzled. Rumour has it that the West End theatre community with all of those dazzling, foot tapping and feelgood  musicals may remain in the dark until well into 2021. Leading impresario Sir Cameron Mackintosh may well have broken the hearts of every musical enthusiast when he declared that he didn't think any of the great plays, comedies and dramatic productions would now be performed. He told that us the footlights would not be switched on and the orchestra, such an integral part of the evening out, would just have to stay at home and communicate with their contemporaries via social media and Zoom.

Still here we are once again into whatever week we're in of the lockdown and nobody has found any cutters for those chains. It would be easy to dismiss the whole of 2020 as a complete write- off and you'd probably be right to assume this to be the case. The longer this goes on the more likely it is that most of us will just pretend that it didn't happen. Indeed it has though and you weren't hallucinating. This is no Hollywood movie set and Walt Disney hasn't come back to life so hold on to the bar of  this roller coaster because there are still six months left of the year and for those who believe that an alien invasion may not be far off, be careful what you wish for. Or maybe not.

Palace enjoy their behind closed doors day by the seaside.

Palace enjoy their behind closed doors day by the seaside.

Oh we do like to be beside the seaside. For the first time in three long, agonising months Premier League football poked its head out of the cupboard, held back its suppressed laughter and then got on with all of those domestic duties it thought it had completed back in March. Back then it merely seemed as if all the practicalities of Premier League business would be dealt with a familiar aplomb. Premier League leaders Liverpool would win the Premier League title by a country mile, relegation and promotion issues would be resolved quite naturally and everything would be tickety boo. Or so we thought.

Here we are on the longest day of the year in the middle of June and some of us may be in holiday mood rather than looking forward to these cheap, pre-season friendlies that seem to be masquerading as the very last of the remaining fixtures of the Premier League season. In the last couple of days Project Restart for football is beginning to assume the air of a summertime kickabout in the local park. We can barely believe what they're saying and what we're being subjected to and the sooner the end of July comes around the better although we would never wish the year away.

There have been all manner of conflicting reactions to the resumption of the Premier League but some of us are still wrestling with this preposterous absurdity. Has football really lost its marbles, its wherewithal or are we just imagining this all and sooner rather than later we will wake up? But matches will be played out to their straightforward conclusion, sweat will be exerted in the sweltering heat of the English summer, physios will be summoned wearing huge perspex shields and the game will just meander along like some country bumpkin wandering down a country lane.

Still, we've got this far so we might as well carry on. The experts and media pundits are just delighted to be back in a football ground but there are some of us who may be wishing whether this was all worth the bother. This is beginning to feel like some strange dreamscape where the angels play their harps and everything isn't really what it seems it should be. But let's get this Premier League season out of the way and consign it to dusty history before we really think we're in some kind of netherworld.

After all the delays and discussions, excuses and justifications, baffling facts, figures and statistics, football opened up to a fanfare of artificial crowd noises, sponsored silence on the terraces, and an atmosphere more reminiscent of Bournemouth library, a hollow concrete bowl where you could almost hear the traffic outside the Vitality Stadium rather than the traditional roar of a Saturday afternoon crowd inside it.

Football has dealt with all of these problematic imponderables rather like a scientist in a laboratory using every available combination of chemicals in rows and rows of test tubes. Do the players take huge wage cuts? Should there be wage deferrals and more importantly, those wage deferrals where all the players became very self conscious of who they were and whether it wouldn't have been advisable to give something back to the game in the name of local charities?

Now though the Premier League is up and running and acting out the same kind of scripts it was trying to perform to an audience that has suddenly become surplus to requirements. Still you can only deal with the unfortunate circumstances you're presented with. There have been lengthy spots of furloughing of players, players exercising with packets of cereals, a couple of indoor treadmills and one or two compact exercise bikes tucked away in the kitchen. It all seemed rather bizarre and piecemeal but footballers are nothing if not adaptable.

When Liverpool skipper Jordan Henderson came out with the most charitable of all offers with millions given to all struggling families and the elderly he was regarded as some kind of Messiah. Last week Manchester United striker Marcus Rashford laid out his case for a potential OBE with his suggestion that there should be free meals for children during the summer holidays. We have now changed our perceptions of footballers although we knew that some of them did have it in them to react in the way that Henderson and Rashford had.

Meanwhile back at the Vitality Stadium, Bournemouth met Crystal Palace in what may just as well have been a neutral venue. For as far as the eye could see giant pieces of red and black cardboard  had been cut and pasted into the place where the Cherries loyal supporters would have been. There were banks and banks of sponsored names wherever you looked and a section amusingly referred to as the Red Army which would have been more suitable at either Arsenal, Manchester United or Liverpool.

Now it was on a bright sunlit summer evening that Crystal Palace swaggered around the tight confines of Bournemouth's quaint little ground, toyed with Bournemouth like the proverbial doll and then shook the home side like a child's rattle. These have been immensely enjoyable seasons for Bournemouth who, under the bold, idealistic managerial tenure of Eddie Howe, have played some of the most beautifully designed and neatly fashioned football the game has seen for quite a while.

But now that brisk, invigorating South Coast air seems to have got to Bournemouth. The football is still delightful and rather like the sweetest of jams to the palate. The isosceles triangles, the footballing trigonometry, the pleasing angles and the passing movements were all made in heaven. Bournemouth had an almost intimate relationship with the ball and the three seasons of top flight football seems to have done them the world of good.

Sadly now though their residency in the Premier League could be reaching an end. The tapestries are still there for all to see but the stitches are beginning to look both frayed and threadbare. When the red and black shirts took to the pitch at the Vitality Stadium even the trees looking over the ground looked slightly forlorn. Bournemouth are no longer the force of good we thought they'd be for many a season to come and their opponents Crystal Palace simply danced around their hosts at times as if they weren't really there.

Palace of course will now finish the season in either safe mid table security or even on the fringes of the top ten after the kind of season that even their most patient fans might have thought was beyond them. And yet under the dependable and still shrewd Roy Hodgson, Palace have found a way to play the game like a well drilled platoon of army recruits. Their football had both poise and delicacy, attractive interludes and the most eye catching fluency that left Bournemouth gasping at the sea air.

With goalkeeper Aaron Ramsdale, defenders Jack Stacey, Steve Cook and Nathan Ake failing to establish any kind of understanding with each other, Bournemouth looked socially awkward and quite possibly distanced. Adam Smith, Jefferson Lerma and Harry Wilson were not really reading the same lines as would normally have been the case and Bournemouth became overwhelmed by a turbo charged Palace attack. David Brooks does look a stunningly honed young talent but when he pulled up with cramp during the second half, the game was up for the Cherries.

When Luka Milivojevic gave Palace the lead early on with an impeccably flighted free kick into the net, Bournemouth looked positively shell shocked as if affronted at their visitors cheek and chutzpah. Shortly Palace were running rings around the home side, hopping and skipping, twisting and turning, dinking and shimmying, spinning and swirling around Bournemouth as if this was just a run of the mill five a side training ground exercise.

Suddenly, the brilliant and effervescent Wilfried Zaha began to show us the fleet footed, bamboozling trickery and close ball control that should come as second nature for any winger. Gary Cahill was playing like one of those hugely experienced defenders who seems to have been around for ages, a player who once gave Chelsea some of their best years. Scott Dann was busy and bustling while Cheikhou Kouyate was a tall and imposing presence who West Ham must be missing like crazy. Then there was Patrick Van Aanholt, constructive, always forward thinking and innovative.

Now it was that the alert and lively Jordan Ayew, Van Aanholt and James McArthur came into their own as effective attacking influences. Now all three were weaving fine silks around the Bournemouth defence. After another delicious collaboration on the wing, the blond Van Aanholt slotted the ball through to the by line where a sharp cut back was almost spoonfed to Ayew who guided the ball home from the closest range for Palace's second and what would prove to be the winning goal.

And so it was that Bournemouth fell even deeper into the briny South Coast water while Palace were casting their eyes on loftier aspirations near the top of the Premier League. It's all systems go for the Premier League and depending on your point of view this could be a very eventful and interesting end to a season that some of us now believe is heading into some Wild West territory where normality still seems an obvious abnormality. Still. it has to be better than the Watney Cup. Pre- season friendlies will never seem the same. 

Forces sweetheart Dame Vera Lynn dies at 103.

Forces sweetheart Dame Vera Lynn dies at 103.

We all felt we knew Dame Vera Lynn who today died at the grand old age of 103. Vera Lynn was an extended member of our family, the friendly neighbour who thought nothing of sharing pleasantries and light hearted banter over the garden fence. She was the auntie we knew but didn't really know. She was that lovely old lady who would always proffer a smile and laugh even though she didn't know you that well.

You could confide in our Vera because she was always warmhearted and full of the joys of spring. She would ask you how your children were, bake a cake for the kids and then dispense her pearls of wisdom and sagacious advice because she loved life, sharing her infectious zest for living without ever questioning or judging you. She would hang her washing on the line, run upstairs to attend to her young daughter who was still crying like a baby because she was still a baby. Then her daughter would giggle in her cot and the echoes of the Second World War could still be heard.

Born in East Ham, a salt of the earth East Ender, Dame Vera Lynn captured the hearts of the whole of Britain and the rest of the world as the 'Forces Sweetheart', a heroic wartime heroine, the sweetest chanteuse, the all pervading, glorious influence who spread her infectious voice and love across diverse continents, war torn cities, towns and villages where the sound of the 'Doodlebug' became the most familiar soundtrack during six years of hell and purgatory.

On a thousand radio sets across the lands of England, the Commonwealth and farthermost points of  Asia and Africa, the voice of Dame Vera Lynn became the sound of hope, positivity and musical triumphalism where the guns, bullets and bombs threatened to obliterate the whole of the globe. She travelled the length and breadth of almost every army encampment and stood defiantly on stage with the voice of an angel. She knew what was going through the minds of those battle hardened soldiers who were fighting not only for their lives but for those who were suffering in the remotest corners of the planet. She gave of herself instinctively and unquestioningly because her voice was the voice of salvation.

But today our Vera, the woman and girl who illuminated all of our lives has passed and we can never thank Vera enough. For Vera was indeed the Forces Sweetheart, the singer who transformed the lives of so many young men who worshipped her from afar but wished they could be their girl. Of course the soldiers had wives and girlfriends waiting for them at home when demobbed after the Second World War but Vera Lynn was the one photo they would clutch to their hearts before lights went out.

Forevermore Dame Vera Lynn will always be associated with one anthem, with one song, one memorable anthem, the soundtrack to our lives at the present moment and the soundtrack that accompanied those who were sent away and sadly never came back. 'We'll Meet Again' has now a completely different and equally as emotional, topical resonance. It was, and remains, a powerful, victorious, heartwarming and, above all, tremendously inspirational song that still sends a shiver down the proverbial spine.

It dominated the record collection of every family across both Britain and the world and it was always on the lips of every man, woman, auntie and uncle whose instant identification with its meaning always made us feel good about ourselves. ' We'll Meet Again' was so stunningly appropriate that it almost became England's second National Anthem. For those of a sentimental disposition it means so much more than any of us could possibly imagine and now sounds like a heartfelt cry from the core of our being.

And so it is that we bid a fond farewell to the songbird from London's East End, a lifelong West Ham supporter, a fact that gladdens some of us no end. But when this now historic year wends itself regretfully into the distance we may hope that somewhere out there the voice of Dame Vera Lynn will boom out across the green, undulating hills of England. If there are bluebirds over the white cliffs of Dover you may be sure that our Vera will still be there in spirit. Thanks Dame Vera.

The Salisbury Poisonings- excellent TV.

The Salisbury Poisonings- excellent.

In complete contrast to all of the last three months of unrelenting misery and sombreness we were given yet another dose of the same medicine. The BBC do get it completely right with their thought -provoking dramatisations and for the last three nights they reminded us once again of the dark and very moody version of events relating to the Salisbury Poisonings two years ago.

Back then we were just shocked by one of those news stories that are supposed to be shocking. It was the spring of 2018 and England were about to embark on one of those helter skelter rides towards the summer's World Cup in Russia. Little were we to know it then but in the quiet and genteel city of Salisbury, mysterious events were beginning to unravel before almost frightening the life out of the nation.

On an otherwise ordinary Sunday lunchtime a father and daughter sat down on a bench in Salisbury having just eaten in a restaurant. What we didn't know at the time was that both were unwitting targets of some appalling poisoning attack from evil terrorists whose intention was to kill without any hint of remorse.

Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia Skripal were, at the time, unwitting victims of the kind of incident that convulsed and paralysed almost the entire county of Wiltshire and quite possibly beyond. The opening sequence showed Sergei frothing at the mouth and fitting as his daughter slumped onto his lap, their world now thrown into turmoil and infirmity. Death could have been the most tragic outcomes for both but since then both father and daughter have made a full recovery or so it may be assumed.

But this was a gripping three night reconstruction of the events which unfolded with almost morbid rapidity. Slowly but surely we were introduced into the lives of Nick Bailey, the serious, dedicated and businesslike cop who was unintentionally drawn into this horrific vortex of potentially lethal toxicity, a man who just wanted to get on with his business of being the upright copper while ensuring the continued welfare of his doting family.

We were then given chapter and verse on the life of hard- bitten health officer Tracy Daszkieewicz, a plain-speaking, hard-working, ambitious and driven woman determined to get to the bottom of a nightmare that refuses to go away. We follow her keenly as she rushes hither and thither from one crime spot to the next, a woman of fierce convictions, moral purpose and hell- bent on bringing justice to those who may have found their lives under serious threat.

Attending endless meetings with police officers and impassioned encounters with outraged residents of the local neighbourhood, we saw her visibly crumpling under pressure while mum did her utmost to give positive reassurances to son Toby that she would never desert him and still loved Toby. It was acting of the highest order, a wonderful portrait of a character whose devotion of duty almost broke her at times.

And we then move back to Nick Bailey and his family. Bailey is seen accidentally picking up the nerve shot Novichok,  a potentially deadly poison which almost killed Bailey. Staring into the bathroom mirror, Bailey is initially seen checking his now dilated eyes and then sweating in bed wihout realising for a minute that things were wrong and unsavoury. After frequent  self examinations, Bailey eventually collapses during the night, falling onto the living room carpet and ending up in hospital clinging onto life desperately.

Nick 's wife Sarah continues to offer loving and compassionate support to a husband who now finds his own life hanging in the balance. The whole background story is now told in vivid and graphic detail with both wife and husband caught up in the most horrendous web of secrecy and ambiguity. Nobody can be sure what's happening because nobody knows anything but would like to know more.

Then there is Ross Cassidy with his wife Mo. Ross is a close friend of Sergei Skripal and once again a perfectly innocent member of the public who, through no fault of his own, is questioned by the police for his friendship with Sergei. Cassidy gives any relevant information that may help with the police's inquiries. Cassidy then gives a full explanation to the police and wonders whether he was being followed by one of President Putin's alleged henchmen on a trip back from the airport to meet up with his mate Sergei. All very cloak and dagger and clandestine, very much a case of not what you knew but who you knew.

Also there was the heart breaking case of Dawn Sturgess, impeccably played and the only death in the whole episode. Dawn is a hardened and incurable alcoholic who lives with her partner Charlie Rowley, both incorrigible addicts who were brought together by a strange twist of fate. Dawn loves to party and get completely drunk while Charlie just offers a sympathetic shoulder to lean on recognising sooner rather than later that both he and she might come to a sticky end.

In the most alarming scene, we see both Dawn and Charlie rummaging through a bin, searching for goodness knows what. Dawn picks out the spray bottle which would eventually kill her while Charlie digs a chair out which left him fighting for life but would not kill him. The story had now become so intriguing that you were left on tenterhooks about what fate would befall all the characters.

After seemingly indefinite investigations, numerous BBC News bulletins, searching post mortems and deeply probing discussions from all concerned we are now left to imagine what might have happened and what did actually happen. This was by turns both an extremely powerful, hard- hitting and compelling drama where you could hardly take your eyes away from the action. There were blazing arguments and disagreements from health officer and police alike, moving moments throughout when everything that could have gone wrong did. But the air of suspense kept you glued to your TV.

Then after spraying from her bottle Dawn dies, the family gather together in collective mourning, mum and dad reproach themselves for not doing enough to help their stricken and troubled daughter and the intensity of their grief takes its toll with dad Stan who confesses that he could have done more to save Dawn but couldn't because Dawn just couldn't stop herself. Charlie, Dawn's partner, naturally sobs his heart at Dawn's funeral but then Dawn's daughter remembers the good times she enjoyed with mum.  Mum Sturgess is equally as impressive as the helpless but doting mum who regularly tells her grand- daughter that mummy is sick but is being taken care of.

This was the BBC at its most professional, clever, accurate and perceptive, a play about raw human feelings, a play that hit all the right psychological and sociological buttons. It was about a TV dramatisation that got right under the surface of what makes a society ticks when somebody throws a ticking time bomb into a city that just wants to be left alone in peace. Sadly Salisbury may not be remembered now for its historic and beautiful cathedral. Rather it will always be synonymous with a bench in the shopping centre where two people minding their own business almost died at the same time.

Happily this story did have a happy ending although it could have been all so different. Nick and Sarah Bailey with their kids, are still living as the reunited family, Dawn Sturgess sadly died, Ross Cassidy and his wife Mo are doing all kinds of charitable work while some of us were left drooling with admiration at a brilliant TV script and eternally grateful to the BBC for another mini masterpiece. Thanks Auntie Beeb. You've done it again.

Animal magnetism- zoos, safari parks and non essential shops. Britain partially re-opens.

Animal magnetism- zoos, safari parks and non essential shops. Britain partially re-opens.

Oh well! We're halfway there but not quite. It's the beginning of the week and lockdown could be partially opened as from today but don't bet on any grand opening ceremony with bells and whistles because that maybe a couple of months away. Still, the non essential shops are back up and running, people are beginning to believe in miracles and hopefully society will return to something like its chipper ways in the not too distant future.

The problem we have is that we are still very much in the dark, neither here nor there, waiting patiently for something really unforgettable to happen when the truth is that nobody knows when normal service, as we used to know it, will be resumed with a vengeance. We know where we are at the moment and it does feel encouraging but the fact is that having seen the West End of London this morning there is still something grey, gloomy and nebulous about London that doesn't make you want to dance in the streets and hug perfect strangers in sheer relief and joy.

We are now halfway through June and on the verge of the longest day of the year. Midsummer would normally be the catalyst for thousands of people to descend on Stonehenge and watch the sunrise in all of its amber glory. But this is surely no time to be spiritual or religious so you may prefer to concentrate the mind on more down to earth and practical matters. You can still hardly hear a pin drop outside and that has to be worrying.

Anyway, the next piece of great news is that Britain is re-opening all of its zoos and safari parks which is brilliant news for all of those lonely lions, cheetahs, monkeys, penguins, rhinos, hippos, birds, tigers, camels, elephants and llamas. You could go through the entire list of the animal population but let's keep this one short. Or maybe not. Still, it's a delightful prospect and how we've longed for this day.

The fact is that all the frustrated kids, their parents and grandparents can finally be re-acquainted with the animal kingdom, that magical world of sheep, lambs, cows, bleating, mooing, roaring, swinging from trees, prowling around their pens while hunting big cats and wandering, loitering, sluggish, beautiful beasts of the wild can finally let their hair down.

Soon enough families will take to the road in their highly secure Range Rovers or Land Rovers driving casually through Longleat and every other safari park safe in the knowledge that this could be a very special moment not only for the kids but also for mum and dad, grandma and grandpa. Who cares whether those monkeys, ocelots and lemurs, leap on to the windscreen and try desperately to snap off the wipers? Who cares whether those grumpy, cantankerous lions and lionesses start circling your bumpers or checking out your axles and of course those wheels and tyres. They're only trying to be friendly after all. Or are they? It's safe to say that they've probably missed the human race. The feeling is reciprocal.

And this is  probably the point. Does the human race feel as if it should really be grasping the nettle, jumping into our cars, buses and trains when it knows in its heart that this is all very hit and miss, a calculated but scientific gamble that could go badly wrong? Half of the West End of London is privately wondering whether they should while the other half can't wait to buy their first pair of shirts and trousers for at least six months. The dilemma is an obvious one.

The fact is of course the heart of the West End of London is still receiving treatment for deep- seated wounds and injuries possibly requiring even more surgery. That heart though is still on a ventilator and recuperating very slowly. The West End, it has to be said, is still in intensive care and breathing very irregularly. This may sound very exaggerated and overdramatic but we are not where we would like to be.

We are not booking tickets to see our favourite West End musical because we haven't a clue whether we'll be able to see a musical any time this year. We can't sit outside a Costa, Nero, or Pret A Manger coffee and snack shop because the doors are locked, the ominous signs are up in the window and the wonderfully perfumed smell of black coffee, latte or mocha is still a distant memory. Although extortionately expensive, we used to love going into the local cafe for a bite to eat and just winding down for an hour.  Now we discover that this treat will have to go on hold for another fortnight or so.

Now though those same cafes and restaurants will have to wait until the fourth of July which still sounds like just a random day. And yet July 4 is American Independence Day so whether this has been deliberately planned to coincide with America's happiest of days is immaterial.  The fact is that we can eat and drink to our hearts content as long as the service charge doesn't amount to a small mortgage.

There is a growing reality that we are still half in and half out at the moment. The powers that be keep insisting that we keep 2 metres away when the rest of the world- or a vast majority of it- is only a metre or so give or take a couple of centimetres. Are we being asked to take a tape measure out with us in case it's beyond anybody's calculation? Or do we simply keep us far apart from our fellow human being as it's possible to be.

Sport of course has come flying out of the blocks and there is a feeling of delayed euphoria. Of course we welcome sport's presence.  However, the whole potty issue of football's very materialistic rush back to its Premier League multi- million- moneymakers has been frequently discussed on these pages. On Wednesday evening though Manchester City will take on Arsenal at the Etihad Stadium and Aston Villa will be up against Sheffield United at Villa Park.

We all know what's going to happen or not as be it the case. Nobody but nobody will be allowed into any Premier League grounds and what will ensue will be like nothing like we've ever seen in the glory, glory world of football. In fact to call it a spectacle would be a strange kind of euphemism because quite clearly it won't be.

So here goes more or less a month of quite the most extraordinary silence and tranquillity ever to fall upon English football. You suspect that at some point you may hear more noise among Trappist monks in a monastery so chilling and cold will it all feel. It'll probably feel like being stuck in a cave or even an underground chamber for interminable hours, weeks and months. Or maybe another adaptation of Robinson Crusoe where Crusoe runs out of twigs and sticks to keep warm. The Premier League may have to get used to this very remote desert island in the middle of nowhere.

Still, football has, or so it would seem, made a rod for its own back and we hope that this experiment, whether enforced or not, will work out for the best. We look forward to the Premier League restart with great excitement in our hearts. We are counting the hours down until Liverpool deservedly clinch the Premier League title in front of rows of unoccupied plastic seats, a crisp bag fluttering in the breeze or the occasional fog horn of some sea going vessel on the Mersey. The Anfield Kop will become no more than the Anfield whisper. Oh for the overwhelming sense of anti climax of it all.

Then of course there's the cancelled Wimbledon tennis and, above all, the cricket Test matches against West Indies which used to be the definitive sporting fixture during the 1970s. How we used to thrill to the master blaster brilliance of Viv Richards batting, those gorgeously atmospheric steel drums and Gordon Greenidge driving the ball mightily through the covers for either a six or four. Then there was the neat and tidy Alvin Kalicharran, sweetly clipping his shots eloquently off the back and front foot.

Cricket though may not come out to play until the beginning of August which only adds to the lopsided nature of the sporting calendar. It is at this early part of August that the FA Cup Final will be crammed in tightly into what feels like an exceptionally hurried schedule. Everything about the recent developments within sport and everything coronavirus has, quite obviously upset the balance of our lives or maybe it hasn't and you're all doing splendidly in which case apologies are in order.

We are of course being admirably resourceful, more domesticated perhaps than we've ever been and those kids rainbow drawings have been fabulous and very symbolic. But the thought occurs to you that at some point during the summer most of us will be craving proper family gatherings with no private fears or misgivings, shopping in our millions, laughing and singing along with West End musicals, crying and smiling at cinema romantic comedies and generally having a fantastic time.

In the meanwhile let us be grateful for the re-opening of zoos and safari parks because our animal friends just haven't been the same. They've been moody, withdrawn, probably quite depressed if truth be told. You'd be inclined to think that this is the best day of the year for all animals across Britain. But beware those bears because they've probably still got sore heads. Or possibly not.

It's National Gin and Tonic Day everybody.

It's National Gin and Tonic Day everybody.

It's the news you've all been waiting for everybody. No, sadly not the official end of coronavirus but it will be quite shortly. You can feel it in your bones. The good news though is that today is National Gin and Tonic Day. Yes, it is indeed. Now what about that for a pleasant surprise? You weren't expecting that one, hey? What a boost to our flagging spirits if you'll excuse the pun. After all the gloom and doom, despondency and dejection, you can finally let yourselves go just for today or perhaps you'd prefer to drown your sorrows or celebrate your personal victories with a classic G and T, a quick glass of gin and tonic.

Let's face it. You deserve it. In fact finish off several bottles of gin and tonic although that may not be entirely advisable because if you do get completely drunk you may have to pay the penalty tomorrow morning with that famous feeling of hungover regret and somehow wishing that you hadn't bothered in the first place. But if the mood does take you then please be my guest. This is the time for a good, old fashioned drop of the hard stuff because this is the day to get just a bit tipsy and if you like completely blotto.

Now, after well over three months of fear, indecision, terror and calamitous tidings from all four corners of the globe you'd be entitled to get plastered so you now have my permission to knock back huge quantities of the hard stuff. National Gin and Tonic Days don't come around that often so this is all the more reason for total drunkenness and inebriation. For this is the day to sit back and relax, take the weekend in your stride and remember that after you've finished mowing the lawn you can face a gin and tonic with a clear head and conscience.

Back in those far off and now dimly remembered days of the Georgian age, gin and tonic was one of the many alcoholic choices of the rich and aristocratic upper classes. You must recall those gin soaked palaces where the men and women of the day would waltz the evening away to enchanting piano recitals and then drink the night away quite unashamedly into the wee small hours of the following morning.

Ah yes, those gin-soaked palaces where the lords and ladies, the titled and the not so entitled would fling convention out of the french windows, step lightly towards each other under the opulent and gleaming chandeliers and raise a toast to capitalism and luxury. They would bow and acknowledge each other ever so politely while the women curtsied to their menfolk with that gentle femininity.

Throughout the centuries and right up until the present day though, gin and tonic is the one drink that is invariably associated with a severe setback or disappointment. For those who have experienced another stressful day at work or the loss of anything then gin and tonic is the immediate answer, the antidote to all ills and discomforts. How often you have stared into a glass of gin and tonic and hoped that it would soothe your fevered brow and make things temporarily better? Or perhaps you were simply teetotal.

In ancient episodes of Coronation Street- if your memory served you correctly- didn't the likes of Elsie Tanner and Vera Duckworth and occasionally Ena Sharples partake of a sharp swig of gin and tonic and then tell Annie and Jack Walker to keep the change? Pubs are often the first retreat where we need to just calm down, an alcoholic sanctuary where the cares and woes of a quite horrendous day of the office can be offloaded.

In the gentlemen's clubs of London such as the famous Garrick, those with money to spend and wartime stories to re-tell, will slump back into those beautifully upholstered leather chairs, light a Havana cigar, browse through the Financial Times, puff on the said cigar a thousand times and then ponder deeply on their shares in all of their blue chip companies. Then the large glass of gin and tonic will be raised victoriously because last week his Polo team had once again triumphed on the playing fields of England.

But for many of us gin and tonic will always be the drink of reflective contemplation, the drink to take the heat out of a troubled day, the drink to stare at interminably when that crucial business deal may have fallen through at the last minute. Or maybe gin and tonic was that soothing pick me up when the mood may have been desperately low.

And yet those gin- soaked palaces from the 17th and 18th century do sound like a running theme through that period when nobody really cared about getting tipsy and then sloshed because all of those Hooray Henry hedonists were knocking them back one after the other. Gin and tonic may well have been the ultimate solution to all problems and the mind is filled with images of rowdy mobs of men smashing glasses of ale, throwing back gin and tonics in rapid succession, jumping recklessly from already wonky wooden tables and then falling over on a rain soaked pavement when the landlord had clearly had enough. Gin and tonic worked on every level. At least until the following morning.

So there we are ladies and gentlemen, today is Gin and Tonic day and not before time. How long have you been waiting for that day? In the old days Gin and Tonic was just plain G and T with perhaps a packet of crisps and peanuts for company. Now there's Pink Gin, Gordon's Gin, Beefeater, Tanqueray and the more recent Gin Mare. Now before you become alarmed at my extensive knowledge of gins it might be pointed out that you had to do a spot of research in the name of this article.

Apparently the late Queen Mother was partial to a drop of gin and tonic while those eminent members of Parliament were never averse to a glass or two of stimulus when the going got tough. Tory grandee Kenneth Clarke swore by a glass of whisky at his side at Budget time and as the complete stress buster, both whisky and gin and tonic still have the capacity to soften the blow and get straight to the heart of the matter. So please feel free to raid the cocktail cabinet or open up the cupboard and pour yourself a neat concoction of that famous drink that always took pride and place at any party or pub gathering. Cheers folks.   

School and sports day- and early memories of school.

School and sports day- and early memories of school.

Now that the children - or at least some of them- have been given permission to go back to school, this may be an opportune moment to go back to the beginning and our formative years at the one establishment where it all started, that foundation stone of our youthful development, the initiation ceremony where we were introduced to other children of the same age.

It was that vital, life defining moment where education took priority to every other consideration and where you finally discovered that you had to wear a formal shirt, tie and blazer every day for the next 11 years or so of your life or even longer for those who paid attention in class. It was that pivotal turning point in your primary school stage of your life where everything seemed very intimidating, overwhelming and undoubtedly scary.

You still have vague recollections of your mum dropping you off at the school gates in those first, frightening years when a vast Victorian building represented something far more distressing and sinister than anything you'd encountered before. It meant that you were about to step into the fiery furnace of education, learning the basics, tackling the rudiments of the alphabet, letters, words, the construction of sentences, grammar and vocabulary. Simple really. Nothing that was too difficult to understand certainly at that age.

This was followed swiftly by the dreaded subject of mathematics comprising as it did  the adding up of sums, the memorising of multiplication tables and that petrifyingly complicated network of division and long division. You can still hear the unbearable scratching of those many coloured chalks grating on your nerves, the tap- tapping of the chalk as words and numbers on the blackboard miraculously appeared, lengthy periods of the morning devoted to the incessant soundtrack of hollering teachers, screaming children determined to create a disturbance and then more voices.

You can clearly hear the full- blooded stomping of kids racing headlong through the school gates, stampeding through the corridors and then flooding out into the school playground. To this day you can now see hundreds of kids coats piled up haphazardly on the floor of the cloakroom, the mustiest of smells along the corridor and then being told to quickly change into plimsolls because if you didn't you'd have to miss PE, exercise time, physical fitness time and the moment to get that body into shape by moving.

There was of course a crazy uniformity about our young years, a stern insistence on punctuality, order and obedience at all times. Some of us can still see certain teachers marching down corridors with what seemed like an almost military clip- clop of stilettoes, a commanding presence in an utterly mystifying world. Of course it was all very new and very exciting to some extent but not if you hadn't a clue why you had to go to school in which case the whole experience was painfully harrowing.

The start of the school day would be rudely punctuated by the ringing bell in the playground where large groups of kids would suddenly pull on the brakes, stop what they were doing immediately, look around at their new friends, now aware that the disciplines you would have to go undergo would be so demanding and rigorous that you'd just have to get used to this regime whether you liked it or not.

In ordered formations we would line up in the playground and then troop slowly towards our classrooms and just compose yourself. The sound of a thousand slamming desks, chairs that seem to scrape and creak gratingly at the same table and tables that banged and crashed, were additional audio accompaniments to the whole day in primary school. There seemed a disorganised bedlam about this whole process at first but then we recognised our surroundings and didn't complain that much.

Looking back it was PE that seemed to stick out like a sore thumb in our minds as the one subject that really looked as though it had been made up on the spot. In the large assembly hall, complete with polished brown floor and the oldest record player since the Middle Ages, we would all stand to attention, puffy red cheeks panting, hair now slightly matted and ready to attack those daunting climbing frames, the burning ropes and the very gymnastic brown pommel horse that had to be leapt over with perfect timing and accuracy.

But at this time of the year most schools of course would have been preparing for that inevitable fixture on the school calendar. Now it looks as if most of today's children may have to wait until next June for the school sports day, a glorious fusion of the funny, the mildly competitive and a good excuse for your parents to cheer their siblings home with an egg and spoon wobbling precariously in their hands.

Now school sports day was that one big opportunity to show your mum, dad or grandparents that you could be faster, fitter and stronger than the rest of your peer group. It was that one day when you could flaunt your brand new stringed vest and that flapping shirt that seemed to have a mind of its own. School sports day was the one day in the academic year when writing in books with a studious manner could be temporarily forgotten about just for an afternoon.

We rushed out to our local playing fields, comforting hospital towering over us, grey fence bordering the field and a canopy of trees now in full green bloom. Away in the distance another blackboard would be the frantic scene of much frenzied activity. Our estimable and respected teachers could be found scribbling down the scores both meticulously and conscientiously. Smudges of red, blue, green and yellow would appear and disappear to be replaced with a constant stream of up to date scores.

In the place where everything counted, splendidly painted white lines perfectly illustrated those Olympic style athletics lanes. Then we would crouch down, fingers pointing firmly into the ground, heads poised, bony young shoulders moving and twitching with barely controlled excitement. Then a gentle whistle would blow and the sight of six or seven kids bursting forward into the far reaches of the finishing line would signify that they meant business. It felt like a rite of passage but adolescence was still some way off.

Meanwhile, at the other end of the athletics field, kids would be seen strolling around, boys comparing Pannini football stickers and girls skipping for the best part of two and half hours. Most of the running, egg and spoon and sack races would be staggered and played out in very specific blocks of time. Kids would simply hang around casually as if never sure what exactly they were supposed to be doing next. Then the year group would be called out in a kind of rota system and what followed was a general wandering towards the start lane in a vaguely excited fashion.

And so the mums and dads, grans and grandpas would hurry towards the start of races as their children and grandchildren would climb into some hessian sack that looked as though it had just unloaded potatoes from the local greengrocer. The whistle went and their precious toddlers would set out on those jumping, hopping expeditions that would result in a hilarious heap of exhausted children.

When you think back to those lazy, hazy, crazy days of early summer you'd recall school playtime when nothing seemed to matter and you could be anybody you wanted to be. If you were a boy you may have harboured ambitions of becoming the next Alan Pascoe in the middle distance running events or Mary Peters in her 1972 Olympic pomp if you were a young girl. You'd run up to the bar, arch your back and then hurl yourself over the bar and onto the mat. We were entitled to our dreams

Alas though school sports day may have to be consigned to history- certainly for this year. Now Reception, Years One, Two and Six will be the only years who can be allowed to go back to school even if is until the end of July. The world is still on hold and parents will have to make snap decisions about their children's immediate future. Coronavirus has left a devastating gash in kids lives, a bloody wound that may take ages to heal but slowly there does seem to be a suggestion of good health, that recovery, although not quite complete, may be much closer than we think.

Some of us look back on our school days with a whole mixture of conflicting emotions because in retrospect they should have been the happiest days of our lives. There is a feeling that wherever we are now in our lives the lessons we learned then were more than adequate preparation for the greater challenges that stretched ahead of us in later life. How good is it to wallow in a warm pool of nostalgia since where else are we to look for redemption, that small pocket of hope?

But here we are in the last month or so of the school curriculum and there can be no school sports day because the world is suffering some loathsome disease that some of us would wish had never happened in the first place and can't wait to see the back of . Besides we miss the tumbling tomfoolery of the sack race, the giggling frivolity of the egg and spoon race and those 100 metres of the chest out running just for our parents. Oh how we miss it all.

The world seems to have lost its way.

The world seems to have lost its way.

Oh for a world that has seemingly lost its way, but also its sober perspective, its moral compass and now finds itself in an utter mess, a shambles, its sense of all proportion now completely off any emotional and psychological radar. There is a sense that if we continue to behave and react to world events in the way we seem to be doing then some of the more trenchant critics and cynics will insist that we are just architects of our own downfall, authors of our destiny.

The weekend's riots, ructions and demonstrations in both America and London are stark reminders of what happens when, given half the chance, a society simply disintegrates, crumbling to the ground, imploding and exploding at the first opportunity that comes its way. The streets of Minneapolis and London were awash with enraged, exasperated, empowered people who have now taken the law into their hands and remain convinced that their voices are just being blatantly ignored.

At some point in the last couple of days civil disorder turned into a fiery anarchy, and a dreadful breakdown in communication. There was a vitriolic hatred towards both the police and those who believe that racial conflict is something that's been with us for far too long. The breaking point has now been reached and this is the time to vent their frustrations, their long held grievances and now there is little in the way of a rational discussion to sort everything out.

But how to explain the incident yesterday in Bristol. Amid the heated tempers there were also explosive clashes, flags and banners displaying messages of defiance, infuriated disgust and vehement disenchantment. In other words they weren't very happy bunnies, blasting out their slogans of fairness and racial equality. It could have been any demonstration that has ever taken place in London's West End but yesterday you began to question the necessity of a big, old boisterous march when so much else of far greater significance was still being addressed.

We have now got to the stage when the minds and senses of London's noisiest campaigners are being warped by things that are seemingly out of  their control. Yesterday the irate hordes swarmed across the capital city like bees around a honey pot. They bellowed and bawled, brawled and battled with what they may feel like the perceived enemy. They walked together as one, ran against the very people who were perpetrating the most vicious crimes and were then arrested because they were just being too argumentative.

Perhaps in their saner moments we may all just calm down eventually if only because we may run out of steam. The toppling of a statue in Bristol raised so many pulses and blood pressures that even now on reflection, some of us are still scratching our heads. How did a slavery figure from ancient past come to be recognised as a genuine threat to considered and sensible thinking?

To those of us who would like the current news topics to maintain some semblance of relevance to the more pressing issues of the day. Lockdown has now cut the whole year into completely indigestible pieces, a hotch potch of vague and new fangled phrases, muddled misunderstandings and just utter baloney at times. In fact there have been times when you'd have been forgiven for thinking that the language of the day was more Latin than the Queen's English.

For the last three months we have been subjected to a mass of contradictions, a cumbersome jumble of same old statements of the obvious and a constant stream of promises that didn't seem to be going anywhere. Day after day we were initially told to stay at home because if we had, we'd infect the whole planet and kill off the whole planet. Then we were told that we could go out eventually but only to get loaves of bread and pints of milk at the local supermarket since they were still open.

Then by the same token we were warned not to go out to exercise - i..e. walk up to the top of the road or take the dog for a walk because that was just plain bad and almost treasonable. You were forbidden to do anything for whatever reason but then gently coaxed out of your home when the government considered that now was the right time to feed the ducks and see your grandchildren.

The next pronouncement made it abundantly clear that you would not be allowed to sit on park benches but could stand in different parts of the country. You could remain together in the home you were already in but then warned that you couldn't travel any further than the next town or suburb in case they were virulently viral and ultimately transmitted the lethal Covid 19. Everything was all about geography, location, distance, miles and measurements, inches and centimetres. You'd have been forgiven for thinking that although you'd left school many decades ago, you were still there in spirit.

But now it seems we are edging towards that classical day when s street parties and bunting will shortly become the order of the day and the local mayor or mayoress will declare Britain a celebration zone. The schools are now partially open, people are grouping around in parks, the kids are happy and relieved and shortly those non essential shops selling toys, clothes, furniture and electrical items will be encouraged to fling open their doors for financial transactions.

It does seem that on June 15 the department stores and shops in the West End will be allowed to tentatively creak open their rusty doors, the hallowed portals of commerce and money a very viable proposition. It was all very intriguing and perhaps lacking joined up thinking. We will have access to an approximation of the normal world but not to believe that everything in the garden is rosy. You can have half the cake but not the other. Go figure.

For instance you can forget about a long, cool refreshing sup of ale or beer in your local pub because that's on hold until sometime in July. So there now remains a vast cross section of Britain whose desperate thirsts for alcohol will not be slaked until long after Midsummer's Day. So where does that leave us? Can we finally have our haircut at our local hairdressers or barbers although fortunately some of us have already had their haircut?

The truth of course that we can't converge on our local Pret A Manger, Costa or Nero for a criminally expensive latte, coffee or moccha because they just get impossibly crowded at the best of times. So that's a non starter. You can't devour a burger or pizza because these fast food parlours are too dangerous for words. And you can't go to the cinema because that would constitute a major criminal offence and besides James Bond and Daniel Craig can wait until later on this year. Now where did that bucket of popcorn go? Ah yes it's over there.