Lionel Messi could be Manchester City-bound.
It will almost certainly be his last payday before he hangs up those celebrated football boots but what a way to take your final curtain call. He is arguably one of the most extravagantly talented players in the world, some would say the best of all time but that has to be a subjective opinion because we all think we know who the greatest was or perhaps was but never given the credit for living up to that exalted standard.
Lionel Messi, rather like his former countryman Diego Maradona, is undoubtedly one of the finest playmakers, creators, inventors, and string-pullers of all time. Sadly, all the recognition, excessive publicity and adulation may never have been quite enough to elevate the Argentinian midfield catalyst onto the highest podium or that ultimate World Cup-winning stage, holding the one trophy that would have placed the final cherry on the cake of a highly commended and fabulous career.
But Messi has had enough of Barcelona, a man perhaps world-weary, satisfied with his achievements at the Nou Camp and ready for one last challenge, one rather less than taxing assignment. Messi has seen, touched, felt and experienced success in a heady, giddy lifetime in football. Messi is now wanted by Pep Guardiola, manager of a Manchester City side who probably thinks Messi could be one of the wisest investments he's ever made.
Time will tell of course but you can only assume City will be one of the main beneficiaries of a transfer that could be interpreted as one of the best pieces of business for both player and club. City have won more than their share of trophies in recent seasons including a couple of Premier League titles to boot but last season Jurgen Klopp's brilliant Liverpool had the effrontery to nick the Premier League away from City and that must rankle with the top brass at the Etihad Stadium.
Messi would be entitled to feel very blase about a move to Manchester City because maybe he feels as though he's won so much during his career that a move to City is just a last staging post. The body language he displayed at the World Cup in Russia though told you everything you needed to know about Messi. He could deliver the necessary goods at club level but when it came to pulling on an Argentina shirt, Messi was a chameleon, retreating back into his shell although always playing with a willing heart.
When subsequent World Cup winners France simply overwhelmed Argentina Messi could be seen gently cowering away, resigned to his fate, sluggish, disinterested, not really caring one way or the other. There was an air of indifference that didn't really become Messi because Messi is one of football's finest expressionists, a painter of pictures on a football pitch, a stylish midfield architect one minute and then breaking into the opposition's penalty area like an ambitious explorer climbing the foothills and gripping the crampons tightly.
The fact remains that Messi has never won the World Cup and judged on that sole criteria this would suggest that something is incomplete, frustratingly missing from the jigsaw puzzle. When his boyhood club Newell's Old Boys in Argentina took to the streets once again to hail their man with the glorious gifts Messi must have felt that he was still loved by his fans, the ones who would drool admiringly over their man's rich range of trickery and deception, that natural ability to dribble with masterful ball control and then suddenly conjure some of the most beautifully taken goals of all time.
If Messi does get to play for Manchester City it'll be the first time a genuinely world-class player has expressed a desire to play for an English club. Neither Pele, Johan Cryuff nor Diego Maradona showed any hankering to play for either Liverpool, Arsenal, Spurs, Manchester United or any of the big time clubs that might have given their right arm for a player of Messi's stature. Now could be as good a time as any.
And so with two weeks to go before the official opening of the new Premier League season, Manchester City fans will be sitting on the edge of their seats full of breathless anticipation at the news they've all been waiting for rather like excited children on Christmas Day morning. Messi could mean the difference between City quite possibly winning the Champions League or maybe this is a voyage of discovery where both player and club simply meet up with each other rather like a holiday romance and the couple agree to keep in touch with each other.
But Messi you can be sure wants far more than a passionate relationship than a mere one year acquaintance. At 33, Messi would love to consummate something much more lasting than a season with City. You feel sure that Messi will arrive at Manchester with bold plans and stars in his eyes. The cynics though may be dismissing this as idle football gossip, a vanity project where Messi swans around the city of Manchester like some arrogant prima donna. Of course English football will welcome Messi with open arms but you can't help but feel that this will not go down as one of the most unforgettable transfer coups of all time. Let us remember Messi for who he is now rather than pretend that he'll be the answer to Manchester City's prayers. We can only wish him well.
Sunday 30 August 2020
Friday 28 August 2020
Harry Maguire- England footballer on the naughty step.
Harry Maguire- England footballer on the naughty step.
Your mind keeps harking back to that fateful day 50 summers ago when England football captain Bobby Moore was accused of doing something that he quite clearly didn't do and then was arrested by the Mexican police because such unforgivable indiscretions can leave a filthy stain on your otherwise impeccable playing career. At the time it seemed like a most horrendous breach of protocol, nay less a criminal transgression that could never be condoned under any circumstances.
For 50 years ago was the last time any England footballer stepped out of line, breaking every disciplinary record and simply had to repent for their sins. Moore was alleged to have stolen a bracelet in a Mexican boutique hotel and the woman responsible for this outrageous allegation may well have had to live with her notoriety for quite some time. Moore was dragged through the mud for a brief and horrific period in his legendary career before being allowed to play again.
Roll forward another half a century ago and now step forward one Harry Maguire, Manchester United centre half and now villain of the piece. It can hardly have escaped your notice that Maguire has been in a spot of bother, a troublemaker of the highest order, a nasty piece of work, a confounded nuisance and utterly reprehensible. Mr Maguire were you at the scene of crime earlier on this week because if you were a Greek court of law would like to be furnished with as much as information as possible relating to the said case?
You see the trouble is that England footballers are just uncannily attracted to the full glare of controversy even when they appear to have done little wrong. Yesterday Harry Maguire was interviewed at length by the Press about the dreadful ordeal his sister had gone through and how he should never have been manhandled by the Greek police for some unseemly incident over nothing. But then of course Maguire emphatically denied all the charges levelled at him because he hadn't done anything wrong.
The truth is of course that Premier League footballers, once released from the shackles of a hard, punishing season, are very partial to several pints of booze, love to trip the light fantastic on the dance floor of a Mediterranean hotel and generally let themselves go. Which is perfectly alright in moderation but sometimes things get out of hand and one pint turns into too many to mention and suddenly the police come calling with a wailing siren and the handcuffs.
Now we're not quite sure what happened to Maguire on the night of the incident and we're not entirely certain why he mentioned his sister but we do know that the England defender was naturally on the defensive and probably felt very hard done by. Did he really stumble out of a Greek nightclub in an embarrassing state of intoxication or was he just unruly, moronically obnoxious and the proverbial pain in the neck?
Now all of the moralists, do-gooders, puritans and judgmental critics of players like Maguire will jump onto the rickety bandwagon and make Maguire's private life most uncomfortable. When questioned about what happened to him, butter looked as if it would never have melted in his mouth. The problem is we've been here before with English footballers because they can never seem to be in the right place and the right time and besides where's the proof, officer?
And so we open up our papers and switch on our TV's, immediately deploring and detesting Maguire's misdemeanours because that's what footballers always seem to get tied up into when there's nobody else to blame. But Maguire may well put forward his defence to a Greek court that may not be quite as sympathetic as he would wish it to be. He will now have to serve the appropriate sentence and when the new Premier League season kicks off again in a fortnight's time Maguire may be feeling a raw sense of injustice.
Today though Maguire stands as the guilty party for sticking two proverbial fingers up at the law, disobeying the orders of a Greek police force determined to make an example of those typical Brits. English players or their fans are never to be trusted and besides they're always either fighting with opposition supporters, provoking argy-bargy or wallowing in their very thuggish exploits. Look at the evidence. It's there in clear print. The English love a good, old fashioned dust-up or headline-grabbing altercation. Let's hurl a cafe table or smoke bomb at the coppers mate. They just can't get enough of downright eye-balling confrontation.
But Maguire is far from being a seasoned, hardened hooligan because he knows for a fact that if he'd really broken every rule in the book, he'd probably never pull on a Manchester United shirt again. Fists were apparently raised and Maguire should be punished accordingly. But the truth is that Maguire may have to wipe this wholly unavoidable punch up from his memory. Surely the distinguished history that now lies behind everything Manchester United have ever achieved should never be taken for granted or ruin the club in any way, shape or form.
Still, you find yourself thinking back to that swelteringly hot day in Mexico when the immaculate West Ham captain Bobby Moore was humiliated by some shameful saleswoman who thought nothing of re-enacting Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame or infamy. Life for Moore was never quite the same after the 1970 World Cup but for Harry Maguire this could be the right time to mend his ways and salvage something from a mini Greek tragedy. We must hope so.
Your mind keeps harking back to that fateful day 50 summers ago when England football captain Bobby Moore was accused of doing something that he quite clearly didn't do and then was arrested by the Mexican police because such unforgivable indiscretions can leave a filthy stain on your otherwise impeccable playing career. At the time it seemed like a most horrendous breach of protocol, nay less a criminal transgression that could never be condoned under any circumstances.
For 50 years ago was the last time any England footballer stepped out of line, breaking every disciplinary record and simply had to repent for their sins. Moore was alleged to have stolen a bracelet in a Mexican boutique hotel and the woman responsible for this outrageous allegation may well have had to live with her notoriety for quite some time. Moore was dragged through the mud for a brief and horrific period in his legendary career before being allowed to play again.
Roll forward another half a century ago and now step forward one Harry Maguire, Manchester United centre half and now villain of the piece. It can hardly have escaped your notice that Maguire has been in a spot of bother, a troublemaker of the highest order, a nasty piece of work, a confounded nuisance and utterly reprehensible. Mr Maguire were you at the scene of crime earlier on this week because if you were a Greek court of law would like to be furnished with as much as information as possible relating to the said case?
You see the trouble is that England footballers are just uncannily attracted to the full glare of controversy even when they appear to have done little wrong. Yesterday Harry Maguire was interviewed at length by the Press about the dreadful ordeal his sister had gone through and how he should never have been manhandled by the Greek police for some unseemly incident over nothing. But then of course Maguire emphatically denied all the charges levelled at him because he hadn't done anything wrong.
The truth is of course that Premier League footballers, once released from the shackles of a hard, punishing season, are very partial to several pints of booze, love to trip the light fantastic on the dance floor of a Mediterranean hotel and generally let themselves go. Which is perfectly alright in moderation but sometimes things get out of hand and one pint turns into too many to mention and suddenly the police come calling with a wailing siren and the handcuffs.
Now we're not quite sure what happened to Maguire on the night of the incident and we're not entirely certain why he mentioned his sister but we do know that the England defender was naturally on the defensive and probably felt very hard done by. Did he really stumble out of a Greek nightclub in an embarrassing state of intoxication or was he just unruly, moronically obnoxious and the proverbial pain in the neck?
Now all of the moralists, do-gooders, puritans and judgmental critics of players like Maguire will jump onto the rickety bandwagon and make Maguire's private life most uncomfortable. When questioned about what happened to him, butter looked as if it would never have melted in his mouth. The problem is we've been here before with English footballers because they can never seem to be in the right place and the right time and besides where's the proof, officer?
And so we open up our papers and switch on our TV's, immediately deploring and detesting Maguire's misdemeanours because that's what footballers always seem to get tied up into when there's nobody else to blame. But Maguire may well put forward his defence to a Greek court that may not be quite as sympathetic as he would wish it to be. He will now have to serve the appropriate sentence and when the new Premier League season kicks off again in a fortnight's time Maguire may be feeling a raw sense of injustice.
Today though Maguire stands as the guilty party for sticking two proverbial fingers up at the law, disobeying the orders of a Greek police force determined to make an example of those typical Brits. English players or their fans are never to be trusted and besides they're always either fighting with opposition supporters, provoking argy-bargy or wallowing in their very thuggish exploits. Look at the evidence. It's there in clear print. The English love a good, old fashioned dust-up or headline-grabbing altercation. Let's hurl a cafe table or smoke bomb at the coppers mate. They just can't get enough of downright eye-balling confrontation.
But Maguire is far from being a seasoned, hardened hooligan because he knows for a fact that if he'd really broken every rule in the book, he'd probably never pull on a Manchester United shirt again. Fists were apparently raised and Maguire should be punished accordingly. But the truth is that Maguire may have to wipe this wholly unavoidable punch up from his memory. Surely the distinguished history that now lies behind everything Manchester United have ever achieved should never be taken for granted or ruin the club in any way, shape or form.
Still, you find yourself thinking back to that swelteringly hot day in Mexico when the immaculate West Ham captain Bobby Moore was humiliated by some shameful saleswoman who thought nothing of re-enacting Andy Warhol's fifteen minutes of fame or infamy. Life for Moore was never quite the same after the 1970 World Cup but for Harry Maguire this could be the right time to mend his ways and salvage something from a mini Greek tragedy. We must hope so.
Wednesday 26 August 2020
Jimmy Anderson- another cricketing legend.
Jimmy Anderson- another cricketing legend.
They must have been roaring their approval all the way from the pubs and clubs of Burnley in the very heart of industrial Lancashire. The subject of their admiration would certainly have been Jimmy Anderson, surely one of the finest, greatest and most stylish of fast bowlers ever to pull on an England cricket side. Compliments and eulogies have already poured out of every location where cricket is the only source of any discussion.
Yesterday Anderson became the first bowler to reach 600 wickets taken in Test matches, a landmark so astonishing they'll have to say it twice because it probably doesn't get any better for both the Lancashire paceman or English cricket. 600 Test wickets, by any stretch of the imagination, is quite the most astonishing feat ever achieved by any English cricketer but it happened and what a feeling it must have been for the fanatically dedicated and wonderfully professional Anderson.
The facts of England's final Test series against Pakistan are that England drew the game but have still claimed a 1-0 victory over the opposition against an almost unreal Southampton backdrop of nothing and nobody. Occasionally you would hear the intermittent clapping of the two teams players and management staff but then you were reminded of performing seals and did your utmost to hold back your incredulity.
In one of the highest-scoring of the three-Test matches England compiled a monumentally remarkable total of 583-8 declared and set Pakistan an almost impossibly daunting task. The visitors, who briefly threatened an exhibition of world-class cricket in the second Test, were crushed and trampled upon by both Anderson and Stuart Broad, both now established veterans of the cricket fraternity.
You were delighted for both men because the chances are that younger players are champing at the bit for England and this could be the twilight of their careers. Their days of course are not numbered but the aches and pains, tweaks and pulls of ageing limbs might be taking their toll on both Anderson and Broad. But this has been an excellent summer for England with their equally as impressive dismantling of the West Indies already under their belts.
With stubble on his chin and shirt soaked with whole-hearted commitment and endeavour, Anderson has powered his way into the crease of 156 Test matches for England, a force of nature. The now tired feet have trundled towards batsman like one of those old fashioned steam engines rushing through the Pennines and then scattering the bails and wickets of a thousand batsmen.
Anderson has been both controlled and immensely disciplined, a bowler of meticulous accuracy and a devastating impact. At times it was rather like watching his glorious predecessor Ian Botham ripping through the Aussies batting attack almost 40 years ago when Australia must have been fantasising about another Ashes victory in England.
Anderson will obviously cast his mind back to all of those Hall of Fame fast bowlers who have so frequently terrorised the opposition. There was Ian Botham, all stocky aggression and wild-eyed hostility, Bob Willis, dogged and determined, Jon Snow and Chris Old, careful and calculating but always accurate. Then there was Freddie Truman, a Yorkshireman who always seemed to be on the warpath even as he trotted out of a pavilion on an English summer's day. Shirt billowing in the wind, sleeves rolled up for action, Truman was both unstoppable and unplayable, hurling the ball out of his hands like the proverbial missile or catapult.
But yesterday was Anderson's day and Burnley's prodigal son just couldn't hold himself back. The broad smile lit up his face and the congratulations flooded in from all and sundry. Anderson and his captain Joe Root slapped hands, jigged jubilantly and then probably celebrated this golden moment with a quiet pint of something very rewarding. You could never deny either Anderson or Root that very precious moment in a cricketer's career when the summit has been reached and the flag planted.
Out on the pitch of course England were already demonstrating the future of English cricket. Zak Crawley was piling up a veritable stack of runs, completing his double century in no time at all. Eventually Crawley reached 267, cracking the ball destructively to all areas of Southampton, smashing and battering the ball for a pretty procession of fours and sixes that left Pakistan longing for a quick plane home just to take a breather.
Then there was the able accompaniment of Jos Buttler, wicketkeeper supreme, who just threw caution to the wind and ignored convention with a stunning 152. England were now home and hosed, high fiving each other at the end and ready to be unleashed for another winter series in Australia and we all know what that means. Icy if good-natured stares will be fixed at each other, the burning fires of animosity will doubtlessly be in the air and of course there will be no love lost between the two.
But this was the day that Jimmy Anderson must have been dreaming about ever since he made his debut for Lancashire at the tender age of 17. Anderson though has never been one to attract the more unsavoury headlines and the sense is that even at 38 age is not an insurmountable barrier. If the appetite for more wickets is still there then so be it. We will take our imaginary hat off to you Jimmy Anderson. English cricket salutes you so take another bow.
They must have been roaring their approval all the way from the pubs and clubs of Burnley in the very heart of industrial Lancashire. The subject of their admiration would certainly have been Jimmy Anderson, surely one of the finest, greatest and most stylish of fast bowlers ever to pull on an England cricket side. Compliments and eulogies have already poured out of every location where cricket is the only source of any discussion.
Yesterday Anderson became the first bowler to reach 600 wickets taken in Test matches, a landmark so astonishing they'll have to say it twice because it probably doesn't get any better for both the Lancashire paceman or English cricket. 600 Test wickets, by any stretch of the imagination, is quite the most astonishing feat ever achieved by any English cricketer but it happened and what a feeling it must have been for the fanatically dedicated and wonderfully professional Anderson.
The facts of England's final Test series against Pakistan are that England drew the game but have still claimed a 1-0 victory over the opposition against an almost unreal Southampton backdrop of nothing and nobody. Occasionally you would hear the intermittent clapping of the two teams players and management staff but then you were reminded of performing seals and did your utmost to hold back your incredulity.
In one of the highest-scoring of the three-Test matches England compiled a monumentally remarkable total of 583-8 declared and set Pakistan an almost impossibly daunting task. The visitors, who briefly threatened an exhibition of world-class cricket in the second Test, were crushed and trampled upon by both Anderson and Stuart Broad, both now established veterans of the cricket fraternity.
You were delighted for both men because the chances are that younger players are champing at the bit for England and this could be the twilight of their careers. Their days of course are not numbered but the aches and pains, tweaks and pulls of ageing limbs might be taking their toll on both Anderson and Broad. But this has been an excellent summer for England with their equally as impressive dismantling of the West Indies already under their belts.
With stubble on his chin and shirt soaked with whole-hearted commitment and endeavour, Anderson has powered his way into the crease of 156 Test matches for England, a force of nature. The now tired feet have trundled towards batsman like one of those old fashioned steam engines rushing through the Pennines and then scattering the bails and wickets of a thousand batsmen.
Anderson has been both controlled and immensely disciplined, a bowler of meticulous accuracy and a devastating impact. At times it was rather like watching his glorious predecessor Ian Botham ripping through the Aussies batting attack almost 40 years ago when Australia must have been fantasising about another Ashes victory in England.
Anderson will obviously cast his mind back to all of those Hall of Fame fast bowlers who have so frequently terrorised the opposition. There was Ian Botham, all stocky aggression and wild-eyed hostility, Bob Willis, dogged and determined, Jon Snow and Chris Old, careful and calculating but always accurate. Then there was Freddie Truman, a Yorkshireman who always seemed to be on the warpath even as he trotted out of a pavilion on an English summer's day. Shirt billowing in the wind, sleeves rolled up for action, Truman was both unstoppable and unplayable, hurling the ball out of his hands like the proverbial missile or catapult.
But yesterday was Anderson's day and Burnley's prodigal son just couldn't hold himself back. The broad smile lit up his face and the congratulations flooded in from all and sundry. Anderson and his captain Joe Root slapped hands, jigged jubilantly and then probably celebrated this golden moment with a quiet pint of something very rewarding. You could never deny either Anderson or Root that very precious moment in a cricketer's career when the summit has been reached and the flag planted.
Out on the pitch of course England were already demonstrating the future of English cricket. Zak Crawley was piling up a veritable stack of runs, completing his double century in no time at all. Eventually Crawley reached 267, cracking the ball destructively to all areas of Southampton, smashing and battering the ball for a pretty procession of fours and sixes that left Pakistan longing for a quick plane home just to take a breather.
Then there was the able accompaniment of Jos Buttler, wicketkeeper supreme, who just threw caution to the wind and ignored convention with a stunning 152. England were now home and hosed, high fiving each other at the end and ready to be unleashed for another winter series in Australia and we all know what that means. Icy if good-natured stares will be fixed at each other, the burning fires of animosity will doubtlessly be in the air and of course there will be no love lost between the two.
But this was the day that Jimmy Anderson must have been dreaming about ever since he made his debut for Lancashire at the tender age of 17. Anderson though has never been one to attract the more unsavoury headlines and the sense is that even at 38 age is not an insurmountable barrier. If the appetite for more wickets is still there then so be it. We will take our imaginary hat off to you Jimmy Anderson. English cricket salutes you so take another bow.
Monday 24 August 2020
Bayern Munich win the Champions League or the old European Cup.
Bayern Munich win the Champions League for the fourth time - or is it the old European Cup.
For those of you who have lost track of time or those who simply don't really care which month or year it is this may be the time to set you straight. We are rapidly heading towards the end of August, autumnal hints are in the air, the kids will be hopefully back in school shortly and everything will be dandy so let's hold our heads up in the air and acknowledge everything we've been blessed with. In any case the new football season is almost upon us and last night the old one ended with a German flourish.
Yes, it's true the old football season finally ended last night with Bayern Munich claiming their fourth European Cup or as its more latterly known the Champions League. So what happens next? To all intents and purposes the end of a long and gruelling season should mean what it says on the tin. All of Europe's highly paid, ridiculously pampered footballers would normally take their buckets and spades and set off on a well deserved holiday for a welcome three-month break. But this has been unlike any football season in the history of the game. It didn't really go according to plan and everything seems totally out of kilter.
Last night in a lonely looking stadium in Lisbon, Bayern Munich narrowly scraped to a 1-0 victory against the equally as decorated Paris St Germain, a French powerhouse now boasting the world-class pedigree of Brazilian magician Neymar and exciting young genius Kylian Nbappe whose memorable display against Croatia in the 2018 World Cup Final was by far and away the most breathtaking performance from any youngster in a World Cup Final since Pele, surely the greatest player of all time.
It is hard to categorise the scale of Bayern's achievement because for long periods a Champions League Final towards the end of August almost feels at odds with nature. Of course we recognise the severity of the global pandemic but even so it still seemed as if somebody was tampering with our body clock. The Champions League music still bravely and boldly played before yesterday evening's match but how to explain a game that should have been played in May would now be played when the new season is imminent and the leaves will shortly be brown.
Still, there were no complaints from Bayern Munich manager Hansi Flick although you do find yourself wondering whether Bayern's victory would have been any more satisfying than the night in Paris 45 years ago when the Bayern of Uli Hoeness, Franz Beckenbauer and the explosive Gerd Muller eventually outclassed the much-admired if sometimes loathed Leeds United who took the Germans all the way with some of the most well-crafted football that any losing side in a European Cup Final had given.
When Peter Lorimer's shot was ruled out for offside there was a niggling feeling that this was not the night when Don Revie's Leeds would provide their supporters with the one trophy that may have kept those fans with plenty to gloat about at future dinner parties. But Revie that night just stared grimly into the distance, dreaming no doubt about future wealth in Saudi Arabia. And yet Revie was lured into the desert and after he walked out of the England job half way through even he might have felt privately regretful and perhaps ashamed of himself.
But Leeds, who are now back in the Premier League after almost three decades of turmoil, terrible financial mismanagement, corruption within the club and a bunch of owners who should have been locked up long ago, were the team beaten by Bayern Munich way back when. Now Bayern are on top of the European tree with this hard-earned victory over Paris St. Germain. Now the diverging paths that both Leeds and Bayern Munich have taken over the years is a revealing glimpse into the weird and wonderful world in which fate has guided both clubs in recent years.
Last night the exceptional Neymar and the irrepressible Kylian Mbappe could never get anywhere near the more worldly and altogether more intimidating sight of lethal striker Robert Lewandoski, a Polish forward in a Portuguese stadium surrounded by a Frenchman and a German. Truly football has embraced multiculturalism and the cosmopolitan vibe in a way that none could have foreseen. But the Germans came through in the end and how often have we been reminded of this inevitability in both European football competitions?
When Ivan Perisic fused his multi-layered game together with the outstanding Serge Gnarby, Bayern knotted their passes together with swift, incisive patterns that frequently took you back to the Bayern of old. Now though, Leon Goretska found his colleagues with astutely judged passes behind the French defence and PSG began to resemble a resistance unit that had already been broken.
Essentially though what we had here was a Champions League Final played behind closed doors, no fans, nothing in the ether, not a soul in sight. This must have been like watching a Royal Ballet performance with the sound completely turned down and nobody on the stage. Instead there was a mass of cardboard, row upon row of men wearing masks on the respective teams benches and increasingly, a scene of hollow desolation and extraordinary silence.
In retrospect the 2020 Champions League Final may be remembered not only for its utter uniqueness but for the way in which football played out its last game of the European season. Football has conducted itself both intelligently and admirably even if there were moments when some of us could hardly believe what we were watching. Football in the sanitised and clinical age has made it through to the final curtain and a new Premier League season looms in September. We await further developments with much anticipation. It should be the most intriguing of prospects.
For those of you who have lost track of time or those who simply don't really care which month or year it is this may be the time to set you straight. We are rapidly heading towards the end of August, autumnal hints are in the air, the kids will be hopefully back in school shortly and everything will be dandy so let's hold our heads up in the air and acknowledge everything we've been blessed with. In any case the new football season is almost upon us and last night the old one ended with a German flourish.
Yes, it's true the old football season finally ended last night with Bayern Munich claiming their fourth European Cup or as its more latterly known the Champions League. So what happens next? To all intents and purposes the end of a long and gruelling season should mean what it says on the tin. All of Europe's highly paid, ridiculously pampered footballers would normally take their buckets and spades and set off on a well deserved holiday for a welcome three-month break. But this has been unlike any football season in the history of the game. It didn't really go according to plan and everything seems totally out of kilter.
Last night in a lonely looking stadium in Lisbon, Bayern Munich narrowly scraped to a 1-0 victory against the equally as decorated Paris St Germain, a French powerhouse now boasting the world-class pedigree of Brazilian magician Neymar and exciting young genius Kylian Nbappe whose memorable display against Croatia in the 2018 World Cup Final was by far and away the most breathtaking performance from any youngster in a World Cup Final since Pele, surely the greatest player of all time.
It is hard to categorise the scale of Bayern's achievement because for long periods a Champions League Final towards the end of August almost feels at odds with nature. Of course we recognise the severity of the global pandemic but even so it still seemed as if somebody was tampering with our body clock. The Champions League music still bravely and boldly played before yesterday evening's match but how to explain a game that should have been played in May would now be played when the new season is imminent and the leaves will shortly be brown.
Still, there were no complaints from Bayern Munich manager Hansi Flick although you do find yourself wondering whether Bayern's victory would have been any more satisfying than the night in Paris 45 years ago when the Bayern of Uli Hoeness, Franz Beckenbauer and the explosive Gerd Muller eventually outclassed the much-admired if sometimes loathed Leeds United who took the Germans all the way with some of the most well-crafted football that any losing side in a European Cup Final had given.
When Peter Lorimer's shot was ruled out for offside there was a niggling feeling that this was not the night when Don Revie's Leeds would provide their supporters with the one trophy that may have kept those fans with plenty to gloat about at future dinner parties. But Revie that night just stared grimly into the distance, dreaming no doubt about future wealth in Saudi Arabia. And yet Revie was lured into the desert and after he walked out of the England job half way through even he might have felt privately regretful and perhaps ashamed of himself.
But Leeds, who are now back in the Premier League after almost three decades of turmoil, terrible financial mismanagement, corruption within the club and a bunch of owners who should have been locked up long ago, were the team beaten by Bayern Munich way back when. Now Bayern are on top of the European tree with this hard-earned victory over Paris St. Germain. Now the diverging paths that both Leeds and Bayern Munich have taken over the years is a revealing glimpse into the weird and wonderful world in which fate has guided both clubs in recent years.
Last night the exceptional Neymar and the irrepressible Kylian Mbappe could never get anywhere near the more worldly and altogether more intimidating sight of lethal striker Robert Lewandoski, a Polish forward in a Portuguese stadium surrounded by a Frenchman and a German. Truly football has embraced multiculturalism and the cosmopolitan vibe in a way that none could have foreseen. But the Germans came through in the end and how often have we been reminded of this inevitability in both European football competitions?
When Ivan Perisic fused his multi-layered game together with the outstanding Serge Gnarby, Bayern knotted their passes together with swift, incisive patterns that frequently took you back to the Bayern of old. Now though, Leon Goretska found his colleagues with astutely judged passes behind the French defence and PSG began to resemble a resistance unit that had already been broken.
Essentially though what we had here was a Champions League Final played behind closed doors, no fans, nothing in the ether, not a soul in sight. This must have been like watching a Royal Ballet performance with the sound completely turned down and nobody on the stage. Instead there was a mass of cardboard, row upon row of men wearing masks on the respective teams benches and increasingly, a scene of hollow desolation and extraordinary silence.
In retrospect the 2020 Champions League Final may be remembered not only for its utter uniqueness but for the way in which football played out its last game of the European season. Football has conducted itself both intelligently and admirably even if there were moments when some of us could hardly believe what we were watching. Football in the sanitised and clinical age has made it through to the final curtain and a new Premier League season looms in September. We await further developments with much anticipation. It should be the most intriguing of prospects.
Saturday 22 August 2020
A brief staycation in dear old England.
A brief staycation in dear old England.
After yet another round of poisonings, hugely devastating explosions and increasingly depressing news, we just had to find a peaceful spot in the middle of somewhere else just to escape from that demoralising narrative that never seems to change its tune wherever you go. So we packed a couple of light suitcases and headed for the Norfolk Broads. It was a family gathering and against a current backdrop of families who have never been able to find any kind of neutral ground in recent times this was the place to be and the right time.
So it had to be the Norfolk Broads and why not? Now that the whole concept of staycationing has become the new holiday necessity, it seemed as good as a time as ever to make tracks for the tranquil surrounds of Norfolk, a pastoral idyll that once might have been immortalised by Constable or Turner in another far off century when everything seemed normal, restful and timeless. It was a time when farmers worked their land for a pretty penny and the agricultural labourers toiled diligently for their rich yields of potatoes, cabbages, various vegetables and anything that had to be alcoholic.
Walking along the Norfolk Broads with my wife's cousin, my son and his girlfriend made the most pleasant of changes from the everyday domestic scenery. Suddenly we were surrounded by boats, cabin cruisers, people messing about on the water and the healthy, invigorating air of the fenlands. My wife and yours truly had taken our young children to the Broads when indeed they were but wee nippers but that was simply many calendar years ago so it was good to be back again.
It occurred to you that for all the hardships and anxieties we may have endured for the last four months or so the countryside remains unscathed, untouched by the tragedies and duress of recent times. Life still moves on slowly, reliably, carefully, circumspectly but then confidently because the countryside has always moved at a leisurely pace even when times were much worse than they are now. There was the horrific foot and mouth disease which almost destroyed all imaginable cattle and livestock but the countryside is renowned for its resilience and it just kept going on.
This is not to suggest that those timber beamed country pubs next to quaint post offices the size of a postage stamp have come out of this global calamity with flying colours because clearly everybody has suffered here. But when the vicar came out of his picture-postcard church with his devout parishioners and the postman stopped his bicycle with a merry whistle for all who were prepared to listen you knew that the countryside had this one beaten. It was never likely to roll over and have its tummy tickled. Not the Norfolk Broads.
If truth be told the Norfolk Broads was doing a brisk, bustling business, handsomely preserved boats gliding through the water with an ease and placidity that lifted your heart. Beside the river, a small huddle of restaurants were once again up and running, groups of families still keeping their discreet distance but obviously enjoying each other's company because this is the way it should be rather than the way it could have been.
The Norfolk Broads of course is the kind of place where time itself seems itself to take its very own holiday, oblivious of seconds, minutes, hours, months and years. In a sense you had the impression that nobody ever seems to be worried or bothered about anything during the summer in the countryside. To the outside observer, the Norfolk Broads seems to deliberately slow down during the summer because during the winter there doesn't seem a great deal to do during the winter since the snows are thick on the ground, it's freezing cold and summer feels like a convenient opportunity to just get out into those rural pastures and sail along a river at your own pace.
And so it was that we finished off our Sunday lunch with the relaxed air of ordinary and extraordinary people doing the kind of things we used to before lockdown and never really flustered by any of the recent disturbances that had just taken place. Families of course always stick together in both good and bad times and this was no exception. Pleasantries were exchanged, gentle laughter always in evidence and then fond farewells before heading North to the Lancashire suburb of St Helens. It was just good to be together as family because that represents unity and togetherness.
Our first port of call was quite naturally an owl sanctuary because it just seemed an excellent idea. And besides why wouldn't you want to go an owl sanctuary? Our nocturnal bird friends never really get the publicity they probably deserve so here we were checking out the latest developments in the world of the hooting owls.
Now how on earth have owls been coping in the face of a human pandemic? Have they been yearning to see the kids and families? Have they fallen into a huge sulk because nobody wants to see them anymore? There is no egotistical issue going on here because the owls from all four corners of the world probably hadn't a clue what was going on with humanity. But those large, round, marble-like eyes must have been desperately hoping that one day they'd once again see excited young human faces making appropriately childlike faces at the owls and then pointing out to their parents that one or two of the tawny owls were beginning to think that absence certainly made the heart grow fonder.
Then we explored the rest of Blackpool Zoo and found, much to our disappointment, the lions were fast asleep and just completely indifferent to the human race. There they were sprawled out for all to see and how inconsiderate that must have been to the parents who must have thought the least our feline friends could do was engage with their children. One of the cheetahs it seemed also looked pretty fed up and lackadaisical, quite literally going around in circles in the same loop. The animal kingdom at Blackpool Zoo had literally given up which could have been construed as very disconcerting but perhaps understandable under the circumstances.
But then you heard the seals and watched the penguins and your faith was restored in life. In the distance, there was that familiar barking sound of seals, adorable creatures that kept waddling out of their luxury swimming pool with the expectant air of somebody who knows that, eventually, they'll get a bucket of fish for supper. We also noticed a family of lumbering camels who were also doing their utmost to just hang out very casually and very despondently with each other. These looked very much like inconsolable camels who looked, for all the world, as if nobody would ever get a smile or laugh out of them. So you just passed on through thankful that at least the seals were in a reasonably amiable mood.
And then we headed for home after a week of rest and relaxation, dining and wining, putting the world to rights and grateful that we'd been privileged to be a part of each others lives when the last four months may have jeopardised that possibility. Norfolk and St Helens had satisfied the adventurous tendencies that we all look for throughout the year. It was off to motorway land.
Now the direction of travel that takes you from the North of England to the South of England is both bewilderingly confusing and designed to make you feel as if you were entering a parallel universe. The journey was well over 100 miles and some of the language you'd now become witness to had become totally indecipherable. It was rather like walking into a classroom where the only words and sentences written or spoken are those of the Esperanto type.
Truly you were now confronted with the regulation cones with orange lights that did nothing but wink and flash in sequences. Cones on British motorways have now become very much the accepted norm. Thriving communities of cones are now flourishing on central reservations and hard shoulders of almost every motorway in Britain. In fact cones seem to be multiplying wherever you may be going in Britain. One day they will form small ghettoes and secret societies where special rules are applicable.
Now it seems the cones have been joined by a dense network of signs and sandbags, yellow and black diggers excavating for gold or oil in Texas perhaps. By the side of Britain's abundance of motorway furniture there were signs warning of speed checks. traffic merging into each other, lanes and lanes of traffic almost constantly weaving, darting in and out of each other and then competing for supremacy as the best and fairest driver in the world. It reminded you of that Scalextric set you were given as a child for your birthday only much more complicated and almost unbearable.
Then your heart went out to your wife when she found herself battling for the comfort zone against a battalion of lorries that were clearly intent on antagonising her without ever considering any kind of apology. Suddenly Eddie Hobarts, that most traditional lorries, seemed to be joined by a thousand supermarket lorries swerving audaciously into areas that left you gasping with horror.
As a non driver and somebody who could only feel deeply sorry for the driving fraternity my wife has my unqualified sympathy since the roads in Britain now begin to resemble minefields, a massively overcrowded conglomeration of endless traffic jams and nightmarish tailbacks stretching back through a hundred counties. Here were a procession of drivers furiously tapping their wheels and then patiently resigning themselves to almost half a day on the motorway. It was enough to make you wish that if you'd never seen another cone then that day would never come soon enough.
The reality was of course that we did negotiate this veritable jungle of motorised mayhem and cumbersome roadside machinery and London could be seen. We manoeuvred effortlessly onto the right road for Manor House and slumped over the finishing line over three and half hours later not emotional as such but just glad to be home. Oh for the joys of the staycation. It comes highly
recommended.
After yet another round of poisonings, hugely devastating explosions and increasingly depressing news, we just had to find a peaceful spot in the middle of somewhere else just to escape from that demoralising narrative that never seems to change its tune wherever you go. So we packed a couple of light suitcases and headed for the Norfolk Broads. It was a family gathering and against a current backdrop of families who have never been able to find any kind of neutral ground in recent times this was the place to be and the right time.
So it had to be the Norfolk Broads and why not? Now that the whole concept of staycationing has become the new holiday necessity, it seemed as good as a time as ever to make tracks for the tranquil surrounds of Norfolk, a pastoral idyll that once might have been immortalised by Constable or Turner in another far off century when everything seemed normal, restful and timeless. It was a time when farmers worked their land for a pretty penny and the agricultural labourers toiled diligently for their rich yields of potatoes, cabbages, various vegetables and anything that had to be alcoholic.
Walking along the Norfolk Broads with my wife's cousin, my son and his girlfriend made the most pleasant of changes from the everyday domestic scenery. Suddenly we were surrounded by boats, cabin cruisers, people messing about on the water and the healthy, invigorating air of the fenlands. My wife and yours truly had taken our young children to the Broads when indeed they were but wee nippers but that was simply many calendar years ago so it was good to be back again.
It occurred to you that for all the hardships and anxieties we may have endured for the last four months or so the countryside remains unscathed, untouched by the tragedies and duress of recent times. Life still moves on slowly, reliably, carefully, circumspectly but then confidently because the countryside has always moved at a leisurely pace even when times were much worse than they are now. There was the horrific foot and mouth disease which almost destroyed all imaginable cattle and livestock but the countryside is renowned for its resilience and it just kept going on.
This is not to suggest that those timber beamed country pubs next to quaint post offices the size of a postage stamp have come out of this global calamity with flying colours because clearly everybody has suffered here. But when the vicar came out of his picture-postcard church with his devout parishioners and the postman stopped his bicycle with a merry whistle for all who were prepared to listen you knew that the countryside had this one beaten. It was never likely to roll over and have its tummy tickled. Not the Norfolk Broads.
If truth be told the Norfolk Broads was doing a brisk, bustling business, handsomely preserved boats gliding through the water with an ease and placidity that lifted your heart. Beside the river, a small huddle of restaurants were once again up and running, groups of families still keeping their discreet distance but obviously enjoying each other's company because this is the way it should be rather than the way it could have been.
The Norfolk Broads of course is the kind of place where time itself seems itself to take its very own holiday, oblivious of seconds, minutes, hours, months and years. In a sense you had the impression that nobody ever seems to be worried or bothered about anything during the summer in the countryside. To the outside observer, the Norfolk Broads seems to deliberately slow down during the summer because during the winter there doesn't seem a great deal to do during the winter since the snows are thick on the ground, it's freezing cold and summer feels like a convenient opportunity to just get out into those rural pastures and sail along a river at your own pace.
And so it was that we finished off our Sunday lunch with the relaxed air of ordinary and extraordinary people doing the kind of things we used to before lockdown and never really flustered by any of the recent disturbances that had just taken place. Families of course always stick together in both good and bad times and this was no exception. Pleasantries were exchanged, gentle laughter always in evidence and then fond farewells before heading North to the Lancashire suburb of St Helens. It was just good to be together as family because that represents unity and togetherness.
Our first port of call was quite naturally an owl sanctuary because it just seemed an excellent idea. And besides why wouldn't you want to go an owl sanctuary? Our nocturnal bird friends never really get the publicity they probably deserve so here we were checking out the latest developments in the world of the hooting owls.
Now how on earth have owls been coping in the face of a human pandemic? Have they been yearning to see the kids and families? Have they fallen into a huge sulk because nobody wants to see them anymore? There is no egotistical issue going on here because the owls from all four corners of the world probably hadn't a clue what was going on with humanity. But those large, round, marble-like eyes must have been desperately hoping that one day they'd once again see excited young human faces making appropriately childlike faces at the owls and then pointing out to their parents that one or two of the tawny owls were beginning to think that absence certainly made the heart grow fonder.
Then we explored the rest of Blackpool Zoo and found, much to our disappointment, the lions were fast asleep and just completely indifferent to the human race. There they were sprawled out for all to see and how inconsiderate that must have been to the parents who must have thought the least our feline friends could do was engage with their children. One of the cheetahs it seemed also looked pretty fed up and lackadaisical, quite literally going around in circles in the same loop. The animal kingdom at Blackpool Zoo had literally given up which could have been construed as very disconcerting but perhaps understandable under the circumstances.
But then you heard the seals and watched the penguins and your faith was restored in life. In the distance, there was that familiar barking sound of seals, adorable creatures that kept waddling out of their luxury swimming pool with the expectant air of somebody who knows that, eventually, they'll get a bucket of fish for supper. We also noticed a family of lumbering camels who were also doing their utmost to just hang out very casually and very despondently with each other. These looked very much like inconsolable camels who looked, for all the world, as if nobody would ever get a smile or laugh out of them. So you just passed on through thankful that at least the seals were in a reasonably amiable mood.
And then we headed for home after a week of rest and relaxation, dining and wining, putting the world to rights and grateful that we'd been privileged to be a part of each others lives when the last four months may have jeopardised that possibility. Norfolk and St Helens had satisfied the adventurous tendencies that we all look for throughout the year. It was off to motorway land.
Now the direction of travel that takes you from the North of England to the South of England is both bewilderingly confusing and designed to make you feel as if you were entering a parallel universe. The journey was well over 100 miles and some of the language you'd now become witness to had become totally indecipherable. It was rather like walking into a classroom where the only words and sentences written or spoken are those of the Esperanto type.
Truly you were now confronted with the regulation cones with orange lights that did nothing but wink and flash in sequences. Cones on British motorways have now become very much the accepted norm. Thriving communities of cones are now flourishing on central reservations and hard shoulders of almost every motorway in Britain. In fact cones seem to be multiplying wherever you may be going in Britain. One day they will form small ghettoes and secret societies where special rules are applicable.
Now it seems the cones have been joined by a dense network of signs and sandbags, yellow and black diggers excavating for gold or oil in Texas perhaps. By the side of Britain's abundance of motorway furniture there were signs warning of speed checks. traffic merging into each other, lanes and lanes of traffic almost constantly weaving, darting in and out of each other and then competing for supremacy as the best and fairest driver in the world. It reminded you of that Scalextric set you were given as a child for your birthday only much more complicated and almost unbearable.
Then your heart went out to your wife when she found herself battling for the comfort zone against a battalion of lorries that were clearly intent on antagonising her without ever considering any kind of apology. Suddenly Eddie Hobarts, that most traditional lorries, seemed to be joined by a thousand supermarket lorries swerving audaciously into areas that left you gasping with horror.
As a non driver and somebody who could only feel deeply sorry for the driving fraternity my wife has my unqualified sympathy since the roads in Britain now begin to resemble minefields, a massively overcrowded conglomeration of endless traffic jams and nightmarish tailbacks stretching back through a hundred counties. Here were a procession of drivers furiously tapping their wheels and then patiently resigning themselves to almost half a day on the motorway. It was enough to make you wish that if you'd never seen another cone then that day would never come soon enough.
The reality was of course that we did negotiate this veritable jungle of motorised mayhem and cumbersome roadside machinery and London could be seen. We manoeuvred effortlessly onto the right road for Manor House and slumped over the finishing line over three and half hours later not emotional as such but just glad to be home. Oh for the joys of the staycation. It comes highly
recommended.
Tuesday 11 August 2020
Southend- the jewel in the Essex crown.
Southend- the jewel in the Essex crown.
So there we were casually sunbathing in the roasting heat of an August afternoon on the Essex Riviera. For only the second time in this most troubled of all years we were taking a leisurely break from the concrete jungle that both London and the outskirts can seemingly become. In the distance my father in law noticed a whole fleet of ships on the horizon and could hardly hold back his unalloyed pleasure.
There far away was the might of England's nautical heritage, several very socially distanced ships and boats steadily inching across the heart of part of the Thames estuary and just going about their business in a way that they must have done for many generations. They looked, even from our vantage point, like beautifully painted watercolours undisturbed by nothing in particular and just proceeding silently and properly towards some bustling harbour or perhaps an oil rig.
But a family day out in heavenly Westcliff seemed just the ticket. Now Westcliff on Sea is geographically just down the road from the more familiar-sounding Southend where doting parents would normally have allowed their young offspring to just go stir crazy and enjoy themselves. But the Pirates Adventure Playground was still closed and all Southend had to offer its daytrippers and regulars was a large slice of good, old fashioned fun if not quite on the grand scale of former years.
Here were the amusement arcades where every year thousands upon thousands feed the one-armed bandits with two-pences, five-pences and that machine that keeps nudging two pence pieces off a two platforms and bingo. You've won a small fortune. Then an upbeat, joky voice keeps telling you to play yet another game of bingo while all around you the kids are firing computer-generated guns and then driving pretend racing cars around pretend racing tracks while frantically steering a pretend steering wheel.
Then all around you the whole cacophony of this yearly seaside ritual will always be heard as the kids school summer holidays gets underway. All manner of strange noises will emanate from who knows where, whooping, buzzing, bleeping and then varying the tone of its voice according to which game you happen to be on. This is old as time itself but this summer the seaside almost didn't happen at all because the world came down with the most frightening sickness and the kids were now distraught.
And yet here we were as a family just glad to be away from the pressure cooker heat of London and determined to cool down in the faintly exotic breezes of the Essex coastline. The summer in England has been very good if not quite the summer we experienced two years when somebody left on the central heating and didn't switch it off until roughly September. This summer has been playful, changeable at times but never less than surprising. May was beautiful in as much as that it felt as if you were sharing the same climate as the Mediterranean while June and July kept teasing us flirtatiously.
All in all it has been very much a typical English summer: unpredictable and moody, brash and possibly temperamental but that may be enough about one Donald Trump. But of course this is dreadfully libellous and totally untrue so Trump may have to forgive you hopefully. Yesterday Trump had the shock of his life when somebody told him that gunshots had been heard outside the White House and the orange-haired phenomenon suddenly turned ashen-faced, looked totally alarmed and then realised that it may not have been as serious as he thought it was.
Back in Westcliff a reasonably packed throng gathered on both the pebbly and sandy beaches and for the first time in ages you made a very telling observation. In the sea were countless swimmers, Olympian swimmers, thrashing their way across relatively placid waters, front crawling with impressive style and then bobbing up and down like the buoys in the water. It almost felt like watching Britain's finest at the Tokyo Olympics that were so regrettably postponed until next year.
On the piers, sea fronts and increasingly active esplanades of the Essex Riviera you walked slowly and appreciatively past those delightful palm trees that should have been gracing Benidorm rather than Westcliff. Then you all retreated to one of Westcliff's most enduring of all institutions, a cultural landmark that seems to have been there since the beginning of time. We knew we'd savour the experience because as a child you'd spent many a happy Sunday afternoon with your parents and grandparents during the Swinging Sixties, the 1960s, the decade when everything else changed apart from Rossi's cafe.
Yes, Rossi's cafe has been available for down to earth Essex grub for ages and ages. The photographs on the wall tell so many eloquent stories that you could hardly stop looking at them. Louis Rossi and his family had opened up this gastronomic paradise way back in the 1930s when social events were dramatically moving in the most sinister direction. And 90 years later Rossi's is still there, resplendently art deco in a manner of speaking, still boasting the same beverages and meals that had so readily satisfied the appetites of so many diners.
Behind a now socially distanced and shielded counter were those classic comestibles. There were also the teas, coffees, milk-shakes, orange juices and, lest we forget, Horlicks. For a minute you thought you were imagining it but Horlicks was there on sale if that was your choice of drink. Now without wishing to seem too judgmental Horlicks doesn't seem quite the drink that would have appealed to any of us after a long day of exhaustive sun tanning. Still, it was there if you wanted it.
And then after an afternoon of relentless bathing self-indulgence where caps were nonchalantly dipped, knotted hankies were not quite the order of the day and faces raised confidently towards the sun, we made our way past the tiny souvenir shops with their quaint collection of kids windmills, inflated swimming pool rings, discreetly naughty postcards dripping with innuendo and candy floss that always reminded you of pink cotton wool.
You thought back to those halcyon days of the late 1950s and 1960s when dads would insist on wearing their work suits and jackets, complete with braces, formal shirt and tie. You remembered the glorious formality and order of the age, when huge families would huddle around their children protectively and proudly as dad bent down to build architecturally perfect sandcastles. You thought back to your wonderful parents and grandparents when your grandma made absolutely sure that you'd never go hungry with shopping bags groaning with egg and onion sandwiches.
At the end of the day Westcliff was still there and always will be. It was a predominantly social rendezvous where all of the latest Jewish gossip would casually float over to nearby Chalkwell and Leigh on Sea. Southend and Westcliff are the Essex heartlands where all our childhood memories were planted and nurtured, where cockles and whelks can still be slurped in downtown Southend and finally most of the cafes are open for business. The chairs have been taken down after a seemingly indefinite coronavirus lockdown and in this seaside haven of all seaside havens, the good people of Essex and beyond are walking around with a beaming smile. Long may it last.
So there we were casually sunbathing in the roasting heat of an August afternoon on the Essex Riviera. For only the second time in this most troubled of all years we were taking a leisurely break from the concrete jungle that both London and the outskirts can seemingly become. In the distance my father in law noticed a whole fleet of ships on the horizon and could hardly hold back his unalloyed pleasure.
There far away was the might of England's nautical heritage, several very socially distanced ships and boats steadily inching across the heart of part of the Thames estuary and just going about their business in a way that they must have done for many generations. They looked, even from our vantage point, like beautifully painted watercolours undisturbed by nothing in particular and just proceeding silently and properly towards some bustling harbour or perhaps an oil rig.
But a family day out in heavenly Westcliff seemed just the ticket. Now Westcliff on Sea is geographically just down the road from the more familiar-sounding Southend where doting parents would normally have allowed their young offspring to just go stir crazy and enjoy themselves. But the Pirates Adventure Playground was still closed and all Southend had to offer its daytrippers and regulars was a large slice of good, old fashioned fun if not quite on the grand scale of former years.
Here were the amusement arcades where every year thousands upon thousands feed the one-armed bandits with two-pences, five-pences and that machine that keeps nudging two pence pieces off a two platforms and bingo. You've won a small fortune. Then an upbeat, joky voice keeps telling you to play yet another game of bingo while all around you the kids are firing computer-generated guns and then driving pretend racing cars around pretend racing tracks while frantically steering a pretend steering wheel.
Then all around you the whole cacophony of this yearly seaside ritual will always be heard as the kids school summer holidays gets underway. All manner of strange noises will emanate from who knows where, whooping, buzzing, bleeping and then varying the tone of its voice according to which game you happen to be on. This is old as time itself but this summer the seaside almost didn't happen at all because the world came down with the most frightening sickness and the kids were now distraught.
And yet here we were as a family just glad to be away from the pressure cooker heat of London and determined to cool down in the faintly exotic breezes of the Essex coastline. The summer in England has been very good if not quite the summer we experienced two years when somebody left on the central heating and didn't switch it off until roughly September. This summer has been playful, changeable at times but never less than surprising. May was beautiful in as much as that it felt as if you were sharing the same climate as the Mediterranean while June and July kept teasing us flirtatiously.
All in all it has been very much a typical English summer: unpredictable and moody, brash and possibly temperamental but that may be enough about one Donald Trump. But of course this is dreadfully libellous and totally untrue so Trump may have to forgive you hopefully. Yesterday Trump had the shock of his life when somebody told him that gunshots had been heard outside the White House and the orange-haired phenomenon suddenly turned ashen-faced, looked totally alarmed and then realised that it may not have been as serious as he thought it was.
Back in Westcliff a reasonably packed throng gathered on both the pebbly and sandy beaches and for the first time in ages you made a very telling observation. In the sea were countless swimmers, Olympian swimmers, thrashing their way across relatively placid waters, front crawling with impressive style and then bobbing up and down like the buoys in the water. It almost felt like watching Britain's finest at the Tokyo Olympics that were so regrettably postponed until next year.
On the piers, sea fronts and increasingly active esplanades of the Essex Riviera you walked slowly and appreciatively past those delightful palm trees that should have been gracing Benidorm rather than Westcliff. Then you all retreated to one of Westcliff's most enduring of all institutions, a cultural landmark that seems to have been there since the beginning of time. We knew we'd savour the experience because as a child you'd spent many a happy Sunday afternoon with your parents and grandparents during the Swinging Sixties, the 1960s, the decade when everything else changed apart from Rossi's cafe.
Yes, Rossi's cafe has been available for down to earth Essex grub for ages and ages. The photographs on the wall tell so many eloquent stories that you could hardly stop looking at them. Louis Rossi and his family had opened up this gastronomic paradise way back in the 1930s when social events were dramatically moving in the most sinister direction. And 90 years later Rossi's is still there, resplendently art deco in a manner of speaking, still boasting the same beverages and meals that had so readily satisfied the appetites of so many diners.
Behind a now socially distanced and shielded counter were those classic comestibles. There were also the teas, coffees, milk-shakes, orange juices and, lest we forget, Horlicks. For a minute you thought you were imagining it but Horlicks was there on sale if that was your choice of drink. Now without wishing to seem too judgmental Horlicks doesn't seem quite the drink that would have appealed to any of us after a long day of exhaustive sun tanning. Still, it was there if you wanted it.
And then after an afternoon of relentless bathing self-indulgence where caps were nonchalantly dipped, knotted hankies were not quite the order of the day and faces raised confidently towards the sun, we made our way past the tiny souvenir shops with their quaint collection of kids windmills, inflated swimming pool rings, discreetly naughty postcards dripping with innuendo and candy floss that always reminded you of pink cotton wool.
You thought back to those halcyon days of the late 1950s and 1960s when dads would insist on wearing their work suits and jackets, complete with braces, formal shirt and tie. You remembered the glorious formality and order of the age, when huge families would huddle around their children protectively and proudly as dad bent down to build architecturally perfect sandcastles. You thought back to your wonderful parents and grandparents when your grandma made absolutely sure that you'd never go hungry with shopping bags groaning with egg and onion sandwiches.
At the end of the day Westcliff was still there and always will be. It was a predominantly social rendezvous where all of the latest Jewish gossip would casually float over to nearby Chalkwell and Leigh on Sea. Southend and Westcliff are the Essex heartlands where all our childhood memories were planted and nurtured, where cockles and whelks can still be slurped in downtown Southend and finally most of the cafes are open for business. The chairs have been taken down after a seemingly indefinite coronavirus lockdown and in this seaside haven of all seaside havens, the good people of Essex and beyond are walking around with a beaming smile. Long may it last.
Saturday 8 August 2020
Cricket on the BBC England - Pakistan first test.
Cricket on the BBC - England - Pakistan first test.
The summery shadows were lengthening over Old Trafford, the sun waning and dropping deeper into the warm embrace of a Manchester evening. Cricket returned to Old Trafford rather like a soldier returning from a bloody battle and, to all outward appearances, it looked as if nobody was even remotely interested. Row upon row of empty seats reminded you of an aching wound that refuses to heal. Cricket, in keeping with most spectator seats, has experienced much the same treatment as football, rugby and tennis, not exactly a victim of circumstances more of an obvious target of ridicule.
It shouldn't really be like this and yet it is. Ever since the announcement of the coronavirus lockdown, cricket knew what it was letting itself in for. Back in March cricket, although not entirely dependent on its commercial revenue for its existence, did feel as if it was sorely missing out on its summertime parade of sedate village green matches in the country, the County Championship and the familiar sprinkling of Test matches.
Many decades ago cricket could always rely on its Gillette Cup and its Benson and Hedges Cup for its knockabout fun and its limited-overs tomfoolery. But then with the passage of time, the hardened loyalists began to drift away if only because the fans who used to sit near the boundaries of cricket's Elysian fields found that the game had changed its fundamental format. Now cricket was all about men in helmets, rainbow coloured clothing and with the first test between England and Pakistan, players would be required to wear numbers on the back of their shirts. What sacrilegious nonsense? How on earth did that come to pass?
And yet cricket was back on the BBC. Yes, cricket was back. It was rather like discovering that England had won the cricket World Cup all over again and Ben Stokes was flinging his arms up in the air in sheer ecstasy. But cricket had returned to the BBC after an absence so lengthy it almost hurt. It felt as if you were welcoming back an old friend which of course you were. The only problem here is that this wasn't really the proper deal since we now had to be content with an hour of highlights on the BBC in the evening which isn't quite the same as the full-day broadcast.
But for those who revelled in the morning through to evening coverage that the BBC used to excel in, this felt like something of a betrayal. How we would listen to the dulcet tones of Jim Laker and Richie Benaud for as long as we possibly could because they were the voices of cricket: gentle, authoritative and re-assuringly persuasive?
They would almost whisper into the microphones in case some of us were still rubbing the sleep from our eyes. Every word and sentence would be measured and caressed, vowels and consonants rolled around in our mouths like a good port that had been left to mature in a cellar. But Laker and Benaud are now sadly no longer with us so the BBC gave us the immensely knowledgeable Simon Mann, whose recent history of cricket in England had been so deservedly acclaimed by the critics. Then there was Alison Mitchell, another cricket journalist of the highest order.
So after their victorious escapades against the once unbeatable West Indies, England settled down to tackle the far more challenging and daunting task of beating Pakistan. The memory of the great Imran Khan, now a foremost political activist and Prime Minister of Pakistan ripping through world-class batting attacks, must still send a shiver down the spines of many an Englishman. But Pakistan are still a force to be reckoned and their performance at Old Trafford has now left England teetering on the brink, if not quite on the point, of surrender.
After Shan Masood drove a sledgehammer through England's most destructive bowlers with a spectacular century of the finest technique and polish, England were clinging on in the hope that Pakistan would show just a touch of leniency. It would not be their day though. Masood punished the loose ball with a whole art gallery of pulls, straight drives, sweetly timed cover drives, no small amount of lofted sixes with clipped and pulled cuts that raced towards the Old Trafford pavilion for four or were hooked immaculately to the boundary.
Pakistan were eventually if reluctantly removed for 326 all out when it looked as if they'd been quite happy to spend all night batting and only woken up in time for breakfast. England now faced an uphill struggle, digging deep into the resources for anything that could be accurately described as salvageable. But until today it looked as if this whole Test match was simply running away from them particularly after their mini first-innings collapse.
Both the likes of Dom Simbley, Ollie Pope, Jos Buttler, Dom Bess, Ben Stokes and skipper Joe Root seemed to be overcome by the occasion. All fell far too cheaply for anybody's liking and by the time that Pakistan had broken the hearts of every English batsmen with a delicious combination of seaming and late swinging deliveries that cut back lethally into the wickets of most of the English batsmen, it felt as if England had already said that enough was enough. England were bowled out for a meagre 169 all out and until Pakistan's capitulation yesterday in their second innings, victory will now have to be earned rather than deserved for Joe Root's men.
By late last night though cricket, rather like other sports, must have been feeling helpless, still without a voice and still crying out for their Barmy Army. Of course cricket thrives on its fan-driven encouragement, its boozy, boisterous and uproarious cheerleaders who cheer themselves hoarse when things are going well for the lads. They sing themselves into a drunken stupor, ear-splittingly noisy at times and then just resigned to whatever will be will be.
But when the cricketers of England came clomping into the dressing room complete with helmets that seem to belong only on an American football field, they will know they've been in a real contest. And then deep at the back of your mind you could still hear Jim Laker with his silken responses to a batsman at their height of their brilliance and bowlers who could hit the spot. Then there was Richie Benaud, all Australian understatement and endless wit. It was so good to have cricket back at the BBC even if it was for just over an hour or so. Welcome back BBC. Cricket has certainly missed you.
The summery shadows were lengthening over Old Trafford, the sun waning and dropping deeper into the warm embrace of a Manchester evening. Cricket returned to Old Trafford rather like a soldier returning from a bloody battle and, to all outward appearances, it looked as if nobody was even remotely interested. Row upon row of empty seats reminded you of an aching wound that refuses to heal. Cricket, in keeping with most spectator seats, has experienced much the same treatment as football, rugby and tennis, not exactly a victim of circumstances more of an obvious target of ridicule.
It shouldn't really be like this and yet it is. Ever since the announcement of the coronavirus lockdown, cricket knew what it was letting itself in for. Back in March cricket, although not entirely dependent on its commercial revenue for its existence, did feel as if it was sorely missing out on its summertime parade of sedate village green matches in the country, the County Championship and the familiar sprinkling of Test matches.
Many decades ago cricket could always rely on its Gillette Cup and its Benson and Hedges Cup for its knockabout fun and its limited-overs tomfoolery. But then with the passage of time, the hardened loyalists began to drift away if only because the fans who used to sit near the boundaries of cricket's Elysian fields found that the game had changed its fundamental format. Now cricket was all about men in helmets, rainbow coloured clothing and with the first test between England and Pakistan, players would be required to wear numbers on the back of their shirts. What sacrilegious nonsense? How on earth did that come to pass?
And yet cricket was back on the BBC. Yes, cricket was back. It was rather like discovering that England had won the cricket World Cup all over again and Ben Stokes was flinging his arms up in the air in sheer ecstasy. But cricket had returned to the BBC after an absence so lengthy it almost hurt. It felt as if you were welcoming back an old friend which of course you were. The only problem here is that this wasn't really the proper deal since we now had to be content with an hour of highlights on the BBC in the evening which isn't quite the same as the full-day broadcast.
But for those who revelled in the morning through to evening coverage that the BBC used to excel in, this felt like something of a betrayal. How we would listen to the dulcet tones of Jim Laker and Richie Benaud for as long as we possibly could because they were the voices of cricket: gentle, authoritative and re-assuringly persuasive?
They would almost whisper into the microphones in case some of us were still rubbing the sleep from our eyes. Every word and sentence would be measured and caressed, vowels and consonants rolled around in our mouths like a good port that had been left to mature in a cellar. But Laker and Benaud are now sadly no longer with us so the BBC gave us the immensely knowledgeable Simon Mann, whose recent history of cricket in England had been so deservedly acclaimed by the critics. Then there was Alison Mitchell, another cricket journalist of the highest order.
So after their victorious escapades against the once unbeatable West Indies, England settled down to tackle the far more challenging and daunting task of beating Pakistan. The memory of the great Imran Khan, now a foremost political activist and Prime Minister of Pakistan ripping through world-class batting attacks, must still send a shiver down the spines of many an Englishman. But Pakistan are still a force to be reckoned and their performance at Old Trafford has now left England teetering on the brink, if not quite on the point, of surrender.
After Shan Masood drove a sledgehammer through England's most destructive bowlers with a spectacular century of the finest technique and polish, England were clinging on in the hope that Pakistan would show just a touch of leniency. It would not be their day though. Masood punished the loose ball with a whole art gallery of pulls, straight drives, sweetly timed cover drives, no small amount of lofted sixes with clipped and pulled cuts that raced towards the Old Trafford pavilion for four or were hooked immaculately to the boundary.
Pakistan were eventually if reluctantly removed for 326 all out when it looked as if they'd been quite happy to spend all night batting and only woken up in time for breakfast. England now faced an uphill struggle, digging deep into the resources for anything that could be accurately described as salvageable. But until today it looked as if this whole Test match was simply running away from them particularly after their mini first-innings collapse.
Both the likes of Dom Simbley, Ollie Pope, Jos Buttler, Dom Bess, Ben Stokes and skipper Joe Root seemed to be overcome by the occasion. All fell far too cheaply for anybody's liking and by the time that Pakistan had broken the hearts of every English batsmen with a delicious combination of seaming and late swinging deliveries that cut back lethally into the wickets of most of the English batsmen, it felt as if England had already said that enough was enough. England were bowled out for a meagre 169 all out and until Pakistan's capitulation yesterday in their second innings, victory will now have to be earned rather than deserved for Joe Root's men.
By late last night though cricket, rather like other sports, must have been feeling helpless, still without a voice and still crying out for their Barmy Army. Of course cricket thrives on its fan-driven encouragement, its boozy, boisterous and uproarious cheerleaders who cheer themselves hoarse when things are going well for the lads. They sing themselves into a drunken stupor, ear-splittingly noisy at times and then just resigned to whatever will be will be.
But when the cricketers of England came clomping into the dressing room complete with helmets that seem to belong only on an American football field, they will know they've been in a real contest. And then deep at the back of your mind you could still hear Jim Laker with his silken responses to a batsman at their height of their brilliance and bowlers who could hit the spot. Then there was Richie Benaud, all Australian understatement and endless wit. It was so good to have cricket back at the BBC even if it was for just over an hour or so. Welcome back BBC. Cricket has certainly missed you.
Thursday 6 August 2020
TV and nostalgia
TV and nostalgia
During your childhood TV always provided you with the most irresistible temptation, an idyllic sanctuary where late-night viewing became a regular battleground with your doting parents. There were those early evening telly programmes which were deliberately designed to irritate and push your mum and dad to the limits of their patience. We knew we had to be in bed by eight in the evening at the very earliest because if we weren't asleep by then the consequences would be suffered and if we weren't up at the crack of dawn by the following morning then we'd only have ourselves to blame.
This morning gave us a heavenly glimpse into the past with yet another showing of that classic all-action hero series from the 1960s The Saint starring the inimitable Roger Moore. If memory serves you correctly The Saint was shown every Wednesday evening at eight in the evening. But this was the moment when my parents slapped an embargo on a young child's entertainment. You had been strictly barred from watching any TV beyond the specified hour and you knew it. But how you tried desperately to watch the Saint because The Saint had everything; action, punching, kicking, slamming the villains against walls, throwing the baddies over tables, excitement and heroic deeds.
Having caught a couple of minutes of The Saint you were taken back to a time when you must have thought you could successfully challenge the authority of your parents, question them persistently, rebel ever so slightly but then promise them that you'd go straight to bed after The Saint. This was hardly saintly behaviour but you almost felt as though you were being deprived of your weekly fix of Roger Moore, he with the looks of a dashing matinee idol, a man of rugged masculinity and slicked-back hair that looked as if it had been waxed in a dressing room for at least four hours.
And then there was the Moore raised eye-brow, a distinctive quirk or affectation that came to single him out for female attention every time the Saint was shown. Moore, or Simon Templar as he was to become known as in the programme itself, was the quintessential English gentleman, fearless, handsome in the eyes of many a woman, impeccably suited and booted, a genuine diplomat, suave and debonair in every crisis.
But there was something about the Saint that compelled you to stay up until after the forbidden hour if only because he was the one character that you privately wanted to be when you grew up. Simon Templar had all the qualities you were looking for in an all-action hero. He was tough as teak, strong, brave, well mannered, polite, tall and upstanding. He was courageous because that was very much the persona that Roger Moore had to adopt for he was the man with the halo. Oh yes, there was the halo! Who could ever forget that halo?.
So here were the opening credits. The elegant Simon Templar, shirt, suit and tie in almost a studied pose, suddenly appears on screen and at the end of the final credit, a halo hovers over his head, a force for good, a paragon of virtue. The round signet of perfection had been anointed over Simon Templar. Here was the swashbuckling action-man, throwing those evil, heinous bovver boys onto the other side of pubs, offices and warehouses and executing the meatiest of punches that sent most of them into orbit.
And by the end of it all we were breathless, completely awe-stricken, left completely open-mouthed with stunned amazement. Occasionally you are transported blissfully back to those early Wednesday evenings when your parents would reluctantly concede defeat and allow you to watch the magnificent Saint. Simon Templar. As for Roger Moore? We all know what happened to him. His name was definitely Bond. James Bond. Oh for Wednesday evenings during the 1960s. We can hardly forget them.
During your childhood TV always provided you with the most irresistible temptation, an idyllic sanctuary where late-night viewing became a regular battleground with your doting parents. There were those early evening telly programmes which were deliberately designed to irritate and push your mum and dad to the limits of their patience. We knew we had to be in bed by eight in the evening at the very earliest because if we weren't asleep by then the consequences would be suffered and if we weren't up at the crack of dawn by the following morning then we'd only have ourselves to blame.
This morning gave us a heavenly glimpse into the past with yet another showing of that classic all-action hero series from the 1960s The Saint starring the inimitable Roger Moore. If memory serves you correctly The Saint was shown every Wednesday evening at eight in the evening. But this was the moment when my parents slapped an embargo on a young child's entertainment. You had been strictly barred from watching any TV beyond the specified hour and you knew it. But how you tried desperately to watch the Saint because The Saint had everything; action, punching, kicking, slamming the villains against walls, throwing the baddies over tables, excitement and heroic deeds.
Having caught a couple of minutes of The Saint you were taken back to a time when you must have thought you could successfully challenge the authority of your parents, question them persistently, rebel ever so slightly but then promise them that you'd go straight to bed after The Saint. This was hardly saintly behaviour but you almost felt as though you were being deprived of your weekly fix of Roger Moore, he with the looks of a dashing matinee idol, a man of rugged masculinity and slicked-back hair that looked as if it had been waxed in a dressing room for at least four hours.
And then there was the Moore raised eye-brow, a distinctive quirk or affectation that came to single him out for female attention every time the Saint was shown. Moore, or Simon Templar as he was to become known as in the programme itself, was the quintessential English gentleman, fearless, handsome in the eyes of many a woman, impeccably suited and booted, a genuine diplomat, suave and debonair in every crisis.
But there was something about the Saint that compelled you to stay up until after the forbidden hour if only because he was the one character that you privately wanted to be when you grew up. Simon Templar had all the qualities you were looking for in an all-action hero. He was tough as teak, strong, brave, well mannered, polite, tall and upstanding. He was courageous because that was very much the persona that Roger Moore had to adopt for he was the man with the halo. Oh yes, there was the halo! Who could ever forget that halo?.
So here were the opening credits. The elegant Simon Templar, shirt, suit and tie in almost a studied pose, suddenly appears on screen and at the end of the final credit, a halo hovers over his head, a force for good, a paragon of virtue. The round signet of perfection had been anointed over Simon Templar. Here was the swashbuckling action-man, throwing those evil, heinous bovver boys onto the other side of pubs, offices and warehouses and executing the meatiest of punches that sent most of them into orbit.
And by the end of it all we were breathless, completely awe-stricken, left completely open-mouthed with stunned amazement. Occasionally you are transported blissfully back to those early Wednesday evenings when your parents would reluctantly concede defeat and allow you to watch the magnificent Saint. Simon Templar. As for Roger Moore? We all know what happened to him. His name was definitely Bond. James Bond. Oh for Wednesday evenings during the 1960s. We can hardly forget them.
Tuesday 4 August 2020
School exams and the Scottish success rate.
School exams and the Scottish success rate.
You can still remember just how daunting it all was. It is now 41 years ago since some of us sat in this terrifying school hall wracking your head for any kind of relevant help or information which would culminate in a successful afternoon of the exam ordeal. In hindsight it all seemed very socially awkward, totally meaningless and not the academically fruitful outcome you might have been hoping for. Then again what on earth were you doing there, dredging up answers, solutions and facts about any number of weird and wonderful educational subjects?
Of course the passing of O Levels and A Levels would impact enormously on your future because you had to possess an instant recall of historical battles and wars, logarithms and algorithms in maths, grammar, vocabulary and the construction of sentences in English and rock formations in geography for reasons that still escape you. But it really seems like stuff and nonsense when looking back because even now it bore no relevance to whatever any of us wanted to do for the rest of their lives.
This is not to suggest that there are some very gifted accountants and chartered accountants, lawyers and solicitors who swotted up on their legal books both diligently and impressively and travel agents who really did their work in geography lessons. We should never forget of course the legions of air stewardesses and airline pilots who knuckled down to the task of pursuing their vocation in life with an utter dedication to duty. There were also those who followed their passion for the insurance and banking industry and came out with flying colours.
Today the school pupils or students, as perhaps we should call them, woke up this morning to the news that they had all passed their exams and were now ready to make the step up to university or college. This was always a tense, nervous and apprehensive day for all of those school pupils who would never quite know whether they were good enough to move into higher spheres of academia.
But then their fears were allayed because a vast majority of them had had nothing to worry about. It was time to fly the parental nest and come September it was off to university, an entirely new life and. quite assuredly, independence- or the first steps leading to independence. They would pack their suitcases and buy the mountain of reference books they'd need to complete the transition from childhood to adolescence. It was time to get out there into the adult world and join the rat race. Or something like that.
For those who may have been left behind in the years of struggle and striving, strain and stress, these were difficult and embarrassing times. The ones who left school with no qualifications or very few had to be content with a life of grim industrial work or very little in the way of intellectual stimulation. This is not to say there was anything degrading about warehouse work or heavy labour but there was a world out there that we might have been missing out on.
So we buried ourselves in the local libraries, read almost constantly, tried desperately to take in the classics and anything we thought would make us feel much better about ourselves than might otherwise have been the case. We knew it wouldn't really lead to anything in life and we knew that any prospective employers wouldn't be at all impressed with anything you may have read.
It was though with great delight today though that we discovered the Scottish school pupils who had studied even harder than usual, had been rewarded with their As and Bs. For the last four months or so the young minds of Scotland had had their world turned upside down by the global coronavirus lockdown, a world that hardly seemed credible and a world that had created havoc with their study schedules.
Today those receptive school pupils opened up their envelopes, leapt up and down with joy or, in some cases, cried into sodden handkerchieves because it hadn't really been the day they were hoping for. Generally speaking, the English and literature had been easy and inevitable, the sciences were straightforward, history was in the bag and the rest of the subjects just a breeze. In other words the pass marks had been clinched, the qualifications confirmed and it was time to look at the right choice of university.
And yet you find yourself looking back to your shameful lack of any semblance of education and were reminded of the vital necessity of passing your exams. You went to a very ordinary secondary school, accepted your fate and resigned yourself to the fact that you would never amount to much when the school gates were shut on you. A severe inferiority complex began to hover over your life in later years and you could only console yourself with books even though those books would become irrelevant and inconsequential.
In retrospect you reflect on the futility of it all. It's often said that school years should be the most rewarding of your lives, that the opportunities were there and if you memorised facts, figures, dates and places the law or the medical profession was there for the taking. But even with academic attainments and certificates you're still firmly of the belief that none would really have taken me in the direction you were looking for anyway.
And so it is that the educational ministers on the government bench keep telling us that if we get all the exams we need then upward mobility is guaranteed. You'll certainly get the job in banking or insurance you were looking for. If you walk out of school with A Levels in Maths and then move onto economics then you're sure to get on in life. These are the jobs for life and you must shake their hands because their place in the Civil Service or the trading floors of the City of London are a nailed on certainty.
In a sense you think back to what might have been but never was and have no real reason to reproach yourself. Why didn't you follow in the footsteps of your contemporaries, why didn't you get on your bike and look for a job and gainful employment for the rest of your life? So what if we had nothing convincing to show to any employer since we must have known that even if we had passed a barrowload of 'O' or 'A' Levels the chances are that we'd still have found ourselves in an academic predicament.
So well done to the teenagers of Scotland who are now destined for their promised land. They know for a fact- or hope they do- that once the examinations are out of the way, qualifications laid in stone and employers ready to snap them up with enthusiasm, then the proverbial world is their oyster. They'll pass their driving test, work themselves into the ground all hours of the day and then accumulate enough money for whatever their aim in life may be. Oh for the rarefied world of examinations and qualifications.
You can still remember just how daunting it all was. It is now 41 years ago since some of us sat in this terrifying school hall wracking your head for any kind of relevant help or information which would culminate in a successful afternoon of the exam ordeal. In hindsight it all seemed very socially awkward, totally meaningless and not the academically fruitful outcome you might have been hoping for. Then again what on earth were you doing there, dredging up answers, solutions and facts about any number of weird and wonderful educational subjects?
Of course the passing of O Levels and A Levels would impact enormously on your future because you had to possess an instant recall of historical battles and wars, logarithms and algorithms in maths, grammar, vocabulary and the construction of sentences in English and rock formations in geography for reasons that still escape you. But it really seems like stuff and nonsense when looking back because even now it bore no relevance to whatever any of us wanted to do for the rest of their lives.
This is not to suggest that there are some very gifted accountants and chartered accountants, lawyers and solicitors who swotted up on their legal books both diligently and impressively and travel agents who really did their work in geography lessons. We should never forget of course the legions of air stewardesses and airline pilots who knuckled down to the task of pursuing their vocation in life with an utter dedication to duty. There were also those who followed their passion for the insurance and banking industry and came out with flying colours.
Today the school pupils or students, as perhaps we should call them, woke up this morning to the news that they had all passed their exams and were now ready to make the step up to university or college. This was always a tense, nervous and apprehensive day for all of those school pupils who would never quite know whether they were good enough to move into higher spheres of academia.
But then their fears were allayed because a vast majority of them had had nothing to worry about. It was time to fly the parental nest and come September it was off to university, an entirely new life and. quite assuredly, independence- or the first steps leading to independence. They would pack their suitcases and buy the mountain of reference books they'd need to complete the transition from childhood to adolescence. It was time to get out there into the adult world and join the rat race. Or something like that.
For those who may have been left behind in the years of struggle and striving, strain and stress, these were difficult and embarrassing times. The ones who left school with no qualifications or very few had to be content with a life of grim industrial work or very little in the way of intellectual stimulation. This is not to say there was anything degrading about warehouse work or heavy labour but there was a world out there that we might have been missing out on.
So we buried ourselves in the local libraries, read almost constantly, tried desperately to take in the classics and anything we thought would make us feel much better about ourselves than might otherwise have been the case. We knew it wouldn't really lead to anything in life and we knew that any prospective employers wouldn't be at all impressed with anything you may have read.
It was though with great delight today though that we discovered the Scottish school pupils who had studied even harder than usual, had been rewarded with their As and Bs. For the last four months or so the young minds of Scotland had had their world turned upside down by the global coronavirus lockdown, a world that hardly seemed credible and a world that had created havoc with their study schedules.
Today those receptive school pupils opened up their envelopes, leapt up and down with joy or, in some cases, cried into sodden handkerchieves because it hadn't really been the day they were hoping for. Generally speaking, the English and literature had been easy and inevitable, the sciences were straightforward, history was in the bag and the rest of the subjects just a breeze. In other words the pass marks had been clinched, the qualifications confirmed and it was time to look at the right choice of university.
And yet you find yourself looking back to your shameful lack of any semblance of education and were reminded of the vital necessity of passing your exams. You went to a very ordinary secondary school, accepted your fate and resigned yourself to the fact that you would never amount to much when the school gates were shut on you. A severe inferiority complex began to hover over your life in later years and you could only console yourself with books even though those books would become irrelevant and inconsequential.
In retrospect you reflect on the futility of it all. It's often said that school years should be the most rewarding of your lives, that the opportunities were there and if you memorised facts, figures, dates and places the law or the medical profession was there for the taking. But even with academic attainments and certificates you're still firmly of the belief that none would really have taken me in the direction you were looking for anyway.
And so it is that the educational ministers on the government bench keep telling us that if we get all the exams we need then upward mobility is guaranteed. You'll certainly get the job in banking or insurance you were looking for. If you walk out of school with A Levels in Maths and then move onto economics then you're sure to get on in life. These are the jobs for life and you must shake their hands because their place in the Civil Service or the trading floors of the City of London are a nailed on certainty.
In a sense you think back to what might have been but never was and have no real reason to reproach yourself. Why didn't you follow in the footsteps of your contemporaries, why didn't you get on your bike and look for a job and gainful employment for the rest of your life? So what if we had nothing convincing to show to any employer since we must have known that even if we had passed a barrowload of 'O' or 'A' Levels the chances are that we'd still have found ourselves in an academic predicament.
So well done to the teenagers of Scotland who are now destined for their promised land. They know for a fact- or hope they do- that once the examinations are out of the way, qualifications laid in stone and employers ready to snap them up with enthusiasm, then the proverbial world is their oyster. They'll pass their driving test, work themselves into the ground all hours of the day and then accumulate enough money for whatever their aim in life may be. Oh for the rarefied world of examinations and qualifications.
Sunday 2 August 2020
Arsenal complete hat-trick of victories against Chelsea in the FA Cup Final.
Arsenal complete hat-trick of victories against Chelsea in the FA Cup Final.
For 2002 and 2017 read 2020. Chelsea should really stop meeting Arsenal like this. For the third time in recent years Arsenal beat Chelsea in the FA Cup Final. They say familiarity breeds contempt but this never-ending saga between fierce London rivals has well and truly completed the trilogy. In the end it was all very straightforward and easy for Arsenal but there must come a point in a club's history when even the most masochistic soul needs to get away from all the torture. Chelsea are probably sick and tired of seeing the same red shirts so maybe this was one Cup Final too far for them.
Yesterday Arsenal met Chelsea in one of the quietest and strangest FA Cup Finals of all time. By the time the referee blew the whistle for full time at Wembley even the most vocal of pigeons and gulls had gone home no doubt disgusted by the lack of any human presence. But the harsh realities of modern times meant that this Cup Final was never likely to be renowned as both atmospheric and vociferous. The global coronavirus pandemic had ensured that the plug had to be taken out of the sound system and the overall product would be wholly diluted by circumstances that none of us could have anticipated.
In the old days of course the FA Cup Final was designed exclusively for the masses, vast hordes of football supporters descending on the national stadium from all four corners of Britain on luxury coaches. On arrival at the old Wembley they would twirl their scarves, flaunt their comical banners and placards before filling the terraces with an explosion of loyalty, fervent club allegiance and fruity messages to members of the family who couldn't make it on the day.
The Cup Final was one of those truly democratic days of the sporting year where no stone was left unturned. You would fork out hard-earned and considerable sums of money just for the privilege of standing or sitting at Wembley because you knew that this would be your day of achievement. You used to wake up at some unearthly hour on Saturday morning and then be subjected to both sets of players and managers from the respective Cup Finalists, following them from the hotels the players had occupied for the night, through breakfast before watching them swap warm banter and bonhomie on their coaches.
But yesterday was starkly and startlingly different, so different in fact that it could hardly be further removed from the conventional proceedings of a Cup Final. The blunt truth was there were no fans, no supporters, no songs, no chants and nothing identifiably reminiscent of a normal Cup Final day. The day was singular, unique, historic, weird and slightly spooky. The occasion itself reminded you of an undemanding training exercise, even a pre-season friendly with nothing to suggest that we should ever have taken it seriously.
And yet the formalities had to be observed, protocols carried out and hands sanitised before the match because nobody would ever be able to live with their conscience if they hadn't. In fact this was the FA Cup Final that missed out on its regular appointment in the second week of May because of the intervention of fate. So here we were on the first of August and our body clocks had been wrecked by an unavoidable illness which turned into a horrendous worldwide disease.
So it was that a London derby was placed before our eyes and yet again another repeat FA Cup Final. It could only have worked out this way since we were witnessing something completely out of the ordinary. Only Arsenal and Chelsea could have known that they wouldn't have travel that far out of their way for an FA Cup Final that was next door for them. Geographically of course both were ideally suited for the day itself in which case both should have enjoyed the luxury of a lie in and a gentle tea and toast in bed.
Still, once again Arsenal, having already beaten their opponents in 2002 at the Millennium Stadium and another face-off in 2017 at Wembley, must have been reasonably confident of victory once again. After all, Arsenal have now won the FA Cup a record-breaking 14 times which implies that they must be doing something right. Surely they couldn't be beaten now and Chelsea had better beware because the same treatment would be meted out to them again.
Seasoned campaigners at this level, Arsenal approached this game rather like an important business meeting with a portfolio of impressive successes and maybe a very blase air about them. This is not to suggest for a moment that Chelsea were underestimated at any point but there may have been an air of swagger and presumptuousness about Arsenal that led you to believe that this would be just another day at the office for the Gunners. And so it eventually proved.
For just a minute or two you were taken back to your first childhood FA Cup Final, your earliest and fondest recollection, Bertie Mee's well-disciplined Arsenal including the likes of Eddie Kelly, Peter Storey, George Graham, George Armstrong, Frank Mclintock and the lanky, long hair of Charlie George were a team of regular entertainers, mischievous music hall characters and Double winners in 1971 when decimalisation changed everybody's penny in their pockets.
Roll forward 49 years later and Mikel Arteta's Arsenal were a side of worldly and cosmopolitan artists and artisans, a side of undoubted pedigree and flair but still yet to discover their true worth and status. After one of the club's most underwhelming seasons in the Premier League where Arsenal had to beat Chelsea to qualify for a place in Europe this was an Arsenal team still patiently waiting for their moment in the sun.
That they succeeded in their objective of clinching a place in next season's Europa League is probably much more a testament to Arteta and his backroom coaching staff than anything else. When Arsenal stopped the seemingly unstoppable Manchester City in the FA Cup semi final at Wembley it felt as if Arsenal were about to put their foot on the accelerator and just head for the open country without a care in the world. A 14th FA Cup beckoned for the North London outfit and who knew that it would be so easy? Good old Arsenal we're proud to say your name to quote one of the club's old anthems.
For Chelsea and Frank Lampard their new manager this was all about a season of pleasant discoveries, solid consolidation and totally unexpected achievements. Of course they have now reached next season's Champions League which maybe exceeds all of their expectations. But Chelsea have been refreshing and enthralling, an attractive blend of young English players with a reliable backbone of more experienced players just to keep them on their toes.
Players such as Callum- Hudson Odoi, Mason Mount, Tammy Abraham have been supplemented by the elegant craftsmanship of the brilliant Ross Barkley, a now complete article at Chelsea after learning his apprenticeship at Everton. Chelsea have surprised everybody with their admirable insistence on the short passing game, full of tricks, flicks, cunning and subtlety. Their game is beautifully composed and designed with all of the correct principles from a former Chelsea player who did like to knit Chelsea's attacking football together` with all of the prettiest embroideries.
Yesterday evening Lampard's Chelsea went off like a vintage steam train, brimming with intelligent angles, clever, snappy passing movements in tight and confined spaces without ever losing their way. Arsenal were rattled and clearly taken back. When Chelsea took a very early lead against Arsenal there must have been a thought deeply lodged at the back of their minds that something would simply crack followed by subsidence at the back. There would be no caving in this time against Chelsea.
Still there was a cool intelligence about Chelsea and when Kurt Zouma, the leggy Antonio Rudiger loped forward adventurously and Reece James overlapped shrewdly on one flank, Chelsea began to find alarming gaps in an otherwise drum-tight Arsenal defence. The wonderfully artistic Jorginho was ably complemented by the excellent Mateo Kovacic with Marcos Alonso constantly cutting in from the wing in always dangerous positions. Significantly though Chelsea were missing the highly influential Willian, a Brazilian sorcerer who would prove the most crucial loss on the day.
But Arsenal were clearly roused by early setbacks, the Arteta oracle working its magic from the moment Chelsea took the lead. For the rest of the first half, Chelsea's profound impact on the game would dwindle, drift away and eventually disappear. Then there would be a wholesale disintegration as the blue ocean liner would lose its moorings altogether. When Chelsea disentangled the trap Leeds United had trapped them into 50 years ago in the FA Cup Final it was almost a welcome relief .
Now though there was no Billy Bremner to breath fire onto them and Eddie Gray seemed to lose his compass on the wing. Yesterday once Arsenal had pinned them onto the canvas Chelsea were out on their feet. Blue Chelsea shirts were dropping down to the ground with injuries and a sending off. It would prove the end of the road for a briefly threatening Chelsea team with now tiring limbs and a longing for some Mediterranean beach.
When the likes of the sturdy Rob Holding, the occasionally unpredictable David Luiz and the energetically enterprising Hector Bellerin began to open up large areas of unattended spaces in the middle of the pitch, Arsenal glided into them willingly as if the key to the door had been found immediately. Rather like Chelsea, Arsenal were naturally expressive, driving forward at every opportunity and playing the kind of football that English coaches from many decades ago would have thought impossible. There was an easy going spontaneity and delicate liquidity about some of Arsenal's passing which was an instant throwback to the glory years of Arsene Wenger.
There was Dani Ceballos always creative, permanently comfortable on the ball, a playmaker in the noble traditions of a Barcelona team who had always known the right way to play. Granit Xhaka, once spiky and temperamental, established a cutting edge in midfield that would never be broken. Earlier on in the season, Xhaka threw his toys out of the pram, storming off the pitch amid a barrage of booing and barracking from disgruntled Arsenal fans. Now Xhaka was scheming, hunting and hungrily pursuing all possibilities, a player of drive, passion and perfectly acceptable ambitions.
With half time approaching Arsenal, pushing Chelsea back into a hasty defensive retreat, were on the attacking warpath, all guns legally firing. Their football was truly a joy to behold. Pierre Emerick Aubemayang, now an exciting and vitally important asset for Arsenal, charged into the Chelsea penalty box and was wrestled down by a back pedalling Chelsea defence. Aubemayang calmly converted the penalty for Arsenal and the scores were level.
In the second half Chelsea came out obviously fired up and galvanised by their manager's half time pep talk. But despite some positive and neatly constructed football through the centre of the Wembley pitch Chelsea were still huffing and puffing to a large extent. Halfway through the second half Arsenal, finding yet another gear and wind, cranked up the pressure yet again. Hector Bellerin floated effortlessly into space again, ran almost logically finding the hugely talented Nicolas Pepe, whose speed and trickery had now left Chelsea in knots. Pepe moved the ball to Aubemayang and the French striker cut back inside his defender before chipping the ball simply beyond Chelsea's flailing goalkeeper Willy Caballero.
And so it was that the 2020 FA Cup Final had left us with a fitting dignity, a most civilised manner but nobody inside Wembley. It could hardly have been any other way. You privately found yourself hoping that this would never happen again because essentially the FA Cup Final is not the FA Cup Final without its fans and supporters.
What we had instead were those far fetched and hilarious moments that had to be seen to believed. There were the brazen advertisements for that Saudi airline forever flickering away beside the Wembley pitch. Finally, as if to leave most of us in uncontrollable hysterics, there were those astonishing, computer-generated images of countless football fans waving, giggling, laughing and pulling all manner of faces. It was almost a microcosm of Project Restart, football desperately searching for a way of appeasing the real fans who would normally have taken their seats on those empty Wembley bucket seats. How football will celebrate the return of its devoted supporters. What a day that'll be.
For 2002 and 2017 read 2020. Chelsea should really stop meeting Arsenal like this. For the third time in recent years Arsenal beat Chelsea in the FA Cup Final. They say familiarity breeds contempt but this never-ending saga between fierce London rivals has well and truly completed the trilogy. In the end it was all very straightforward and easy for Arsenal but there must come a point in a club's history when even the most masochistic soul needs to get away from all the torture. Chelsea are probably sick and tired of seeing the same red shirts so maybe this was one Cup Final too far for them.
Yesterday Arsenal met Chelsea in one of the quietest and strangest FA Cup Finals of all time. By the time the referee blew the whistle for full time at Wembley even the most vocal of pigeons and gulls had gone home no doubt disgusted by the lack of any human presence. But the harsh realities of modern times meant that this Cup Final was never likely to be renowned as both atmospheric and vociferous. The global coronavirus pandemic had ensured that the plug had to be taken out of the sound system and the overall product would be wholly diluted by circumstances that none of us could have anticipated.
In the old days of course the FA Cup Final was designed exclusively for the masses, vast hordes of football supporters descending on the national stadium from all four corners of Britain on luxury coaches. On arrival at the old Wembley they would twirl their scarves, flaunt their comical banners and placards before filling the terraces with an explosion of loyalty, fervent club allegiance and fruity messages to members of the family who couldn't make it on the day.
The Cup Final was one of those truly democratic days of the sporting year where no stone was left unturned. You would fork out hard-earned and considerable sums of money just for the privilege of standing or sitting at Wembley because you knew that this would be your day of achievement. You used to wake up at some unearthly hour on Saturday morning and then be subjected to both sets of players and managers from the respective Cup Finalists, following them from the hotels the players had occupied for the night, through breakfast before watching them swap warm banter and bonhomie on their coaches.
But yesterday was starkly and startlingly different, so different in fact that it could hardly be further removed from the conventional proceedings of a Cup Final. The blunt truth was there were no fans, no supporters, no songs, no chants and nothing identifiably reminiscent of a normal Cup Final day. The day was singular, unique, historic, weird and slightly spooky. The occasion itself reminded you of an undemanding training exercise, even a pre-season friendly with nothing to suggest that we should ever have taken it seriously.
And yet the formalities had to be observed, protocols carried out and hands sanitised before the match because nobody would ever be able to live with their conscience if they hadn't. In fact this was the FA Cup Final that missed out on its regular appointment in the second week of May because of the intervention of fate. So here we were on the first of August and our body clocks had been wrecked by an unavoidable illness which turned into a horrendous worldwide disease.
So it was that a London derby was placed before our eyes and yet again another repeat FA Cup Final. It could only have worked out this way since we were witnessing something completely out of the ordinary. Only Arsenal and Chelsea could have known that they wouldn't have travel that far out of their way for an FA Cup Final that was next door for them. Geographically of course both were ideally suited for the day itself in which case both should have enjoyed the luxury of a lie in and a gentle tea and toast in bed.
Still, once again Arsenal, having already beaten their opponents in 2002 at the Millennium Stadium and another face-off in 2017 at Wembley, must have been reasonably confident of victory once again. After all, Arsenal have now won the FA Cup a record-breaking 14 times which implies that they must be doing something right. Surely they couldn't be beaten now and Chelsea had better beware because the same treatment would be meted out to them again.
Seasoned campaigners at this level, Arsenal approached this game rather like an important business meeting with a portfolio of impressive successes and maybe a very blase air about them. This is not to suggest for a moment that Chelsea were underestimated at any point but there may have been an air of swagger and presumptuousness about Arsenal that led you to believe that this would be just another day at the office for the Gunners. And so it eventually proved.
For just a minute or two you were taken back to your first childhood FA Cup Final, your earliest and fondest recollection, Bertie Mee's well-disciplined Arsenal including the likes of Eddie Kelly, Peter Storey, George Graham, George Armstrong, Frank Mclintock and the lanky, long hair of Charlie George were a team of regular entertainers, mischievous music hall characters and Double winners in 1971 when decimalisation changed everybody's penny in their pockets.
Roll forward 49 years later and Mikel Arteta's Arsenal were a side of worldly and cosmopolitan artists and artisans, a side of undoubted pedigree and flair but still yet to discover their true worth and status. After one of the club's most underwhelming seasons in the Premier League where Arsenal had to beat Chelsea to qualify for a place in Europe this was an Arsenal team still patiently waiting for their moment in the sun.
That they succeeded in their objective of clinching a place in next season's Europa League is probably much more a testament to Arteta and his backroom coaching staff than anything else. When Arsenal stopped the seemingly unstoppable Manchester City in the FA Cup semi final at Wembley it felt as if Arsenal were about to put their foot on the accelerator and just head for the open country without a care in the world. A 14th FA Cup beckoned for the North London outfit and who knew that it would be so easy? Good old Arsenal we're proud to say your name to quote one of the club's old anthems.
For Chelsea and Frank Lampard their new manager this was all about a season of pleasant discoveries, solid consolidation and totally unexpected achievements. Of course they have now reached next season's Champions League which maybe exceeds all of their expectations. But Chelsea have been refreshing and enthralling, an attractive blend of young English players with a reliable backbone of more experienced players just to keep them on their toes.
Players such as Callum- Hudson Odoi, Mason Mount, Tammy Abraham have been supplemented by the elegant craftsmanship of the brilliant Ross Barkley, a now complete article at Chelsea after learning his apprenticeship at Everton. Chelsea have surprised everybody with their admirable insistence on the short passing game, full of tricks, flicks, cunning and subtlety. Their game is beautifully composed and designed with all of the correct principles from a former Chelsea player who did like to knit Chelsea's attacking football together` with all of the prettiest embroideries.
Yesterday evening Lampard's Chelsea went off like a vintage steam train, brimming with intelligent angles, clever, snappy passing movements in tight and confined spaces without ever losing their way. Arsenal were rattled and clearly taken back. When Chelsea took a very early lead against Arsenal there must have been a thought deeply lodged at the back of their minds that something would simply crack followed by subsidence at the back. There would be no caving in this time against Chelsea.
Still there was a cool intelligence about Chelsea and when Kurt Zouma, the leggy Antonio Rudiger loped forward adventurously and Reece James overlapped shrewdly on one flank, Chelsea began to find alarming gaps in an otherwise drum-tight Arsenal defence. The wonderfully artistic Jorginho was ably complemented by the excellent Mateo Kovacic with Marcos Alonso constantly cutting in from the wing in always dangerous positions. Significantly though Chelsea were missing the highly influential Willian, a Brazilian sorcerer who would prove the most crucial loss on the day.
But Arsenal were clearly roused by early setbacks, the Arteta oracle working its magic from the moment Chelsea took the lead. For the rest of the first half, Chelsea's profound impact on the game would dwindle, drift away and eventually disappear. Then there would be a wholesale disintegration as the blue ocean liner would lose its moorings altogether. When Chelsea disentangled the trap Leeds United had trapped them into 50 years ago in the FA Cup Final it was almost a welcome relief .
Now though there was no Billy Bremner to breath fire onto them and Eddie Gray seemed to lose his compass on the wing. Yesterday once Arsenal had pinned them onto the canvas Chelsea were out on their feet. Blue Chelsea shirts were dropping down to the ground with injuries and a sending off. It would prove the end of the road for a briefly threatening Chelsea team with now tiring limbs and a longing for some Mediterranean beach.
When the likes of the sturdy Rob Holding, the occasionally unpredictable David Luiz and the energetically enterprising Hector Bellerin began to open up large areas of unattended spaces in the middle of the pitch, Arsenal glided into them willingly as if the key to the door had been found immediately. Rather like Chelsea, Arsenal were naturally expressive, driving forward at every opportunity and playing the kind of football that English coaches from many decades ago would have thought impossible. There was an easy going spontaneity and delicate liquidity about some of Arsenal's passing which was an instant throwback to the glory years of Arsene Wenger.
There was Dani Ceballos always creative, permanently comfortable on the ball, a playmaker in the noble traditions of a Barcelona team who had always known the right way to play. Granit Xhaka, once spiky and temperamental, established a cutting edge in midfield that would never be broken. Earlier on in the season, Xhaka threw his toys out of the pram, storming off the pitch amid a barrage of booing and barracking from disgruntled Arsenal fans. Now Xhaka was scheming, hunting and hungrily pursuing all possibilities, a player of drive, passion and perfectly acceptable ambitions.
With half time approaching Arsenal, pushing Chelsea back into a hasty defensive retreat, were on the attacking warpath, all guns legally firing. Their football was truly a joy to behold. Pierre Emerick Aubemayang, now an exciting and vitally important asset for Arsenal, charged into the Chelsea penalty box and was wrestled down by a back pedalling Chelsea defence. Aubemayang calmly converted the penalty for Arsenal and the scores were level.
In the second half Chelsea came out obviously fired up and galvanised by their manager's half time pep talk. But despite some positive and neatly constructed football through the centre of the Wembley pitch Chelsea were still huffing and puffing to a large extent. Halfway through the second half Arsenal, finding yet another gear and wind, cranked up the pressure yet again. Hector Bellerin floated effortlessly into space again, ran almost logically finding the hugely talented Nicolas Pepe, whose speed and trickery had now left Chelsea in knots. Pepe moved the ball to Aubemayang and the French striker cut back inside his defender before chipping the ball simply beyond Chelsea's flailing goalkeeper Willy Caballero.
And so it was that the 2020 FA Cup Final had left us with a fitting dignity, a most civilised manner but nobody inside Wembley. It could hardly have been any other way. You privately found yourself hoping that this would never happen again because essentially the FA Cup Final is not the FA Cup Final without its fans and supporters.
What we had instead were those far fetched and hilarious moments that had to be seen to believed. There were the brazen advertisements for that Saudi airline forever flickering away beside the Wembley pitch. Finally, as if to leave most of us in uncontrollable hysterics, there were those astonishing, computer-generated images of countless football fans waving, giggling, laughing and pulling all manner of faces. It was almost a microcosm of Project Restart, football desperately searching for a way of appeasing the real fans who would normally have taken their seats on those empty Wembley bucket seats. How football will celebrate the return of its devoted supporters. What a day that'll be.
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