Nobby Stiles dies- and then there were four.

 Nobby Stiles- and then there were four. 

On the morning of the 1966 World Cup Final, Nobby Stiles took himself off to a local church and offered a silent prayer for an England victory against West Germany. The rest of Stiles England team mates were shopping for their wives and girlfriends while in an Upton Park barbershop my grandfather and his colleagues were bracing themselves for a jolly, good, old fashioned knees-up should England have won by then. 

Yesterday Nobby Stiles died at the age of 78 and then there were four. Slowly but surely the strong spine of England's World Cup-winning team from 54 years ago is gradually showing signs of wear and tear. In fact at some point the surgeons and doctors may have to administer a sharp dose of morphine because the pain and discomfort maybe too much to bear. Stiles had all manner of terminal diseases that eventually took its toll on a battered and bruised body that simply couldn't take any more. 

But with the passing of Stiles goes yet another precious link of that immortal class of 66, a period of our lives when everything and anything seemed possible, London was the centre of the universe, a pop band from Liverpool would revolutionise the music landscape for the entire decade and the latest fashions of the day would become the dominant topic of conversation on every media outlet. For Nobby Stiles though, it was the look and appearance that captured our imagination and made us smile warmly. 

When Stiles skipped and jigged his way around Wembley Stadium with that infectious, toothy grin, the nation fell helplessly in love with a Manchester United defender who, two years before England's World- Cup victory was instrumental in United's first European Cup Final victory against Benfica. Nobody could ever begrudge Stiles his moment of glory because Stiles was our hero, our man of the moment, a genuine character among a team of characters, lovable, adorable, delightful company and quite cheeky. 

On World Cup Final day Stiles was magnificent, immovable, unyielding, solid as a rock, tough as old boots, no-nonsense, an immensely steadying influence. In the history books he may be regarded as one of those underrated players who never really hogged the limelight because he was just glad to be part of the biggest occasion of any player's life. But when it came to the crunch, Stiles was the man they turned to for comfort when tensions were at their tautest. 

For Stiles epitomised everything that the day represented for all of us. He was brave as a lion, fearless, undaunted by the West German challenge, full of whole-hearted endeavour and industry. To all intents and purposes, Stiles was simply deployed as England's stopper, designed to spoil and block every West German attack with a stubbornness that eventually drove the opposition to distraction. 

But Stiles ran himself into the ground for the cause, covering all bases, snapping at the heels of persistent forwards, tackling, intercepting and cutting out the German advance parties with an assurance and meticulous attention to detail that was astonishing to behold. Stiles, though was always on hand to mop up the damage when England found themselves caught out for pace. His passing was accurate and he did what was needed on the day to frustrate the Germans. 

So when the final whistle went and England were declared World Champions for the first time, Stiles tried his utmost to re-capture his childhood, jumping up and down, scarf and bobble hat askew on his head, uninhibited and totally beside himself with joy. It was a moment of release, cathartic pleasure after all the uncertainty and anxiety before the game. Then he laughed and smiled again, abandoning himself to the moment, mission accomplished and ready for the party in Kensington later on in the evening. 

Stiles was one of those players who once they'd rolled their sleeves up and hollered out instructions to his colleagues, would be the one everybody would come to respect. He was conscientious, powerful, never afraid, always available, chasing and following forwards as if his life depended on it. Stiles positional sense was impeccable and he would always anticipate and pre-empt rather than rashly cleaning out his opponent. 

After the crowd noises had faded with the years and age intervened, there would be little to look forward to for Stiles. Of course he was devoted to Manchester United but the honours and trophies would dry up completely and a gilded World Champions medal would be a lasting and sentimental keepsake for a man who never really demanded a great deal out of the game. 

When the playing boots were hung up and discarded, Stiles tried his hand at management and it has to be said, this would never be his forte. Stiles was never a manager and when Preston North End came calling, Stiles did have a go. By his own admission Stiles was workmanlike but Preston, who had once given to the world Tom Finney would never blossom under the former World Cup winner. 

Your memory goes back to an old Second Division match during the 1970s when Preston came to West Ham and were soundly beaten 3-0. In the visitors dug out, Stiles could be seen waving furiously at his team-mates in the hope they could see him, a forlorn hope. But Nobby was unmistakable, a wound-up clock, animated, fuming with rage, pleading, exhorting, punching his fists at his players and boiling over with resentment. 

In recent years Stiles would have to confront dementia and handled the passing of the years with courage, humility and little fuss. He embraced the after-dinner circuit with as much passion as demonstrated when a player. We can only have given a penny for his private thoughts since today's generation of players may have come as a terrible shock to his system. Stiles was hard but fair, unforgiving in the tackle but one of the game's more hilarious humorists when a joke was appropriate and football was something to be enjoyed rather than endured. Nobby Stiles was always a force for good, a traditionalist perhaps as opposed to a dreamer. We can still hear and see you Nobby because you were one of us.     

 

Rugby union Welsh wing wizard JJ Williams dies

 Rugby union Welsh wing wizard JJ Williams dies.

Rugby union was always a game of red-blooded physicality and raw-boned masculinity. In more recent times rugby union has opened its doors invitingly to women and the game has been much the better for this major breakthrough. But when the rucks and scrums became particularly intense and committed, JJ Williams, the former Welsh wing wizard always emerged with ears that didn't resemble cauliflowers.

During the 1970s JJ Williams was one of the most consistent and industrious of players, a player who threw himself into the rough and tumble of the game with an unswerving dedication to duty and a passionately patriotic purpose that often left most neutral observers gasping with wonderment. When Wales were the noble monarchs of the game during this period, Williams name was often mentioned and eulogised over and over again rather like a favourite Welsh hymn.

His immensely talented contemporaries JPR Williams, Mervyn Davies, Phil Bennett and Gareth Davies were once famously involved in that glorious game against the New Zealand All Blacks in 1973. You must remember it surely. It was the match when Cliff Morgan a former hop-scotch rugby union exponent himself, screamed at the top of his voice as the BBC commentator on the day, waxing lyrical over the kind of dreamlike try international rugby union may never see again. 

It was sport at its most purest, classiest, flamboyant, ornate, perfect in its hand to eye co-ordination and breathtaking in its execution. It was rugby union at its most rhapsodic, a flowing, flinging, slinging, singing, dancing, joyous, complete try that was varnished and polished by some of the finest sporting hands you were ever likely to see. It passed through at least nine or ten sets of Barbarians hands, backwards and forwards, inside and outside, a unique work of art, rugby at its most instinctive. 

But JJ Williams was an essential cog in that irresistible Grand Slam side that the Welsh will always fondly ruminate over, savouring the man's very visible presence, a gentleman of the game, darting, weaving, spinning his web, dodging the flailing challenges, tucking the ball under that secure arm, carrying it for miles and miles until the opposition were now beaten and vanquished, breathing heavy winter air and puffing out his cheeks at full pelt.  

Sadly, the always melodious Welsh valleys will lower their heads today in mourning, eyes misting over with reverence and appreciation of their special hero. They will remember the way Williams would doggedly chase lost causes, running opponents ragged and then diving valiantly over the try line as if  Welsh rugby union would always remain in his heart even when defeat loomed large. 

Williams was a proud bearer of the Welsh red shirt, a lung-bursting athlete, a man with a ferocious roar and bark on the pitch when spirits were flagging. When Wales were romping away with innumerable Five Nations Internationals, Williams was always emotionally and spiritually involved in everything that the Welsh composed and fashioned from their box of tricks. 

In a world where nothing seems to make any sense at all, Williams could be easily understood. He was one of the chief architects and engineers behind those bows and ribbons Grand Slams. Williams was a truly outstanding sportsman, a fine, upstanding individual who always belonged in a red Welsh shirt. Rugby union will miss Williams deeply because he was one who mattered when Wales needed him most. Sport will lament one of its much loved characters, a man with an unmistakable love of the oval ball.  

Vaccine or no vaccine - that is the question why?

 Vaccine or no vaccine- that is the question why.

So let's get this one straight. The highly probable or miraculously improbable Covid 19 vaccine could be on its way depending on your degree of optimism. Now just how far have we come during the last seven months or so? Do we listen to the experts and medical aficionados or do we dismiss all the rumours and speculation with the proverbial pinch of salt? Will this emotional roller coaster ever come to an end or do we have to endure another round of intensive and ultra scientific discussion about something we have no control over, hoping against hope that by tomorrow morning it won't be there anymore. 

There has been so much guesswork and conjecture about the coronavirus for almost the whole of the year that some of us are almost conditioned to expect the worst. The trouble is that pessimism becomes so deeply ingrained in our souls that it's hard to get rid of it. Now though we're entering the realms of the truly bizarre although you may have found yourself thinking along the same lines in May or June.

We must have thought that a genuine corner had been turned when the pub saloon doors were flung open back in who knows when now. But then we discovered that even when the restaurants followed suit with their resumption of trade everything would be coming up roses and tickety boo. Then we were reliably informed that we could go back to the cinema to see our favourite movies and finally both the gyms and leisure centres would also be open for business again. How wrong and misled were we?

We were told that the numbers of Covid 19 fatalities were dramatically dwindling and that soon we could all renew acquaintance with humanity again. Yippee! Sadly we are back at the drawing board again stuck at square one and totally perplexed. Of course we'll get this disease and wipe it from existence shortly by next month at the latest - or perhaps next week, let's say next decade, even next year. It's a hard one to call. Some of us are making room for next Tuesday afternoon or just after the BBC 10 o'clock news tonight. It's time for a little honesty here. None of us know and it's probably just as well that we don't because the plot keeps thickening and the circle is increasingly dizzying. 

Yesterday at coronavirus headquarters the latest instalment told us nothing that we didn't know already. In fact it may have been a recorded version of the previous day's news agenda such was the repetitive nature of the headlines. We are still running our hand through our hair and every so often we're lifted from our seats with something that could be construed as much better news or the possibility of something good which is neither here or there. Still, we've got plenty of time and we're not going anywhere so when you're ready. 

There are so many conflicting reports that they may just well be completely contradictory and who cares about the gravity or severity of the virus because we already know how many people have been traumatically killed as a result of Covid 19. Every day the figures make for utterly distressing reading and the percentages are beginning to get on our nerves. We are now in second spike country and families are now living in different time zones. Some of us can no longer see their wonderfully elderly father in law or mum because the support bubble isn't the right one. And just when you thought bubbles were just those soapy washing up liquid manifestations that float in the air when your team West Ham play.

Today we learn about yet another vaccine in the pipeline. Now some of us have lost count of how many times we've heard about those whispers, those wildly woolly statements from the powers that be. On Sunday the Mail on Sunday newspaper headlined with the front page splash that a vaccine was close to the point of readiness by Christmas. For a moment you were tempted to hug your wonderful family, rush out into the street and show your gratitude to your local newsagent by insisting on a bottle of champagne and thanking them for just being there. 

Now we found that our stupendously knowledgeable laboratory scientists are beginning to see the first signs of a radical breakthrough. Slowly but surely the antibodies within human cells are beginning to sort themselves out. And not before time. These antibodies could play a crucial role in the long road to global recovery. Maybe just maybe somebody knows something that they can't reveal because it could be another false hope and we couldn't possibly take that for much longer.

Still though, we find ourselves up against those multi-tiered stages which sound like so much psychobabble and gibberish that you can hardly bring yourself to pay any attention. It occurs to us that we are now living in the age of made-up phraseology, explanations that sound as they've been influenced by too many science fiction magazines or medical brochures full of glossy looking molecular structures and photos of lovely looking hearts and kidneys. 

But we now have tier one followed by tier two and then tier three which fall into their appropriate categories and fit like a glove. Now what are we to make of tier one since none of us can really tell whether it's safe to tread there for fear of being treated as an unwelcome intrusion? On the other hand you could belong in the second tier in which case it may be time to wish you the best luck because tier one could be preferable and you simply don't know whether it may be the safer option. If you're in the tier three then that could be the best of a bad job or whatever may be the more suitable tier. 

Goodness me! What has become of the year? The human race has officially come to a grinding halt for roughly the tenth time so far. It saw red lights back in March and didn't see green again until the middle of July by which time we were talking about damage limitation. We are wading through another vat of treacle, traipsing through a mudbath that shows no signs of drying up at any time. 

And yet if you were to take heed of those in the know we could be on the verge of a brand new golden age, a glorious renaissance where the green fields of England will once again resound to a fanfare of trumpets and quaint market towns will be populated by jubilant Morris dancers skipping blithely around maypoles. Surely by New Year's Eve we'll all be well again, totally revitalised and pretending that 2020 was just a figment of our imagination, some weird hallucination that we thought we might have experienced and even if it did then we weren't really conscious of the passage of time anyway. 

Winter is here and November is almost upon us. We've had our flu jabs and ensured some kind of immunity but as the torrential rains sweep across the rain and the blustery winds howl and whistle against your living room windows, you simply can't ignore the turbulence within the medical profession. Some of the most remarkable doctors and surgeons are still wrestling with a lethal virus that just turned into a Biblical plague. We shall never ever forget this year because we may convince us that it will be unforgettable for al the wrong reasons. We must still hope for a happy, healthy 2021. Surely things will get better. Keep topping those cups of coffee and remain composed.     

National Greasy Foods Day.

 National Greasy Foods Day. 

This is not quite the day for greed, gluttony and unashamed feasting. But today is National Greasy Foods Day. Who knew? Or perhaps you did know but weren't prepared to let on. For the last seven months ago the very concept of junk food has become too appealing for words. This is not to suggest that we've spent the whole of this period denying ourselves the pleasures of the palate because our appetites may have been affected by the lack of eggs in our homes. Oh for the joys of eating greasy food. 

But come on folks. Today is the day to abandon ourselves shamelessly to those gastronomic goodies we think nothing of shoving into our mouth and just devour all of those things we shouldn't really be eating and yet now think of as the ultimate in comfort foods. So just for today perhaps let's gorge ourselves ravenously on fried chicken and chips in our local KFC and then move along swiftly to the world-famous McDonalds where those who may be in a hurry and desperately hungry after a hard day on the road can blithely avail ourselves of those cholesterol-friendly burgers dripping with enticing meaty flavours.

For well over 40 years now Britain and the world have partaken of the convenience food, the meal with guilty overtones written all over them, the meal that should never be consumed because you may be compromising your health by just eating them in unreasonable quantities. When Mcdonalds opened its first junk food restaurant during the 1970s none of us could have known the legendary influence they would have on our eating habits. 

And yet Mcdonalds would become the most instantly recognisable feature on all of our local high streets, a beacon of culinary excellence for kids and adults across the globe. And yet this is the day when we should forget about restriction, oppression and spartan living. Covid 19 has unwittingly instilled into the world a wartime rationing mentality although this may be considered a complete exaggeration. But greasy foods are those mouth-watering burgers, fish and chips, chunky sausages and barbecue foods that once dominated family gardens during the summer. 

It is though that greasy foods will always be synonymous with things that are supposed to be very naughty, bad and unhealthy for you. However none of us would ever think twice about wrapping our mouths around those juicy lamb steaks, the glorious spicy ribs and jacket potatoes oozing with tons of butter which our parents always told us were far too fattening. This though is the day for throwing caution to the wind, digging delightedly into the entire contents of cod or haddock and chips. 

Years ago of course chips were the guiltiest of pleasures, so bad and damaging for you that you felt sure government health warnings should have been issued. Chips, it has to be said, looked utterly repulsive, masses of stodgy lard that almost seemed inedible. You would look at the sizzling chipped potatoes and listen to the crackling bain marie as chips were flipped, scooped and flung into the air rather like a juggler in a circus.

Nowadays our tastes in food have become far more varied and sophisticated than they used to be. Now we eat Chinese and Indian suppers with customary relish. We chew our way gleefully through innumerable naan breads, poppadoms, chicken tikka, helping ourselves to addictive helpings of chicken chow mein, noodles, egg fried rice until we reach bursting point and our stomachs can no longer take any more. 

Across the world junk food has become convenience food, that natural point in the day when the work schedule becomes so unbearably hectic that very few of us can afford to whip up a roast or a nutritious meal consisting of meat, two veg and potatoes because time is such a precious commodity and besides it's almost time for bed anyway. 

So here we are on National Greasy Foods Day dreaming of the day when everything you should have reservations about eating is totally acceptable and who cares about the resulting pounds gained on our waistlines? Perhaps we should forget about the consequences and just tuck into a thousand cheese burgers, several bowls of flavoured crisps, vast boxes of deep crust pizzas and no holds barred on anything that could lead to severe indigestion and endless regrets. 

On reflection of course the very thought of greasy food does fill most of us with the most social conscience. What about those criminally neglected African countries where chronic starvation and malnutrition remain an appalling oversight? We lead our lives of privileged materialism and then look at the rest of the world with both horror and disgust. But then we shake our heads with utter bemusement and point accusing fingers at officialdom since they should be the ones to blame. 

How the rest of the world would give anything for a healthy, sit down meal with family and friends. And yet most of us can only look on helpless at this disgraceful obscenity. Of course we have no control over the distribution of food to any of those countries who continue to go without either food or drink but we do know that the governments of the world can affect change and this is the overriding problem. 

Still it's Sunday afternoon, the clocks have gone back an hour and in an hour or two it'll feel like midnight rather than tea time. So let's all hurry out to the local chippie, demand several chicken and mushroom pies, a dozen beef and onion pies, several kebabs, a mixed grill in your local Turkish restaurant and then gigantic helpings of chips, chips and more chips. It is, after all National Greasy Foods Day. We can't turn that one down.    

The last stop on the US election roadshow.

 The last stop on the US election roadshow. 

So there we are ladies and gentlemen. This is the last pitstop on the road to the White House. The numbers are being crunched frantically and it's anybody's to either lose or win. American political elections have always been highly charged, viciously confrontational contests, a bearpit of nasty personal attacks, vindictive name-calling and, it has to be said, humiliating, verbal punch ups where neither Republican or Democrat parties should be proud of their exploits.

In a matter of weeks or just under, the great American public will be required to go to the ballot box to vote for their next President of the United States and America has our utmost sympathy. This is not going to be an easy watch by any stretch of the imagination for both Donald Trump and Joe Biden are quite possibly the two weakest candidates poor America could ever come up with. In fact this is more or less an identical re-run of the last American election when the corrupt and very naive businessman who once appeared alongside a group of people dressed up as chickens, asked his country whether they could take him seriously or not. You should never underestimate though the Trump feelgood factor. 

For the last four or years ago Trump has acted out the kind of ludicrous charade of remaining in complete control of America. The preposterous promises, grammatical absurdities, the vain, narcissistic poses, the somewhat foolish posturing and self-indulgence have all been on display for as long as anybody can remember. The words and ill-conceived sentences have been enough to make us all fall off our chairs with paroxysms of laughter. But Trump has been doing his utmost to convince everybody that he's the man for the job. 

Firstly Trump gave us those potty and irrational sounding guarantees that he was going to build a wall to keep him well away from intruding Mexicans who were simply not welcome in America. Then he warned whoever was prepared to listen to him that Mexico would have to pay for that wall. For some time now Trump has been raving and ranting, shouting and threatening, ducking and diving, scheming and plotting almost incessantly without any real understanding of what may be falling out of his mouth. 

In the run-up to the election Trump has been going to head to head with his opponent  Joe Biden a man who, if truth to be told, looks as if he should be contemplating a well-deserved retirement. But Trump is relentless, a well-oiled campaigning machine, pushing his feet firmly on the accelerator and driving purposefully towards the finishing line as if he knows what might be coming. The vast majority of Americans, you sense, will probably breathe a huge sigh of relief when the new President is finally confirmed. 

Last night Trump and Biden were re-fuelling on the last stop of their very own political roadshow. They stood at their lecterns, microphones on at full blast and then fired all manner of verbal grenades at each other. To be fair to both men this wasn't the bloodbath it might have been and the gloves were kept on to some extent but at times you could almost smell the hostility. They exchanged glances at each other, civilised this time but then desperate to land the knockout blow when the other wasn't looking. 

Trump went over much the same ground as he'd trodden on at previous occasions. Trump it seems, may be becoming quite predictable in his powder puff platitudes. You may be able to anticipate his next publicity stunt with some degree of certainty. Trump told the nation that the young and next generation have never had a better opportunity to seize the day and make the most of those idyllic years in front of them. He reassured us that America will always be the Land of the Free, never be daunted by any challenge and would lead the world in technology, sport, art, architecture but not chicken impressions. 

So here's the deal. In all probability, Trump will emerge on the morning of the election as a re-elected President of the United States. We can't be sure at the moment but although Trump is falling behind in the popularity stakes, the charisma and blow wave hair are still intact. Across America the movers and shakers, the highly influential men and women behind the scenes are shifting the counters and trying to add everything up. 

But this is a man who quite obviously believes that conspiracy theories will just send him packing his suitcases and back into the land of nowhere. Trump, it seems certain, will be busting a gut to prove everybody wrong, a man whose well-entrenched persecution complex may just overwhelm him. If he does lose out to Biden- and that could happen- then Trump will blame everything and anything that moves. 

Trump will blame Fox, CBS, CNN, Sky TV and any media outlet who so much as suggests that he is plainly incompetent, stupid and a blundering idiot who should be sent as far away from the White House as it's possible to be. He will hold out those expressive fingers, opening and shutting the palms of his hands before pointing and gesticulating for the umpteenth time. Both men will once again take up that very distinctive side on delivery, opening out the whole of their torsos to an audience who will either be fast asleep or just hoping that they'll just finish what they've got to say and go home.

And yet last night was indeed the final showdown, the last hurrah, the curtain-raiser to that big night when the fireworks will be released. In retrospect Hilary Clinton, Trump's last adversary, must be privately thrilled that she doesn't have to face any more of the music when it matters most. We are approaching the final mile and they're still glaring ominously at each other. Trump, it goes without saying, has got this one all wrapped up and Biden will be history. This could go to the wire but Donald Trump would never appreciate anymore chicken jokes. Let the battle commence.    

Halloween and Guy Fawkes night on the horizon.

 Halloween and Guy Fawkes night on the horizon. 

So here we are rapidly approaching the end of October and it often feels as if the year has just passed us by in a whirlwind of broken hearts and lives abruptly ended by a global pandemic that has now taken us to the twilight zone of the year. The winter solstice is now sending a cold and icy shiver down the spines of millions and millions of people around the world and none of us can figure this one out.  

In a couple of weeks time families and children will be gathering their piles of branches and anything they can find that is remotely combustible, a night that will always be associated with that famous old arsonist Guy Fawkes. You remember him surely. He was the one who threatened to blow up the Houses of Parliament all those hundreds and hundreds of years ago. That he failed miserably probably says more about the man himself than any premeditated plot to get rid of the occupants who shout, holler, hector and harangue until many of them finally develop a sore throat. Fawkes was a dangerous loose cannon and maybe his opinion of mainstream politicians is one widely reflected by many of us. But then perhaps we'd stop short of blowing up Westminster. That would be going too far and just unacceptable. 

Before then of course the end of the month brings us Halloween,one of those mysterious days in the year when huge groups of kids run around the streets in a wide variety of comical outfits trying their utmost to scare the whole of your neighbourhood with repeated requests for either money, sweets or any other thought that happens to enter their minds at the time. It happens every year and has done for as long as any of us can remember. But Covid 19 has dominated the year's news agenda and Halloween may be cancelled.

It's all very well for young children to sit on street corners pleading for a Penny for the Guy with some weird looking stuffed puppet. But this year more than most reminds you of those destitute young chimney sweeps who would do anything to earn a crown or two during the Victorian era. True, we are not quite in Dickensian territory but you sense that this year may not be the one for children to loiter in dark doorways and asking for more from sir. 

You are taken back to your youth when the organised fireworks display at Valentines Park in Ilford, Essex was something to be savoured and remembered for quite a while. You can recall traipsing through acres of thick mud on Melbourne Fields and questioning your sanity. Who on earth would want to come out on a bitterly cold November night on a Saturday night when the dogs and cats were chattering their teeth and petrified? Far better to stay inside in the toasty warmth of our living room.  

You can still see those peeling green railings next to the park, the lengthening and excited queues, becoming aware of the breathless anticipation, children rubbing gloves together as if frost-bite were somehow imminent. Then some of the more daring of kids would sneak their way mischievously past the other kids, squeezing under a forest of legs and then overcoming all the odds by crawling through the tightest of gaps and into the park itself. 

Guy Fawkes always felt like a survival of the fittest, a demanding assault course that eventually ended in success but seemed like too much hard work. So you ran across the mudbath that was Melbourne Fields, racing like crazy to get to the ever colourful mini fun fair, light bulbs in varying shades of orange and yellow, beckoning you into that tempting world of much-coveted goldfish or just a thrilling ride on the dodgems. 

And yet by way of a supporting act to the main event there was a film to feast your eyes upon. In the distance there was a cinema projector screen which looked so out of place that you had to blink your eyes just to make sure that you weren't imagining it. Suddenly you were subjected to the entire repertoire of Disney characters, flickering across your peripheral vision and then becoming much more vivid if you happened to be near the front of the screen. 

There was the inevitable Mickey Mouse accompanied by Donald Duck, Pluto and those lovably childish titans of the silver screen entertaining families from all over the neighbourhood, kids whose imaginations had been captured and seized by something they thought they'd see in a much warmer environment than the one they were about to see now. 

So there we were, battered by pouring rain, shoes caked by mountains of mud, freezing cold biting deeply into our fingernails and wishing we could be anywhere but a treacherous playing field when there had to be other distractions. For this should be an evening for spending cosy nights drinking hot toddies, hot bowls of steaming tomato soup with heavenly hot jacket potatoes. True the kids love Fireworks night because once again they can scream with delight and incredulity at those deafening bangers and Catherine wheels, the sparklers that whizz around for what seem like the best part of a week or so. 

But the problem we have with this year's Guy Fawkes celebrations is that those organised firework extravaganzas are off this year. Besides how morale boosting would something like a carnival of light and sound be when it could have been so different. Sadly there are no fireworks with friends and families because there are bound to be more than six members of the family and you'll have to wait another year. Patience is a virtue. It almost seems though absurd that here we are acknowledging one of the most explosive nights of the year only for that evening to be overshadowed by the most dramatic year of our lives. 

There is an air of stunned disbelief once again about the year but when one of those timeless traditions has now been sabotaged by a savage and brutal global pandemic that has rippled then ripped through the planet like a sharp pair of scissors cutting through every page of a thick writing pad. We might have been looking forward to those whoops of joy when a rocket of fire soared majestically into the heavens, climbing higher and higher before fizzling out in much the way it always has.

 Still, we could always try again next year when that celebrated pyrotechnical wizard who almost destroyed that equally as well known seat of democracy will be spoken of again. Boris Johnson for one may be looking forward to November 5. We could probably do with some fireworks on those green House of Commons benches. It's been a long time now but perhaps the further away they keep from us the better it'll be for all of us. Mind you some of us still miss Dennis Skinner. Now there was a firecracker if ever there was one. 

Covid 19 hits Liverpool but the Mersey ferry sails on.

 Covid 19 hits Liverpool but the Mersey ferry sails on. 

Covid 19 is still spreading its dangerous tentacles far and wide over hill, valley and moor. On Merseyside the mists of its autumnal splendour are drifting towards the murky docks and life is hard, unbearable at times but then the fine, upstanding folks of this now legendary city still hope that one day that their patience will be rewarded and football will become the melodious leitmotif, the signature tune for both Liverpool and Everton's grandest attacking symphonies. 

You can throw anything at Liverpool and Everton but you'll never dampen their unflagging spirits and throbbing passions. For the first time in seemingly ages both Everton, now top of the Premier League and Liverpool, clinging onto their derby neighbours in second, are the major pacesetters in the embryonic stages of a brand new Premier League season. This is rapidly turning into one of the most remarkably hig- scoring starts to any football season. 

But yesterday it almost as if the whole of Liverpool had been submerged by the most depressing gloom ever to fall over any thriving English city. The coronavirus has now sunk its teeth into every conceivable area of our lives and Liverpool was poorly, woebegone, sick and trying to keep the proverbial stiff upper lip in the face of adversity. Wherever you looked there were all manner of masks, face coverings, day- trippers and residents rationalising something that couldn't be understood and then burying their head in their hands.

Over at Goodison Park Everton and Liverpool were playing their 100 something derby on a stage that was stripped and naked, a ground both solemn and sombre. There was not a soul in sight, none of those fanatical reds and blues lobbing hostile and, occasionally good-natured barbs at each other. For well over a century the footballing parishioners and feverish zealots of Liverpool and Everton have congregated, swayed and tumbled down the terraces of either Goodison or Anfield in that traditional footballing rendezous where waspish Scouse humour has often joined forces with memorable chants. 

A fortnight ago Liverpool were quite amazingly steamrollered by Aston Villa at Villa Park in a 7-2 defeat that bore no relation to anything that had preceded the club since the end of their last Premier League winning season and the start of the new season. To say it was a shock would be the most gross understatement of all time. How on earth had a delightful trophy-winning club reached such rock bottom and in such mind-boggling circumstances? Had Liverpool forgotten where they were, losing their bearings completely perhaps. For there can be no other plausible explanation for such a cataclysmic defensive collapse.

But when Sadio Mane gave Liverpool the lead it seemed as if the capitulation at Villa Park was merely a temporary blip, a crazy indiscretion that would never be allowed to happen ever again. Then the young and thrusting England upstart Dominic Calvert Lewin levelled for Everton and Goodison remembered the heroic deeds of Howard Kendall, Alan Ball and Colin Harvey during the 1970s, the smooth and streamlined trio of Kevin Sheedy, Paul Bracewell and the tigerish Peter Reid a decade later before entertaining ambitious hopes of winning the Premier League for the first time in the 21st century. 

Under Carlo Ancelotti, Everton have one of the shrewdest and coolest of managers, a man whose body language betrays nothing and gives the overriding impression that Italy have lost a World Cup Final rather than leading his latest club to a bells and whistles Premier League trophy. Ancelott is now a wise managerial veteran who has probably seen it all and that phlegmatic, grumpy face seems destined to remain that way regardless of who he may be managing. 

At Chelsea Ancelotti almost went to the top of the hill and won the Premier League but then discovered a seemingly arrogant Portuguese named Jose Mourinho who was convinced he could go one step further. History now tells us that Mourinho had perhaps a couple of tricks under the sleeve and although Ancelott was a brilliant strategist, the resources available to Mourinho were far greater once the Russian oligarch Roman Abramovich had got hold of the club.

Now though Ancelotti has got a new toy to play with and these are encouraging times for Everton. In this hard and challenging year for the world, Ancelotti may not be the man to leave us laughing in the aisles but he does know how to fashion and mould a team going nowhere. Everton have merely started the season promisingly but the crackling and crunching leaves of autumn have just settled, the peaty bogs of the countryside are now drenched with the fragrance of a new season and the log fires of winter are but a heart-beat away. 

In the middle of it all Everton have reaped a bumper harvest of early-season victories and top the Premier League deservedly. For ages they have endured that looming inferiority complex that their Merseyside rivals have taken a sadistic pleasure in all so frequently. Last season Everton must have been consumed with jealousy at the comings and goings at Anfield and when Liverpool finally rubber-stamped their thumping superiority over the blue half in August with a 25 point lead that just bordered on humiliation, Everton must have thought that things could never get any worse. 

But here we are into the second month of the new season in October and Everton have their noses in front in what still seems like some incredible figment of our imagination. We must hope that sooner or later the fans who are very much the lifeblood and raison d'etre for football's welfare, will finally be welcomed back rather like those demob happy Second World War soldiers running into their arms of their loved ones after a punishing train journey. 

The traditionalists among us are still at a loss since some of us need to be told that eight'o'clock kick offs on Saturday evenings are just some daft experiment rather than, quite literally, a permanent fixture. It does seem that the fixture planners are simply frustrated, music hall comedians rather than those with a passionate interest in football. Maybe football has taken leave of its senses. Saturday night used to be the perfect opportunity for all footballers to sample a tantalising glimpse of night-life but now they may be required to trip the light fantastic on a Premier League stage. Still, another eight months of combat, drama and excitement stretch ahead and the fans may have been a secondary consideration anyway. Let the goal glut continue.      

It's Friday folks and still no sign of an end to Coronavirus.

 It's Friday folks and still no sign of an end to Coronavirus.

You'd have thought we'd be turning a corner but if anything there is nothing but deterioration, more hardship, much more struggling, head-scratching, fury, exasperation and no really clear indication as to when and how long this can possibly go on for. Since the beginning of Covid 19 we've arrived at so many false dawns and grim prognostications that you begin to wonder what Nostrodamus would have made of the current state of affairs. 

At this rate we may well have forgotten which year we're in, what time it is and when our next family visit is likely to be. Because yesterday we were given another bombshell as if we haven't received enough of them for the last six months. We are now adopting a genuine, wartime mentality where you feel sure air raid wardens will be employed late at night and the wailing sirens will become the predominant sound of the times. 

Yesterday, Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister barked out the ultimate warning. London should prepare for a long, hard winter but there will be no fighting on any Churchillian beach or landing grounds because we haven't got the appropriate ammunition to hit back against the hidden enemy. For hidden enemy is pretty much what the coronavirus is. Nobody can touch it, feel it or smell it. It's a rampant disease and virus that George Orwell would probably have given us ample warning about.

Tomorrow, London, the South East and the Midlands will be declared a lockdown zone yet again. Oh no surely not. This has gone too far. Our tolerance threshold has been tested to the limit and we may be tempted to storm the barricades which may not be the wisest course of action. But what on earth is going on here? We're told to be on our guard because the virus is still out there but this time London, the capital city, has once again fallen victim to the dreaded disease, the disease that can kill quite mercilessly if let loose in the wrong catchment area. 

Once again Saturday night will not be the night to party, to let ourselves go, abandoning ourselves to wild drinking, carousing and cavorting, singing around pub pianos, kicking up our feet and doing the Conga around the back streets of suburbia as if we all have a divine right to enjoy ourselves. But no, the West End of London will once again be haunted by ghosts and apparitions in dark alleyways and probably the heart of theatreland in Shaftesbury Avenue where the showbusiness fraternity used to tread the boards.

Now though the closed and shut signs are still as disturbingly prominent as ever. Those darling, venerable old theatres which date back endearingly to the middle of the Victorian era, are now just handsome buildings that look tired, fed up and maybe disillusioned. For the last six months not a single penny has passed through the box office coffers and we are constantly reminded of the gravity of their plight. If this goes on for much longer, Drury Lane, the London Palladium, the Strand and many others may have to close for good. 

We knew this would happen because the lack of any kind of financial support had to take its toll. The theatrical community was bound to take a painful hit if only because the public pay for their tickets and the collateral damage was somehow inevitable. Take away the public with no audience and those spectacular musicals have now been reduced to busker status where a plucky guitarist sits in a railway station trying desperately to earn a crust. So where do we go from here?. 

This is clearly beyond a joke. Tomorrow evening nobody will be allowed to visit their brothers, sisters, cousins, aunties, uncles, family and friends because we simply can't and that's a bitter pill to swallow. So forget about those dinner parties, cheese and wine assemblies, coffee and cake for a dozen or more since it's out of the question, strictly forbidden. You must not cross the line, flood the pavements of London, line up outside clubs because the management will have one or two words if you do so and besides those clubs are just boarded up and very solitary structures, crying and weeping privately you suspect.

There is definitely an air of victimisation in dear old Britain and now London. What, they may understandably think, have they done to deserve this? It's not even as if the human race has done anything wrong although perhaps we have and nobody told us. We go about our daily lives, keep our noses clean, never step out of line, always look at our best and generally conduct ourselves in a respectable fashion. 

What really does baffle us is the insistence of this coronavirus, its blatant disregard for human feelings and, above all, its never- ending longevity. You feel sure that Covid 19 may be seeking a place in the Guinness Book of Records. At first we thought this was just some brief flu epidemic that, if we all took some Paracetemol, would disappear in a couple of days. Then we discovered that it was much more ominous and then self evidently deadly on a now pandemic scale. 

So tomorrow night you'll have to forsake that birthday party at Uncle Jim or that family get together at Cousin Neil because the laws have been imposed and you're staying at home. Do you hear? This is not the time for feasting, culinary noshing or dancing rhythmically across the floor in front of the vol au vents and the multi-flavoured crisps. It's Saturday night and you must not under any circumstances, have fun. You must obey those stifling strictures because if you don't do as you're told the local police will be paying swift visits to your home and slapping punitive fines on your property. Just be prepared. 

There can be no room for levity or merriment, sharing ancient jokes or sharing jovial observations about Donald Trump's hair or accordion impressions. So folks if you happen to be in the West End of London or anywhere where there may be signs of life and activity now is the time for pulling up the drawbridge. Get back inside that home and don't come out until you're told that the coast is clear. It's lockdown time again folks. This is not a severe punishment but although we are on the verge of another weekend, that doesn't mean you can go gallivanting about the streets with beer bottles in your hand and behaving disgracefully. Sadly Covid 19 isn't going anywhere soon so just be good to each other and stay safe. And just keep calm.    

Squeezebox man Trump strikes again and Covid 19.

 Squeezebox man Trump strikes again and Covid 19.

We are now well and truly entering the realms of the unfathomable and the indecipherable. This is a bent, twisted and misshapen object, a global virus which is spreading so far and fast that it looks like completely spiralling out of control so dramatically that, eventually, the end of the world may come sooner rather than later. Just when we thought it was safe to come out of our besieged bunker then things go backwards rather than forwards.

Until a couple of weeks ago Britain thought it had got a proper hold on coronavirus. We assumed that a vaccine would be with us in no time at all and that all of those Christmas celebrations would bear fruition just in time for the first mince pie or slice of turkey. But the looming spectre of yet more medical setbacks and greater numbers of second spikes has rendered this physically impossible. Apparently, there are small cross-sections of Britain who have been disobeying all of those vitally important guidelines and they should be held to account immediately.

So it is that the English language has undergone yet more radical re-adjustments, words and sentences that have been crazily thrown into the fiery cauldron of exposure and found to be wanting. Or maybe they are words and we just haven't been paying attention. The fact is that coronavirus has sparked off a whole wave of new pithy sayings, strange grammatical constructions and things have just been allowed to casually slip into the public forum. 

Now we awoke to the latest news on the global pandemic front and needed some genuine translation for what would seem the simpler facts of life. From a worldwide viewpoint we've always embraced the unorthodox and the unconventional. We've always welcomed differing interpretations on a whole host of everyday issues that none of us can make head or tail of. Within the last week or so everything has become so bogged down in arcane detail that you feel sure that Boris Johnson will have to issue Britain with a succession of easy to read pamphlets that make everything abundantly clear. 

Yesterday the government revealed so many warnings and tightening of Covid 19 restrictions that you'd have needed to be a multi-linguist to unravel the mind-blowing complexity of it all. Across the nation, hundreds and thousands of professors, language experts and academic lecturers have been at work. What are we to make of two-tier and three-tier systems, seemingly incomprehensible sub sections and categories of the Covid 19 hit communities?

In both Liverpool and Manchester there is something very distressing afoot. A pall of darkness has fallen over both the suburbs of Manchester such as Salford and the heart of Merseyside. Shortly all life in the world of corporate hospitality will have to be abruptly stalled, the shutters put up and quality leisure time postponed until further notice. 

Last night on the streets of north-west England, the once-bustling and prosperous streets of this once hotbed of manufacturing industry were stopped in their tracks. Hundreds of managers of pubs and restaurants must have been positively distraught, agonising and wrestling with employment dilemmas, looking with barely concealed dread at those horrendous looking balance sheets, very few customers and financial holes that may never be filled in the immediate future. 

But here is where it gets all tied up in knots, ultimately pretentious language, words that have been borrowed from somewhere without consulting us at any time. It seems as if everything that was once regarded as familiar and everyday has been caught up in a labyrinthine maze of drivel. Suddenly simplicity has been sacrificed on the altar of gobbledygook, a cascade of words that were never related to each other in the first place. 

We have now landed in the territory of what can only be described as a complete breakdown of society. The coronavirus is simply choosing English cities and towns for a second incarnation of Covid19. It feels as if that we've now come to a fork in the bumpy road to recovery. Now there are infuriating obstacles in our way, increasing difficulties and another radical outbreak of the disease we thought we were tackling with some ease and aplomb. 

Then some technological wizard may have had too much time and came up with a phrase that has its origins in some science manual. How have we arrived at 'circuit-breaker' when we all know that that circuit may have been broken for some time? We are going around in circles quite literally chasing our tail. We have been transported from one trouble spot to another and are none the wiser. We are wandering around in a room with our ankles attached to chains, blindfolded on a quite unimaginable scale and staggering around another room with no idea where we might be going and not knowing whether we'll ever get out of this mess. 

Meanwhile in the United States the country is gearing itself up for a good, old fashioned election-cum bust up. Donald Trump is waiting to take the country on a magical carpet ride and onto the Yellow Brick Road. He has yet to discover the Tin Man but he probably knows somebody who does know. Now the man with a wardrobe of different hand signals has unveiled his latest collection. Trump is loving all of this welcome publicity since no man does self-promotion so brilliantly. That image he sees in the mirror every day is one he just adores, an outrageous narcissist who worships himself every single day. 

For the last four years or so Trump has given us some wonderful impersonations of a man playing the accordion or concertina. The hands move in and out like the proverbial squeezebox and the gestures are those of a President who feels that self-expression with his fingers is his only means of communication. Trump's popularity though seems to be ebbing away albeit gradually and with three weeks to go before the election, the man with the bright orange hair is beginning to run out of material. 

Still, back in Britain winter is just around the corner, hospitals are fearing the worst, panic has set in yet again and the year that began with just the usual concerns has now developed into a wartime field hospital. The hastily built Nightingale Hospital in London has become almost an almost unfortunate symbol for everything the government were hoping to avoid. How many patients with the coronavirus symptoms were actually admitted in the first place and will there be many more if the country goes into another chronic slump?

Questions, questions, questions? There have been so many false dawns and optimistic forecasts that we may just decide to never go out again. All the doom and gloom merchants have got us exactly where they want us. Pessimism and negativity are the new watchwords and somebody out there is determined to say that they knew this would happen. If you'd followed the example of Sweden and been much more decisive then we'd never have found ourselves in this quandary. 

Still you'll never guess what we saw a couple of days ago. It was the first Christmas TV advert which means that before you know it, the sleigh bells will be ringing, the tinsel and glitter will be brightening up our lives and Santa Claus will be carrying out that famous tumble down the chimney routine millions of children have probably become very blase about. What have we got to worry about? It might even snow on Christmas Day. Yippee!   

Trump is back on his feet but the world is still poorly.

 Trump is back on his feet but the world is still poorly. 

This is where it becomes very difficult. Since way back in March the world has been completely turned upside down, inside out and never quite the same again for the foreseeable future. Our plans and projects have been put on hold for goodness knows how long and what appeared to be a temporary crisis has now degenerated into a hellish predicament. We are perplexed, bamboozled, helpless, floundering and foundering on some storm-battered rock, crying out for help, simultaneously laughing and crying because we really don't know what to do next and how to approach our fellow member of the human race. 

In Washington DC, Donald Trump is recovering from a near-death experience and maintaining that he's never felt better. Roughly a month or so from now our American friends will be summoned to vote for their next President yet again and the choice is, it has to be said, fairly limited. In fact the choice is non existent, negligible if you like, if only because the competence and prowess of both Trump and his opponent Joe Biden has now been questioned to the point that neither is considered as even remotely good enough. 

After emerging from hospital last week with the symptoms of Covid 19, Trump just went about his business as if nothing had happened which of course it had. It's just that some leaders of the free world love to think of themselves as untouchable, invincible and immune from any kind of illness. Shortly after being admitted to hospital Trump, although gasping for air, put on the bravest of faces. He was briefly very poorly and there was a suspicion that this was much more serious than was at first thought. 

But oh no not Donald Trump. Trump just felt hugely obliged to follow in the footsteps of that other leader of his country Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister. You remember what happened to Boris. We were a couple of weeks into the lockdown here in Britain and poor Boris was just poleaxed, flattened, out for the count. Soon the world's Press converged on Downing Street and the beads of worry seemed to be pouring from Conservative Party headquarters. Boris had Covid 19 and for a while we privately feared the worst although in retrospect Boris was fit as a fiddle, full of beans, resilient as they come. 

However with oxygen mask on his face and ventilator strapped to his body, the signs were not good. Johnson was feverish, bronchial and seriously ill. Britain braced itself for the unthinkable but not only did he make a more or less full recovery but he also told us that the country had nothing to fear but fear itself. There were rallying cries, guarantees that eventually the whole world would feel a lot better about itself. He said that within a short period of time, London would come back to life, the shops, pubs, clubs, restaurants, gyms, leisure centres, restaurants and sport would return fitter and stronger. 

Then within the last couple of weeks or so everything slipped away from us, reverting back to the way it almost was back in March. Yesterday in the northern heartlands of England, where the powerful wheels of the Industrial Revolution once thrived, small pockets of closely-knit communities shut up yet again. Oh no, thwarted again. Can this really be happening? After everything we'd done and all that hard work had now been undone. It was time to go back to square one. That just doesn't seem right. 

So we ploughed on relentlessly, emptying supermarkets of vital supplies of eggs and toilet rolls and checking to see that we hadn't thrown out last week's Lottery numbers. The thinking here was that if we had, by some miracle, won £80 million and the ticket had slipped down our sofas without realising that we did indeed have the winning numbers then life would only get more frustrating. We were already struggling so what on earth would the future hold for us?

Anyway here we are almost seven months down the line and gibberish is running straight into ambiguity, befuddled thinking is quite clearly stressing us all out. Now let's see. Why don't we just hide in a cupboard for the rest of the year until New Year's Eve when Boris will suddenly give us the all clear? That's it. Excellent idea. What have we got to lose? The viral war was punching a huge hole in the ailing economy, the West End of London looked as if a whole procession of cowboys had just left a dusty Wild West town and everything was utter carnage. Nothing but tumbleweed blowing down the road. 

Hold on though we've still got the American election to deal with and that in itself is an emotional disaster area you'd be well advised to steer well clear of unless of course you happen to be an American. It's either the incomparable Donald Trump for there can be no logical comparison. Or Joe Biden who may think he'd make a wonderful president but will then realise that he may have picked the wrong year or even the wrong generation. The popularity of any American president may be entirely subjective but when you've only got two very comical contenders for the role all bets are maybe off. Still, perhaps we've misunderstood both men because both men could be genuine forces for good. 

We are rapidly approaching the end of a year that must surely be the one year in our lives that some of us will be desperate to see the back of. Certainly in modern times it will not only be remembered for all the worst reasons you could possibly think of but it may be the most tragic of all time. Of course history will tell us all about the abominations of the Second World War and the Holocaust. But then we think of the present day and we remain unscathed, undeterred, ready to conquer the odds, winning the battle hands down. 

Of course there was Vietnam, the seemingly endless Middle East conflict and then more recently Bosnia, the horrors of Cambodia and the brutal, murderous IRA on the British homeland. But this year the deadly virus that is coronavirus has been equally as catastrophic. Still, there are three months of 2020 left and we will get through this. It's time to face up to this invisible virus. You'll never get the better of us. We're here because we've done this before and that triumphant day may be closer than you think.

England beat Wales at Wembley 3-0 in a tepid friendly.

 England beat Wales at Wembley 3-0 in a tepid friendly.

There must have come a point in England's 3-0 friendly win against Wales when you just had to blink in case you'd missed anything of significance. It had all seemed very odd and mysterious, an international friendly between two neighbours over the garden fence and not a great deal to shout about. In the end England won because their youthful nippers and spring chickens were infinitely better than the young red dragons of Wales. But once again a football match fell helplessly into a pit of ludicrous anti-climax. 

Throughout the ages Wembley Stadium has been renowned for those big-time, atmospheric, tribal, feverish and dramatic spectacles where 100,000 crowds would always populate those vast rows of seating and terraces that would resound to thousands of cacophonous voices, scarves swaying and fluttering like yacht sails and chants that wouldn't have been out of place in England's opponent's choirs. In a word this was not football at its most natural and normal, football, dare one say, as an authentic product, a marketable commodity around the world and something to be proud of. 

But last night the huge banks of soul-less seats and yawning gaps reminded you of the harsh realities of life, football without its devoted supporters, no sounds, no noises, the sounds of celebration and rejoicing that should accompany these international matches sinking into the depths of a miserable wilderness where once ancient artefacts and medieval ruins once resided. We should have known that we'd feel this way because we had been given prior warning. 

For the first time in Wembley's long and illustrious history, the national stadium was utterly deserted, betrayed and then hurt by a disease that none of us could possibly have foreseen at the beginning of the year. There were moments last night when Wembley reminded you of a nuclear fall-out, the site of a fatal accident, a bombsite no less, a painful void where tragedy has met disaster and the compensation money can barely be imagined. It does make you wonder at times whether football has taken out insurance for football matches without its supporters. How much longer can football cope without its main source of revenue, its emergency and contingency plans? 

In the middle of August Arsenal became the first winners of an FA Cup Final in front of nobody, a vacuum, a footballing desert where only the result seemed to count and nothing else. You found yourself grasping at straws, pretending you were interested and engaged but then denying that you'd ever been a witness to it all. Arsenal did comfortably outclass Chelsea but Wembley must have felt a real sense of rejection because the old Highbury season ticket holders would have felt outraged at what could only be considered as a major snub. No football fans and no Cup-winning jubilation. 

Roll forward two months and England opened up their Nations League qualifying campaign season and preparation for the provisional European Championship next summer. At the moment though the prospect of any genuine approximation of the normal way of life continues to be nothing more than wishful thinking. This was a friendly against Wales which in a way seemed an apt description because Wales were sadly at much the same experimental stage as England with the only difference being the choice of test tubes and bunsen burners. 

England, of course, for their part gave the overriding impression of junior apprentices wet behind the ears, eager novices but willing to learn with the passage of time. Every single England player looked as if they were being introduced to international football for the very first time, unsure how to react and just a little stage-struck by the magnitude of the occasion. In fact you couldn't help but feel that here was an Under 21 combination masquerading as a team much older than they really looked. 

Here we had an England team sent out by manager Gareth Southgate to dip their feet hesitantly into the waters, young whipper-snappers with years and years in front of them. This had the feel of a pre-season international friendly where the result is a complete irrelevance, nobody really cares who wins and an occasion that wouldn't immediately change the mood of any football supporter. England were rehearsing for far more meaningful contests and just going through the motions. 

Tonight there was one performer whose future at international level could be defined by his private life. Aston Villa's Jack Grealish is an outstanding young midfield player. Of that there can be no doubt. But Grealish could turn out to be one of those rebellious types who just chooses to live life on the edge, a trouble maker, an ill-disciplined maverick who simply prefers the night-life and all of its damaging side effects. Grealish, so we are told, loves a clandestine cocktail or two and the customary brewery of lager. Or maybe not.

Grealish of course is the latest international product to emerge from the Aston Villa academy. During the 1980s Gordon Cowans was the suave and sophisticated midfield player who featured prominently in Villa's triumphant capture of the old First Division League championship title and the following year was an integral part of Villa's European Cup-winning side against Bayern Munich. Cowans was a princely, swaggering and strolling player, a player of craft and subtlety, patience and genuine creativity, cunning and connivance. He played the game at his pace rather than being forced into the hasty, hurried long ball into no man's land. 

But Grealish does have something of the Alan Hudson and Tony Currie about him, in as much that there is something of the exhibitionist about him that can be more of a hindrance than a help. Grealish can dictate the pace of the game, controlling and composing rather than being caught up in a cul-de-sac. The close control and neat footwork can only be admired but then you fear that over-elaboration could prove his downfall at times. Still, while there is life there is hope. 

In this tepid 3-0 England victory against Wales, Grealish was joined by a sprinkling of excellent young players who you felt, should have been in bed long before the kick-off. Gareth Southgate's commendable emphasis on extreme youth clearly worked although the formation against Wales would not have been advisable in a fiercely competitive contest against the likes of France or Germany. 

This was the first time out for Wolves promising centre-half Conor Coady, Arsenal's bright and blossoming Ainsley Maitland Niles, his colleague at the Emirates Stadium Bukayo Saka, a rare appearance in goal for Nick Pope and another cap for the man whose first goal and glorious free-kick temporarily lulled England into a false sense of security. Croatia would go on to lose emphatically in the World Cup Final to a brilliantly irrepressible France side. 

However while Maitland Niles, Coady, Saka and Trippier were gently feeling their way into the starry world of international celebrity, the rest of the England were struggling to find a permanent foothold in this pretty ordinary friendly. All three players looked safe and dependable but were somewhat heavy-footed and ponderous when moving into attack. It felt as if England's stick or twist attacking philosophy was ill -conceived rather than well thought out. And yet England won so why fix it when it isn't broke. 

For much of the match England's well constructed midfield seemed to be stuck in a pot of treacle, edging their way around Wales with measured passing movements but then flummoxed on the edge of the Welsh 18 yard area, a case of over egging the pudding. England were all pretty embellishments but little in the way of bite or penetration. Tottenham's Harry Winks once again demonstrated his potential with a display of poise and impeccable assurance in a deep-lying attacking role. Winks looks as if he could be England's new Glen Hoddle. There is certainly an air of smoothness and composure about his game. 

When Winks linked up with Leeds very perceptive Kalvin Phillips there was a presence and vibrancy about England that maybe we hadn't noticed before. Then Grealish slowed the game right down and began to trick his way through surrounding red Wales shirts, a player with all the requisite footballing gifts. Before we could blink England would now take the lead. Grealish, teasing and taunting his full back, cut the ball back onto his crossing feet, floating a perfect ball onto the head for Everton's new wonder kid Dominic Calvert Lewin whose cleverly guided header flew past Wales keeper Wayne Hennessy. 

From this point onwards Wales looked shell shocked and never really looked like recovering, precise in their passing and occasionally threatening before England's opening goal. But there was something indefinable missing and it certainly wasn't Land of Our Fathers which could be heard all over North London before the game. England were now running the show, bossing the game, dominating possession and rarely looked like throwing everything away.

A free kick from the impressive Kieran Tripper landed conveniently at the feet of the onrushing Conor Coady who intelligently side-footed his half volley past Hennessy for England's second goal. Wales were now fading into obscurity and the sight of their manager Ryan Giggs on the touchline led you to believe that perhaps a forty plus winger might have been able to open up England's defensive fortress. 

Alas not. England proceeded to carve open the Welsh at will, intelligent short passes stretching the Welsh and frequently leaving the opposition chasing their own shadows. Now Southampton's equally as talented James Ward Prowse had been added to the winning party. The Welsh were visibly tiring and England's knock out blow came in the form of their third and now logical goal. 

From another high and inswinging England corner substitute Reece James headed the ball powerfully back to Southampton's hungry striker Danny Ings whose brilliant bicycle kick sailed past Welsh goalkeeper Hennessy. Game up and over for the Welsh, spirited opponents on the night but the English nursery of coltish talent had by far the more definitive and cutting edge. 

And so it was that England had comfortably negotiated a Wales side who, on the evidence of the opening quarter and hour or so of this game did little wrong but then disappeared in the latter half of the game. England had won with something to spare but, you suspected both teams more high profile days may lie ahead. 

Meanwhile back in the managerial dug-out Gareth Southgate was flaunting the very latest line in fashion. The dapper waistcoat has now been dispensed with and the grey cardigan has taken its place. For a moment he reminded you of a friendly uncle on Christmas Day conveying goodwill to all mankind. Football, of course, is still looking for the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel. Last night football felt like a lonely passenger waiting for the last train to leave Paddington railway station. Wembley was dark and crudely lit and it was time to switch off the floodlights. Wembley without its fans, is rather like a book without its pages, absorbing perhaps when the story grips you but never remotely the same without.     

A TV masterpiece.

 A TV masterpiece.

If you've been following the TV masterpiece that is Sir David Attenborough's 'A Life On Our Planet' on Netflix at the moment you'll know that you've seen one of the most masterly pieces of TV in recent times. In fact, having watched with ever-increasing fascination this sparkling TV diamond, you could hardly hold back your admiration, your amazement, that ever-present sense of awe and respect for the only man in TV broadcasting history to leave most of us lost for words. 

For as long as any of us can remember Attenborough has successfully spanned the generations with his fabulous commentaries on nature, wildlife, the animal kingdom, botany, plant and sea life. He was the man who introduced us to all the vast and varied life both on land and sea. He was the man who once mingled harmoniously with a family of gorillas in some far off jungle. It would be golden, spectacular and brilliantly insightful TV, mesmerising, groundbreaking, pioneering TV and the kind of television that invited you warmly into a world that very few of us could believe. 

Here was a man who changed all of our perspectives on the turbulent life of animals, mammals, fish, plant life, floral and fauna, mountain ranges, deserts, jungles, evolving eco-systems and the world in which humans live in, a world Attenborough is convinced we've destroyed. He made all of us sit up and take notice, guiding you with an articulate brilliance, descriptive prose that made you feel as if you were actually there and then highlighting with perfect diction and unparalleled detail the horrific damage we have now done to our planet. 

Since his very first TV excursion during the 1950s, Attenborough has trudged his way through dense forests, exotic rainforests, always inquisitive and never short of the right word or explanation. He's wandered deep into the most dangerous territory, pointing at intriguing trees carrying millions of years of history, forever searching, exploring, digging and picking up in idle curiosity the kind of insects that most of us could only have dreamt of discovering. 

His BBC productions over the years have attracted some of the most flattering and richly deserved comments and given Attenborough the kind of iconic status and legendary acclaim that will never ever fade. Throughout a remarkable career he has been viewed with the kind of affectionate recognition that most TV celebrities would have given their right arm for. And yet Attenborough would modestly downplay all of his immense achievements as the work of a man who cared passionately about the environment, wildlife, the future of all creatures on our planet and the future of the world. 

For there can be no doubt that sooner or later the endangered species of rhinos, hippos, giraffes, lions and elephants may not be the only animals to become extinct. There was a sense here that he may well have been making statements of the obvious. The truth though is that he is almost certainly right. The aforesaid animals are dying at an alarming and criminal rate. 

Towards the end of this Netflix jewel, Sir David Attenborough superbly analysed the horrific decline and seemingly unstoppable extinction of the planet. There were frightening forecasts twenty, thirty, forty and fifty years ahead about the possible death of both humanity, the threatened animals and the teeming fish whose days and weeks may be numbered. We were shown charred, burnt lands where once crops and flowers once flourished, terribly neglected hippos and elephants looking lost and forlorn, a world of ruination, destruction, heart rending devastation, an entire universe that looked as if it had been poisoned, shot and murdered and then asked itself why. 

And then there was that powerful, truly memorable piece of oratory, Attenborough speaking his mind with an almost epic lament, an emotional plea from the heart that must have felt like a knife into the heart of all those cynics and naysayers who think he is just jumping onto a populist bandwagon. The broadcasting giant proceeded to rip into all of those sceptics who just think Attenborough is a charlatan and hasn't a clue what he's talking about. 

But surely, Attenborough, claimed, we could see the incriminating evidence around us. Look at all of those huge reserves of renewable energy, the fossil fuels, the solar panel homes of the future, the untapped potential that could become a reality if we were only to open our eyes. What on earth are we doing to our glorious planet and why do we keep tampering with the world, cutting down, setting fire to, shooting and killing on an almost barbaric scale? Why the insistence on defacing and disfiguring everything in sight, both animate and inanimate. There were answers and Attenborough presented them at great length. 

And yet the murderers continue to get away with murder because this is their divine right and who are we to question why? Attenborough, for his part, made it abundantly clear that if we don't stop now then sooner or later nobody will be left to live any semblance of an existence. His is the unmistakable voice of a man relentless in his quest for sanity, a tireless campaigner for the salvation of human and animal kind and a man of all- round genius. 

Then the camera lingered for a while on the Attenborough face. The eyes were red with private tears, a man who had suddenly become inconsolable and inwardly ravaged with pain and grief. It was both revealing, shocking and very sad. Attenborough had been reduced to the rawest emotions, a man muttering a prayer perhaps for a cause that he may feel is a lost one. 

But right at the end of the programme Sir David Attenborough gave us hope because, more so than ever now, we need it quite urgently. He pointed out the cityscapes of the world, hoping that one day that the vagaries of the climate, global warming and a planet that can make the most of its renewable materials, its cleaner air at some point in the distant future and healthy energy sources. You warmed to the dulcet tones of this extraordinary man, this most trustworthy figurehead, this man of integrity and principle, a man who just wants the best for all of us. You knew and we know that there will never be a TV broadcaster of such honour and compassion. His place in history has now been ensured in perpetuity.   

Tories at non party political conference, closed cinemas Boris and Donald Trump.

 Tories at non-party political conference. Boris and Donald Trump. 

In any other year the party political conference season would have been one of those frivolous, knockabout, seaside end of pier gatherings where bellowing speeches would have been broadcast to almost every home, working man's club and anybody who'd willingly take the time to listen to them. We'd have all sighed with that sense of deja vu and just accepted the fact that they're politicians and none of us really take anything they say that seriously anyway. So let them just get on with it and the sooner they get it off their chests the better. 

This week the collective known as the Conservative Party will be bleeding our ears, picking our brains and wonder whether we can still be bothered to entertain their every word, sentence and paragraph. We'll privately chuckle under our breath, indulge them almost reluctantly and then come to the conclusion that we've heard it all before. But this year is certainly not like any other year because even the politicians had nothing to do with Covid 19 and there is a sense that any understanding or knowledge of the coronavirus simply went over their heads at the beginning of April. 

Still, credit where credit is due. The Tories, under Boris Johnson, did try to explain why, how and what to do in the long term and there was a justification for everything that happened then. For the first couple of weeks or so, Johnson, that beacon of lovable eccentricity, turned up every day for the 10 Downing Street media briefing with his chief medical and scientific officers as, quite literally, the middlemen. The flaxen-haired one from Uxbridge would stand at his lectern every day, swivelling his eyes from side to side, almost looking for somebody to confide in. Every so often, by his own admission, the cornea and retina would glaze over, pleading for assistance and enlightenment.

Because the truth is that poor Boris didn't really know what to say that could either console us or tell us something we didn't really know about anyway. So his default position was that if you had nothing to say that was constructive or resembled anything like clarity or clarification then you'd better say what had to be said and repeat yourself almost constantly. Then Johnson trotted out all of the pertinent bullet points, sputtered out the statistics and percentages before resorting to a medical bulletin unlike anything any of us had ever heard. 

So it is that Johnson and his Tory colleagues will be assembling at a Zoom computer screen of their choice and trying to appeal to the hardline, traditional members who still fondly remember the grocer's daughter from Grantham who did so much to radically change the direction of her own party. She also emerged as the Tories poster girl, a revolutionary figure who both infuriated some and endeared herself loyally to the other Conservatives. 

When Margaret Thatcher became Prime Minister in May 1979 the Tories were in a bit of a pickle, it had to be said. They were languishing comically in the depths of anonymity, fighting to hold onto a battered reputation because Labour Prime Minister of the time Jim Callaghan had dragged Britain into a bedraggled mess. So along came Mrs Thatcher with her adoring husband- cum, full-time whisky and scotch drinker and golfer Dennis and the magic wand was waved in an instant. 

At one party political conference Thatcher, as stubborn and outspoken as ever, insisted quite categorically that while others may have given up on everything she would not be turning and that was final. She was the leader of all leaders, the leaders of the pack, immovable, unyielding, ruthless, forthright and goading her party forward into the land of brazen prosperity. When Mrs T. said no she meant it and it was too bad if you didn't like her because she knew what she was doing and nobody dared challenge or question her as she sought world domination. 

Most party political conferences were always fun when Thatcher was around. You can still see the sniggering sixth formers next to her, rehearsing even then for a spot of caricature on TV's hilarious Spitting Image. There was Norman Tebbitt, widely regarded as a snarling misfit, a Hell's Angel biker wearing a leather jacket and bovver boy boots. There was Cecil Parkinson, the posh, prudish and puritanical one who professed to living the clean life and then was caught off guard with some serial philandering. Parkinson was then exposed for who he was, a snobbish toff disguised as a womaniser. But then who are we to judge? 

The rest of the Tory supporting cast could almost be singled out for their very unique characteristics. There was Norman Baker, smart and presentable but somehow too gentle and inoffensive to make any kind of impact on the party. There was Jeffrey Archer, another renegade playboy who genuinely thought he could lay claim to being one of the greatest novelists of all time but then discovered that, although people did read his literary works, a question mark hung ominously over the overall quality of his books. Archer also went behind people's backs, scheming quite frequently and notoriously falsifying details of his educational qualifications. 

And so we find ourselves back in the present day and another party animal, unashamed socialite, gadabout, author, ladies man and a member of the hedonistic Eton Bullingdon club. Boris Johnson will this year be coming to you live via a computer screen and he'll be pointing his fingers, stubbing his thumb onto tables and then waving his arms quite purposefully. Johnson knows the score. 

Of course he does. He does gesticulation like no other politician and he knows what the country is going through. He knows that the good people of the United Kingdom have been gritting their teeth, suffering because of a disease for which no background information can be provided and just hoping that it'll all go away sooner rather than later. Johnson knows and we know that there is no answer to the coronavirus at the moment so we may be advised to just stick it out and maybe one day we'll have the biggest party of all time to celebrate its end. Life of course is beautiful and can be even more beautiful. 

We woke up to this morning to the news that the cinemas could be closing again much to the astonishment of those who thought they were never truly open in the first place. Just when we thought it was safe to smuggle our popcorn or hotdogs into a darkened room, cinemas across Britain have announced that the lack of any kind of lucrative Hollywood blockbuster is proving a major financial headache so let's close the doors and leave it for another time.

 We have now been informed that Donald Trump has now gone down with the dreaded Covid 19. For Boris Johnson back in April read the President of the United States. It almost seems that nobody in political circles is exempt from coronavirus. But Trump is now in hospital and the likelihood is that he may be showered with grapes and approval by those he genuinely cares about or maybe he's just Mr popularity and everybody loves Trump.

For Trump the timing could not have been worse. In November he'll have to negotiate the minefield that is an American election. But now Trump is full of fighting spirit, a figure of comedy in the estimation of many but still battling on in adversity. Most of Trump's opinionated rants are now the stuff of legend but here we are at the beginning of October and the world is still coming to terms with something it can neither see or feel. This may sound like flippancy but those bottles of bleach were not the answer to Trump's continuing medical predicament. Perhaps Boris could help Donald. Just a thought. 

London Marathon weekend- but what happened to the fun runners?

 London Marathon weekend- but what happened to the fun runners?

Every spring the London Marathon makes its familiar appearance on the streets of the capital city. For almost 40 years now the London Marathon has decorated the London landscape with a triumphant splash of colour, hundreds and thousands of giggling fun runners and the richest seam of world champions as well as club runners from all over the world. Then there are the elite runners who would normally finish the race in the top 20 or so athletes who seem to sprint around Greenwich, the East End in her timeless beauty, London's now sadly subdued Docklands and those back roads that never seem to get any of the publicity and kudos we know they deserve. 

Tomorrow London should have been the ceremonial city where the pomp and pageantry that normally accompanies a London Marathon on a breezy spring morning will be missing quite painfully. How we'll miss that glorious fusion of the sublime and ridiculous, the thousands of fun runners dressed up in their funny peculiar costumes, raising phenomenal sums of money for their personal charities, How we'll yearn to see again that varied assortment of cousins and aunties, uncles and nieces jogging elatedly across the capital's bridges, pounding on pavements with the very latest in fashion statement trainers.

But not this year because this year has been destroyed by a global pandemic and the London Marathon was among the first of the British national sporting treasures to succumb to a chronically destructive disease. Quite naturally the Marathon had to be the first British sporting spectacle to fall victim to the coronavirus. Given the nature of runners battling it out for personal gloating rights within close proximity, this was one event that was never ever likely to happen. 

Still, we'll miss those bizarre telephone box outfits, men and women in rhino and elephant fancy dress, Batman and Superman in perfect tandem and a whole assortment of people rolling around in all manner of animal outfits. For essentially the London Marathon has now become established as the People's race, a marathon without any hint of prejudice, controversy and run on the most level of playing fields. It is renowned for its inclusivity, its diversity and its red carpet treatment for everybody. Ageism becomes a notorious swear word and there are no class distinctions suggesting that somebody has been left out. The only difference this year is that only 80 elite athletes will be taking part in the Marathon. 

Tomorrow though a former dockyard labourer and ex traffic officer with the police will stand by his starting position in his hometown rather than the glitter and glamour of London. His name is Ken Jones and he's 87. Absolutely incredible. What a notable achievement that'll be but our Ken will think nothing of crossing the finishing line in an idyllic retreat known as Strabane in Northern Ireland. Because Ken Jones could probably run the race in his sleep since Jones has been running for as long as he can remember, an experienced veteran of the roads, streets and hills of his local patch. 

For Ken Jones the London Marathon will be the culmination of a lifetime spent club running down wind-swept country lanes, past hedges, fields and beautifully preserved farmlands. He will be in esteemed company since the elite athletes will think of Ken Jones and remember what the London Marathon is all about. It's about enjoying sport, doing it for your own personal satisfaction and setting your own personal targets rather than collapsing at the half-way point of a Marathon because you'd set out like a cheetah on some exotic piece of prairie land. 

And yet the London Marathon will be going ahead of that there can be no doubt. It should have been held back in April but nobody knew what was about to happen next. We thought that hundreds of families would spill out of their front doors, line the London Marathon route, cheer themselves hoarse, tell them that the pubs had just opened and then given them the ultimate reassurance that there were only 20 miles to go. 

But tomorrow the London Marathon will start at roughly the crack of dawn and even the birds will only have been awake for half an hour or so. There will be only 80 runners huddled together at St. James's Park and the only certainty is that it won't be the same. In fact it may have the feel of one of those increasingly fashionable fun park runs held on most weekends throughout the year. It may feel as if there are more blackbirds, crows and chaffinches in attendance at this year's London Marathon. 

So on an early morning at the beginning of October, accompanied by no more than a couple of yellowing, brownish autumnal leaves and distinctive conkers that some of us can remember vividly from our school days, the London Marathon gun will be fired and 80 athletes may set off with very mixed feelings. It just won't seem right at all but then the whole year seems to have flown by completely out of synch with the way things should have been. 

You can be sure that the winner of the London Marathon will come from a country where running comes as naturally as drinking water. This year Kenyan four-time winner of the London Marathon Eliud Kipchoge will be trying to add to his expanding collection of winners medals. But it'll seem very ant-climactic for those who still look forward to a London Marathon that loves to be part of  British heritage, revels in its carefree abandon and never wants it to finish. 

In 1981 the first London Marathon was never won but shared by two runners. Even now you can see a smiling  American cocktail waiter carrying a tray alongside an elite athlete. It was raining but at the time that was a million miles away from anybody's thoughts  as the London Marathon conquered all the critics and cynics and a cultural institution was born. Most of us will do our utmost to work up some enthusiasm for this blue riband event but then we'll sigh for a while and hope that this never happens again.  

Trump and Biden on the road to the White House.

 Trump and Biden on the road to the White House.

Last night the whole of America was subjected to one of the most controversial, loudest, grossest, vilest and most disgraceful pre-election double-headers any American TV audience had ever seen. The two gladiators brandished their shields, eye-balled each other with barely concealed fury and acrimony in their eyes and then the spectacular charade proceeded. The verbal fight was on. Both men were seething and boiling over with a very personal resentment of each other and several scores to settle. It was the most repulsive spectacle any of us could remember because we knew what we'd be getting in November. 

For the last couple of years Donald Trump has been perhaps the most divisive, obnoxious, tactless and ludicrously forthright man ever to occupy the position of President of the United States of America. He has stolen the very soul of America, a loud-mouthed, outspoken and dangerously extreme public figure who would profess to have his country's best interests at heart but then spoils it all with wildly inaccurate statements of the obvious, exaggerated promises to build walls and alienating any country who doesn't agree with his bombastic guarantees. Or have we simply underestimated Trump and he is indeed a paragon of virtue, oozing with an under-rated intellect and a vast intelligence? 

The truth of course is that in November America will be going to the polls to vote in the next President of the United States and its options are painfully limited. Do they go with their gut instinct and re-elect a once cut-throat businessman who has been declared bankrupt on more than one occasion or do they plump for a seemingly quiet, modest and respectable man who simply wants to get rid of Trump as soon as possible? 

It was now 60 years ago that America was faced by the straight choice of either Richard Nixon or John F. Kennedy, two men who swore allegiance to the Stars and Stripes while always concentrating on the bigger picture. Nixon, who would, in later years, attract the kind of notoriety that even he could never have envisaged, faced Kennedy, a bag of nerves and sweat profusely pouring from his forehead in tributaries. Meanwhile, Kennedy was the handsome, charming, matinee idol, a female heart-throb and the man to lead America to yet another promised land. 

Nixon would become the ultimate villain of the piece, a wicked monster of a figure, the man who was trapped in the most salacious political scandal of modern times. When British broadcasting legend Sir David Frost reduced Nixon to a gibbering, crying and weeping shadow of his former self, you knew that Nixon's days were numbered. Watergate was that familiar tale of naughty, behind the scenes shenanigans, financial deceit and outrageous skulduggery. Then Nixon was driven out of the White House and none really mourned his departure if only because he'd broken all the rules. 

But now we have a President who of course is renowned for his exemplary diplomacy, a man of such remarkable grandiloquence and flair for the succinct, clear sentence that we may have to defer to his flawless genius as a public speaker. His magical aura and patriotic bravura are unparalleled and he may go down in history as a master of all crafts. Donald Trump though may not be the man the Americans were hoping for when they were looking for a man with stylish authority and unmistakable composure. Not when the chips are down although he may decide he wants to have another go at this President lark.

Back in 1963 though one man thought he'd fulfilled the American dream when he drove through Dallas, Texas on a euphoric motorcade through ticker taped streets. John F. Kennedy came from a well do, wealthy family and he captured the hearts of every female in the USA. Then loud gunfire shots split a crisp November air and Kennedy was dead. The conspiracy theories flooded out, accusations were aired and Lee Harvey Oswald was the alleged perpetrator of this most evil crime. America was shocked for the rest of that life changing decade and would later experience some of the most grotesque race riots for as long as anybody could remember. 

Nixon, his opponent on that far off day in 1960, would slip miserably into obscurity, vanishing into a shamefaced anonymity and a fiery pit of disrepute. Then America would have to contend with a whole rogue gallery of Presidents with obviously contrasting personalities. There was Gerald Ford, a man of honest intentions and principles but never quite the President who would leave behind any lasting legacy. There was Jimmy Carter, the peanut farmer who once brokered the unforgettable Middle East peace agreement where Israel shook hands with a rich Arab sheik. All was briefly sweetness and light at the time. 

There followed George Bush Senior who held over the reins to his son George Bush who then got all tangled up in the Iraq and Afghanistan war. Then poor Tony Blair was unwittingly dragged into a skirmish that degenerated into a full-scale conflict. Then Bill Clinton got the green light before Clinton's private infidelities left an unsightly stain on America. The Clinton denials and then the humbling admission were, unfortunately the laughing stock of the world.

And so we return to the present day. We have Donald Trump, one of the most provocative, unconventional, iconoclastic, contentious and overbearing Presidents of all time. Trump was the man who made his fortune and millions before discovering that his country needed a proper leader, a natural crusader, a champion of the underclass, a builder of walls. Now Trump is caught up in the most horrendous global pandemic and his natives are restless. He still though thinks he's a vision of perfection. 

Last night the beauty contest between Biden and Trump was a sight for sore eyes. Trump looked as if he'd spent far too long in the dressing room since his hair, normally the source of much ridicule and parody, was once again on show. The bright orange streaks are still in evidence but last night Trump once again resembled the surefire winner of a reality TV show or maybe he was auditioning for a role in some yet to be made soap opera. There were darker, wavier streaks across the front of Trump's hair which looked as if he'd emptied the contents of some hair spray bottle but it was hard to tell. 

Then there was Joe Biden, an apparently mild-mannered and courteous man who would probably have just wanted to get the evening out of the way as soon as possible. Biden has the gentle, avuncular air of a modest American who would have much preferred a barbecue by the ranch, a family gathering, sweet corns ready to be eaten and just a couple of Budweiser beers to swallow before putting his feet up.

Biden is older than Trump although whoever thought the age of any politician had any bearing on the outcome of any election? Last night was a victory for nobody in particular. Essentially Biden and Trump simply tolerated each other and then got down to the dirty business. Then the resentment and animosity poured out of both men's gun holsters. The insults bordered on the childish, Biden at one point just told his adversary to keep his mouth shut and the bloodbath became very gory. 

So it is that on a November night an American election will be coming our way again and it may be as well to keep our collective heads down. It's either Trump and four more years of apparent absurdity or Biden a man who looks as if he may know what he's talking about but may have problems in articulating his policies. Yes folks, it's election time and it could get very nasty and confrontational again and again.We would rather it not to be so but as long as nobody gets hurt. Gentlemen, let's try and shake hands.and try to be friends. It may not be easy but there can be no harm in trying.