Happy Birthday Coronation Street.

 Happy Birthday- Coronation Street. 

This would not have been the way they'd have liked to celebrate their special anniversary but sadly the year hasn't really worked out for them in the way they would have chosen. They'd have preferred star-studded parties, celebrations galore, thousands of balloons, even a master of ceremonies to make those celebrated announcements before everybody got down for a boogie and dancing into the wee small hours of the morning. 

This week though Coronation Street marks its 60th birthday. Yes 60 years of arguments, gossip, absurd deaths at times, innumerable weddings, train crashes and pub brawls have spilled out onto the most famous cobbled street in Britain and quite possibly the world, with just a passing nod to melodrama, Shakespeare, Dickens and Alan Bennett, three national treasures and obvious influences. How on earth can we just overlook the 60th birthday party of the one TV programme that has not only stood the test of time but is now renowned for its longevity?

Back in 1960 a young TV scriptwriter by the name of Tony Warren, searching for an idea that would capture the attention of an excited and receptive TV audience, suddenly hit the jackpot. It was one of those Eureka moments that would transform the TV landscape so dramatically that in years to come it would provide a perfect platform for major film stars and celebrities as unfulfilled ambitions came to fruition. Now would be the time to down their tools on their Pinewood or Elstree film studios and wander into the Rovers Return for a swift pint of the amber nectar. 

If somebody had mentioned the possibility of showing just a glimpse into the life of Northern England, with all of its lovely characteristics and mannerisms, they would have been sent away cackling with laughter and told to go away in the politest fashion. None of us could have ever guessed that a brand new pilot series for a potentially long-running soap opera would still be around 60 years later, as fresh as ever, modern at every level, relevant, topical and easily identifiable. We'd have scoffed at the very suggestion, made light of something that would only last for perhaps a month, perhaps six months at the very least. 

But then we were given a picture of this new TV experiment-for experiment it almost certainly was. Imagine if you will the grim, back to back terraced houses of Manchester, smoke pouring profusely from the industrial chimneys. the cobbled streets, the symmetrical roofs, the colourful characters, those gossipy protagonists who would give this new soap opera so much life and vitality. We had to visualise a scene where a young university student would sit down with his parents for dinner and express his commendable ambitions. 

In the grainy black and white days of steam-driven TV, Ken Barlow was a thrusting, wannabe and aspirational student who wanted to be radical, politically active and make a lasting mark on society. His parents told him to keep his feet on the ground and get that elusive teaching job as soon as possible. Ken knew where he was going in life and so too did Coronation Street. 

It is a testament to the acting career of William Roache, aka Ken Barlow, that he is still in the same soap opera, almost a fundamental part of the programme's furniture. Today Ken Barlow is still confronting the complex dynamics of his family with the kind of professionalism, honesty and composure that even he, by his own admission, would never have dreamt he'd still be capable of addressing. 

And yet on an early December evening at the beginning of a decade that we have repeatedly assured, swung, the first scene of Coronation Street flickered into action. It was a quaint and cosy corner shop that sold everything from vegetables to bread, chocolate and cheese, a grocer-cum greengrocer at times. A severe, hair netted woman with a face like a crumpled map from pre-Empire days, walked into the shop and then engaged in the kind of down to earth, animated conversation with another customer that would become a permanent feature of the programme in years to come. 

Ena Sharples was a loud-mouthed, forceful, interfering, doggedly dogmatic and comical character straight from the pages of an Alan Bennett play. Ena Sharples had a sharp tongue, an acid tongue at times, always ready to share her vociferous opinions in a fashion that left none of us in any doubt about what she thought of her neighbours. Ena was confrontational, controversial, launching into one very passionate tirade that must have shaken the foundations of many a house in Coronation Street. 

Throughout the history of the programme, Coronation Street has never shied away from realism, the harsh social issues of the day, a barometer of the way we lived our lives when the curtains twitched and  the couple across the road were arguing over a Cornish pasty or a meat and potato pie. It was there to cover devastating fires, violent punch ups between Len Fairclough and Ken Barlow in the Rovers Return, Hilda Ogden cleaning the pub thoroughly and then telling the whole of her community that husband Stan had the most attractive wallpaper on the cobbled streets. 

There was Elsie Tanner, as explosive and argumentative as Ena but always feeling as though that the men in her life would never be good enough. Elsie Tanner seemed to have a permanent grudge against everybody in the Street for some perceived injustice. She hollered with the best of them, had the needle  with anybody who happened to pass her by and then launched into the kind of incendiary language that only just stopped short of being abusive. 

Meanwhile, that dependable publican landlord and landlady partnership of Annie and Jack Walker would stand proudly by the Rovers bar. Annie Walker was posh, prudish, snooty and puritanical, the stately matriarchal figure who always turned up her nose at the peasants who became her loyal drinkers. Annie was perhaps a frustrated actress, a woman who quite clearly felt the builder who was Len Fairclough was somehow beneath her and that Ken Barlow was much more intellectually suitable for her liking.

But Coronation Street, although dramatic and gritty at times, never lost its social compass because the working-class values have always been highlighted and clearly crystallised. The building yard owned by Len Fairclough and Ray Langton was a clear example of  Coronation Street's stubbornly proletarian roots. The corner shop initially the property of Maggie Clegg followed by the alderman and civic figure of Alf Roberts during the 1970s gave us a revealing insight into the pulsing heartbeat of this timeless soap opera. 

And then there was Minnie Caldwell who, along with Albert Tatlock were those endearing pensioners who were either complaining or simply sipping sweet sherries. Minnie Caldwell always looked extremely content with her life and when she joined company with Ena Sharples and Martha Longhurst, would gently criticise family and friends, passing brief comment on the private lives of her nearest and dearest. Minnie Caldwell always appeared delicate and vulnerable, softly uttering her grievances but never offensive or insulting. 

So there we are. Coronation Street will celebrate its 60th birthday quietly and privately because there can be no Mrs Mills style piano standards, plinkety plonk recitals of old music hall songs and the Rovers will have to remain closed for the time being at least. Somehow we seem to have lost touch with our cherished traditions and institutions, definitive, cultural landmarks, classic TV soap operas that are destined to last until, quite probably the 30th century. We'll miss familiarity if Corrie ever leaves our screen and long may it remain a formidable powerhouse for good. Long live Corrie.        

Mike Tyson gets back into a boxing ring again.

 Mike Tyson gets back into a boxing ring again. 

The world of heavyweight boxing has probably seen this before but once again it finds itself exposed to the kind of freak show that it may have thought it had left behind years ago. There can be no more shameful sight than that of one of the most controversial and explosive boxers climbing back into the ring. In the general scheme of things this may not be entirely medically advisable but nobody said it couldn't happen so it will and we'll just have to look at this most grotesque spectacle and take it for what its worth. 

Mike Tyson, one of the most technically brilliant fighters in the modern era, will once again step into a boxing ring at the ripe old age of 54  and you can only but help admire the audacity of the man. Tyson's opponent will be one Roy Jones Junior who now belongs in a museum rather than a boxing ring. Should both men be utterly ashamed of themselves or do we just let them get on with it and just allow them to get it out of their system? 

In the glittering, magical, cabaret, gambling casino, showbiz capital of the world Tyson and Jones Junior will clamber back into a Las Vegas ring and blink good-humouredly in the dazzling lights. Las Vegas will indulge the two men with perhaps a hint of sarcastic cheering and a smattering of ironic applause. The girl cheerleaders will twirl the board numbers indicating the respective rounds and most of us will either be appalled, deeply offended or just highly amused. 

In the small hours of Sunday morning an incredulous, barely disbelieving crowd will be perplexed at the sheer futility of this exercise, questioning the sanity of two prize-fighters who should be making a vastly profitable living on the chat show and reality TV circuit. But Tyson still wants a piece of the action and for all we know, may still retain a fondness for biting the ears of his adversaries. The cannibalistic instinct that drove Tyson to such barbaric actions could be tucked away deep in his soul because Tyson could be ruthless, brutally destructive when the mood took him and lethally quick.

In fact there were times throughout an illustrious career when Tyson had the capacity to knock out his opponent in a matter of minutes rather than the standard 10 or 12 rounds allotted. When Tyson sent in an artillery of punches to both head and midriff the lights would invariably go out and the fight was over in no time at all. Tyson was powerful, ferocious, built like a bulldog, pinning his men into the corner with low blows to the midriff before progressing to the head with cleanly executed rabbit punches and those cruel, sadistic upper-cuts which ultimately ended up with a couple of paramedics and ambulances ready and waiting. 

Then Tyson would launch a fusillade of swift, clubbing hooks across his opponents ears and neck that would result in a chaotic flurry of punches that ensured victory in the blink of an eyelid. Towels would be thrown into the ring, a microphone would drop down into the ring and the referee would intervene quite mercifully. Those thick, bullish and ridiculously muscular arms would be raised and Tyson would bathe in the euphoric glow of triumph.

 No fighter who dared challenge Tyson's supremacy at heavyweight level ever went back to their dressing room with any sense of relief. They'd been battered relentlessly, completely demoralised, realising that the very thought of facing up to Tyson had never been a good idea. Tyson was bloodthirsty, almost primitive at times and when his defeated pug had been thrashed about like a child's toy, Tyson would blurt out something so incomprehensible that you'd have thought he'd just eaten a hot potato. 

In Britain we've also had our heroic pugilists, our bare-knuckle fighters a couple of centuries ago but then gallant, charming characters such as our Henry Cooper, the equally as lovable Frank Bruno and the formidably brilliant Lennox Lewis, a Canadian- cum British brawler who would just wear down his opponents before toppling them. British boxing knows exactly how to treat their boxing beefcakes and years later the images are still vivid, the memories enshrined forever.

More recent times have seen Chris Eubank, one of the cleverest and most streetwise boxers in the history of British boxing. Eubank was almost a merciless destroyer, moving his challenger around the ring like an accomplished chess player and then delivering checkmate. He would become unstoppable, unbeatable at times invincible. When retirement beckoned Eubank would embrace the TV celebrity round and took that impressively built lorry across his hometown of Brighton.

And now Britain can rightly acclaim Anthony Joshua, now the subject of a TV advertising campaign and promoting his Golders Green home in North London. Joshua is a superbly built boxer, seemingly unbeatable but genuinely down to earth. Of course Joshua remains the confident, boastful, gloating prize-fighter since there are tickets that have to be sold and the public, now denied their fix of boxing, can hardly wait to see Joshua bouncing back into a ring before his adoring fans. 

But now a craggy, weatherbeaten, tired-looking veteran will be dusting off the cobwebs, chubbier and podgier around the waist and a pale caricature of his former self. But both Tyson and Jones Junior will be heaving those creaking limbs back into the fray, shuffling painstakingly across the canvas, arms swinging reluctantly, greying hair covering their heads like wintry snow and we'll all be entitled to a good, old fashioned belly laugh. It will be an embarrassing apology of a fight and we must hope that both men never carry out a threat to do it all over again. May the best man win with pride intact. Iron Mike Tyson though is taking this one deeply seriously. Now that's a certainty.    

Diego Maradona dies.

 Diego Maradona dies.

Diego Maradona defied categorisation or classification. Undoubtedly though Maradona was, by common consent, one of the greatest footballing talents the world has ever seen. Comparisons made with his peers are open to debate but Maradona, for all the troubles and excruciatingly painful traumas in his private life, was one of the game's pre-eminent entertainers, an often spectacularly talented player whose delightful ball control at close quarters, remarkable dribbling skills that took out entire defences within seconds and fleet of foot daintiness on the ball when in possession will never ever be forgotten. 

Yesterday Maradona tragically died at the age of 60, no age at all of course but sadly all of that showmanship and flamboyance disguised an inner torment, a chronic insecurity which manifested itself in outrageous displays of eccentricity. We may never know how much more he had to give the game he'd decorated so magically because, until quite recently, he was still wrestling with drug addiction, innumerable other vices, drink and the kind of irrational behaviour that somehow becomes a flawed genius. 

The trouble with Maradona perhaps was that he was indeed a free spirit, an independent thinker, totally nonconformist, a rebellious individualist who never did as he was told. From a very early age the young Maradona was the outstandingly gifted kid in the playground who just wanted to express himself at every opportunity. He would embark on one of those weaving, twisting, darting runs, dropping his shoulders deceptively, then running at defenders with that trademark low centre of gravity. 

It must have been readily apparent when, as a youngster at his first club Boca Juniors, one of the most esteemed giants at Argentinian club football level, that Maradona was destined for greatness. He would flick the ball onto his instep before juggling the ball on his back and shoulder and then indulge in a hypnotic session of keepie puppies at least a thousand times. A star was born. 

By the time he was 20 Maradona had become established himself as a world-class ball-player, a foraging schemer in the middle of the park capable of swaying and swerving past defenders as if the men in front of him were figments of our imagination. There was something of the bohemian spirit about Maradona, a young man who had become besotted with the ball, fascinated with its playfulness, its whimsicalities, its moods, its limitless potentialities. Besides, Maradona had been given the freedom to make a football do exactly as he pleased. He couldn't make it talk but he could influence a game when he had possession of it. 

Inevitably international football came calling and when Maradonna was called up by Argentina there could be no stopping this impish whirlwind, this force of nature, this intoxicating bundle of joy, a whirling dervish of a player, gliding gracefully across a pitch as if generated by some electrical mechanism. Of course Maradonna was selfish at times and the unpredictability was perhaps part of his charm. But he had innate style, an ingenious footballing brain, an intuition that other players must have envied, a knowledge of the game that was incomparable and a geographical picture of the game around him. 

Because the Argentinian had a theatricality and eloquence about his game that others must have longed to inherit. He could be here, there and everywhere, buzzing and scampering after the ball, ubiquitous, always available for the short pass and demanding the ball when there was a yawning gap in the opposing defence. He could create openings at the drop of a hat and then bounce off defenders as if they were just fragile obstacles in his way. He was unstoppable, incomparable, an astonishing technician, gambling, challenging, questioning, pestering, troublesome, damaging and quite the most thrilling sight, a bubbly boulevardier, a man about town, always fashionable but then crushed by sleazy temptations. 

In one of his first appearances in England, a young Maradona faced England at Wembley in 1980. The South American swaggerers lost on a sultry evening at the old Wembley but the proclamation had been made. Maradona had announced himself on the international stage and, from time to time, just perplexed and bamboozled the England defence with a wide variety of trickery, sorcery and chicanery. 

Eight years later in the Mexico World Cup Maradona would leave most of England boiling over with righteous indignation, blowing its top and ready to let loose their frustrations on him when next he trod on British soil. England met Argentina at the quarter-final stage in a precursor to many more confrontations against each other. It would prove the one pivotal moment in the 1986 World Cup, the moment England departed the competition because of underhand tactics, shameful cheating and almost criminal activity. 

A loose ball in the England penalty area bounced up awkwardly into the air and Maradona, with the most desperate lunge, threw out the palm of his hand and pawed the ball into the net quite openly. The England goalkeeper Peter Shilton, the first hand witness to this ludicrous violation, raced out to the referee accompanied by the whole of a fiercely protesting England team. Maradona had got away with it, pulling the wool over everybody's eyes, hoodwinking everybody with the look that suggested he was perfectly innocent and butter wouldn't have melted in his mouth. 

Thankfully it was the one incident that wouldn't overshadow the rest of the proceedings. Picking up the ball on the half way line, Maradona drove powerfully through a forest of English legs, beat at least five or six players in his wake, with Peter Reid and Terry Fenwick, being the most unfortunate victims. Maradona then picked off his last defender before drawing Shilton out of his goal and gently slipping the ball into the net. It was a solo goal of preposterous beauty. It was the winning, decisive goal despite a late English consolation goal. Argentina would go on to win the World Cup in quite the most triumphant fashion.

It had been 20 years before that Argentina had resorted to the brutal and barbaric tactics perpetrated in the World Cup held in England. The rough house approach and ferociously illicit tackling committed by the likes of Antonio Rattin resulted in Rattin being sent off, all hell breaking loose, Pele being kicked out of the tournament and Argentina going home from England in disgrace. 

But then there was Diego Maradona who made Argentian forget their tortured past, a player of breathtaking artistry, ground-breaking innovation and stunning pace. Maradona had taken football back to the street, a street poet, an art installation, the personification of footballing brilliance and sparkling virtuosity. He was the one man who lifted the mood of a nation that had suffered terrible military oppression during the 1978 World Cup in Argentina when the junta had almost broken the country. 

Towards the end of his career Maradona would enjoy further club success with a great Barcelona side and then travel to Italy with Serie A club Napoli where hero-worship would become almost fanatical. Then there would be the wilderness years when age withered him and the drugs he'd been taking quite brazenly, would take their toll. The now distressingly overweight Maradona would continue his eating binges and eventually the body could take no more. 

Yesterday, that other Argentinian magician Lionel Messi paid his respects to his celebrated predecessor, a far more sensible and respectable figure with none of the self-destructiveness of the man he must have idolised. Diego Maradona had lived his life to the full, burnt too many candles and metaphorically fallen off a cliff. Those mad, drug-addled staring eyes with which the man fixed  a TV camera against Greece will now haunt every football supporter who recognises genius when they see it. Of course Maradonna was an exceptionally gifted footballer. But we have to forget the darker side of his character because this is not the way he would have wanted to be remembered. Let's recall the good days Diego.      

So here we are a month to go to Christmas.

 A month to go before Christmas.

So here we are a month to go before Christmas and, then shortly before the Jewish festival of Chanukah. The old certainties should always be acknowledged. You've got to remember the traditions, the annual festivities, the family gatherings, the booze, the turkey and trimmings, the tinsel bedecked tree, the presents nestling comfortably next to the tree, the doting parents and grandparents, the warm intimacy, the camaraderie, the smiles and the ensuing chaos that follows when the kids discover that their toys are missing the batteries. 

But there's exactly a month to go to Christmas and this year's festivities will quite clearly not be the same. Quite dramatically and cataclysmically, this Christmas has been given the thumbs up and the green light but with disturbing differences and uncharacteristic changes to the schedule. We now know that Covid 19 has now rendered the whole period a seemingly pointless exercise. But we're determined to celebrate the festive holiday in much the way we always have and none of us will be daunted by the restrictions. 

For a while some of us were convinced that Christmas would have to be cancelled completely which would have been regarded as unthinkable at the beginning of this year. But slowly but surely 2020 unravelled like some knotted and twisted ball of cotton wool. The trouble is though that this ball of cotton wool is absolutely filthy and tattered, ready for the bin. By the middle of summer we were resigned to our fate, happy to be with immediate family but sadly prevented from mixing with grandparents, parents, uncles, aunties, cousins, brothers and sisters in law. 

Christmas must though be allowed to take place because we have to observe the sacred customs and rituals that have sustained us for as long as any of us can remember. How can we not cut up the turkey, plunge into a tureen of brussel sprouts, pour brown gravy over this mouth-watering concoction and then plant a paper hat on our head, admiring Her Majesty the Queen at three o'clock in the afternoon on the TV. These are the reliable conventions of modern-day life and besides, we've always done it this way. 

How on earth could Christmas Day and Boxing Day ever be overlooked or simply forgotten when the whole world does the same thing year after year. This is the one period when we are re-acquainted with family who may live at the other end of the country. It is the one time of the year when, just for a couple of days we can just loosen up, lighten up, pulling crackers, laughing whole-heartedly at the outrageous silliness of it all and then filling up with a deeply satisfying malt whisky or port followed by cheese and pineapple on sticks and a whole host of savoury crisps. 

Of course those who may be of a devoutly Christian persuasion, a visit to the local church for Mass on Christmas Eve is a vital necessity. Then you'll probably wander down to your chapel of worship, giggle at the vicar's beard and then proceed to pray on Christmas Day. That's what you've always done and nothing is going to stop you now. The pews will resound clearly to the sacrosanct hymns while Ding, Dong Merrily on High is recited with full vigour from the diaphragm. 

Then again on reflection this can't be the customary Christmas because the UK government will be watching us like a hawk. We can invite a specific number of our family around for the yearly knees up but they have to keep a respectful distance from us in case the virus is still at large on some part of our clothing. It all sounds bonkers to the outside observer but we've just got to get on with it. 

The arrangement is that for only a couple of days after Christmas can we mingle harmoniously with each other as long as we don't forget ourselves and get completely plastered. And therein lies the crux of the problem. What to make of alcoholic excess and wild intoxication. We all know that the temptation to drink booze until we're flat out on the floor, is too good to resist. Still, concessions will be made and as long as we don't stagger out of our homes on the day after Boxing Day and collapse onto the pavement with a full tank of lager from the previous day then maybe things will proceed as normal. 

Still, this is the one Christmas when we will quite literally have to err on the side of caution, consciously avoiding contact with each other and remembering the repercussions of our actions if things get out of hand. But hold on Christmas, in essence, is all about family and extended family and how will that be physically possible? We will be in close proximity with each other whether we like it or not and if all uncles, aunties and cousins all want to share the same sofa space how on earth is this going to work?

There is a nagging suspicion here that the very nature of Covid 19 doesn't allow much room for manoeuvre quite obviously or so it would seem. If we're all in the same dining room and the dog is scurrying around in the way that all excitable canines always do, then this has all the makings of a taboo practice. We'll be moving in and out of the hallway, strolling into the kitchen for another top up, running up and down the stairs at the same time, colliding with the kids again and then meekly apologising for getting in each other's way. This is not a viable proposition and privately we must know it. 

On the second day of December the lockdown will be released again rather like one of those Foster and Allen albums advertised every year. The pubs, clubs, restaurants, cafes, nail bars, hairdressers, utility shops, haberdashery stores, fast food outlets and the chippie on the corner, will all be open yet again just when you thought they'd be closed forever. Oh and we mustn't forget the gyms because some of us have really missed the gyms. And then of course there are the swimming pools and Lidos which may not be advisable in the depths of winter but then again who cares? And those leisure centres.

And then the offices that have flung open their doors will insist on their perennial parties in the local watering hole. Huge groups of revellers will descend on the bar like people in a desert who haven't seen water for years. They'll reach over each other, lunging out for trays groaning with every bottle of amber liquid imaginable. The cocktails will be flowing, glasses of beer spilling profusely everywhere and before you know it social distancing will seem a total irrelevance. 

However the warnings have been announced, the conditions and boundaries are in place and you all know what you've got to do. It is almost Christmas after all and for the Jewish community it'll be Chanukah which some of us just adore because doughnuts will be devoured with some relish and the sweetness of life will be rejoiced in. If you're preparing for the festive season now then some of us wouldn't say no to a mince pie or seven. Or possibly not. Keep well everybody and keep smiling. 

Unusual look at the top of the Premier League.

 Unusual look at the top of the Premier League.

It was business as usual at the top of the Premier League. The great and good are leading the way while the less fashionable are still leaving us ever so slightly shocked and surprised. Football loves the unpredictable, the whimsical, the oddities of life that are very much the rich tapestry of everything we hold dear in the game.Suddenly, and quite out of the blue, there come along a whole batch of teams in the top flight who race out of the blocks at the beginning of a new Premier League season and catch all of us unawares. 

This weekend Spurs, who last won the old First Division championship almost six decades ago, are back on the top of the world. It is indeed heartening to see the club who quite richly celebrated the game's purest attacking principles under manager Bill Nicholson, are top of the Premier League. For those of us who pin our colours to the vintage claret and blue of West Ham United, this does leave you ever so slightly lost for words and queasy in the stomach. 

Under Jose Mourinho, quite possibly one of the most miserable, ungrateful and narcissistic managers in the game, Spurs have travelled a long way towards the summit. At Manchester United, Mourinho almost lost not only the dressing room at Manchester United but also fell out of favour with the entire footballing community. His now almost notorious eyeballing confrontation with Paul Pogba is now football folklore and we may never know whether the two kissed and made up. 

And yet here we are over two months into the new Premier League season and Mourinho is re-capturing his golden Chelsea days when back to back Premier League titles were achieved with almost arrogant ease. But his tenure at United is now the only major concern to trouble the hierarchy at the new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium. Mourinho is still capable of blowing a gasket when things go haywire and Spurs have to be privately worried that if Mourinho does get all hot, bothered and antagonistic, the whole of North London will have to batten down the hatches, flee for shelter and avoid the verbal backlash. 

On Saturday evening Spurs announced their potential Premier League title credentials with an impressively confident dismissal of Manchester City, very much the template for all aspiring winners of the Premier League. When the final whistle went at Spurs both Pep Guardiola and Mourinho touched elbows, acknowledged each other's considerable managerial prowess and went their merry way. Both men are completely familiar with each other's attacking philosophy and it was hard to distinguish the merits of both men's teams because at times both looked a carbon copy of each other. 

When Spurs though get it right on the day their football is a sweetly flavoured mixture of honey and syrup, an irresistible side, full of quick, nimble, classical passing and high intensity. They break at a speed that is almost intimidating, they combine elegantly through the centre of the pitch and the lines and then allow the brilliant Harry Kane to finish with a beautiful coat of emulsion paint. Spurs, by their own admission, though are not the finished article but they do have the right fabrics and furnishings. 

On Sunday the likes of Son Heung Min, provided some of the more decorative touches to this lavish Tottenham feast, a player of bountiful skill on the ball and astonishing intelligence. Heung Min can also be relied on to score some of those spectacular goals that make him such a valuable asset to Spurs. With the likes of Giovanni Lo Celso and Tangy Ndombole adding to the silkiness and smoothness of their well oiled and versatile unit, Spurs are heading in the right kind of direction. Occasionally there are the erratic and madcap moments which lead you to believe otherwise and there can be a flakiness to some of Spurs football, the 3-3 draw at home West Ham earlier on the season being a perfect example of when Spurs simply imploded. 

But Jose Mourinho can look at the Premier League table with just a touch of haughty pride. Comparisons between the Double winning Spurs season from almost 60 years ago are of course ill judged and invidious and although Kane is not quite Jimmy Greaves, nor Lo Celso Alan Gilzean or Terry Dyson Spurs will be pleased that the modern version have found the right and compatible blend. 

At Liverpool the 3-0 thrashing of close Premier League contenders Leicester City had something of a carnival air about it. The 7-2 demolition suffered by Liverpool at Aston Villa just seems like some surreal art installation, full of weird and twisted shapes. It may have been a rush of the blood to the head or maybe the moon was in the wrong position but Jurgen Klopp must be hoping that the result was some ridiculous aberration that will never ever happen again.  

On Saturday evening the marvellously cohesive and artistic football that Liverpool have so often blown teams away with, materialised like a dream. Liverpool once again moved the ball around among themselves with an almost proprietorial air about them. The ball is cherished and protected, caressed and nurtured, the patterns symmetrical at all times, the football, an object of adoration and idolatry. When Sadio Mane, Roberto Firmino, the newcomer Diogo Jota and Mo Salah take possession of the ball you're reminded of a luggage carousel at an airport. The ball is kept in perfect circulation, rotating from feet to feet in a way that would have brought a lump to the throat to Bill Shankly or Bob Paisley. 

And Chelsea under their former player and attacking midfielder Frank Lampard are also hot on the heels of the leaders and pacemakers. Mason Mount in particular has caught the eye, a player of composure and delicious creativity. Then there's Tammy Abraham, a striker with a devastating finishing touch, N'Golo Kante was once again prominent and central to all of Chelsea's positive attacking intent, a revelation who kept gliding and flitting around with clever probing and the most feathery touch on the ball. Chelsea's 2-1 win at Newcastle was a perfect example of a young team who looked years ahead of their time. 

And finally both Arsenal and Everton have enjoyed and endured in most of their opening matches of the season. Arsenal must have thought they were on to a good thing when they disdainfully swept aside Manchester United at Old Trafford but then came unstuck awkwardly at home to Arsenal with a 3-0 defeat at home to Aston Villa. Still, Arsenal do have in Mikel Arteta one of the shrewdest and most thoughtful bosses in the Premier League. Arsenal have that almost Midas touch on the ball, comfortably tapping the ball around among themselves before stylishly dismantling teams with punchy, lethal and penetrative football that invariably ends in the perfectly constructed goal.

Arsenal's 0-0 draw against a joyously carefree and cavalier Leeds United at Elland Road was so impossible to categorise that at times it was hard to know which team would either stick or twist. Leeds United, under Marcelo Bielsa remind you of drunken revellers after chucking out time at a pub. Now the pub itself at the moment is temporarily closed but you feel sure that Bielsa has just stolen the keys, opened up the bar and helped himself to any glass of alcohol he can lay his hands on.

 His players are both scoring and conceding goals as if they were going out of fashion. The 4-3 defeat at Liverpool on the season's opening weekend of the season and Leicester's 4-1 thumping of Leeds a couple of weeks ago were the kind of results that has put the promoted Leeds season into some kind of perspective. Their football may blow hot and cold but you suspect Don Revie would have found such behaviour intolerable. So it's Spurs leading the way at the end of November but the season has just entered its wintry period and that will certainly sort the men from the boys. Give us a smile Jose Mourinho.

The strange mystery of 10 Downing Street.

 The strange mystery of 10 Downing Street.

There are a good number of comedy script-writers who would give anything for the latest goings-on at 10 Downing Street. This otherwise very quiet and unassuming address off Whitehall in Central London is the setting for perhaps the funniest sitcom in the history of TV situation comedies. Could there be anything more amusing than the sight of a whole procession of politicians walking in and out of that famous black door where many of the Prime Minister's predecessors have made their very discreet, polite and formal speeches to the nation on matters of state and anything of vital importance? 

But the last week or so there has been a severe case of turbulence, uproar and controversy which could be an apt description for any working week in the land of mainstream politics. The fact is that the UK government are in a state of flux, anguished soul-baring, hasty apology, complete embarrassment. Then again was it always thus. How many more times have the musical-hall comedians, who do most of their gigs at Westminster go off the deep end and plunge the whole of Britain into yet more crisis and another a barrel load of difficulties? 

This week has been particularly notable for its sheer political incompetence, the tactlessness, the blundering idiocy and complete lack of any diplomacy. Now the truth is that politicians do like to embellish the truth when we know that they're just covering their backs in a sea of falsehood. In a court of law this would be regarded as blatant perjury, a pack of lies and outright foolhardiness. If the court jesters who follow Boris Johnson around like a troupe of medieval troubadours will keep making a spectacle of themselves then we can hardly be blamed for turning our eyes away from the scene of the crime. Because slowly but surely Boris Johnson, the Prime Minister and his cabinet are sinking into a muddy morass of muddled thinking and indecisive bumbling. Or maybe not.

And yet we are in another fine mess. The whole of the 2020, which should be written off as some disastrous liability, is deep into the penultimate month of the year and still we are moving forward gradually towards some kind of breathing space. The coronavirus has quite literally crushed our hopes for the year, a disease so uncontrollably fatal and deadly that the history books are just waiting for it to end. The number of fatalities are disturbingly increasing but that R number bodes well. 

We've now exhausted so many possibilities and probabilities that any forecasts have been hurled out of the window and re-written over and over again. We've all seen those horrendous emergency hospital operations, innumerable patients with oxygen masks hanging over their faces, ventilators plugged in and remarkably industrious surgeons hovering over the stricken with deep anxiety etched onto their faces. It would become progressively worse with every passing day since late March. 

Now though Priti Patel, the former Secretary of the State for the Home Department, has never been short of an opinionated word or two. In fact she positively revels in her forthrightness, a woman with little in the way of kindness in her heart to her colleagues and a foul mouth to boot. Patel was the woman who swore quite bluntly at her Cabinet acquaintances who are now no longer in her good books. Then she insulted them with yet another volley of poisonous vitriol, sharp-tongued comments that turned the air at Tory headquarters quite literally blue. 

We could be missing something here but weren't politicians supposed to get on with each other when the lights went out in the lobbies and corridors of the Palace of Westminster? Aren't they supposed to make up and just agree to disagree when the heckling and haranguing was over? But not this time. It's all very well shouting, yelling, sticking two fingers up at each other and generally hating each other's guts. But this is animosity, acrimony and contempt on a much grander scale. 

Priti Patel lashed out at her so-called chums with such gargantuan force that it was probably just as well that there was hardly anybody on those fabled green benches to hear the vicious onslaught. The ones who should have been in the House of Comedy to hear the latest Max Miller material were trying hard to absolve themselves of any blame. In fact they must have felt so humiliated that a vast majority were probably hiding behind the backbenchers. 

We have now reached the point where all of the daily medical bulletins from Downing Street are beginning to get all mixed up with what passes for factual accuracy. But Mrs Patel put her considerable feet in it when quite clearly nobody really wanted to hear about her latest miserable, expletive-laden beef about Covid 19. You can only listen to so many grievances before outright anger and boredom set in. 

Then after a couple of days deliberation Patel backed down, a woman pleading for forgiveness and contrition. She didn't mean to say what she said and the whole coronavirus is just getting to her. The pressure is almost unbearable and she simply spoke in the heat of the moment. But this is inexcusable behaviour, showing a deplorable lack of any judgment and she should have been put into detention and forced to write a thousand lines after school. And yet this is all about damage limitation so this could be time for careful reflection. You sense vast quantities of humble pie will be eaten by Mrs Patel. 

Then there's the ongoing case of Dominic Cummings, a man so hypocritical and insincere that any mention of his name should never be aired in public again. Cummings, allegedly Chief Adviser to Boris Johnston, took himself off to the fair county of Durham during the summer when everybody knew he shouldn't have been anywhere near a motorway. So Cummings just ignored his well-intentioned advice and became public enemy number one, a victim of not only his inadequacy as friend of the Cabinet but the most evil of all pantomime villains. 

But Cummings happily drove all the way to his Durham family, maintained that he was just on a  mission of mercy and simply the caring face of British politics. The Cummings argument was that a family member was ill and he'd become the compassionate face of British politics. Then he got back into his car and, in all innocence, paid a fleeting visit to Barnard Castle, news that was greeted with national disapproval and public hostility. How on earth did he get away that one? The cheek of it all. 

Last week that one incident came back to bite him quite painfully. After another explosive row with Johnson and his band of merry brothers and sisters, Cummings left through the door marked exit, resigned in disgrace and found that any of his sympathetic listeners who might have been backing him had just left the building and weren't coming back. Sorry, Dominic. This is your fault and we won't bail you out this time. You're in this on your own, mate. 

So, awkwardly carrying out his box of documents and files with the most sheepish look on his face, Dominic Cummings went out into Central London to look for the nearest Pret A Manger coffee shop doubtless pouring out his heart to anybody who might be prepared to listen. His desk was clear ready for the next occupant and Cummings was yesterday's man. Then he realised that nobody much cares for his welfare since he didn't give two hoots about Britain's welfare let alone his family's well being. 

And the political merry-go-round keeps spinning around like a child's toy. The door of 10 Downing Street which thought it had seen everything, now looks in desperate need of oiling. Ministers are leaving and entering so frequently that if anybody hears a creaking noise in Whitehall they'll know the source. It all seems like some tastelessly absurd Whitehall farce where nobody loses their trousers but the only people who emerge from this potty madness with any credit are those who have kept a respectful silence. Who would ever want to become a politician? It is indeed a mug's game. 

Does anybody know what happened to Donald Trump?

 Does anybody know what happened to Donald Trump.

It does seem that Donald Trump may have vanished without trace. We may have missed something but the former President United States seems to have dropped off the radar which is not to say that he's taken the first plane to nowhere in particular. On second thoughts this can't be the truth because air travel has been chronically limited if negligible and Trump could be anywhere, still seething, frothing at the mouth and ready to go to war with anybody opposes him or stops him from doing what he wants to do. The rebel and loose cannon that is Trump is livid, disgusted, disgraced, a grizzly bear who just won't let it drop.

In the depths of his mind and subconscious, Trump stubbornly believes that he is still the President of the United States and he won the recent American election conclusively. In truth the lingering belief is that the man has lost possession of his senses, gone stark raving mad and bonkers and is clearly in the land of the Beatles marmalade skies and angelic fairies. Here is a man who some believe could be deranged, disturbed and demented. But that may do him a slight disservice. 

So it's late at night in the White House and the Oval Office and the man who would probably crave world- domination, has now settled down for some shut-eye, locked himself in the darkest wardrobe and switched off the lights. Here is a fearless and unapologetic figure who delusionally thinks that America still loves him and there can be no reason to leave the White House under any circumstances. 

Then he sneaks covertly into his bedroom, shuts all doors before creeping surreptitiously into a dusty study where his egotistical memoirs and vainglorious Twitter rantings are carefully preserved for posterity. Quietly Trump then draws the curtains, shuffles across to his wardrobe, knocks over the most expensive after-shave lotion bottles accidentally and then rummages through his vast collection of designer clothes wherein lies the repulsive smell of gaudy wealth and cosmetic accessories. 

For Donald Trump Christmas, in keeping with the rest of the world, may have to be cancelled or delayed until next Christmas. But then he realises that he can still be in charge and can still hold lavish, glitzy parties complete with all the trimmings. So Trump, still kidding himself and so aggrieved that he can hardly hold back the simmering fury, checks a cocktail cabinet of festive booze, rumbling and grumbling, brimming with outrage and annoyance. He crashes into a yet to be revealed Christmas tree, blurts out a whole series of curses, oaths and obscenities, blaming both the carpet and the dining room table. 

He is now stumbling around the residence that he thought would turn into a permanent home. He keeps searching for a thousand cans of Budweiser beers, lorry loads of lager and anything that resembles consolationary alcohol. But the festive season will still going ahead in Trump towers and the former President of the United States grabs hold of the tinsel and wrapped presents hidden away in a cupboard and confidently tells himself that he's still the greatest thing since sliced bread. Nobody can depose Trump. 

Then he gropes around in the dark, blustering and bumbling, murmuring and muttering to himself, congratulating himself unashamedly on his fake re-appointment before curling himself up into a ball in a wood-panelled library, twisting the key on the door and cowering away like a frightened kid on his first day at school. But hold on. Trump simply doesn't do fear or anxiety so he combs his hair for the best part of two hours and then just revels in self -aggrandisement. Doesn't he look handsome and how could America have let him down and stabbed him metaphorically in the back? 

But this Christmas will be like every Christmas the Trump family has ever known. They'll still be surrounded by a crazy dysfunctionality, still figuring out the pecking order and still terribly pleased with themselves. There will be an overriding sense that everything is perfectly normal and no virus will ever get the better of them. So they'll gather by the tree, immaculately suited and booted, clothes designed to fit perfectly by Hollywood fashion gurus who worship the Trumps because Donald expects the best. And everything Trump demands he invariably gets. 

And yet the weeks and months are racing past until the day Trump has to come out of the White House with his hands in the air, as police sirens wail and blue lights flash dramatically. He will protest his innocence quite vehemently because Trump hates losing and will never accept defeat. So he struggles with his hand cuffs, shouting the most foul, industrial language before being frogmarched into a van where the former President kicks his feet into the air, wriggling, snarling, swearing and then grinning for the cameras because Trump just adores the camera and being the sole centre of attention.

Still, there are a couple of months to go before the lease runs out on that valuable property at the end of Pennsylvania Avenue. The chances are that Trump will still have its whimpering lackeys and so-called friends around for some farewell games of poker and rummy, long sessions of Bourbon drinking, plotting his next cunning plan and then smoking yet another Havana cigar. He will undoubtedly accuse everybody of wrong doing and criminal malfeasance. The American public will miss Trump and they'll regret their final judgments of that there can no doubt whatsoever. 

At the moment it's all gone very quiet in Washington. The whereabouts of Trump are not shrouded in mystery because we're aware of his enduring passion for golf. But how many fairways can you walk and bunkers negotiate? And how many miles can you walk on those billiard table green courses without throwing away a three iron on the 18th hole and not complain of boredom and repetition. We shall see Trump at some point but here we are in the middle of November and Thanksgiving Day is imminent. OK Donald, where are you? We know you're in there and you may have to explain your actions.      

England goalkeeping giant Ray Clemence dies.

 England goalkeeping giant Ray Clemence dies. 

This has not been a good year for ex- England goalkeepers. Firstly there was Gordon Banks, surely one of the most athletic, flexible, agile and acrobatic England goalkeepers of all time. None of us will ever forget Banks running around the old Wembley Stadium at the end of the 1966 World Cup Final along with some of his now sadly deceased colleagues such as Bobby Moore, Martin Peters, Ray Wilson and Nobby Stiles, milking the thunderous cheering from raucous England fans, grinning happily, absorbing the enormity of his country's achievements and holding aloft his World Cup winners medal. 

Then there was the 1970 World Cup in Mexico when the sweltering heat of a summer's afternoon brought out the very best in Banks astonishing reflexes. Today we still look back in sheer wonder at Banks remarkable save from the most beautifully accomplished player of all time- surely the greatest of them all. When Pele leapt up to meet Jairzinho's cross and headed downwards towards goal, Banks flung himself miraculously across goal and tipped the ball over the bar. To this day it is hard to believe how quickly Banks had moved to keep the ball out. It was truly the most outstanding save ever made by any keeper. 

But yesterday Ray Clemence, another in the rapidly dwindling English goalkeeping brigade, died at the age of 72 and the world of football lowered their heads, lamenting the loss of a gentle giant, a man of substance, manners, polish and quiet modesty. These are often the qualities displayed by footballers who have devoted much of their career to first Liverpool before travelling down to London and guarding the goal for Spurs. Clemence was never one to hog the limelight or attach himself to controversy. 

Most of us who follow the game already know about some of the more enchanting stories that Clemence left behind him. There was the summer job while with his first club Scunthorpe where he thought nothing of folding up deckchairs by the seaside if only to supplement his meagre income at Scunthorpe. But Ray Clemence was by the far the most professional of deckchair attendants since the tall and magisterial Clemence always knew you to had to work at your craft and when money was always a necessity. 

It wasn't long though before Bill Shankly, Liverpool's legendary manager, came calling and knocking at Clemence's door. Liverpool's goalkeeper during the 1960s Tommy Lawrence was beginning to wind down his career at Anfield and Shankly wanted somebody trustworthy to keep goal for the long term. Clemence was a gentle giant, a goalkeeper with presence, stature, a calming, emollient influence, a guardsman of a goalkeeper, an organiser of defences, pointing at the likes of Tommy Smith, Phil Neal, Phil Boersma, Chris Lawler and Brian Hall, shouting, chastising, barking out boisterous orders but always there. 

On  bright, crisp sun-dappled days at Anfield, Clemence was one of the most distinctive figures in Liverpool's serial trophy-winning years. Wearing a green jersey and gloves that fitted perfectly, he would then plonk his cap on his head and proceed in an orderly fashion. You can still see Clemence holding the ball in his hand and, from the goal kick, he would squint his eyes before fly kicking the ball high into the Merseyside air. Clemence and his cap were inseparable. 

Of course Clemence's CV was almost flawless, a glistening treasure chest of medals and trophies. There were the three European Cups including that celebrated night in Rome when his centre half colleague Tommy Smith jumped almost automatically to meet a Steve Heighway corner to head home Liverpool's first goal in Liverpool's first European Cup victory against Borussia Monchengladbach in 1977. The following year Clemence was once again at the prize-giving ceremony when Liverpool beat Bruges. The Clemence smile lit up his face like a torch in the dark. 

Then there was the England career. For much of his prosperous footballing career, Clemence stood toe to toe with Peter Shilton in a friendly rivalry for the highly valued goalkeeper's shirt. Both Shilton and Clemence were of course partial to blunders, embarrassing moments when they would join each other in mutual commiseration. There was the Home International match against Scotland when Clemence accidentally allowed the ball to squirm under his body from Kenny Dalglish for the softest of goals.

But Clemence was never flustered or ruffled by temporary setbacks or crushing defeats when he might have been tempted to look for a hole in the ground. He would though confess to his faults and foibles, weaknesses and peccadilloes, holding up his hand and acknowledging that even he was flawed in his own penalty area. 

For the big man who began at Scunthorpe, goalkeeping was always a refined art, a profession where the only the bold may tread. Clemence though was a pillar of reliability, a daunting barrier to all of those muscular forwards hungry for goals. Clemence was though more than a capable pair of hands, catching the ball cleanly and efficiently from dangerous, probing crosses that would test him to the full. There was something a father-like figure about him that was always protective of up and coming players. 

In later years of course the elasticity and pliability would lose its impact on important games for Liverpool. Clemence could still throw himself intrepidly across goal to palm the ball around the post or fingertip the ball amazingly over the bar when required to do so. It was Clemence's height and ever- present positional sense that would snuff out threatening attacks from the opposition with an effortlessness that defied belief.  

When Clemence left Liverpool the Kop fell into a deep slump. They were inconsolable and completely crestfallen. The adequate replacement was ready and waiting in the shape of Bruce Grobelaar, the ultimate showman, the most extrovert of humorists. But Clemence had gone and Spurs were there to snap him up at a bargain price. What an acquisition and what an investment. 

And yet after clinching five old First Division championships, three European Cups, two League Cups and, lest we forget, two FA Cup runners up medals, it must have felt as if there was little left to achieve in the game. But Clemence persevered and was called up by the England coaching set up where his immense knowledge of the game would be passed on willingly and unselfishly. Everybody felt they could be his lifelong friend.

In recent years Clemence's health horribly deteriorated and his appearances became increasingly less frequent. The square lantern jaw, chiselled and always clean-shaven, could no longer break into laughter and age withered him. The memories though would never fade and the love of his closely-knit family and friends was totally unconditional.

So here we at the end of what feels like the most disastrous years of our lives although some of us will always be grateful to Zoom. Ray Clemence has now joined Gordon Banks and Peter Bonetti in goalkeeping heaven and football fans everywhere will sniffle into their handkerchieves once again. This is just the latest episode in a hugely depressing news year. You can be sure that the great Clem will be up there with a heartfelt wink and that unmistakable twinkle in his eyes. We salute you sir.    

Scotland qualify for Euro 2020- or should that be 2021 and memories of Scotland past.

 Scotland qualify for Euro 2020 - or should that be 2021 and the memories of Scotland past. 

Scottish football will rarely have seen a night like it. They will look back over the years, searching forlornly perhaps for any one event throughout their chequered history where it all came right on the night and then cry profusely into their Tartan beers and whiskies. It'll come as no great surprise then that they have finally cracked the code, qualifying impressively for next years European Championship to be spread all over Europe this time for the first time ever.

Trust the Scots to confound the odds when the odds are heavily stacked against them. They always seem to come up smelling of roses though when nobody gives them a prayer. It seems to be in their DNA. It is now 22 years since Scotland last reached a major tournament and the embarrassment still lingers. No nation has a divine right to either reach either a World Cup or European Championship but for Scotland, gallows humour always seemed appropriate. Nobody though should begrudge them their moment of glory. 

When you think of Scottish football though the mind always travels back to those horrendous World Cups from years gone by. You think of the crumpled face of poor Ally Macleod whose Scotland team arrived in Argentina in 1978 on a tide of delusion and totally misplaced, wild-eyed and wacky optimism. According to Macleod, Scotland would shake them up when they won the World Cup because Scotland were the greatest football team of all time and that's official. But then things didn't go according to plan. 

So the image of Macleod on the pampas of Argentina remains like a dark stain. Gazing despairingly out onto the pitch against both Iran and Peru in the group qualifying stages, Macleod looked like a broken man, tortured by the sudden realisation that Scotland were not renowned world beaters and that the likes of Brazil, Argentina, Holland and West Germany were still technically superior to them by several country miles.  

And yet Scotland have done it again. Their 2-1 victory over Serbia sparked unbridled rejoicing in the Highlands and Grampians, a huge outpouring of utter relief and that indomitable fighting spirit that could never have been questioned. It is easy to think of the battles of Culloden and Bannockburn when mention is made of any Scottish conflict but here again the Scots took to facing up to a seemingly insurmountable challenge, hurdled it with some ease and wondered what all the fuss was about. They could have done this one in their sleep with blindfolds on. 

But then you remember the likes of Willy Ormond at the 1974 World Cup Finals in West Germany and the grave features of Ally Macleod four years later and there you have the personification of Scottish football. When Scotland got to the World Cup Finals in 1974, the nation was regarded as just another addition to the numbers that had already qualified. Sadly expectation would give way to mediocrity. The tartan hordes who would faithfully followed their team come rain or shine would drown their sorrows in the local bodegas of Buenos Aires. 

In their qualifying group Scotland opened their first World Cup since 1958 with a laborious 2-0 victory over Zaire and fared no better against Yugoslavia who at least could boast some kind of playing pedigree on the international circuit. Then the Scots came up against the mighty, all-conquering Brazil, who had won the World Cup several times before with the kind of flair and sophistication that Scotland could only have dreamt about. Then Zaire were demolished by Yugoslavia 9-0 while Brazil were more lenient with the African side in a 3-0 victory. But Scotland were on their way home from West Germany and the fairy tale fantasy was over. 

However, the memories could never be buried and when Archie Gemmill danced through a hapless Dutch defence with his imitation of a slalom skier, weaving and tricking his way through an orange wall of shirts. Sadly the two goal margin which would have ensured qualification for Scotland from the group stage was never completed. Holland's classy playmaker Ruud Krol drove an unstoppable shot from outside the Scots penalty area into the roof of the net for the Dutch second goal. Thus was the fate of Scotland sealed and from that point onwards the Scots were condemned to a place in football's Arctic wastes. 

There was the famous afternoon when Scotland, determined to gain some kind of revenge for their Auld Enemy's glorious World Cup winning victory the year before, came to Wembley and secured the sweetest of 3-2 victories. Who would ever forget the vengeful 'Wee Jimmy Johnstone' jinking, jiving, and skipping past the English defence as if they were somehow invisible? There were the midfield schemers and lock pickers Tommy Gemmell and Bobby Murdoch carving open gaping holes and supplying the necessary service and ammunition for their colleagues. There was the blossoming Denis Law of Manchester United who could hardly believe his luck when George Cohen and Bobby Moore decided to have the day off, a bad day in the English office. 

And who could ever have imagined the chaos and pandemonium that would ensue during the now notorious 1977 Home International tournament? For what must have seemed like years of pent-up frustration, thousands and thousands of Scottish supporters descended on Wembley, intent on destruction of the old stadium. That they succeeded so triumphantly probably says more about the hostility that existed between England and Scotland fans at the time. 

The images of Scottish fans disguised as thuggish hooligans will live on for as international football is played. Crossbars were sat upon and snapped in half with the posts and nets following suit. The green Wembley turf was ripped up cruelly and savagely by fans who allegedly believed they were. The future of the England and Scotland fixture was threatened albeit briefly but then calm was restored.  Until the early 1980s Scotland would continue to throw good-natured insults and oaths at their English counterparts. 

But we must express our congratulations to our friends from beyond Hadrian's Wall, our brothers and sisters in arms over the border. Scotland will always be friendly, welcoming, tolerably opinionated when the mood takes them and just prepared to buy you a strong tot of whisky if you were willing to reciprocate the gesture. We'll always smile at your effusive Hogmany celebrations when ladies and gentlemen hop in between swords in rich tartan skirts. 

Above all we love Scotland is a country of decorative, heather clad hills, imposing mountains and romantic liaisons at Gretna Green when couples tie the marital knot in a ceremony heavily steeped in tradition. It is a country that rightly celebrates the poet Rabbie Burns every Burns day, eats gallons of porridge for breakfast and then produces iconic sporting heroes such as Jackie Stewart from the world of motor racing, Bernard Gallacher from golf's fairways and more recently Sir Andy Murray who has now collected two Wimbledon's men singles titles with some panache and the most sublime tennis Britain has ever seen.

So Scotland we can never thankyou enough. There will of course never be any love lost between England and Scotland and although both crave absolute independence from each other, you'll always be in our good books. You can still hold your caber tossing tournaments during British summers quite unashamedly and Balmoral will always remain a royally commanding castle. So here's a toast to Scotland, the Scotland football team our friends north of the border. Three cheers to Scotland the brave. 

  

England beat the Republic of Ireland in strolling friendly.

 England beat the Republic of Ireland in strolling friendly.

After one of the most challenging weeks for English football the national team rid itself of repellent smells, strolling and almost trotting at times across the hallowed acres of Wembley Stadium rather like a family on a picnic who simply want to engage in some gentle exercise across the rich pastures of the English countryside. At times you were never quite sure what to make of this friendly because it did  live up to its pre-match billing with both England and Republic of Ireland shaking hands with each other politely and that was very much that. 

For almost the entire match, England and the Republic of Ireland gave us the most sedate exhibition of football you were ever likely to see. In fact so laid back and relaxed were both teams that you felt compelled to admire the civility and decorum displayed by two teams who didn't seem to be particularly bothered who had won. Suffice it to say that at the end small knots of men wearing yet another set of masks walked over to each other and just acknowledged each other's existence. It was almost an exercise in mutual appreciation and there was a sense that both were just happy to share each other's company. 

The English have always been apologetic and remorseful when it looks as though they may have done something terribly wrong. But on a mild Thursday evening at Wembley England did bulldoze through a very limp and submissive Eire defence and the Irish had more or less accepted their fate after an hour. England were knocking the ball around the central areas of the pitch with such a studied nonchalance and casual freedom that you almost felt deeply sorry for the Irish. 

But this was quite clearly a practice match, a leisurely knock about, coats for goalposts, meaningless, flat as a pancake, flaccid international friendly that bore as much relevance as an after-work, leisurely five a side contest where the best team did win and little damage was done when the final whistle went. England will now face their two UEFA Nations League contests with both Belgium and then Iceland with some degree of confidence but acutely aware that this was no litmus test of their current form. 

After their demolition of Wales in their first friendly of the season, England went about their business in much the way the aristocracy used to sip their tea and play croquet when the mood took them. The ball itself seemed to spend most of its time being carefully tapped around with mathematical precision, passes neatly executed and cohesive attacking movements that were a joy to behold. 

Many years ago Brian Clough said that football was designed to be played on grass rather than in the air and here was a classic demonstration of Clough's philosophy. At long last British football has come to its senses, finally recognising that the technical, short passing game is far preferable to the old-fashioned long ball wallop where no end product is forthcoming. England have finally discovered that the ball is no longer an impostor, not some frightening wartime bomb that may suddenly go off quite unexpectedly. 

It is no coincidence that current England manager Gareth Southgate has come to England's salvation, a man wedded to the loftier ideals propagated by the likes of Germany, France and Brazil many years ago. Southgate has introduced his players to a game where trust with the ball in possession has now taken precedence to desperate measures. England may have just missed out in a World Cup semi-final where opponents Croatia simply outclassed them in Russia two years ago but they are not moping. 

Wearing a grey cardigan and a dapper shirt and tie, Southgate reminded you of a bank clerk rigorously checking the day's finances with a shrewd and prudent eye. The memory of that penalty miss which cost Terry Venables England entertainers in a Euro 96 semi-final against Germany may still haunt him but Southgate has now grabbed hold of the baton and taken England into a comfortable environment where the air is pure, the future is potentially bright and successful and another chapter is about to be read. 

Last night England spent long periods, establishing a natural bond and intimate relationship with the ball, hogging possession, pondering, dwelling, thinking ahead rather than being drawn into some predictably irrational mindset where the ball is completely overlooked and the game just peters out into some futile anti-climax. England passed with a careful consideration of every possibility and there seemed to be an almost forensic analysis of what could happen in the bigger picture. England were models of accuracy, architects of their destiny rather than being dependent on statistics and percentages. The ball is a close acquaintance rather than something evil and anathema. 

England manager Gareth Southgate is now revelling in the good fortune of possessing a team who can adopt variations on a theme that are truly considered classical. Last night it looked as if the whole England team had been snatched from a nursery. There were so many young faces on view that you'd have been forgiven for thinking that every player had just finished a hectic game in the school playground. There is much to be said for nurturing, rearing and blooding the kids but this was a very youthful third year production as important exams are about to be taken.

England captain Harry Maguire, who has just endured one of the most troubled periods of his nascent career, spent the whole of the match with the face like thunder, a permanent scowl that led you to believe that the world had caved in on him and nobody would ever befriend him again. Maguire was a constant nuisance and torment to Eire with headers at corners that narrowly missed the target. There was the demanding perfectionist about the Manchester United defender that is singularly commendable. 

But the base of England's defence could well be their strongest suit. Both Michael Keane, Maguire, Tyrone Mings and Reece James were alert, dependable, always prepared to gamble by venturing forward into the opposition's territory and sure of their bearings. In midfield Spurs Harry Winks, Chelsea's Mason Mount, Jadon Sancho and the magnificent Jack Grealish were in perfect tandem, sewing their passes together as if they'd known each other for a lifetime. 

Here the Aston Villa midfield playmaker Jack Grealish served notice of a magical and mercurial talent, a player of extraordinary ball playing gifts, treating the ball as if it had been his closest friend. Grealish is clever, intuitive, a player of vision and awareness, always making the game look both easy and logical. At the moment Grealish can do no wrong running his opponents ragged at every opportunity, tricking, teasing and leading everybody a merry dance. For the time being there is nothing of the Paul Gascoigne about Grealish since dentists chairs and general clowning around are not part of the Aston Villa's man private life. 

It took no time at all before England eventually broke down the Irish defence. A swift and incisive blur of passes across the Wembley pitch found Harry Winks whose nicely weighted cross from a corner landed perfectly onto the head of Everton's Dominic Calvert Lewin and his glancing header was nodded powerfully into the net for England's opening goal. 

From that point onwards England never looked back and there was a complete subsidence in the Republic of Ireland's defensive ranks. It was easy why Eire have only ever beaten England twice in competitive games. Of course the Irish will always have the European Championship in 1988 when Ray Houghton headed home their winner and the much loved Jack Charlton just couldn't stop grinning. They did boast a Brady in their team last night but this was certainly not the cultured Liam of Arsenal renown.

And so it was England took the initiative and established a tight grip, their passing between the lines sending their opponents into a drunken stupor and then imposing complete control. Reece James was now scampering down the flanks with a vigour and vivacity that always took the eye. Mason Mount had the most educated feet on the pitch while Harry Winks was composure itself. Winks drops deep into a defensive attacking midfielder, a model of stability and reassurance, moving the ball easily to colleagues around him. His Spurs predecessor Glen Hoddle can only look on from a distance with a heartfelt admiration. 

In a matter of no time England added to their tally with a richly deserved goal. By now Calvert Lewin was dragging his marker all over Wembley, Grealish was a cunning, conniving nuisance, floating and fluttering around in the middle of the park with that unpredictable spark of magic while Winks and Mount were masterful ball manipulators. 

From another bewitching sequence of quick passes Jadon Sancho, a livewire who the Irish simply couldn't handle, cut inside his defender, assessed his options before deciding to drill a fierce shot low past Darren Randolph. Now the white shirts of Eire disintegrated and never looked like surfacing again. The hammer and bludgeon had been brought down and England were heading for an almost regulation victory over opposition essentially close to home. 

In the second half England relaxed into an easy going tempo that never threatened a cricket score. The football still had its pleasant simplicity about it, a slow, slow, quick quick staccato beat that was effortlessly rhythmical but no longer harmful in its intent. Half-way through the second half England put Eire out of their misery. The Arsenal full back Bukayo Saka, after several gallops on the full-back overlap and then surging thrillingly past his defender and then forcing a trip in the penalty area. Calvert Lewin confidently thumped home the penalty into the middle of the net and England's work was over for the evening.

As the players trooped off at the end you were reminded of the two-minute silence that fell over London last Sunday when fallen and dead soldiers from both World Wars at the beginning of the last century were remembered poignantly and dearly. A football match could never be described as a murderous and tragic conflict but when the final whistle went once again last night, there was a painful sense of loss and sadness that had no redeeming features. The crowd noises did their utmost by way of compensation but this felt like an altogether different product.            

It's good news day- the moment we've all been waiting for.

 It's good news day- the moment we've all been waiting for. 

How we've longed for this day. It's been long overdue but all good things come to those who wait. Or maybe that's a cliche well past its sell-by date. We've been gnashing our teeth, biting our fingernails, frequently incensed and at the end of our tether. How much more could we take? We were inclined to think that this was beyond a joke but the truth is that they've found a vaccine for the coronavirus. Now there's a sentence we never thought we'd ever utter - certainly not this year. This has been one of those painfully agonising dramas that looked destined to end in more floods of tears, grieving and mourning and aching exasperation. 

For a minute or two we thought it was one of those late Saturday tea-time radio announcements designed to buck up Britain in its lowest mood of gloom and doom. We thought they were just mucking around, creating havoc with our emotions, stumbling around in the dark looking for lights and candles in the gathering winter darkness. But then there was the delightful realisation that perhaps it was for real, that they had made a revolutionary medical breakthrough and we might, just might be on the verge of something spectacularly brilliant. 

Now before we get completely carried away on the crest of some dreamscape scenario where the whole world does the Hokey Cokey and dances around the Trafalgar Square fountains in perfect formation, this could be the time to err on the side of caution. The last seven months have been horrendous for those who just want to do the kind of things that they'd grown accustomed to. Our lives have been turned upside down and inside out by Covid 19 but within hours a vaccine for the virus could be around the corner. 

Britain has always remained rightly cynical about anything that feels as though it might be good news. It is our default position. If it's too good to be true then it probably isn't right. Besides, it took us the best part of three years to accept that Brexit was indeed a genuine work in progress that could only yield a positive result. There was a wonderful sense of vindication when they told us that we were leaving the European Union. We did tell you and how correct were we?

But a deadly virus was an altogether different set of blood cells and bacteria. When Covid 19 first struck back in March some of us thought it was just a fleeting visit from the wintry bug that used to be flu. We shrugged our shoulders dismissively, expressed surprise that a minor ailment that had struck down a couple of people on a cruise ship would just vanish overnight never to return again. Oh no it hadn't and it didn't. 

Here we right at the end of the year in November and finally the research scientists have cracked one of the great imponderables of the year. The vaccine could be on our doorstep within a couple of weeks or months even. But is it the definitive vaccine we're perfectly at liberty to ask about. We've been down this road before and it's full of potholes. In fact it's heavily populated with red and white cones but that's another story. There is though something in the air that's both bracing and invigorating. And no it's not the delicious smell of fish and chips from a British seaside resort.

What we have here is Pfizer@BioTech, the wonder drug that could save the universe overnight. They've poured chemicals into a myriad test tubes, carried out rigorous checks and more checks and hey presto. Houston we have ignition. Let's get this one on the road folks. It could be that elusive formula, the ultimate antidote, the perfect combination, the one we've all been searching for. Just in time for Christmas and Chanukah this is the present that we've all been looking forward to receive. 

And yet there remains that nagging suspicion, a lingering doubt, more negativity and another round of despondency. Vaccines are supposed to take years and years to become a remote possibility so you can forget about a cure because that could take centuries. Certainly this is an exaggeration but this is understandable. Still, we can keep dreaming because dreamers are visionaries and that has to be a good thing.

However here we are on the brink of something truly exciting. After all of that spontaneous Thursday evening clapping on our doorsteps, that banging of pots and pans in our roads, it's here. The NHS in Britain is about to get its loveliest news for seemingly ages. So put those saucepans and wooden spoons awayand get out the carnival maracas. It's time for the ladies to balance baskets of fruit on their head and pretend they're Carmen Miranda. It's time for the gentlemen to masquerade as John Travolta and strut their funky stuff on the disco floor with a fashionable nod to flared trousers.

By the beginning of 2021 we could be in carnival mood, shaking our hips to the sound of steel drums and revelling in reggae. Covid 19 will slip into some forgotten corner of history never to rear its ugly head ever again. We could be about to enter a golden age for not only Britain but the rest of the world. Who knows we could be restored to full health by perhaps next Easter or St Swithins Day. Hold on it could rain on that day. Stop again. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. 

The fact is that a breakthrough has been made and we have to find comfort in hope, certainty in re-assurance. We've been mesmerised by video conference computer screens, found novel ways of exercising with our dogs and then whipped up some of the most mouth-watering dishes when all of the eggs had gone and the baking powder looked as though it was running low. We've mixed and matched, improvised and adapted, imagining that we could find coping mechanisms without quite realising how.

But yes folks the vaccine could be winging its way towards us at the rate of knots. The men and women in white coats in experimental laboratories have hit on the elixir of life, the potion that waves a magic wand and guarantees immunity from that dreaded virus. That'll be the day. The grumpy curmudgeons are convinced that this is all rubbish and nobody should take any notice of these glad tidings but it'll only end in tears. 

Some of us though are still worried about the repercussions and side effects that the vaccine could exert its beneficial influence should it arrive on the commercial market in the immediate future. There is a school of thought though which would lead us to believe that this vaccine is just a smokescreen, a false dawn, a temporary morale booster when wishful thinking seemed the obvious reaction. Come on, this is not happening and we know it. Or is it?

Yesterday though Boris Johnson, the blond human dynamo who presides over his country as Prime Minister of Britain gave us yet another session of blustering bravado, optimistic and fairly jolly for a while before descending into some blunt dystopian vision where the good people of Great Britain had better not get too carried away because this could get worse before it gets better. 

Once again we have been told to stay at home, keep warm against the biting winds of winter. We have to remain safe and free of sniffles, coughs and spluttering. But somebody really should tell our Boris that we've been doing the aforesaid for almost the whole of the year so there's nothing new about this portentous warning. So the National Health Service had best be prepared for another winter of serious illness on quite the most remarkable scale. 

Today though we can all briefly luxuriate in the knowledge that this could be the turning point of this stifling and emotionally draining disease. This could be now known as Vaccine Day. Oh yes. Let jubilation be unconfined, dig out the bunting for joyful street parties with a thousand balloons, cakes for everybody, egg sandwiches for the entire population and lemonade for all. Line up those Conga dances. This is the day to put behind all of that unrelenting misery behind us. We can carry on and drink coffee. We can smell the roses and begonias. We can believe again. 

We can hardly believe the dramatic sea change because we thought we'd be stuck in this rut for ages. It's all going swimmingly well though. Over the weekend America welcomed its new President-elect and one Joe Biden stepped into the breach as replacement for one of the most comical Presidents of all time. Or have we simply underestimated Donald Trump. Trump buried himself on some very isolated golf course, still roaring with faux defiance, still protesting innocence and malpractice. 

By the end of this tempestuous year we may all feel like slumping onto our sofas, blow out our cheeks in both relief and hopefully elation  hoping that on New Year's Day that 2020 had been one exceptionally long and bad day after bad day. Some of us believe that we've now reached the bottom and the nadir. So here's the plan. If we close our eyes and wish upon a star the vaccine could be in your local doctor's surgery in no time at all. We can see the finishing line. We're almost there. Surely.    

At long last Joe Biden becomes the 46th President of the United States.

 At long last- Joe Biden becomes the 46th President of the United States. 

At long last and not before time. We didn't think it would ever happen and we were beginning to think that somebody had forgotten to make the announcement. Maybe it was just an elaborate hoax, some silly joke that none of us were in from the beginning. But it's true, folks. It can be revealed here and now without any shadow of a doubt that the United States of America have finally elected Joe Biden as their new President. For some of us this maybe the breath of fresh air we were longing to inhale for ages. 

Tonight Joe Biden has finally emerged as victorious, the new man at the helm of the power in the Land of the Free, the man with the fiercely patriotic stars and stripes racing through his blood, the man who replaced quite the most farcical, ridiculous, racist, misogynist President of the United States. Donald Trump is now history, not only a political dinosaur but forever condemned to the walk-on role in any American TV sitcom that may be in the throes in writing.

It hardly seems possible but after much counting, re-counting, making absolutely sure and then calculating for the umpteenth time, America has the President it deserves. Following extensive huffing and puffing, agonising, genuine procrastination and then much volatility in the highest circles of American politics, Joe Biden calmed everybody down, declared the victory and a nation waved goodbye to that famous target for mockery and derision. 

And yet Donald Trump has fired off the first of his legal bullets into the air and looks destined to land up with so much egg on his face that he may have to get used to a daily diet of omelettes for breakfast in the immediate future. For the last couple of days Trump has behaved with all the childish immaturity that we have now come to expect from somebody who not only throws his toys out of his pram but will now spit his dummy across the kitchen floor, demanding several bags of sweets and endless bars of chocolate.  

Since the first day of electioneering last Tuesday, Trump has been sulking, complaining, groaning, blaming, accusing and generally resembling the kid whose pocket money has been snatched from him rudely and then locked in his bedroom, grounded indefinitely until he apologises which he won't be doing. Trump is that spoilt, middle-class man who can never get his way because all of that excessive wealth and celebrity had gone to his head. 

For the last couple of days Trump has been quite literally talking to himself, engaging in banal comments about the unfairness of it all and how everybody else had been blatantly cheating, kicking up a stink, tarnishing the precious American political system with foul, cloak and dagger tactics.Trump believes that the whole of America has been sold short, betrayed by the people he thought he'd come to trust. 

But, in the opinion of Donald Trump America is now the laughing stock of the world, victims of gross mismanagement and now responsible for the kind of people who used to be associated with the Mafia mob culture of America's distant past.  Trump is now convinced that shifty characters armed with guns and violin cases are out to get him. Trump believes that those who were employed to watch the voting patterns in every state were deliberately plotting against him. Trump suspected quite clearly the hidden agenda, sneaky skulduggery, clandestine fiddling of figures and that rank smell of double-dealing and deception. 

Above all Trump thinks that some conspiracy network has been working against him ever since he first came to prominence as a pompous busybody businessman. First Trump built his gaudy hotels, a business empire that may have looked impressive at the time but then, from time to time, became more of a cumbersome liability than anything else. And then he put his name forward to become a prospective American president and that's when we gasped with a sharp intake of scepticism. 

And so it was that four years ago that Trump went eyeball to eyeball with Hilary Clinton and triumphed boastfully over and over again as if he'd just won the Lottery for the third time. Then there followed  four years of showbiz grandstanding, showboating, self-aggrandisement, exercising his fingers and thumbs with strange acts of vulgar exhibitionism. There were veiled threats against the Press he thought were intent on a witch hunt against him, grandiose promises of building walls and then one bombastic statement after another.

But late on Thursday night as Britain laid its collective head down for its nightly nap, Trump started rambling and waffling to himself because it simply seemed as if nobody was listening to him. It sounded as if he was simply talking to himself, a speech and diatribe that sounded so pathetic that if anybody had recorded it for posterity on You Tube may have fancied at least several million views. 

At first we sniggered and chuckled because we couldn't quite believe the evidence of our ears. A psychologist would probably have diagnosed Trump's weasel words as the first signs of a man who had lost the plot completely. There were references to burst pipes in Georgia, fallacious claims that he'd won in Arizona and Florida quite handsomely and then claims that the windows had been boarded up in some American states because the observers at the ballot booth had been scrawling noughts and crosses on the voting paper. This was now bordering on Hollywood vaudeville, Las Vegas cabaret and foolhardiness on the grandest scale. 

Still, Trump went on and on relentlessly, unfortunately and insistently, compiling cases for the defence as if any court in the world would even have given them a single moment's notice. Trump was now lost in his own private fantasy land, playing with notions of victimisation, composing sentences that might have been more appropriate in a teenager's diary. Why doesn't anybody believe him when he tells them that Donald should be the President of the United States for the rest of our lives and that there are sinister forces at work here?

 Trump is now firmly of the belief that the whole of America has been trying metaphorically been trying to stab him in the back ever since he came to office as President four years ago. And yet he has laboured under the delusion that every time he opens his mouth golden nuggets of wisdom and perspicacity have flowed from his lips. Here is the intellectual powerhouse America has been looking for in decades and for the first time in ages America has found a President with a phenomenal IQ. Sadly this was not forthcoming. 

But then he began moving those hands like one of those London buskers with a concertina. He shook hands with leaders of the world with that vigorous handshake that suggested that he may have been tempted to strangle them. He then poured out more and more soundbites, more ill-conceived platitudes and more aggressive sounding banter that quite frankly gave you the impression that he'd borrowed them from some cheap joke book.

Now though Trump has left the building or has he? Of course he'll remind you of that grizzly bear with an extremely sore head. He'll launch another bombardment of sinned against gibberish, insulting invective that nobody will take any notice of and then he'll cry, weep and sob in a dark room because the injustices were always obvious, the stars quite clearly in the wrong position and the figures were all wrong. Why couldn't anybody see that one? 

And yet tonight America may hit the pillow tonight, relieved, even ecstatic and grateful that perhaps a man so apparently tactless, off the record, unashamedly offensive to all and sundry and just insufferably clueless is no longer President. They will be pleased that they can still eat their pancakes for breakfast and eggs sunny side up with a cheerful optimism that might have been thought unlikely. So Joe Biden. This is your time to shine. America can sleep peacefully safe in the knowledge that Trump has played his last card.  

Trump or Biden? And the count goes on.

 Trump or Biden? And the count goes on. 

So it is that the plot thickens and the mystery is set to last for perhaps an eternity. Does anybody want to be the next President of the United States or will we have to draw lots, perhaps toss a coin, perhaps take it to a football penalty shoot out? There has to be a legal way of settling this ongoing dilemma since at this rate we could be here for some time and some of us believe that the year is just crawling towards its inevitable conclusion and surely it's bad enough that we've a global pandemic to contend with anyway. 

This morning the United States of America woke up to flatness and indecision, a complete funk, a genuine no man's land where nothing has happened and there are urgent issues to resolve. Nobody has won the American election yet which is rather like finding that your parents had forgotten your birthday when you were a kid. You were hoping to get that present you'd always wanted only to find that the day had passed by without any kind of recognition of the auspicious day in question. 

The world went to bed last night hoping that today the Land of the Free had just discovered the man they were hoping to be President would willingly accept the challenge of guiding his country to the land of milk and honey. And then there was one Donald Trump. So, in all likelihood, they switched off the lights, pulled the blankets towards them, settled their heads on their pillows and went to sleep. It would be a night quite unlike any they had experienced. They were then faced with the decision of whether to laugh or cry and you knew that it wouldn't be easy for one moment. 

The current incumbent is Donald Trump and it does seem possible that the whole of America possessed a heavy heart and really didn't care which way the result had gone. Just let the result be announced as soon as possible because a deadly virus has to be addressed and that has to take priority to any political bunfight. Of course the United States is full of reservations about the direction their country is heading. On the one hand is a man who has been declared bankrupt as a businessman three times and a man so vain that his bedroom mirror may one day crack under the strain. 

For the last four years Donald Trump has been very much his own comedy club routine, a man so arrogant, bumptious and conceited that he may find that one day America will be able to see straight through him and hold up their hands in horror. Trump is the man of a thousand daft finger and hand gestures, a man who summarily dismisses and then attacks the media for something he's either denied or never really felt any need to apologise for at all. The supposed deficiencies or shortcomings just don't exist.  

When all around him are attempting to stab him metaphorically in the back, Trump threw back the flak and bullets aimed directly at them. He accused the Press of being shallow, sham, two-faced, wrong on every count. He said it was all fake and made up and those slanderous comments were just bunkum and so there. Trump loves a conspiracy theory because he knows that everybody either hates him or just doesn't believe him any more. So he gets all hot and bothered, throwing his toys out of his pram, getting ever so tetchy, grouchy, irritable and irascible because everybody thinks he's crazy or just incapable of doing the job he was elected to do. 

So last night Trump went on the defensive because he loves doing that doesn't he? He would seem to revel in his own persecution complex because that's what he's succeeded in doing for so many years now. It's him against the world and he thinks he's the greatest President of all time. Unquestioningly so. Now what'll happen if Trump does lose which he won't because Trump is convinced that defeat isn't in his vocabulary and the man is just flawless, a perfect specimen, a paragon of virtue. 

Trump is now threatening to take this to the highest court in the land should he lose. He believes quite emphatically that Joe Biden and his charming helpers are ganging up against Trump and trying desperately to undermine and humiliate him in any way they can. Now take out that court injunction Donald because nobody dares challenge your authority. At the moment anyway he's in charge so move aside buster. 

And then there's Joe Biden's Trump's opponent, a man both restrained and laid back at one moment and then verbally aggressive in the next breath. This is not to suppose that Biden is all Jekyll and Hyde but he does want Trump to take the high road as soon as possible. There is obviously no love lost between the two men and the sooner this is over the better it'll be for all of us. There is the hint of the rotweiller about Biden in as much that he does growl and does know how to bite when the occasion warrants it.

For the next couple of days this contest could go on and on with none of us knowing anything that we already know about either Trump or Biden. The votes are being re-counted over and over again and Trump can almost smell litigation. Something of course will give because it has to and the suspense is simply wearing us down. You suspect Trump is on the phone to a million lawyers and legal firms, bending their ears constantly with sob stories about the whole thing being rigged against him. 

Eventually though America will one day rise from its bed, with gleaming white teeth before opening their curtains, throwing their windows wide open and telling the whole of New York, Los Angeles, Florida, Las Vegas, Michigan, Chicago, California, Texas, Detroit and Pittsburgh to name but a few of the 50 states who Trump so regularly celebrates that their new President is the best of any generation. 

Here in Britain we look on events in America with a wry detachment if only because none of us can really help either Trump or Biden. We may sympathise and empathise with both men but there's not a lot we can do. Here Prime Ministers are normally appointed in the time it takes us to get our head down at night until the following morning. There can be no hesitation or deviation though there are some parts of the country that take an age to count votes and some of us are snoring our heads off by then. 

We hear rumours of riots on the streets of the USA, running battles between the police and gangs of knuckle duster fighters who just want a good, old fashioned punch up. Shop windows are being threatened with, cars will be burnt and utter mayhem will ensue. At the moment America is divided, distraught and disillusioned with everybody and everything around them. We have been down this road on innumerable occasions only this time we hope to reach the right destination. The world is thinking of you America. We always will.