2020 - what a year but we're all still here.

 2020- What a year but we're still there. 

In any considered analysis of the year most of us would normally be tempted to look back on the highlights of the year which is about to draw a close in a couple of days time. But where on earth do we start with 2020? We could be blithely philosophical and put it down experience or we could just dwell morbidly on the one recurring theme of the year since the end of March. It kept turning up like the proverbial bad penny and failed to come down on the side we would have liked it to. 

Still, let's be honest we're all here and we've all survived the most tempestuous 12-month storm in living history. In fact if there had been any Hollywood directors hanging around a rapidly emptying film studio this could have been the one very gruesome story they were looking for. But then who would have believed them in the first place even if they'd had a crystal ball at their disposal? Nostradamus may well have given us a portentous warning but then again how would we have been prepared anyway?

In January Australia was ravaged and almost ruined by the raging forest fires which swept the country like the most ferocious wind, burning thousands of trees, destroying homes, ripping away families from their loved ones and causing utter mayhem and death in its turbulent path. We thought then we'd seen the last of these unfortunate disasters little knowing or legislating for what was about to happen next. The world was about to come a complete full stop, maybe a temporary hiatus while a minor wintry illness blew over. We were terribly wrong. 

And yet here we are right at the end of 2020 and everything lies in tatters, broken and shattered into a million pieces, our world turned upside down for what now feels like ages. This has, not, to put too fine a point on it, been a year to remember and one we'd like to instantly forget. We used to take political upheavals, hurricanes, explosions, terrorist attacks, murders, fires and fatal accidents in our stride because they were somehow expected and unavoidable. But this year has undoubtedly been the most horrific, painful, harrowing, intolerable, unfathomable, inexplicable, appalling and instantly forgettable year of all time. 

But with days to go before the shutters go up on the old year it is comforting to know that we're all here in the flesh, breathing the exquisite cold air of deepest December and still looking with some wonder at the Christmas tree shop in Finsbury Park. This morning most of the impromptu display of Christmas trees had now gone and all you could see were the remnants of pine and fir trees on the ground about to be cleared very promptly. You thought for a minute, distanced yourself from any dormant anxieties about the future and just concentrated on the here and now. It can never be wise to make ambitious plans. 

This year's New Year's Eve celebrations will have to be kyboshed because Covid 19 has made sure that it won't be possible so it might be advisable to pull out the electrical plug and forget that magnificent yearly firework display on the Embankment because we can't do it and that's all we need to know. Any New Year's Day parties are now forbidden and for the first time in memory, nobody will be allowed to see in the New Year with a glass of champers in their hands, a toast to absent friends and the best wishes to all mankind for a happy and healthy New Year. 

None of us will be allowed to blow crazy whistles at each other and those dear old balloons will have to be chucked back into the attic or cupboard because this is not a New Year's Eve devoted to merriment and mirth, just a gentle whimper of stultifying anti-climax. This year we'll all be ushering in the New Year with our immediate family, the family dog or cat, a couple of old Christmas crackers and jokes that were neglected on Christmas Day and perhaps a lengthy game of Trivial Pursuits or even a jigsaw puzzle if the mood should take you. 

We could if we were to feel ever so inclined, read a book, listen to the radio, polish off the remains of the turkey, tidy up the living room, all the while shuffling despondently around the kids who are still determined to have a good time come what may and then we'll probably have an early night. Big Ben, still wrapped in bandages for a good old health check, will still ring in the New Year at midnight but it'll sound like a very hollow clang with little to inspire any of us to get up and dance the night away. 

And yet it only seems like yesterday since New Year's Eve wasn't really heralded with anything special about it. Until 1982 Britain still had only three TV channels, the BBC could only offer us Scottish entertainer Andy Stewart in his tartan kilt from the White Heather Club while ITV clung onto Moira Anderson who, rather like Stewart would hop and skip daintily between swords before knocking back huge quantities of Highland whisky. Oh for the joys of Hogmanay.

It all seems like a long time ago but New Year's Eve from years gone by seemed like something of a damp squib. Revellers would regularly descend on the Trafalgar Square fountains in London's West End and all would be well with the world. But that was pretty much it for all concerned. There may have been a couple of screaming fireworks and Catherine wheels but let's face it, there seems no point in trying to re-produce that effect. 

So here we are all gathered in our living rooms, swigging back snowballs or innumerable lagers and ciders all within the privacy and intimacy of our own homes. Family and friends will have to forego the pleasure of slapping each other's backs, sighing at each other's naff jokes and well-intentioned witticisms because that's not going to happen this year. Instead we'll be looking for consolation prizes such as festive hymns and piano recitals with whomsoever fancies a subdued knees- up with a glass of orange juice. 

Then we'll all embark on a very low profile conga around the kitchen, slump back onto a comfortable sofa, look at each other in some bemusement because quite frankly any semblance of joy seems highly inappropriate and who cares about the famous Big Ben bong when nobody really feels like doing anything anyway. 

Still, as has already been pointed out we must acknowledge that all of our faculties are in good order, all are still united and harmonious. In fact we're all still thinking of what we do have and just relieved that the uncles, cousins and aunties we never see from one year to the next, are still snoring their heads off.  There are reasons to be cheerful and we must try to put everything into some kind of perspective. We are all huddled together for warmth, giggling delightedly at the way that everything that should have been traditional is very much the way it used to be anyway. So there's no complaining from that quarter. Ladies and Gentlemen, it's time to cast our eyes forward to 2021. Soon 2020 will just be another page from history.

Villa beat Palace in Boxing Day victory.

 Villa beat Palace in Boxing Day victory. 

In the bigger picture football almost seems like a petty irrelevance but since the game is still functioning at every level it would be absurd to overlook its overall significance. It was always there in the background over the Christmas period and will always be there even though the environment it's been subjected to in is so utterly alien as to be almost beyond our understanding. 

Boxing Day football used to be a lively, knockabout day for football in the old days. In fact it was Boxing Day 1963 when football seemed to be overcome by just a day of complete madness. In the old First Division the princely sum of 66 goals were scored and if you didn't know otherwise you could swear that most of the players who turned up on that day were ever so slightly under the influence of intoxicating alcohol. 

Still, here we were 57 years later and the game is now almost unrecognisable from those heady days of mud-caked pitches and festive hangovers. West Ham must have thought they were still nursing sore heads after being on the wrong end of an 8-2 drubbing by Blackburn Rovers while Fulham hit double figures with a 10-1 thumping of Ipswich Town. It all seems a long time ago which indeed it was. Roll forward to the present day and the players of Aston Villa and Crystal Palace were still sober enough to realise that Boxing Day was just the beginning of another hectic holiday period for both teams. 

At Villa Park yesterday Aston Villa, who almost fell through the relegation trapdoor at the end of last season, were a side pumped up, revitalised and rejuvenated, a side going places while Palace were going nowhere in particular. There are moments over a traditional Christmas period when football seems to get bogged down in its own foolishness, tiredness and a lethargic rut. The players are willing and able but the bodies would rather be on some sun-kissed island in the Caribbean or dipping toes in a swimming pool. 

Aston Villa, for their part, are enjoying some welcome breathing space after the stifling threat of relegation last season. Under Dean Smith, a Villa supporter since he was a wee lad in shorts, Villa are progressing rapidly and attractively. In fact Villa were so ultimately dominant against Palace that the game was all but over after an hour or so. That Villa won comfortably with only 10 men rendered their achievement all the more commendable. 

It is hard to believe now that Villa were once giants of a game where the long ball was still the common currency and sponsorship had just made its shocking entrance into the game. When Ron Saunders was Villa manager, Aston Villa were a stunning revelation, a team of free flowing fluency on the break, clever on the ball and lethal in front of goal. They had Tony Morley on the wing, the imperious Gordon Cowans in midfield and Andy Gray up front. Villa were a side in perfect harmony with each other, moving the ball quickly and decisively and then relying on the thrustful pace of their deadly attack. 

After wrapping up the old First Division championship in 1981, Villa went on to win the holiest of grails with a now-legendary European Cup Final victory a year later. Villa fans still crow about Peter Withe's headed goal against Bayern Munich which ensured that the European Cup was theirs for the taking. And they did most impressively. Since then Villa have staggered and stumbled in recent seasons and after being relegated briefly to the Championship a couple of seasons ago, Villa are now riding a crest of a wave. 

They have now risen to sixth in the Premier League after a neat, well organised and controlled performance against Palace where the passes were whisked from feet to feet in a manner that the missing Villa fans would have been most taken with. Villa were pleasing, positive and cohesive, a team of thoughtful attacking movements and the ability to switch gears without dropping any stitches. They cherished and caressed the ball as if it were something to treasure and admire from the mantelpiece. There was a method and purpose in their attacks, a point and intention to their game that some of us didn't really think they possessed.

Earlier on in the season Villa produced quite the most extraordinary football in wiping the floor with Premier League champions Liverpool with a comprehensive 7-2 victory which even now beggars belief. Of course we are living through strange times but Villa were rampant against Liverpool that day and in retrospect that may well have been a pivotal moment in Villa's season so far. One of the oldest teams in the Football League had sliced open one of the classiest practitioners. Liverpool, now very much the new kids on the block, had been ransacked, blown out of the water and left shell-shocked. 

Yesterday at Villa Park we witnessed a team with all of the right kind of footballing ambitions, a team who may just have been casting their minds back to the class of 1981 and trying manfully to re-create those mesmeric rhythms and magical patterns. Occasionally Villla looked workmanlike and mundane but then they discovered that Palace had recently been crushed by Liverpool 7-0 at Selhurst Park and eagerly set about their task. Palace were clearly not palatial and even though they may have given that impression before the Liverpool game, the crown had slipped alarmingly and the robes were very dishevelled looking. 

Once again it was Villa's Jack Grealish who we came to see because we knew and he knew that people were watching and England manager Gareth Southgate must be longing for the Euros next summer. Grealish was exceptional, a midfield architect, engineer, a locksmith, a pickpocket, a swaggering boulevardier, a delightful bundle of creativity, mischief, always assured on the ball and with plenty of time to find the right man at the right time.

 Grealish is suave, silky, comfortable at all times, running with the ball as if somebody had thrown the ball back to him from next door's garden. Grealish was at times unstoppable, impudent in the extreme, arrogant and disdainful at times because he was the man in control. When you look at Grealish it is easy to make comparisons with those other ball-playing artists, those individual non-conformists, those cheeky imps, the ones who do it their way rather than the way others would like it.

With socks rolled down and legs working like pistons, Grealish was here, there and everywhere, ubiquitous, an all encompassing influence, picking the ball up deep in his own half and then floating across the pitch as if he had all the time in the world. Grealish was the man who would be instrumental in most of Villa's more positive and penetrative moments. He was the man who, controlling the ball with his feet after a defensive clearance, powered his way into the Palace half  in a matter of seconds and then, spotting striker Ollie Watkins overlapping him, laid the ball off easily to Watkins, who although looking as if he had lost the ball, simply rolled the ball to Annar El Ghazi. El Ghazi it was who walloped home a perfectly judged shot into the back of the Palace net for Villa's third. 

But this was Villa at their best, never afraid to string their passes together almost geometrically and finding tight little angles to play off each other as if it had become second nature. When Villa were reduced to 10 men as a result of Tyrone Mings rush of blood to the head, Villa looked as though they'd be facing a laborious, uphill struggle. Fortunately for them Mings sending off worked in their favour and Villa lifted themselves off the floor, working their way back into the game almost effortlessly.

From the start Aston Villa though were by far the more progressive of the two teams and it wasn't long before they took an important lead. A slide-rule pass along the ground found Watkins who stepped over beautifully, cut inside his defender and eventually found Bertrand Traore who, capitalising on Palace hesitancy inside the box, didn't clear the lines and the ball fell to Traore who slammed the ball firmly into the net from close range.

Then as the first half Villa kept progressing ambitiously through the centre of the pitch, pressing Palace back into their own half whether they liked it or not. Palace, to their credit, did have several purple patches where Wilfried Zaha burst past defenders as if they weren't there and then twisting his way through a tangle of legs, a bright vision of trickery and sorcery, dropping the proverbial shoulder and easing his way around his opponents with occasional ease. But Zaha, in tandem with the often excellent Andros Townsend and the energetic Patrick Van Aarholt couldn't match Villa's much greater panache.

With Matt Target venturing into attack to support his colleagues with a co-operative hand at all times and Matty Cash, an intelligent purchase from Nottingham Forest, sparkling at full back with a precocious maturity, Villa were both measured and precise in every attack launched when the ball was offloaded to both Targett and Cash. 

Then the likes of Traore, the superb Douglas Luiz and Aahmed El Mohamady and, notably the always available Annar El Ghazi combined in intricate webs of deceit. Villa's patient, probing style began to pay dividends. Then came what seemed like the crucial defining moment. Villa's Mings lashed out recklessly in a needless tackle and received his marching orders. It was an early bath for the Villa defender and 10 men Villa soldiered on valiantly. 

In a most improbable Villa act of resilience, the home side battled back onto the offensive. Midway through the second half, a ball lobbed hopefully into the Palace penalty area was helped on its way before a sharp cross into the heart of the Palace area found Watkins who headed the ball against the bar where young defender Kortney Hause showed wonderful presence of mind to leap up and nod the ball over the line if only just. 

Then came the El Ghazi special third when, trapping the ball from Watkins pass he fired the ball over the Palace keeper Vicente Guaita from the widest of angles. Villa were home and hosed, the game theirs quite emphatically. Palace, for all their brief passing flourishes, were always likely to be second best now and although conceding seven goals in their last two matches, manager Roy Hodgson is too canny and experienced a coach not to get too downhearted about Palace's predicament. Surely brighter days lie ahead for those flying Eagles. 

By the end you began to look at the Palace shirts and found yourself comparing them to that distinctive 1970s design and thinking of those starry-eyed romantics who went by the name of Malcolm Allison and Terry Venables. There were no song crooners or men with fedora hats and cigars in evidence but this is one Palace that will always have the right kind of connections.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                      

  

A couple of sleeps until the big day, the new Manor House and let the hotel open.

 A couple of sleeps until the big day, the new Manor House and let the hotel open.

Ladies and gentlemen. You are all kindly invited to book in advance for the opening of a new hotel in the heart of North London. Around the corner from us here in Manor House are some of the most luxurious bed and breakfast hotels along the Seven Sisters Road, sandwiched between Arsenal's Emirates Stadium and the new Tottenham Hotspur Stadium which really does bear a resemblance to a spacecraft from the outside.

But now everybody another development has lit up the dark wintry night sky of North London. Next to a set of traffic lights at Manor House Tube station is the very latest in avant-garde rest and relaxation sanctuaries. It is, you'll be delighted to hear, a Travelodge hotel in the middle of a catchment area where a whole procession of cars, buses, lorries, cyclists and vans almost continuously rumble and thunder their way past the Tube station. They then head towards a Harringay industrial park where electronic and electrical shops sit in contented juxtaposition with supermarket giants, a Poundland, the smoothest of all lattes in a Costa coffee shop and everything that pays homage to commerce. 

On the corner Macdonalds, that celebrated and now legendary burger joint, stands proudly and unashamedly as if oblivious to the detrimental effect it might be having on the kids of the next generation. In another incarnation, this was the site of the old Harringay greyhound track and it is hard to imagine how a Sainsbury's could have had the chutzpah to take the place of a dog track. Then there was the speedway venue which regularly accommodated hundreds and thousands of fans and enthusiasts many moons ago.

But now the wonderful world of modern architecture has meant that Manor House is the new home of breathtaking new apartments, towering ziggurats that soar into the North London air and are apparently very comfy or too cramped according to your point of view. We are surrounded by huge acres of bricks and mortar, tall and imposing properties that almost touch the sky but not quite. At some point in the future they'll actually finish these buildings because flats and apartments are the new zeitgeist, the in thing, very fashionable.  They'll also set you back a second mortgage to even think about laying keys on. 

It looks as if the new breed of middle-class professionals and dotcom entrepreneurs have arrived and are ready to take over Manor House. Around the back from where we live there is the stunning Woodberry Down, a real class act. Where before there was dullness and dowdiness now there is funkiness. Woodberry Wetlands is the most amazing wildlife sanctuary, the new home for kingfishers, great crested grebes, swallows, adorable Canadian geese and butterflies, hundreds of them on a nice summer's day. 

However, as you walk back onto Green Lanes there is the most eye-catching and uncharacteristic sight of them all. Yes folks it's a Travelodge Hotel which has only taken the best part of a century to complete. On second thoughts that's a gross exaggeration. Let's settle on 99 years and counting give a year either side. Seriously folks a Travelodge Hotel looks as though it's ready to open its doors at any moment. It's hard to tell because the sign is up, the doors and windows have been fixed and somebody famous may be required to cut the tape to make it all official. 

Shortly though the hard-working construction workers wearing those very fetching orange hard hats will be milking all the applause and praise that can only be so thoroughly deserved. The Travelodge hotel will be throwing open its doors to hundreds of passing businessmen and women, reps and local office workers who need a good night's kip and a place to rest their heads. But you can't help but think that the Travelodge won't be turning down those tourists and holidaymakers who just want to sample the delights of Finsbury Park, the Seven Sisters Road and bumper to bumper traffic. 

Still, here we are in a worsening global pandemic and the attention turns to the Travelodge, an impressive looking hotel literally half an hour or so from the West End of London. It really does look very inviting and glamorous but you have to question the necessity for any more hotels. It's not even as if there are any sandy beaches or souvenir shops selling windmills or buckets and spades nearby. And there is certainly no briny sea nearby or bobbing boats. Manor House is not Southend nor could it ever be uttered in the same sentence as Bournemouth.

It's two days to go before and the kitchen staff are taking their last brief, the chambermaids are plumping up the bedroom pillows and the reception desk is ready and waiting to take its first influx of guests. The Travelodge is getting so excited it can hardly contain its excitement. Meanwhile, the hairdressers is shut yet again and you really do feel deeply sorry for them. The gym which you used to frequent has put up its shutters and there was still an infuriating queue outside our local chemists. And yet we're still here at the end of a year that seems to have gone on forever. We're grateful for our health and we've still got each other. You've all got star quality everybody. Take a bow.   

       

Back to Tier 4 lockdown.

 Back to Tier 4 lockdown. 

Just when you thought it was safe to come out of hiding it comes back again like the proverbial old penny. In fact to say that this is gradually turning into the worst of all dreams would be a gross understatment. Didn't we think for a moment or two that the definitive vaccine had been the answer to all of our prayers? What must we have been thinking of? This is real life and they're not joking. It is unspeakably unbelievable. Somebody, please pinch us because we are back to where we were at the beginning of April. Or so it would seem. 

We are now weeks away from the end of the year and Tier 1 is ancient history, Tier 2 is the Middle Ages,  Tier 3 a brief spell in the Tudor Stewart period and now Tier 4 seems like some ongoing melodrama that becomes more and more sombre every time you look at it. There was a remote possibility that we might have been edging towards dry land and finding our bearings yet again. But then we were dragged down unwillingly towards the deep end and that sea is decidedly choppy. There are no lifeboats and not a soul in sight. 

Last night the whole of Southern England, its many shires and counties were condemned to a life of no activity, no communication with each other and no physical contact between. It is quite the most astonishing year of all time and, quite definitely, not the one to be remembered with any pleasure at all. In fact it's been terrifyingly, agonisingly intolerable because Covid 19 has stripped bare our soul, cut deep into our psyche and ripped to shreds all of our carefully laid plans and honest ambitions. There may have been a similar calendar year to 2020 but surely none quite as historically awful and sickeningly painful.

In the leafy shires of Essex, the hop fields and orchards of Kent, the salubrious, seaside coast haven of Sussex and the stockbroker belt of Surrey they were wallowing in the most miserable black-hole. Tier 4 restrictions have now meant that any kind of leisurely pursuit would be rendered impossible yet again. It seems as if  Boris Johnson and his loyal scientific officers are deliberately tormenting us because we have clearly become too cocky and complacent. We've been taking everything for granted. But we've warmed to Sir Patrick Vallant and Chris Whitty and it isn't their fault. They're simply trying to keep us to date on the latest developments in the world of Covid 19 and they have our unqualified admiration. 

Last night at midnight the pubs, clubs, restaurants, leisure centres, gyms, nail bars, hairdressers and Pete's cafe at the end of your high street were politely told to shut up shop again. It wasn't their fault of course but you'd have thought they'd have given us prior warning before springing this one on us for the umpteenth time. But here we are back at square one and the ever-increasing circles are making us dizzy. There's something drastically wrong with this roller coaster because we just want to get off it. 

Even London has suffered a dramatic relapse. Lovely old London reminded you of an evacuation before the air raid sirens started wailing. At one of our major overhead London railway stations, there was almost a sense of panic and urgency as thousands of people swarmed out of the main concourse as if their lives depended on it. They were running away from something and we knew what it was. War thank goodness has not been declared but you'd have been forgiven for thinking in those terms. 

Oxford Street, Regent Street and the whole of West End seemed to be scurrying frantically from a bomb site when in fact all they were escaping from was themselves in case they just happened to bump into each other which would not be morally acceptable. In fact every single person who just happened to be wandering slowly back towards Oxford Circus tube station must have been trembling with an unspoken fear, gripped as they were by both anxiety and nerve-shredding trepidation. Tell us please that this will end one day. Covid 19 must never appear on our emotional radar ever again. 

On wet and rainy pavements they trudged, then broke into a trot, then rapidly jogged towards the Tube station before running through the labyrinthine subway, going underground before heading straight to their chosen platform. They'd have been confronted by those enormously talented buskers with their violins, rock guitars or keyboards and a dog curled up next to them for company. They'd have played their heart out, smiled at the passengers and then shown effusive gratitude for the ten and fifty pence pieces nestling in their caps.

But now the West End would be shut for the duration, a city now totally drained, disenchanted, bereft and beyond any kind of consolation. Their world may have felt as though it had come to an end and there was nothing to offer but vague re-assurances about the future. Boris Johnson had regretted to inform us that Christmas would have to be cancelled, shovelled into a dirty pit full of recycled rubbish and then said that he might let us off the hook on December 30. Too late mate, the damage has been done. 

You can now see the whole of urban and suburban England with its chocolate-box villages, once bustling market towns, its rural farmhouses, its terraced, back to back houses, its sloping, winding country roads and those green belt areas where high tech buildings merge pleasantly with the rest of a landscape that either Constable or Turner would have had so much fun in painting. This could have been the perfect opportunity to make a couple of florin or two just to make ends meet.

And yet London woke up this morning in a bewildered trance, a bleary-eyed funk and startled alarm. You found that your local gym was shut and you were devastated because that bike and rowing machine had been locked up and would not be re-appearing until the penultimate day of 2020. Oh no, this is just silly. You'd built up a momentum and worked up a decent and healthy sweat. You felt re-invigorated, full of beans, full of the joys of spring, dripping with sweat but just exhilarated and feeling good to be alive. 

So it's pretty much where we were a couple of weeks ago, struggling to find any more variations on a theme and searching for descriptions, metaphors, similes, anything to make sense of it all. This year Christmas Day and the ensuing days after Boxing Day will have to be put in mothballs rather like those baubles and fairies we always seem to bundle away in the attic after the festivities. 

What on earth to make of this morose Greek tragedy, this Chekhov play, this Dostoevsky novel, this dystopian Kafka epic where the world becomes strangled by red tape and everything is doomed? All around us the major financial powerhouses of the whole planet are sinking into a muddy quicksand and the shops who once buzzed with good fortune, are about to call out the metaphorical paramedics. The patient is breathing heavily and the vital signs don't look too good. It is essential that we head for the operating theatre because at this rate, London will resemble a First World War battlefield. 

Still we loiter around wearing those surgical masks with quirky and different designs, some drifting around listlessly as if they've just been hit by a meteorite. They pull their masks down just to make sure that fresh air can be allowed to be inhaled and then walk around with said masks under their neck. It reminds you of a long- forgotten and lost episode of Doctor Who without the Daleks but some threatening poison in the air and a couple of heavy cybermen for good measure. 

This could be regarded as a huge exaggeration but surely we must feel as though we've lost our own identity let alone figure out whether anybody else is feeling the same way. Surely we haven't forgotten our very important role within society. Looking around this deserted concrete bowl though with only pigeons to perhaps acknowledge, you may be feeling as the whole of humanity has been stolen and taken hostage in a dusty warehouse. 

More so than ever this is the time when most of the Christian population put down their tools for the year, kick off their shoes, fall back comfortingly on the sofa while parents tuck away their offspring to bed on Christmas Eve. In theory, this should be the most joyful period of the year for those who just love pulling crackers and eating large portions of turkey but it does seem as though Christmas Day will be very much like any other day during the year.

There will be no present giving, no soppy sentimentality, no nostalgia for Christmases from long ago, no uncle Tom thanking the family for yet another pipe or cardigan and children with just an orange or packet of chocolate Rolos as a reward for their academic endeavours. Then dad will put on Chris Rea's glorious 'Driving Home For Christmas' in the background, the kids will run up and downstairs again and again before Her Majesty the Queen makes her regal presence felt at 3pm.

This year the whole of the country will be systematically parcelled up into different tiers, sections, sub- sections, categories, danger zones, comfort zones and whatever constitutes safety. Sadly, some of us will not be seeing my wonderful brother and sister in law, their children, the rest of my precious family and this really is a source of deep frustration. Some of us though are looking forward to see our lovely  father -in- law because he just happens to be celebrating his birthday on Christmas Eve. Apparently he can visit yours truly, my lovely wife and our daughter because they're in the same support bubble. Whatever that means.

Anyway the fact is we've had it up to here with these glad and then bad tidings, these false dawns, these ill judged announcements and these preposterous, made-up phrases that bear no relation to nothing in particular. Since when did the country become a tier and what to make of a support bubble? We may never find out if only because the Oxford English Dictionary would tell us to kindly refrain from asking about their origins. At some point somebody will sit down with the whole of the world, take us into their confidence and give us a rational explanation for something that is beyond our knowledge and perhaps always will be. Still, if you've put a bow on that last Christmas present don't despair because by next Easter we'll all be back in the land of the normal. How comforting to know.          

Well, not long to go now. Santa Claus may have to be cancelled this year. Or maybe not.

 Well, not long to go now. Santa Claus may have to be cancelled this year. Or maybe not. 

You do get the feeling that Santa Claus may have to be cancelled this year. The rumour is that the chimney he takes such enormous pleasure in tumbling down, is now in grave jeopardy of not responding to all that Ho Ho cheery demeanour and that white beard looks as though it may be in dire need of a trim. Children of the world though will be excitedly anticipating the arrival of their jolly old friend from the land of presents and gifts, staying awake in the early hours of Christmas Day just in case he's forgotten them. 

But this year Christmas takes on an entirely more mournful and melancholy look. This is clearly not the way 2020 was supposed to end and besides it's hard to know whether to laugh or cry. Admittedly it is indeed Christmas but not the one as shown on your yearly calendar. We'll still have that honey-sweet glass of mulled wine half-way through Christmas morning, still sharing pleasantries with limited family and friends but realistically this is not the way it was intended to be. 

Deep in the heart of London's West End the big department stores, non and essential shops should be looking forward to a booming and prosperous time, when the whole of Oxford and Regent Street should have been bristling with commercial vibrancy, eager transactions and the imminent sales. But not this year. There is still a sense that the brief Christmas respite from Covid 19 may have a beneficial effect on the profits and revenue streams of Marks and Spencer, Selfridges, John Lewis but sadly not Debenhams. 

Debenhams, one of the once-thriving nationwide chain of shops and a firmly established high street fixture, is now about to go out of business and its days are now numbered. It is the victim of the dreaded and destructive coronavirus, a victim of distressing circumstances. Since March Debenhams, rather like most of its neighbours, has been suffering the blues with no customers, no finance and a closed sign that was deeply depressing to all who once flooded through its doors. 

And yet London, for much of the year, has indeed resembled a desert, a wasteland where the ghosts of Christmases past are now nothing more than a silent Charlie Chaplin film. There is numbness, stunned astonishment, devastation in the air, weeping, sobbing, heads in hands and distraught desolation. How did it ever come to this? Was this somehow destined to happen or did we not read the signs that a global pandemic would just sweep through the world like a deadly, uncontrollable tornado that just lifts up houses, trees and people as if they weren't there?

But what happened to London; its theatres, its cinemas, its gambling casinos, its multitude of souvenir shops, its kaleidosopic colours, its flashing, flickering, tempting Piccadilly Circus neon advertisements, its unashamed brazenness, its outrageousness, its eccentricity, its movement, its energy, the cosmopolitan restaurants, China Town with its mystical flavours and spices, buffets for all. Can London be saved, redeemed and rescued from this viral onslaught? Will it ever be able to stand on its two feet again or will it just wilt into oblivion never to be seen again?

This should be the time when London and the West End should burst into life, showing off to the rest of the world that it still has its seductive charms. Normally the London pavements would be heaving under the weight of shoppers from all over the world,  thousands of tourists flocking from all corners of the universe just to eat and drink at the Ritz or Savoy hotel, taking in the traditional pantomime and then having enough money left over for a bag of chips.

You would like to think that the window shoppers will still arrive in their droves, still amazed at those cute sleighs, fake snow, and the eye-catching Christmas trees decorated with well-wrapped boxes and loads of tinsel and glitter. The cynics will probably tell us again that they can't stand Christmas and wish that it could be permanently banned. They'll tell us that it's a complete waste of time and money,  a cheap marketing exercise to wrench from us our life savings. All of that fuss over nothing. Besides we could get half of those ornaments and electrical products at half the price locally. 

The presence of Argos and Poundland on our high streets is perhaps a salutary warning to the big boys that if you can be criminally expensive then we can always take our custom elsewhere. So where are we to go with this seemingly indefinite affliction, this nasty disease, this now tier driven virus? You would have thought we'd have a break from all of this death and chronic illness. The chances are that we probably will if only briefly since the government has kindly given us a few days of freedom to enjoy ourselves over this festive fiesta. But not for long apparently. 

Over at 10 Downing Street, the holly and ivy are still in abundant supply but for Boris Johnson this would not have been the way he thought it would pan out. Johnson is currently in the throes of trying to wrap up an amicable deal with his EU pals over trading relations and goodbye Brussels because we don't need you anymore. You're surplus to requirements so turn off the light as you leave us for the last time. Oh dear what a year, hey? Things can and will get better. Definitely.

     

The week before Christmas.

 The week before Christmas.

So here we are a week before Christmas. The world is still in turmoil and anguish. There is nowhere to go and nobody to see. At this rate we may forget who we are if only because our identity has taken a bit of a battering, society has lost its way completely and the people who inhabited that society are still in a state of shock and mortification. It is time to reflect on the year but you'd be a brave soul to give an honest appraisal of 2020 since a vast majority would rather move onto 2021 if only because the general consensus is that it was probably the annus horribilis that Her Majesty the Queen experienced a couple of years ago. 

To say that the year was just a frightful cataclysm would be an understatement. Since the middle of March it has been an unrelenting stinker. In fact, let's be honest it is the year we'd rather bury away in the back garden, never ever remember again and hope never shows its face to any of us. It could be described as one incessant post mortem or maybe one of those years when everything that could have gone hellishly wrong did so with a vengeance. 

In any other ordinary year we might have been recalling a couple of hurricanes, typhoons, floods and the usual assortment of global wars in remote corners of the world. We may have been reflecting on the stunning incompetence of world leaders, silly confrontations between those politicians who should have known better and petty quarrels over Europe. And that was just a start. We would almost certainly be complaining about or praising the weather depending on the time of the year. Just another year in many ways. 

How we'd have settled for ordinariness, straightforward normality, stability and just the knowledge that things were moving at the usual pace without any unsavoury events in between. There would have been a contentment and acceptance of the status quo, an acknowledgement of the existence of human nature without being troubled by anything negative, unnerving or abhorrent happening. But, as the year progressed, we became aware of the fact that everything we were hoping for would just be trampled on and trodden into the ground like dust. 

We are now gearing up for the festive period in the traditional fashion but anything that resembles a conventional Christmas is just a rumour.  This will be a complete departure from the norm, a radical change from previous years when things ran like clockwork. This year the celebrations will be so muted that you may have to turn up the volume and the things you might have been looking forward to as a given have now been stolen from your grasp because a worldwide pandemic just gripped the universe and shattered everything like broken glass. 

But now we have reached the stage where the very arrival of Christmas seems like a consolation prize rather than the magnificent end- of year scoff up and alcohol party we've grown to love or detest according to your view on the subject. Christmas will now be regarded as some vital morale booster rather than the customary celebration it should be. The year has been a dreadful accident and emergency case, agonising poignancy, heartfelt sympathy, utter desperation and deeply sentimental moments when everybody thanked the NHS with oceans of clapping and so much more. 

This Christmas will be almost unbearably different. Suddenly Britain has been cut up into different tiers, a description so grammatically bonkers and beyond the comprehension of us at any level, that it is hard to know what stringent measures are about to be implemented without our permission. Both Southern and Northern England have been chopped up into small pieces and then told that they must shut down once again for the duration. Surely not. This is so infuriatingly disruptive that we may be tempted to hibernate in a dark room for how-ever long this virus takes to reach its logical conclusion.

Meanwhile, we try to imagine life in the Donald Trump home and hearth. The ex- President of the United States has finally vanished off the face of planet Earth. Or has he? Has Trump been kidnapped by aliens, got completely lost on a golf course or is he still insistent that the recent election was a set up and fixed? Has Trump got a temporary job as Santa Claus or will he just refuse to hand out presents to his children because he simply felt like sulking and not coming out to play? So there. 

The suspicion is that when Trump does leave the White House the assembled forces of a Washington police force will be ready with a fetching pair of handcuffs. It is hard to know how what may lie in wait for Trump next because the last four years or so have been reminiscent of an episode from Coronation Street where Len Fairclough started a punch up in the Rovers Return and Elsie Tanner came face to face with Ena Sharples. All very violent and unseemly but very real. 

Back at 10 Downing Street the tree soars into the air, a towering presence and perhaps a symbolic reminder to us all that life must go on even though it may look as if it may have stopped altogether. Boris Johnson is still wrapping up his presents, rehearsing another collection of Latin verbs to surprise us all with and then making very profound statements about Brexit and Britain's rosy complexioned future without those European interfering busybodies.

Somewhere on the premises of 10 Downing Street Johnson is searching for a glimmer of hope, a nugget of optimism amid the prevailing greyness. He may be hoping for clarity and confirmation or maybe just a bog-standard, everyday comb or brush, anything to declare peace on that tangled mop of blond hair. At the moment the said hair is at war with Johnson and after extensive negotiations with his barber and well-meaning friends, this could be the right time to get cracking on that beleagueared scalp. 

Anyway ladies and gentlemen. You'd like to be the first to wish you all a Merry Christmas even though it may just a week earlier than you were planning on doing so. Christmas 2020 will be alarmingly different in the history of civilisation. You're reminded of that famous scene in 'It's a Wonderful Life' where James Stewart runs down a street in the snow, longing to be with his wife and family and then discovering that nobody knows who he is anymore. It could be an apt metaphor for 2020 but nobody would believe you. But we will get there and we will make that connection so keep the faith and never give up.     

Anthony Joshua retains heavyweight crown and world champion

 Anthony Joshua retains heavyweight boxing crown. 

The gentle giant from Golders Green and Watford born Anthony Joshua once again united boxing's diverse, world heavyweight championship belts with a crunching, thundering knockout of his spirited and game Bulgarian opponent Kubrat Pulev. It had been coming for Pulev and he must have expected this deadly and violently concussive blow from the Joshua gloves because the man from Bulgaria was cowering and hiding away from the Londoner's savage artillery of punches that ended in the ninth round. 

And so Britain woke up yesterday to find itself with a worthy successor to the likes of Henry Cooper, Frank Bruno, Lennox Lewis, and now Joshua himself. The only difference, in this case, is that Joshua has finally claimed the world heavyweight belt for his own personal satisfaction. In a year of the chronic virus that has both ruined and scarred 2020, Joshua made us all sit up and feel good about ourselves. The capture of a major global boxing victory may seem distinctly unimpressive given the traumatic events that have made themselves painfully evident but at least we can still produce authentic sporting heroes. 

To all outward appearances Joshua is a pleasant and agreeable boxer, free of the arrogance and attitude that may have led to the downfall of his predecessors. We all know of course that Frank Bruno was just a lovable charmer who just wanted to be accepted for who he was rather than the way his critics would have liked him to be, growling and grumbling, threatening to turn off the lights of his challenger in the ring in two rounds. 

For Bruno boxing was quite heartless and unsympathetic. When the defeats came along like London buses Bruno began to lumber around like a wounded elephant, beaten senseless, disillusioned with everything around him and nursing a whole succession of black eyes, swollen lips and battered ribs. Towards the end of his career he became a shambling, downtrodden man reduced to the level of the celebrity pantomime character and a relentless figure of fun. Then it all went dramatically downhill and now Bruno lives only with his memories. 

In the case of Anthony Joshua, boxing is very much a matter of an evening in the office, getting it all over and done with as quickly as possible and back to the dressing room with the victor's belt around his waist. Joshua is a ruthless, powerful, pragmatic fighter who does everything efficiently and skilfully with little fuss. He boxes very cleverly, an educated and academic boxer who puts his combinations together with an almost learned command of boxing's semantics. 

On Saturday night at London's Wembley Arena, Joshua gave yet another reminder to Tyson Fury that heavyweight boxing needs another needle, acrimonious showdown, two boxers hell-bent on inflicting lasting damage on each other's egos. Fury was watching from afar and over the weekend confidently predicted that he would knock out Joshua and then into some small corner of outer space. The mutual loathing that boxers normally reserve for each other once again manifested itself in this dramatic and enthralling contest. 

From the very first round this was clearly going to be the case one of those very tactical games of boxing chess where neither fighter felt ever so inclined to commit themselves to the lightning-quick conclusion. Joshua was cool, careful, judicious and calculating, measuring, judging and assessing, a master craftsman of the ring, moving his Bulgarian opponent around like the proverbial pawn or bishop that looks for openings and then eventually finds the right angles. 

For the first five rounds Joshua, technically correct but circumspect, kept flicking those muscular arms out rather like a viper poking out its tongue. The glove was like an instrument, weighing up the opportunities to attack at close quarters and then picking the right moment to deliver the killer blows. The recurring image of the whole fight is of the white Joshua glove hovering in the air, choosing the moments with a very worldly shrewdness and a maturity that could only be admired.

Then by the sixth round Joshua was jockeying Pulev and slowly pushing his man into a corner he couldn't escape from. The Bulgarian smirked and smiled at Pulev as if convinced that everything Joshua had thrown at him hadn't connected and the man was making a fool of himself. Gradually though Joshua was exerting a menacing authority on the contest, a brutish barbarian of a fighter experienced in all of boxing's finer arts. Now it was that Pulev began to run out of steam and the bolshie defiance was ebbing away. 

Deep into the eighth round, Joshua unleashed the fatal ammunition, an upper cutting masterclass that left Pulev wobbling precariously on his feet. The punches came thick and fast, with Joshua breaking through his opponents guard with low, slicing, slashing, swinging fists that ground down the Bulgarian's resistance. 

By the ninth round Pulev was quite literally out for the count, a desperate, bleeding, bloodied fighter with very little left to give. The uppercuts were raining in relentless torrents, tentative rights and lefts that sucked the air out of  Joshua's brave bruiser. Then another barrage of punches to Pulev's head destabilised him before it looked as if it was about to explode at any moment. In a swift bombardment of furious hooks and lethal upper cuts Joshua had got his man where he needed to be. 

Finally with the ninth round closing in, Joshua isolated his man and threw the hardest and most ferocious knockout punch that any boxer has ever delivered. The Joshua glove lashed out decisively and poor Pulev was laid flat out on the ground where he eventually stayed. It was a pulverising, frightening punch that the late Muhammad Ali would have assured us may well have been heard on the other side of the world. Down went Pulev like a mighty oak tree that had finally toppled to the ground by a huge gust of wind. 

So Joshua is still the heavyweight champion of the world in some, if not all of boxing's many divisions and Tyson Fury waits in the wings. Boxing, rather like other sports, has shown a classy resilience at a time when sport may have been forgiven for feeling very sorry for itself. We shower the Watford born heavyweight with deserved praise. We will also recognise that this was another triumphant night for British boxing. 

Christmas is just around the corner- Boris and Donald are planning a knees up.

 Christmas is just around the corner- Boris and Donald are planning a knees up. 

So here we are just under a fortnight to go before the big day and the leaders of the Western world are planning one of the loudest. brashest, noisiest Christmas parties of all time. In the Johnson and Trump household the scissors are out, the paper mache and glue ready to hand, balloons and streamers not that far away and all the familiar festive paraphernalia. Then they'll look lovingly at their respective Christmas trees, juggling with baubles. glitter, fairies, stars and then the customary festive presents. You're all invited. 

It is now a year since both Boris Johnson in the United Kingdom corner and Donald Trump in the United States of America corner found themselves busy putting the final touches to their preparations for the Christmas holidays. Boris, for his part, was still preening himself after a spectacular General Election victory, a landslide triumph so resounding that Labour's Jeremy Corbyn must have thought he'd hit a wall, stepped on a landmine or been hit over the head a thousand times by a blue mallet. This General Election malarkey is a piece of cake or so Boris must have felt at the time. 

But then Johnson, comfortably installed as Prime Minister, eased his way through January and February, hoping quite clearly that nothing untoward would happen to him on the way into 10 Downing Street. Indeed it was plain sailing but then he crashed into March and we all what happened next. Oh dear, the most improbable accident of all time. In fact he quite literally ended up in hospital suffering from the virus he'd just witnessed in his rear-view mirror. So we covered our eyes in horror and winced with shock. 

Thankfully the year is now rapidly approaching its end and the Trump- Johnson household can finally shake off their burdensome troubles and concentrate on the Christmas beano, partying and boogying until deep into the small hours of Boxing Day. They'll be climbing awkwardly onto ladders, draping lanterns across their dining rooms, giggling, chuckling, lamenting and cursing in varying measures and ways. Both have been at the centre of the public's attention for ages and both must be hoping that this year doesn't repeat itself next year. 

But jolly Boris, a hilarious and sometimes absurd figure straight from the realms of an old Dan Dare comic, will be bounding across his home, dashing away now to a vitally important Brexit summit in Brussels, running back into the kitchen, flopping into a sofa bedecked with tinsel and paper, gasping for breath before leafing through an old copy of Private Eye just to see whether he's featured in it or not. Then he'll trudge wearily upstairs, fumble around in his wardrobe for his yearly Santa Claus pullover, pull out his Old Etonian jacket and pretend he's still playing real tennis with his former fellow students.

Downstairs his girlfriend Carrie will be rummaging through the chest of drawers for the laptop whose contents Boris unforgivably ruined shortly before he became Prime Minister. We all know what major international incident took place next. Carrie, suitably incensed with her partner, engaged in a spot of argy-bargy, an altercation that ended up with words exchanged and wine being wiped from the said laptop. 

Then Boris and his new family will partake in a small glass of mulled wine, reminisce on old photos, read passages from Boris's award-winning literary piece de resistance and then take a lingering look at his Winston Churchill biography. Boris is now a classical self -parody; still scruffy, dishevelled, bumbling, buffoonish at times in the most endearing way, honourable and well-intentioned when the occasion suits him, putting his foot in it and then saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. 

The new series of Spitting Image portrays a man with a sheaf of wheat on his head, dribbling out sentences that seemed to tumble out of his mouth in a gushing cascade of incoherence. Then he'll remember where he is and what he's supposed to be doing. He'll acknowledge the assistance of the chief medical and scientific officers to whom he thus far has been totally answerable. He'll stick a paper hat on his head on Christmas Day, tuck ravenously into the turkey and trimmings and then dig out the new comb he'd just been presented with earlier on in the day. 

Meanwhile at the White House in Washington DC, one Donald Trump and that extraordinary family of his will be gathering around their tree in a frozen state of disbelief.  Trump will still remind you of an erupting volcano, red in the face, shaking, privately grieving, gritting his teeth, frothing at the mouth with yet more righteous indignation, saying that this can't be fair over and over again. Trump is now beyond control, fighting the urge to throw anything across the living room and smashing a mirror. The reality is now sinking in and Trump is still sounding out lawyers. It beggars belief. 

And yet when he sits down shortly and reasons with himself he'll find that he's no longer President of the United States and that's not going to be a good feeling. So he'll pour himself a Budweiser, munch bitterly on a whole succession of hot dogs and burgers dripping with ketchup and then mope. He'll pull a Christmas cracker, watch a boxset of baseball classics and will come to terms with his vastly inflated ego. He may be accused of being a waste of space and inadequacy by some but not others. 

So there you have the domestic idyll of the Trump and Johnson homestead. Both will be wishing seasons greetings to one and all. But both recognise that for one at least this is the end of the road for him while the other may have to endure a much longer and harder rehabilitation. Donald Trump will still be hogging the headlines with now ludicrous plans to set up his own TV channel and Boris Johnson may be counting the days down to the end of this year. Still. it's Christmas everybody. Well almost. Here's a word for all Prime Ministers and now former American presidents. Cheer up it may never happen although it may seem as if it already has. Life is indeed beautiful. 

It's Chanukah everybody.

It's Chanukah everybody. 

Yippee folks. There's something to celebrate, something to cling onto by way of consolation and maybe the start of something completely new. You may have heard about the first piece of excellent news in recent days and if you haven't heard about the glad tidings then you must have cut yourself off from all contact with the outside world. The vaccine for Covid19 is now being unveiled and across the length and breadth of Britain, help is on its way. A 90-year- old Irish lady was the first to be administered with that seemingly elusive vaccine and everything is on an upward trajectory. Who would have thought it possible? 

But today we also welcome the arrival of the Jewish cholesterol fest Chanukah, the festival of lights, a symbolic reminder to all Jews across the world that you can eat doughnuts and latkes(potato cakes) with complete impunity regardless of what people may be telling you. Forget for a while the dietary disadvantages of gobbling down the kind of foods designed to pile on the stones and do nothing for your waistline. 

Chanukah also represents a chapter from Biblical times when doughnuts were just yummy indulgences that were delectably sweet and besides who cared about the calories or the expanding midriff? The simple fact of the matter is that Chanukah is great fun, a chance for kids and adults to park their inhibitions where nobody can find them and just get on with the business of eating, drinking and dancing Israeli dances. 

How we've reached out for this day in the middle of the all-enveloping darkness because, quite frankly, some of us are at the end of our tether, gnashing our teeth with frustration and going out of our minds. Well, not quite but it seems as if the coronavirus is slowly playing tricks with our minds. There are points during the day when the gradual decrease in infections and new cases feels as if all our birthdays have come at the same time. Then we hear about the catastrophic rise in the number of deaths. 

So it is that the Jewish population tries to ignore the apocalypse that just keeps hammering away at our subconscious and think of doughnuts, sweets and kids running around their schools in fancy dress completely oblivious to the cautionary warnings and ever-present gloom. They'll still be wary and cautious, still suspicious of the inherent dangers that still lurk like a glowering shadow in a haunted castle late at night. 

However, this is no time to dwell on the last 12 months because, quite frankly, if we did that, we may be tempted to just fall into the deepest depression. The lack of physical interaction with family, colleagues and friends has combined to drive us to the edge of madness. Yet just for a week the whole of the Jewish population will be abandoning itself to dizzy, giddy delirium, barely concealed elation, happiness on a monumental scale and then spinning our dreidels(spinning tops).

In a multi-ethnic and multi-cultural society, religious festivals and holidays can often be lost in the crazy, helter-skelter speed of modern life. We tend to overlook or just take for granted the temporary breaks in the year, the subtle differences in the changing moods of the year. For almost 365 days of the year we commit ourselves to self improvement, education, self advancement, learning new skills, going to work, coming home from work and doing the same thing day after day after day. 

This year the sheer frightening momentum of the way in which we might have been living our lives up until now has been severely and tragically disrupted by a global pandemic that none of us can get our heads around. Suddenly that repetitive merry go round, Groundhog Day routine has been brought to a juddering halt. We wake up to the latest viral developments and close our eyes because our minds have now been conditioned to fear and that must have a devastating impact on us because for roughly 100 years we have never seen anything quite like this. 

Still, it gives proud Jews such as myself undiluted pleasure in flagging up this joyful period of escapism from the toil and drudgery, this jolly knees up, this Jewish revelry, our wonderful holiday. We'll be chanting and singing once again at the top of our voices, hugging each other perhaps reluctantly owing to wretched circumstances, smiling endlessly and swallowing the jam from our doughnuts as if we were the children we used to be. 

And finally we'll be lighting the menorah, the Chanukah candles which flare into life shortly before Christmas. We'll be singing the traditional blessings and prayers, acknowledging our acquaintances, parents, grandparents and the whole family collective. Today marks the beginning of a yearly ritual of sweetness and light, of being grateful for everything we've got and doughnut scoffing. So to all of my wonderfully loving, supportive family and friends may we all have a fantastic Chanukah and, shortly, Christmas. 

Peter Alliss dies

 Peter Alliss dies.

For almost 60 years Peter Alliss was the voice of golf. After retiring from the sport he so clearly loved, Alliss was entrusted with the responsibility of commentating on the sport for the BBC. It was a task he carried out with both a rich distinction and unfailing attention to detail. Both radio and TV commentators have come and gone but Alliss was steadfast, loyal to the cause and warmly complimentary about every aspect of a game that enthralled its followers and enthusiasts before retiring to the clubhouse at the end of the day for a vintage drop of wine from the finest vineyards. 

 Alliss's educated and informative views on the players he'd been privileged enough to see over the years and wry observations he'd made throughout the day were a treat to the ear and eye. He gave us a thorough insight into the lucrative world of those top, highly ranked golfers who trod their weary way around some of the most magnificently manicured courses, horticultural works of art that always looked picturesque regardless of the time of the year. 

Alliss was the quiet one, the courteous one, the gentlemanly one, a consummate professional to his driving wrists from the first hole, a man who respected the feats of the greats, lionised the legends with thousands of kind words and then told his BBC audience that Jack Nicklaus, Gary Player, Tom Watson, Bernhard Langer, Arnold Palmer, Lee Trevino and Seve Ballesteros had been such a pleasure to watch. Truth to be told Alliss adored the brilliance and character of those players who always played to the gallery. 

Throughout the 1960s and beyond, Alliss and the great Henry Longhurst combined to whisper their way discreetly around the fairways and bunkers of most golf courses around the world. As the leaders of the British Open walked through the rough of those broad, sweeping acres, the voices of Alliss and Longhurst would lower their tonsils deliberately if only to convey the intensity and drama of the moment. But then Allliss would take us on a metaphorical journey into the land of language and grammar. 

As the 18th hole loomed on the last day of the British Open, Alliss would give us a highly articulate opinion of his very personal overview of the game. He would tell us about the strength of a blustery wind, the boats on the horizon, the cormorants swooping and dancing across a cloudy, summery day at St Andrews. He would giggle and chuckle at the players latest fashion statements, comment amusingly on their choice of socks and then laugh at the gaggle of fans who were trudging around the course with a beautifully coloured umbrella. 

Because Alliss was cool and composed, a deeply analytical figure whose whispering voice and understated delivery with a microphone fitted the mood of the nation on all occasions. You felt sure that here was a man with an encyclopaedic knowledge of his sport, a vast array of facts and figures at his disposal and then launch into a homage about every sportsman or woman he'd ever seen. 

And then we came to the greens of the 18th hole and Alliss would embrace the occasion as if it were a royal coronation or wedding. The words were measured and sweet, simple but appropriate. There was a quirkiness about some of his descriptions that was nothing less than memorable. He would chuckle again whole-heartedly at the shortcomings of the local transport network, the Canadian geese who refused to listen to warnings from the marshals dotted around the fairways and then swore that he'd never seen such sublime golf in his life. 

You find yourselves thinking quite what Alliss would have thought of the great American author Mark Twain's less than flattering reference to golf being a good walk spoiled. How dare Twain make wounding and derogatory remarks about the one sport which required extraordinary levels of skill, concentration and the application of a shrewd, calculating mind. He would have been offended if you'd suggested to him that golf was boring, dull and about as interesting as watching paint dry. 

And so it is that we mourn the passing of Peter Alliss, a golfing connoisseur, a man who admired professionalism at every level of sport as well as his game of golf. There was a hint of sarcasm and facetiousness about his commentaries but that could only be considered as part of his charm offensive. There were the sharp criticisms and burbling witticisms, the humorous touches and then an almost offhand word or two reserved for the money-grabbing mercenaries who were threatening to kill off golf. 

But Alliss was a fastidious perfectionist. He was still teaching and coaching the next generation of golfers, still showing the youngsters how to address the ball from the driving green, the position of the hips and shoulders in relation to the ball, the manner in which body and head should always be held at all times and then the decisive swing with that smooth follow-through. He would never look for perfection for such qualities were elusive but this once Ryder Cup player knew all about the game's wrinkles and finer points.

Now that most of the gorgeous sports broadcasting voices have now sadly passed, we may come to look back on the career of Peter Alliss as one of the finest of all time. Cricket gave us the literary exquisiteness of John Arlott and Brian Johnson, football, the knowledgeable excellence of Barry Davies and John Motson while tennis was graced by the softly soothing tones of Dan Maskell but Peter Alliss cared about his sport passionately, marvelled at its dramatic unpredictability and never lost interest in its mesmeric fascination. We shall miss Peter Alliss because he was the one who always seemed to have the right word at the right time. The world of golf will never see or hear his like again.    

Back in the land of Brexit.

 Back in the land of Brexit. 

Oh no! It's time to jump onto those fairground dodgems once again. Just as we thought we hadn't seen the back of the subject, it's back again. It used to dominate the news agenda and it's that moment in the year when we should all welcome back that other old news chestnut. Don't you get the feeling that we've been here before? Are we going around in circles or are we destined to play musical chairs with the public's feelings? We keep bumping into that same old, repetitive news agenda and if it isn't one thing, it's quite clearly another. It's deja vu with a vengeance. 

Here we are in the tight grip of a global pandemic and suddenly things are slowly lurching back to your friend and mine- Brexit. Before the global virus that left a trail of carnage behind it struck in March, Britain was wrestling with the hottest political potato since whenever the last one was. Brexit was that hugely complicated annoyance that kept battering our ear-drums remorselessly even though we hadn't asked it to. For the best part of three years we were caught up in the horns of a dilemma. In fact it became the most intolerable dilemma of all time. A right pain in the neck otherwise. 

When former Prime Minister David Cameron consulted Britain and her noble inhabitants on the issue of the European Union and Britain's contentious connection to Europe, the answer came straight back at him. We went to vote on our political involvement in Europe and whether we should make a complete break with influential powers to be in Brussels. 

The response was, at the time emphatic. It was time to withdraw from that stuffy, bureaucratic organisation that dictated every decision Britain had made hitherto. All the laws that had been made since the misty days of Edward Heath's Common Market would now be placed in jeopardy. How dare those crusty mandarins in Brussels tell us what to do? Who are they to lay down the law on important matters of state when the overall impression is that they're just interfering busybodies? Brexit though has come to our rescue on a white charger horse when it looked as though we were about to topple off that galloping steed. 

Today we discover that Michel Barnier and company are once again breathing hot air and threatening to strangle us if we refuse to get on with the whole tiresome process. We now have to negotiate the final hurdles, stick or twist for the umpteenth time and decide whether to write our signature on the final document. It's hard to tell what may be going on in those sullen corridors of Brussels. There isn't a great deal to smile about in the Belgian capital because nobody seems to know where we are going with this one. 

You get the impression that all the dots and crosses will be joined up coherently but poor old Boris Johnson must feel like that rope they used in Tug of War competitions, up to his eyes and ears with official soundbites from his EU companions and then looking on with horror at the fluctuating figures from Covid 19 debriefings. Who on earth would be a Prime Minister? So Johnson will just get on with it because that's what he's paid to do. Johnson is torn emotionally and trapped physically. 

He is damned if he does and vice versa since this is the latest default position at Westminster Towers. But what on earth to do with the utterly objectionable Brexit, the one subject that almost drove us around the bend but failed because we wouldn't allow it to? Still we are confronted by legal jargon, messy minutiae and all sorts of minor details that could blow up in our face. 

After the withdrawal from the EU had been confirmed we were then on some monumental assault course of new problems, things that had to be ironed out. Would the Irish sort out their borders, would we ever compete in the Eurovision Song Contest, would we still maintain some semblance of trading harmony with Europe even though, if truth to be told, we couldn't stand the sight of them? So clear off Brussels because we want our sovereignty and identity back. 

But here we are weeks away from Christmas and Brexit is still a daft expression made up on the back of an old postcard. Politically Britain is still at the bottom of some dusty document of a European letter that was never really opened up or even read. But come New Year's Eve we'll be out of the building, off into our brave new world, ready to conquer new frontiers, engaging with Far East consortiums and reputable companies with big ideas. We'll be signing up deals with those already prosperous markets in Hong Kong and Malaysia, rubbing shoulders with Japan and exotic islands with swaying palm trees. 

And yet here we are still clenching our teeth, gnashing our fingernails  and trying hard to keep a straight face. The chances are that things will work out for the best and come next February and just before next Easter, all of this maddening maelstrom could be history. It is to be hoped that come February, March and most certainly April we'll all be gathering around Trafalgar Square and singing Auld Lang Syne months after the night we should have been belting it out. 

But Brexit is still darkening our corridors if only because it probably feels as if it's lost and would love to be guided in the right direction. So folks be prepared for another set of conferences relating to Brexit where all manner of confusing conundrums and imponderables will be discussed. There has never been any point when nothing will ever be resolved and we'll be in the same quandary again come January. It's all mixed up, this bombardment of statistics, figures, facts, tiers, stages, categories, will they won't they, anticipation followed by another round of indecision. It's enough to drive you completely crazy.    

Oh whoopee. The breakthrough moment has finally arrived.

Oh whoopee. The breakthrough moment has finally arrived. 

Oh sweet joy! It's that wow moment we've all been waiting for. Patience is a virtue and patience has been rewarded but before we get too excited this could be time to err on the side of caution. But ladies and gentlemen you can finally begin to see the sun-dappled uplands, flourishing woodlands, the lark on the branch hopping delicately between one beech tree to another, finches and, quite possibly, robins cooing sweetly and affectionately as a cyclist trudges athletically along poetic country lanes. And then we discover that the world has, quite definitely, turned a corner. A vaccine for Covid 19 is on its way. And it's next week. 

Yes folks. it's true. They're not joking you know. They mean it. This is D-Day. The momentous announcement has been made and they're not making this one up. After months of agonising, at times hellish trauma, soul-baring, clapping on a Thursday evening for almost an indefinite period of time, endless Downing Street briefings from Prime Minister Boris Johnson, much hand wringing and sanitising, cleaning hands ad infinitum, spraying, steaming and questioning the inexplicable, we are finally at the moment when everything changes and changes dramatically. The wait is over. The viral war is almost over. 

That clearing in the deep and tangled forest is now much more visible than it was, let us say, four months ago. Quite how we've got through this viral minefield is anybody's guess but the final obstacles are about to overcome with the arrival of a vaccine that will be comprehensively set in motion within the next couple of months. We always knew, by the law of averages, that something would turn up because Charles Dickens knew what he was talking about and besides how much longer could a crippling disease take hold and create havoc?

So here we are. Pfizer/BioNTech is the name of the vaccine and how some of us would love to go up to this vaccine and give it the biggest hug of all time.  Now this is the kind of good news we could all get used to very quickly. It almost seemed that any hint of a vaccine on the medical market could have been just wishful thinking and simply just a set of test tubes languishing in a science laboratory. It would take years they said and research into any new development would quite probably take another decade to become the genuine article. 

But here in Britain the nation basks in the knowledge that once again it can enjoy the untrammelled freedom it thought had just been restored to them a couple of months ago. And yet we were about to discover that a second lockdown would take us several hundred steps backwards. Suddenly, we were divided up into tiers which suggested to the neutral observer that we were experiencing different degrees of illness and affliction. Oh how complicated had life become for all of us. 

Fear not though. Today feels though good, auspicious, pivotal and seminal. It feels as though we've reached the most intriguing part of a historical novel and then discovered that we had to turn off the light to go to sleep because it was far too late and we'd never get up in the morning. We'd got through the bleak and disastrous chapters of the book with its emphasis on death and darkness before making the glorious discovery that things are about to end very happily ever after. 

So it is that today all those essential shops are back open again and we are all desperately hoping that they won't be required to close again because it could be fatal if things do go against them. Then there are the pubs and restaurants who, in their contrasting ways, are probably getting heartily fed up and sick of all this disruption, flux and inconvenience. Look at all the millions we're missing and the customers must be gasping for a drink or wolfing down a meal with family and friends. It doesn't have to be this way or so it would seem. 

We are now weeks away from Christmas and the party season should be underway by now. The revellers are tuning up their karaoke voices, donning their distinctive hats, demanding that the bar staff fill up huge trays of booze for them and then drinking as much as they can before the end of the year. In theory, the office party season should be revving up and ready to go but owing to most unfortunate circumstances the kissing under the mistletoe next to those old filing cabinets may have to be postponed until a later date. Sadly though this doesn't sound the most realistic or viable of propositions so perhaps we'll just have to resign ourselves to a glass of orange juice in the privacy of our homes.

But the pubs will now be thirsting with anticipation and some of us remain extremely dubious about the appropriateness of something that feels as if it could lead to another outbreak of Covid 19. How to explain the logic of heaving pubs full of people within a confined space? Given the sensitive turning point of where we are at the moment surely the re-opening of pubs has to be shelved until such time as safety and security can be ensured. Still, we must place our unwavering faith in Boris Johnson and his jovial Old Etonians. Let the lagers flow.