Days away from the beginning of a New Year. The Ashes again.

 Days away from the beginning of a New Year. The Ashes again.

So here we are days away from the beginning of a New Year and still we find ourselves lost in a maze of conflicting statements, muddled thinking, mind blowing obfuscation and neither here nor there. In the months following the lifting of the nationwide lockdown on July 19 it looked as though we'd got it all sorted out, that everything would be plain sailing, mum and dad, family, grandparents and siblings all  able to successfully resume the conversation they thought they would somehow take ages to find again after the sorrow and heartache experienced since March 2020.

From July 19 onwards we could finally hook up with each other, re-wire those communication lines, enjoy a slap up, lavish four course meal in a Toby Carvery restaurant and drink yourselves into an inebriated stupor without feeling any of the pangs of conscience we thought we would. But then there followed a delayed reaction, a horrible knot in the pit of our stomachs, doubts, reservations, freedom to some extent denied but then a sudden realisation that somebody had turned the light off again. Or had they?

There was a period of calm, slow recovery, gradual improvement, normality, clarity, assurance and, in some cases, of stubborn defiance. Besides, we weren't going to allow anything to get us down again or stop us from celebrating. To that end, we could once again frequent cinemas, watch movies, eat popcorn, watch those spellbinding West End musicals in historic theatres and then just abandon ourselves to all those good feelings we must have taken great pleasure from quite profoundly and wished we could feel again. 

As things stand out at the moment the New Year could be a watershed moment in all of our lives. We could be back among us again and not worried about the re-percussions of our actions. We won't have to be scared witless if we so much as hold out a hand and attempt a full blooded and civilised shake. We'll stand in the same room as family or friends dinner parties without feeling the cold, hard stare of some bureaucratic dogsbody trying to tell us that if we so much as come anywhere near each other the full force of law and order will nab us for a thorough interrogation in a draughty police cell. 

Yesterday my wife and yours truly tried to visit my lovely father in law in hospital. We were told quite categorically that only one person would be allowed into the hospital because two would constitute a medical disaster. The fact is that the new Omicron is sweeping across the whole of Britain like a gusty gale force. wintry wind. Now Omicron is the latest variant on the coronavirus, which is essentially a variation on a now annoying theme. How much longer can this devastating disease last for? And yet yesterday it succeeded in antagonising the relatives of a family who just wanted to see a very close and much loved member of the family. 

In a sense the lockdown that should have been lifted back in July now seems to be only partially open. Sure, you can exercise in your local gym and there can be no complaints. But tonight Prime Minister Boris Johnson will announce the latest bulletin from Covid 19 headquarters and we know what we might get. No news is good news as they say but how on earth will the nation respond if we all have to shut up shop again, stay indoors for an interminable length of time and only pop out for a loaf of bread, milk and lamb chops if we're allowed to do so. 

Meanwhile in Australia, our dear English cricket team are once again in a complete state of disarray. The thought occurs to you that, sending an English representation to the other side of the world in the depths of winter is now just a futile exercise. We all love the Ashes, that now centuries old battle royale between England and Australia. But realistically an England pilgrimage to our Aussie friends a couple of days after the Christmas Day TV afternoon film, has now been rendered almost redundant by the powers that be and technically superior opposition. 

It almost seems like a coincidence that the current England team should be facing their fierce rivals Australia against a backdrop of sadness and emotional poignancy. Ray Illingworth, former England cricket captain, yesterday died at the age of 89 and 52 years ago led the national team to victory in Australia for the first time in ages. Illingworth was a morally correct, reliable, tactically thorough figure who always rolled up his sleeves quite determinedly and finally beat the Aussies at their own game. 

Illingworth, who apart from delivering yeoman service to his native Yorkshire and then, quite brilliantly, Leicestershire, was one of the game's diligent trundlers, shirt sleeves billowing in the breeze, and then in a windmill of arms, shoulders and fingers he would hop, skip and jump his way to the crease with spin bowling that nipped back off the seam, swinging sharply one way before suddenly moving into a batsman's pads and bat the other. Illingworth's spin had deception, mystery and cleverness in its execution. 

But now in Australia, England have another born and bred Yorkshireman as skipper for the duration of the Ashes. Joe Root is also another who will not leave any stone unturned. You feel sure that Root has done more than enough research on the Aussies. At the moment, though, England are toiling and sweating in the Aussie heat. They are 2-0 down and the series seems over and out but then England do have the match winning class of Ben Stokes in their ranks and Jos Buttler to buttress the attack. Jimmy Anderson could yet come up trumps with a lethal spell of bowling to terrorise and leave the opposition gasping for air. 

The fact is though that some of us are much more concerned with what should be far more important considerations. We are not quite in critical territory here but if the Prime Minister does announce that doom laden, portentous speech later on today then he could have a riot on his hands. There is no hint of a major insurrection yet but if Boris Johnson decides to lock up the country and throw away the key, then it could all get very ugly and unruly. Still, it could go the other way and who knows, 2022 could turn into one long conga. Ladies and Gentlemen, prepare for the best.   

It's the panto season - oh yes it is oh no it's not.

 It's the panto season- oh yes it is oh no it's not. 

The London Palladium, in London's bustling and festive West End, is dripping with history, memories, fond recollections, sensational acts, full of spectacle and spectacular productions. But this Christmas the Palladium finally opened its doors after one of the most unfortunate episodes in recent human history. Covid 19 shut up the famous old theatre and life was put on hold. People forgot all about the joys of light entertainment on a showbiz stage and more or less resigned themselves to closure and a complete lack of enjoyment. 

But last night the old building reverberated to the sounds and sights of showbiz celebrities, a ventriloquist and an act dominated by blinding lights and fire flames. There was also the celebrated and brilliant drag queen and noted celebrity Julian Clary, surely the funniest entertainer of them all. For years now Clary has been the archetypal king of innuendo, biting satirical commentary, shocking one liners and the kind of salty vulgarity that none of us would have objected to because, quite frankly, we all need one enormous laugh.

And yet our host for Panto Land, now running at the Palladium for the festive season, was Donny Osmond, one of the most wholesome, exemplary and respectable of all performers. Osmond is of course American but you can only assume that he is fully conversant with pantomime folklore. Our American friends love the Christmas panto but Donny Osmond just embraced the occasion with a beaming smile.

During the 1970s Osmond was part of one of the most idolised and worshipped teenybopper pop groups, a time when thousands of hysterical girls would wave their scarves, scream deafeningly at the Osmond brothers and then shower the boys with adulation and idolatry. The Osmonds poster decorated the walls of so many teenage girls that some of them had to do without, such was their phenomenal popularity. There was Donny with his sugar sweet Puppy Love and the girls were just bowled over and besotted. Then there was the equally as harmonious Love Me For A Reason where all the brothers sung from the same song sheet. 

Before my wife and yours truly awaited that glorious first appearance, we were allowed to see the backdrop to this richly entertaining show. Above the glittering purple curtain were arranged a colourful sequence of Palladium pantomimes from way back when. The names were showbiz royalty from the early 1950s to the early 60s and then a generous sprinkling of recent names. You could almost feel the nostalgic blood pumping through your veins. 

For those of a certain age Sunday Night at the London Palladium was compulsive TV for most British viewers and audiences from the both the 1950s and 60s. It was black and white TV that took the breath away, captivating cabaret with esoteric acts, jugglers, fire eaters and impressionists galore. It was hosted initially for a while by the cheeky chappie Tommy Trinder and then the inimitable Bruce Forsyth replaced Trinder and the rest is Beat the Clock history. 

Then for what seemed like an age Sunday Night at the London Palladium shut up shop because suddenly there were other TV competitors who became impostors. When Sunday Night at the London Palladium began during the 1950s there were only two terrestrial channels and that was more or less that. By the 1990s and then the 21st century there were about four million satellite channels and of course the programme was just obliterated and pulverised into a forgotten land. 

Four million TV channels may be a gross exaggeration of course but you get the gist. For a while the legendary Liverpool comedian Jimmy Tarbuck hosted the same kind of show. But then on one last horrific night during the 1980s Britain lost its most dearly loved comedian-cum- hilarious magician Tommy Cooper and when Cooper slumped back into the curtain and died on stage, the Palladium's Sunday nights were numbered. 

And yet last night at the London Palladium not only did they play the old theme tune to Sunday Night at the London Palladium, they also paid affectionate homage to the greats. They remembered Danny La Rue, Arthur Askey, Leslie Crowther, Mr Pastry, Paul Nicholas, Sir Bruce Forsyth, Cliff Richard and the Shadows, the old Tiller Girls, Billy Dainty, Norman Wisdom, Charlie Drake and a whole gallery of showbiz stars from the brightest galaxies. It almost felt as all of the above were gazing down admiringly from another decade, another far distant generation and an age of what could be called simple innocence.

So it was that Donny Osmond bounced onto stage rather like a man who couldn't wait to hear the sound of thunderous applause and cheering from both royal box and the dress circle. Osmond introduced us to Julian Clary who looked as though he'd raided either Elton John's 1970s wardrobe or maybe thought it was a good idea to look as wildly ostentatious as he possibly could. Some of Clary's outfits would have not been out of place on his equally as outrageous predecessor Danny La Rue who was always partial to feathers, huge wings, padded shoulders and everything that was flowingly pink.

Then there was Paul Zerdin with his companion puppet Sam, a delightful figure who had most of the audience in stitches with comic put downs, voices thrown and something completely unexpected. An innocent, unsuspecting married couple were summoned onto the stage and promptly given strange latex masks and huge, laugh out loud teeth. From behind the wings on the stage, Zerdin transferred his voice straight into the mouths of the couple. It was quite the funniest and most surprising act of the night. Then ventriloquist Zerdin brought Sam to life on his own with another side splitting monologue. 

From the cream of the acting industry there was now TV presenter in his own right Nigel Havers. Havers looked as if he was having the time of his life but wasn't quite sure why. In various costumes Havers riffed his way through routines that might otherwise have been considered extremely embarrassing. In fact Havers did make a self mocking reference to his National Theatre days. Beneath the surface there was a deep yearning to be Hamlet, Othello or Puck in his Shakespearean attire. 

And finally there was a showbiz name from recent vintage. Gary Wilmott is a comedian, singer and all rounder of supreme versatility. Now a man of many West End musicals, Wilmott came on in some Widow Twankey costume or something that looked as such. Wlmott reeled off the traditional panto gags to order and provided the perfect supporting act to Havers, Clary and Osmond.  

There were also some very heartwarming and uplifting performances from Jac Yarrow and Sophie Isaccs dressed up to the panto nines. And we shouldn't forget the remarkable Sparkfire Dance who spent the best part of twenty minutes spinning around in circles of fire. Then boy climbed on to girl's knee followed by another breathless array of fire twirling at speed. It was a truly a night to savour and by the end of the evening most of us were almost overjoyed by what we'd just seen. 

As you left the theatre you were reminded of one Sunday Night at the London Palladium from the black and white heyday. It was the night Bruce Forsyth and Norman Wisdom reduced the audience to helpless laughter. Forsyth and Wisdom were both painters and decorators and what happened next would never be forgotten. Wisdom, in his infinite wisdom, grabbed hold of paint brush and wallpaper and then climbed onto the stepladder before stumbling, tripping and falling over himself  rather like the clown in the circus who keeps slipping over deliberately for slapstick comic effect. 

But decades later Donny Osmond and company  were worthy successors to those artists of stage and screen yesteryear. On the way out you couldn't help but notice the Laurel and Hardy bill from many moons ago. It may have been a strange observation but the London Palladium always delivered the very best and the finest from every corner of the showbiz world. You then thought of the Sunday Night at the London Palladium's famous revolving stage and you sighed contentedly. 

Merry Christmas everybody.       

West Side Story 2021

 West Side Story 2021

It was the classical story, the story that had to be told. It was the greatest film of all time and some of us will never tire of watching over and over again. It is a story of gang warfare, fierce rivalries, eye ball to eye ball confrontations, personal loathing, bloodthirsty acrimony and, in the end, tragic death. It is quite clearly an adaptation of Shakespeare's famously dark love story Romeo and Juliet. It was the updated version of a film that broke all box office records at the time and will do so again now quite undoubtedly.

West Side Story is one of the most beautifully choreographed films in the history of film making. There will be none to touch it with a barge pole. It is the most fabulously photographed movie ever made. The street dancing and music are truly spellbinding and furthermore it captures the imagination in the way that films are supposed to do. It is a vast and majestic film, a film that takes you on the most spectacular roller coaster ride into a world where the goodies meet the baddies before launching into melodrama and, ultimately, death. 

The original West Side Story, released in 1961, stars the wonderful and even more incredible Rita Moreno in the 2021 incarnation and Natalie Wood as the cute, prim and apple pie innocent Maria, the macho, brave, masculine and fearless Tony. Then there's Rita Moreno, the glorious Valentina in the 2021 production as the owner of a drug store and back in 1961, the Latin, feisty, sexy, arrogant Puerto Rican who doesn't take any nonsense from anybody. 

The story opens amid an unforgettable back drop of a broken and derelict slum clearance site in Manhattan where the buildings that once stood proud in that vibrant part of America are no more than rubble, piles of bricks, and, quite clearly, in a general state of carnage. Here is an America still traumatised  by the Second World War. Then the camera moves quite seamlessly into back to back tenement homes where washing lines of clothing can still be seen hanging sadly in the air and gangs of teenage boys are on the prowl, menacing figures wearing leather jackets and vests, flick knives in their pockets and trouble on their minds. 

And then Puerto Rico meets the United States of America and it all turns distinctly ugly. The Jets and Sharks are two of the most violent, aggressive, frightening looking gangs you're ever likely to set eyes on. They're hard, fearsome, snarling, sneering and very territorial young guys who are, quite frankly, ruthless. They'll punch and brawl, fighting to the bitter end, challenging each other to yet more bitter fights, pinning each other to the ground, before shooting or stabbing their opponents in a cold act of brutality.

Of course West Side Story is a modern day interpretation of Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet where both die at the end and the quintessential love story ends in tears, heart break and aching anguish. It's hard to know what the great Bard would have made of West Side Story suffice it to say that he would almost certainly have been enormously flattered by this treatment of his celebrated play. He may have downloaded the film onto his Tablet for this is the normal procedure nowadays. Or he might have waited for the Netflix version to come out as soon as it was possible to do so. 

But essentially both the original and contemporary take on West Side Story are quite the most astonishing achievement and you feel sure that the 2021 masterpiece will  break even more phenomenal box office records. It is hard to imagine a more moving, uplifting and life affirming than West Side Story. There is a power and almost musical lyricism about the movie that just lifts you along throughout and only puts you down at the end of the film.

Above all there is dancing, athletic, acrobatic, agile, flexible, men with slicked back black hair jumping into the air with all the effervescent enthusiasm that you might have been expecting and certainly got. They dance, clicking their fingers, leaping over old car tyres, railings, fences, and all over the deeply scarred landscape of Manhattan of the early 1960s. Then the Jets meet the Sharks and before you know it they're at daggers drawn, threatening, angry, spitting, just intent on killing each other. 

In between all the war, conflict and resentment there is the petite Maria played to perfection by Rachel Zegler, a young girl who falls helpless in love with Tony, acted out by Ansel Elgert. To compare the Maria of Natalie Wood in 1961 with the 2021 class of Rachel Zeigler would be grossly unfair but Zeigler is equally as romantic and endlessly winsome, feisty when she has to be. This was a marvellous performance by the latter day Zeigler. 

Then the film takes on a voyage of discovery. In a Manhattan drug store Rita Moreno is splendidly protective and maternal towards her daughter when things become very nasty. Moreno, who is now a remarkable 90, can still act with a consummate class, emerging with her head held high. Playing Valentina with hair net and apron, Moreno gives a masterclass. You can still see her in 1961 strutting her stuff with bravado as the Latin dancer with a wicked sense of humour but in 2021 she can still lend her different role a vintage quality, a model of magnificence. 

And so the tension begins to build and there is something electrifying about the way West Side Story just opens out like a delicate flower and then blossoms into life. Tony tries to calm tempers by offering an olive branch of peace to his Puerto Rican counterpart Bernardo. Bernardo continues to hold up his fists, deliberately provoking Tony and then everything ends in bleeding mouths and faces. The Jets declare war on the Sharks and everything gets too personal. Insults are exchanged, hatred rears its head and bodies lock together in war. Tony ends up with a bloodied face and everybody gets stuck in. 

Now the mood of the film changes dramatically. By now the grudges have been set in stone and violence is about to get completely out of hand. Tony, almost seething with revenge, stalks Bernardo and ultimately stabs him to death. Then Corey Stell as the police lieutenant and officer Krupke aka Brian D'Arcy are drafted into action. There is a classic scene right at the beginning of the film where Stell gives us a rousing lecture to the warring gangs and tries to keep a tight lid on the sound and fury.

Sadly you can almost feel the hostility between the Jets and Sharks. Maria is still deeply in love with Tony but Tony is out to settle some old scores. With a snarling machismo Tony asks Maria to run away with him which almost sounded too tender for words as an expression of their love for each other.  They almost achieve this objective but suddenly realise that there are forces out of their control which may not end up happily ever after. 

And then the film wends its way towards the conclusion most of us are probably familiar with. On a dark night the Jets and Sharks agree to meet up as murderous machines. They circle each other over and over again, they taunt one another relentlessly, then knives and guns appear as if on cue. Tony, now a central figure in this rancorous rumble, is pushed to the front by his closest friends and the whole atmosphere around the film assumes a distinctly darker edge, a grittier feel that is almost tangible and within our reach. 

So the final scene sees Tony walking into the distance clearly relieved that he's survived the worst. Then shots are fired from a gun and Tony falls to the ground, dead on impact. Maria rushes over to her lover, tears gushing from her eyes, emotions in tatters and instantly grief stricken. And that would have been that. Tragedy and death have now met each other in a head on collision. It may have taken 60 years to re-discover the artwork and beauty that have now so immediately illuminated the current day West Side Story. But, boy, was that worth the wait. It's definitely a thumbs up from here. Get your popcorn and be ready for a stunner of a film. You'll love West Side Story.      

A week away from Christmas but the world still has the blues.

 A week away from Christmas but the world still has the blues.

You can hardly believe it but it's nonetheless true. Christmas is a week away now and the country still feels as though it's been hit by a bulldozer. There are sore heads, ringing ears, bleak landscapes and winter feels like a weight on our shoulders. The world, if you were to believe some, is rapidly heading towards the end and civilisation is about to disappear. We're all going to hell and a handcart.

Still, we awake to fatal fires, horrendous murders, polarised countries, bickering politicians- nothing new there, hey- natural disasters such as hurricanes, children dying by the day and the homeless at Christmas still spending the festive period in draughty doorways exposed to the merciless elements. It's enough to leave you feeling both flat and totally disillusioned. If only we could just turn back the clock to March 2020 and pretend this never really happened. This though is no optical illusion. It's happening right now. 

And then there was the Omicron variant which, as we all know hilariously, is an anagram for moronic. But the only person who probably thinks that's the funniest joke he's ever heard is the one and only highly esteemed politician Jacob Rees Mogg who seems to regard the whole subject of the coronavirus as some highly amusing Old Etonian belly laugh of a wisecrack. Now this is to be nothing more than should be expected since Rees Mogg is one of those lounge lizards who just loves to treat his House of Commons green bench as some kind of comforting camp bed. Try to get some sleep at the right time Jacob, please. 

So how did we reach the point of Omicron? Could somebody give us a clear explanation as to why this virus has got so many variants. What we have here is a conspiracy, one designed to leave us deliberately downbeat and depressed. Surely the virus must have exhausted itself by now but sadly we may have to resign ourselves to yet more regular episodes and repeated outbreaks of one sort or another. It almost feels as if  that, just as we may have thought we'd seen the back of this virus then another one comes along. 

With a week to go before Britain and the rest of the world finally abandons itself to crazy, joyous, hedonistic pleasure on Christmas Day, the feelings of sorrow and regret still lie uncomfortably close to home. Of course the families of the world are now stocking up their festive stockings of presents, the children will get excited for the umpteenth time and maybe we'll complain about the utter dross and rubbish on the TV. But then again we could be pleasantly surprised in which case it's time to shout Hooray!

On the outside world, the corporate hospitality venues such as the pubs and bars will be hoping that somebody at 10 Downing Street won't suddenly pull the plug on their intensive preparations. Because if he does they'll take to the streets of Westminster, holler profanities at Boris and his Merry Men and then scribble inflammatory comments on social media about the criminal incompetence of those who allegedly run the country. 

We have a week to go before the whole ritualistic family gathering in the living rooms of the country will make their yearly appearance. Now this may be a hard one to judge but you've never been a betting man so it may be wise to just allow the fun to begin. A week is, famously, a long time in politics and this may be more of an irony than first thought. For almost the last two years the Prime Minister Boris Johnson has been wrestling with a living nightmare, which in all fairness, was probably beyond his control. So this has been going on for much longer than a week. 

So Ladies and Gentlemen. This is how it works. You sit tight for the next seven days, fill up your groaning supermarket trolleys with as many mince pies, crisps, turkeys, bottles of mulled wine, chocolates and sweets as you can possibly manage and just take a deep breath. You don't have to panic. Yet. Omicron may be quietly following us around in the background but at the moment it isn't going to shut everything down. There's nothing sinister or underhand to wreck our plans. There are a couple of clandestine whispers from those who should probably know better but they're hiding in a Christmas party room in Westminster wishing a hole would just swallow them up. 

But if you can just keep cool and calm then nothing untoward will happen. The number of infected cases may be soaring alarmingly through the roof but the number of fatalities as a result of the virus is thus far, dwindling by the day. And yet Omicron is still on the warpath, spreading insidiously, creeping around the globe mischievously but it won't get to us. It can't and won't. It's that simple. 

So as you wrap your Christmas presents, finish off a whole card shop of cards to your loved ones and then look for yet more decorations for your tree, it may be as well to spare a thought for those who'd rather sleep through the entire holiday period and deny the existence of Christmas. They're the ones who can't stand the ridiculous commercialism that now seems to have become an inevitablity and we would rather just pretend that it's still Easter. Incidentally, the betting slips are now complete and we reckon Christmas might just happen. But don't tell Uncle Jim or Auntie Agnes. They've already made the party hats. 

Max Verstappen wins the F1 Championship

 Max Verstappen wins the F1  Championship.

Sport does revel in controversy. In fact it positively thrives on it at times. There are the inquests, fierce arguments, the questioning of officialdom, the downright injustices, the sour taste in mouths and the inconclusive nature of the end result. Did the ball cross the line, were they offside, was the batter leg before wicket, run out, bribed, and did the ball hit the chalk on the tennis tramlines of the world? If this was the case then the ball was in and the player had won the point before game, set and match.

Sport is full of technicalities, formalities, blurred lines, percentages, close shaves, offside, toes and elbows that mark the difference between goals scored and goals chalked off. It is all about fine margins and subtle inconsistencies in sport that drive most of us crazy at times. Why does VAR in Premier League football take so long to reach a decision about a goal when most of us can hardly remember whether the ball hit the hand for a penalty or the player was simply tying up their bootlaces and was offside when the ball came to them?

But when your whole F1 season is dependent on one single motor race and you feel sure that you've already won the Championship then things can get a bit heated and emotional. Sport can do strange things to the mind, playing tricks with your psyche, leaving you in a state of complete bafflement and consumed with rage. Besides, Lewis Hamilton is now so accustomed to winning the F1 championship that he probably felt as if he had a divine right to winning it every year. Hamilton is a serial winner, a champion par excellence and when things go haywire you're likely to blame everybody and everything around you. 

And so it was that Lewis Hamilton was beaten to the F1 Championship by Dutch driver Max Verstappen who was generous and gracious in victory because he knew he'd beaten a British legend. It must have rubbed up Hamilton the wrong way to think that he'd actually been beaten for once but then there are winners and losers and Baron Pierre Coubertin, an Olympic diplomat, wasn't wrong when he talked about the spirit of taking part in sport. 

Over the weekend the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix provided an enthralling race to the finishing line between two men who were both obsessively committed and determined to beat each other. When the cars came roaring around the final lap in the desert heat, it looked as if Hamilton had sewn it all up with seconds remaining. Then with both Verstappen and Hamilton going head to head, engines blasting at full pelt, carburettors firing and sparking with the highest intensity, there was a general jockeying and manoeuvring that looked ugly and certainly seemed unpleasant. 

Suddenly, the radios in both men's cars spluttered into life and for whatever reason, a safety car intervened right at the end when there seemed to be a clashing of cars. Hamilton was promptly distracted almost critically, Verstappen overtook Hamilton on the final bend and raced towards the finishing line triumphantly. Verstappen had won the F1 championship in a Grand Prix of the most dramatic quality. There was nothing between both drivers and it was easy to understand Hamilton's frustration. But you can't always be successful and win everything in sight

How many times throughout the years must the likes of Damon Hill, Nigel Mansell, David Coultard, Jensen Button and the late James Hunt felt as if they'd been criminally robbed of victory because outside forces had conspired against them. |Motor racing of course is glamorous by its very nature, a wondrously competitive sport of timing, instinct and shrewd judgments on the spur of the moment. There are the endless pit stops, changes of tyres that have to be carried out with unseemly haste and a sense that if you do happen to lose then you'll never win it again.

Motor racing has always carried on almost intolerably heavy baggage of death around with it for as long as any of us can remember. The deaths of Ayrton Senna and the recent passing of Nicki Lauda after the German's face had been horrifically burnt as a result of a dreadful crash, was a stark reminder of the sport's inherent dangers and terrible risks. Of course there is the obscene wealth that can always be generated within the sport but then again who on earth would want to put their life on the line for millions in your bank account?

Many moons ago now British motor racing produced one of its most accomplished and charismatic of F1 drivers. Jackie Stewart was, and still is, motor racing's most intelligent spokesman, a sterling ambassador for his sport who mixes quite happily with both royalty and the rarefied world of celebrity. Stewart has also tasted victory in Formula One over the years and when the gentleman who was Graham Hill died in a most horrendous air crash, Stewart took over the role of motor racing's champion with exemplary champion with effortless ease. 

And so it is that Lewis Hamilton, the renowned champion himself now adopts the role of the upright role model, bruised perhaps by defeat this year but full of turbo charged energy and positivity, a man who loves his sport with a passion that you can only admire. And yet this time it wasn't meant to be. The child who always wanted to win Formula One was, for the first time, denied his place on the winners podium with a garland over his head and champagne bottle to spray over all and sundry. 

On Sunday the BBC will be handing over the yearly trophy to the most fitting of sports personalities of the year. You suspect that Hamilton may well have beeen a strong contender once again but not this year. There is still an infectious enthusiasm about the way in which Hamilton goes about his preparation for the big race. But this is the one year when the Englishman who drives a Mercedes was beaten by the man who drove a Red Bull. For Lewis Hamilton though another year brings with it even greater challenges and, when the season resumes, rivalries will once again be to the fore. Sport embraces all and never forgets its champions.         

Are we up for the Ashes?

 Are we up for the Ashes?

So here we are up to our neck in political ferment, pointless arguments, damage limitation, protestations of innocence, a refusal to accept the inevitable and a stubborn insistence that nothing happened. Honestly. Or maybe we were just economical with the truth and just forgot about the important values, the acts of morality, standards to be maintained. And it just got caught up in the tangled circuitry so what does Britain do next? 

A couple of days ago England renewed that traditional sporting acquaintance with the Ashes and everything that normally comes with that familiar territory. Now in the general scheme of things cricketing aficionados in both England and Australia would have regarded such an event as one of the most eagerly awaited tribal contests sport may ever offer. We'd all be licking our lips in anticipation at another sustained spell of sledging, hating each other's guts, sending poisonous pen letters to both dressing rooms and then we'd be amazed there was little in the way of any kind of respect.

Australian domination has already been asserted and it looks as if England are going to face another taxing, gruelling and punishing schedule in the heat of another Australian summer. This was never to going to be a picnic in the first place but the food and drink may be even more unpalatable than ever before. It is hard to gauge the mood of the English camp at the moment but the appetites have been blunted by the formidable task in front of them The mixed feelings though of the Barmy Army England supporters who faithfully fly to the other side of the world can only be imagined. 

On the one hand they'll obviously be delighted to be in Australia since following the English cricket team is more or less the exotic holiday they've always been planning for ages. Their travel plans may have been disrupted by the coronavirus lock down last year but they remain undaunted. For this Ashes contest though the torments and doubts that may have gnawed at them recently can't be underestimated. This was supposed to be an England- Australia good, old fashioned confrontation of old rivals, friends or just temporary enemies until such time as the Poms willingly pay for the first round of lagers in the bar. 

It's hard to believe that this Ashes dust up marks the 40th anniversary of the celebrated series of 1981 when Ian Botham, a fearsome and ferocious batsman and brilliant bowler spun the whole series on its head. For quite a while it looked as if the Aussies were just cruising towards a series victory and the retention of the Ashes. Then something happened, unexpectedly and miraculously. Botham single- handedly wrecked and ransacked the Australian batting fortress, bulldozed  through the Australian batting order like a lorry of Foster's lager and showed all the savagery of a man possessed. 

At Headingley the raging bull who was Botham faced the Aussies with a look of fury and unashamed anger in his rapidly reddening and impassioned face. Botham loathed the Australians with an obvious contempt that could never be concealed for a single minute. He pounded down the Headingley pitch in the pivotal Test match of all Test Matches rather like a man who had just been told that he was about to be convicted of a crime that had clearly been a case of mistaken identity. Sweat pouring from his head and staining a soaking wet white England shirt, Botham roared and exploded into action. 

In tandem with the late and great Bob Willis, Botham gobbled up the wickets, bowling with all the ferocity of a man who knew what he had to do and did it with some style. The wickets came thick and fast and suddenly a seemingly beaten England were transformed overnight. After teetering on the brink of collapse with three wickets remaining, Botham, led by the scientific mind of captain Mike Brearley and the strategic batting genius of one Geoffrey Boycott, completely turned things around.

There were times when Boycott must have wondered what all the fuss was about. The proud Yorkshire man was in mood to compromise over anything. He settled down on his hometown club's crease like a man who was still hungry after breakfast. The head was adjusted, gentle tapping into the ground was administered and then Boycott carefully designed his innings while always doing everything at his own leisurely pace. He was not about to be hurried because Geoff Boycott always liked to take his time over everything. He was patient and methodical, nudging, flicking casually for ones, twos and threes, prodding the ball to deep mid wicket, around the corners, sweeping the ball handsomely for four, then hooking when the opportunity arose. 

It was often said of Boycott that he took far too long to build his runs and compose his half centuries but a century was something to be moulded and carved with punctilious attention to detail. So what if took you the best part of six or seven hours to reach your intended target. Cricket is indeed an art form, something to be admired and highly respected. So who were we to be judge and jury on the batting prowess of Geoff Boycott? Any argument with Boycott is invariably lost and how the Aussies paid the price.

And now we have the Ashes class of 2021. Although England are still cricketing world champions the Ashes is another matter entirely. In England a couple of years ago, the Australians had completed a smash and grab act, regaining the Ashes on English soil. With Joe Root as England's very progressive captain, Ben Stokes full of fire, vim, verve and vitality as England's leading quickie bowler, Dawid Malan hoping for yet another resurgence of form and Moeen Ali looking to spin the Aussies into submission, this could yet be an Ashes series to remember. But we all know what the Australians are like in their own backyard. This could be a long and difficult Ashes. Take your seats Ladies and Gentlemen.      

Margaret Keenan and the Pipes of Peace.

Margaret Keenan and the Pipes of Peace.

It only seems like yesterday since Margaret Keenan became the first person to receive the very first coronavirus vaccine. Remember, Britain and the rest of the world of course was still paralysed by Covid 19, a virus that would prove to be so deadly on a global scale that even now, exactly 12 months later, the world is still suffering, still poleaxed, still questioning and still coming to terms with that indefinable sense of loss, grief and bemusement. 

And now if all the rumours are to be believed Boris Johnson and his gang of alleged law breakers may well find themselves held to account, accused of crimes and indiscretions they may never be forgiven for. Now what we have here is perhaps one of the most deplorable political transgressions ever to have been committed. We are not quite in Profumo territory or the government's disgraceful U- turn on tax hikes but the reality is that at this time last year Boris Johnson and his Cabinet colleagues were whooping it up inside 10 Downing Street with the loudest and wildest of parties. 

You probably know by now that Boris, had he an ounce of conscience and compassion, should never have been anywhere near a glass of alcohol or a party hat. But the fact is that, in all likelihood, his Tory colleagues probably were. But now Boris's chickens have come home to roost and the egg on collective Tory faces may be messier to clear up than was first thought. The truth is that if the proof and evidence sticks, this could turn out to be the most traumatic period of Johnston's Prime Ministerial tenure. 

But hold on everybody it is almost Christmas time and now may be the opportunity to look around us and forget about political duplicity and shenanigans. It's time to be nostalgic, reflective and look forward rather than backwards. And yet you can't help but dwell on the legacies that past Christmases have given us. There was the Christmas music, the music that defined the festive period, those cheesy, kitsch pop records from days gone by and years ago when Christmas seemed to run like clockwork without controversy and full of good, old fashioned fun. 

On the TV, well known celebrities would unashamedly dress up as Santa Claus and kindly deliver Christmas presents to sick children in hospital. Then, at roughly tea time on Christmas Day, the circus would appear on our screens, a festive extravaganza that would leave all the kids and families spellbound. What we didn't know then was that the lions and elephants parading around the ring would become both politically incorrect, totally unacceptable and no longer relevant to a modern day audience. 

Then those two mighty bastions of comedy Morecambe and Wise along with The Two Ronnies would entertain millions of viewers with some of the greatest and most unforgettable wisecracks, jokes, sketches and all manner of riotous hilarity. This, according to most in the know, represented the golden age of British TV, a moment in time when we could just ignore industrial unrest, miners strikes and general misery with several helpings of laughter and unrelenting humour. 

Meanwhile in the pop charts of the late 1970s and perhaps early 80, the pop singers and bands of the age would delight us with that delicious brand of Christmas ditties that held most of us entranced. A vast majority of those vinyl gems still echo and resonate through the ages. We can hardly help but abandon ourselves to joyful finger clicking, infectious humming and, for those who remember the lyrics, just singing the tunes in the privacy of our shower, stirring renditions of songs that kept drumming away in your head. 

There was Jona Lewie's Stop the Cavalry, an anti war Christmas song with touching, heartfelt lyrics about men fighting in the trenches and longing to be with their wives and girlfriends. It is about separation and love, one soldier pouring out his heart about the futility of war and  who fears that he too could die without ever knowing whether he'd ever be able to dance with his loved one ever again, reunited with his wife and family. So Lewie stands in front of his well decorated fireplace counting down the days until the war is over. 

Then there was the equally as magical and timeless Christmas classic Driving Home for Christmas a song so beautiful and appropriately festive that you could almost be in the same car as Chris Rea. Here the Middlesbrough born singer songwriter captures the whole flavour of what Christmas is all about. Against a very scenic backdrop of snow caked motorways, Rea's Christmas offering, released in 1986, takes us on a journey back home to where ever his family and offspring are eagerly waiting for him.

Throughout the drive home, we are subjected to a heartwarming and tender sequence of one car on a road and a windscreen gently wiping the snow away with the windscreen wipers. Then Rea cruises along roads, through forests and then white wonderlands. Finally Rea pulls into what can only be described as a depot or warehouse while behind him lorries wink their headlights. It's uplifting and just re-assuring. 

Then there is Paul McCartney. Now here is a man who's got Christmas all wrapped up and knows all about its spiritual and, for some religious resonance. McCartney, of course, once belonged to one of the most famous and lyrically flawless pop bands of all time. When the Beatles were being chased and screamed over hysterically by over excited girls during the 1960s none of us could have predicted that roughly 20 years or so later, McCartney would be responsible for yet another song of both meaning and profundity, a song that to this day, still sounds as if it could have made, somewhat ironically. yesterday.

The Pipes of Peace is a remarkable piece of music, a composition with so many warm messages and overtones that you can't help but think that perhaps the human race should indeed sit up and take notice of its earthy authenticity, words that should reach out to us and poke us in the ribs quite sternly. Pipes of Peace, rather like Stop the Cavalry, is the ultimate protest song that finds war utterly repellent. 

Dressed in army uniform and running across blood stained battlefields during the First World War, McCartney perfectly illustrates the struggle, ugliness and pain of war. Then on discovering that the Germans are heading towards him and ready for both a truce and rapprochement, the former Beatle stops in the middle of a muddy quagmire quite suddenly. Here he meets his German adversary and hands over a note that presumably contains a request for an impromptu football match.

So it is that McCartney smiles at his German opponent and pleads for an armistice, a stop to the fighting, the bloodshed, the grisly grotesqueness of graphic murder and violence. Then both the Beatles guitarist, who once co wrote some of the finest lyrics ever written in any genre of music with John Lennon now puts his differences and hostilities to one side before embarking on one of the most compelling friendly football matches ever seen in the historical context of any age.  

Dropping a heavy medicine ball of a football between them, the two military antagonists scrap and tussle for the ball and then playfully dig the ball out of the thick, cloying mud. They now playfully kick the ball about quite joyously, tackling like kids in the playground and passing to nobody in particular. All around bombs are exploding and soldiers running for their lives. This is the feelgood story that just makes you want to cry with happiness. 

Meanwhile when it's all over McCartney rushes back to the safety of the trenches where he willingly accepts a drop of the hard stuff and then produces a photo of his girlfriend back at home who he adores. There is a love letter in his pocket and he crouches down, closing his eyes with tenderness in his heart, smiling again and praying for sense to prevail so that he can once again be back in the arms of the girl he loves. 

The Pipes of Peace is the most wonderfully comforting Christmas song, an outstanding example of music at its most therapeutic, music to soften the hardest heart and one that still soothes a fevered brow.  You're still convinced  that nothing can be achieved by blowing each other up and that killing each other can never be the answer to any argument. So Pipes of Peace hits you right there and is therefore a deserved Number One in your favourite Christmas chart. Let the debates continue.      

Yeovil turn the FA Cup clock back and the FA Cup is up and running.

 Yeovil turn the FA Cup clock back and the FA Cup is up and running.

So the FA Cup is up and running, ready for its perennial diet of shocks, giant killing, amusing back stories and of course the players. And then there are the managers on the touchines with their sartorially elegant array of hoodies, sweat shirts and coats with ornate fleeces. Of course this is what the FA Cup is all about. It could hardly be anything else. The beginning of December is their starting point, the first declaration of their intent even though they may be the architects of their own wishful thinking. 

This is the essence of the FA Cup, its raison d'etre, the reason why millions of rosette makers and souvenir merchants in small country market towns get so busy at this time of the year. They know they'll never get to a Wembley FA Cup Final but at least they can say with rightful confidence that they were there at the beginning of it all. So they all jump into their coaches from all four corners of Britain and pretend to think that something that may be possible in their wildest dreams is  simply a fantasy. 

Deep in the heart of cider drinking country Yeovil, once FA Cup giant killers on a monumental scale, were at it again. In 1948 Alec Stock, their jovial, jokey and friendly striker, scored the decisive winner for Yeovil at a time when everything was rationed apart from football of course. Yeovil beat the old First Division high fliers of the time Sunderland which at the time felt like a miracle because nobody had ever challenged football's hoi polloi, its landed gentry, the wealthy landowners of football's upper classes. 

At the end of another year of emotional contrasts and national rehabilitation, football now ends the year with a sombre message from its recent past but the recognition of a hope that things will get better. Football has always needed the FA Cup, rather like humans need oxygen and healthy blood cells. It is the light at the end of a rainbow, the fundamental diversion from everything that might be troubling our souls and the perfect antidote to all ills and pains. 

The FA Cup is the one football competition everybody wants to win but realistically accepts it'll never be able to do so. We all know that the aristocracy always have more jewels than they have, more stately homes, more materialistic belongings, bigger stadiums and classier seats in their ground. So over the weekend the postmen, milkmen, shop workers, supermarket lorry drivers, IT specialists, landscape gardeners, and the market research folk offered their services to the cause in hand. They are the people who keep the nation ticking over and then on FA Cup day become hilariously delusional. 

Once again Huish Park was the idyllic setting for Yeovil's day out in the FA Cup sun. The slope on the pitch may have gone with all of the Post war gloom but the spirit is prospering as never before. This time Yeovil are well and truly on an upward trajectory. They are now back in the non League or what is now the National League because that's the way of the world. Yeovil are still a work in progress but they did rub shoulders with the glamorous elite of the Football League several seasons ago. Maybe this is the way it was always meant to be for the Somerset club. 

But football still remains admirably situated on a level playing ground, an egalitarian field where the movers and shakers of the Premier League can still mix and fraternise with the humble and pragmatic. The chances are that Yeovil will never win the FA Cup at any point in the future or maybe they will. Still, they can always engage with the FA Cup which has now become the cousin they visit every year who always treat them to a slap up Sunday roast.

For much of Yeovil's first venture into FA Cup territory, there was a sense that history could have repeated itself if it tried really hard enough. But then there was Stevenage, the newcomers to the Football League pyramid, a Hertfordshire haven, a club still learning the ropes. They are now dangerously placed in League 2 and after Yeovil had taken an early lead, looked as if they were going to make a contest of this. At least this was welcome respite for Stevenage in their battle against relegation. 

Realistically Stevenage should have worn the superior robes of footballing royalty but then they looked around at the Huish and discovered that their opponents had a much nobler Cup pedigree. In their traditional green  Yeovil looked like that environmentally friendly team who always look after plants and flowers. On Saturday evening they blossomed beautifully. Their attacking movements are still stilted and loosely connected at times but there is an old time frivolity about them that warms the heart. 

At times this FA Cup second round kept sputtering into life then fizzled out like an old sparkler from Guy Fawkes night. Yeovil were solid, respectable, purposeful and coordinated but then seemed to lose their way rather like a coach that comes off at the wrong motorway roundabout. They performed like seasoned troopers, always looking for original designs rather than threadbare pieces of wool that become useless. Their passing was moderately impressive at times but this was not France in their World Cup pomp. Their football bordered on creditable rather than the outstanding. 

With Daniel Moss, Luke Wilson, Max Hunt and Morgan Williams providing defensive stability, Yeovil were at ease with themselves, never flustered or remotely worried by Stevenage but still concerned about the prospect of just being knocked out of the FA Cup. Then Dave Gorman, busy and naggingly industrious, joined up with Matt Worthington, a hard working, conscientious ploughman, scheming, plotting, foraging away in Stevenage's thorny bushes, winning the ball confidently and then finding his colleague with the neatest of touches. 

Then there was Yeovil's man of the match and moment. Sonny Lo Everton had been the driving force and spark plug for Yeovil's winning goal. Lo Everton was here, there and everywhere, holding onto the ball quietly but effectively and then moving the ball across the centre of the pitch with effortless economy. He was the machine factory worker who just gets on with the business of clocking on and then producing something crucial. Lo Everton was all exuberant skill and stylish efficiency. 

And so it was that Lo Everton became the essential component to Yeovil's passage into the FA Cup third round. After Stevenage had poorly dealt with a defensive clearance the ball was headed into the path of a hungry green shirt and Yeovil were right on course. Lo Everton, adjusting himself perfectly, kept the ball for a couple of seconds before slipping a precise, short pass into the path of the home side's striker Charlie Wakefield. Wakefield ran onto the ball laid into his path and slammed the ball into the back of the net for what would prove to be Yeovil's winning goal.

Once again the romance of the FA Cup was well and truly alive, finding its most intimate location in one of its prettiest rural spots. The Somerset locals may well have headed straight to one of its typically timber beamed pubs where the regulars can only long for Manchester City in the third round. Huge quantities of cider and scrumpy must have been consumed and the Huish terraces were jumping for joy again. Long live the FA Cup. You'll always be our friend.  

    

Let the political parties begin.

 Let the political parties begin. 

Now let's turn the clock back to this time last year. We were all caught up in the most depressing rut that any of us could remember. Or at least we thought we were. We couldn't celebrate Christmas because it was forbidden and strictly off limits. The coronavirus had well and truly scuppered any of the plans we might have made and a nationwide lockdown had ruined the whole yearly spectacle. The kids were devastated and families across not only Britain but the rest of the world had to settle for an orange and a couple of roast chestnuts. 

Roll forward twelve months and here we are at the end of 2021 and the transformation isn't quite complete but things are different and altogether much more encouraging. The life changing vaccines have been the perfect antidote to our miserable malaise and everything is open again. The shops, restaurants, cafes, theatres, jazz clubs, music venues and British football grounds have resumed normal service. Can any of us say fairer than that? The pubs and clubs are heaving with the enthusiastic punters who used to spend  deeply contented hours just drinking, carousing, cavorting, joking, laughing and smiling again. 

But for some of us the echoes from the past are still haunting us again. The numbers of deaths and fatalities are not nearly as horrendous as they were at the beginning of this year. The number of infections though relating to Covid 19 pandemic are still alarmingly high and the hospital admissions are hovering dangerously over the 7,000 mark but things are brighter looking since the people of the world are now safely ensconced in their offices, their work places, their distinguished looking universities and colleges while acutely aware of the fragility of the human race, the delicate vulnerability of the human condition and a chastening awareness of another medical meltdown. 

Clearly the very presence of a wholesale vaccination roll out process has lifted hearts and changed the mood of the British population. We are eternally grateful for a vaccine which, we have now been assured, will provide us with almost complete protection against another new variant as if we haven't seen enough of them by now. Sadly though we find ourselves faced with yet another outrage; now these have come along rather like buses. Just when we thought we'd seen the last of these ghastly developments another one comes along in quick succession. 

Roughly a week before last Christmas, the British government violated all the rules and regulations they were wholly responsible for implementing in the first place. It does seem that Boris Johnson and his pantomime characters decided, on the spur of the moment, to have one wild knees up, a Christmas party to end all parties complete with food, drink, party games, probably jugglers, fire eaters, magical tricks, boisterous heavy rock music and dancing until the wee small hours of the morning. All caution was thrown to the window, electric guitars played with gutsy gusto and speakers blasted out Metallica's entire back catalogue. And that was only on Christmas Eve or maybe it was a week before. 

Meanwhile in the shires and counties of dear England, its landscape of Christmas reindeers, festive decorations and pretty villages, the country was trapped in lockdown. It was a country that had nowhere to go, whose economy was seemingly shot to pieces and as a nation we were so demoralised that you would hardly have blamed the good folk of Britain for just hibernating during the rest of the winter. The fact is at the beginning of this year none of us went that far anyway so we hid behind closed doors and windows, becoming more and more agitated by the day, week and month. Or maybe we shrugged this off as a temporary ailment. 

So on Christmas Day families around Great Britain and the rest of the world sat slumped in their sofas, moping, isolated, disconnected, detached from their loved ones. Even our dogs and cats were in a state of severe dejection, curled up in their baskets and not entirely sure what to make of this domestic stagnation, whining because they'd been denied their yearly paper hats and a Santa hat to boot. So we just sat in front of the TV and, to be honest, it must have felt like any other day. What was the point in stuffing ourselves with turkey and all the trimmings when most of us would have been content with cheese on toast followed by a glass of orange juice? 

As the weeks passed up until late January, then February and March this year, the cinemas could have been mistaken for libraries, shops would continue to put the shutters up while restaurants and cafes must have felt like neglected old buildings that hadn't seen a lick of paint for ages. It wasn't a war zone as such because nobody had fired a gun in anger but it must have felt like it. The sense of confinement and estrangement prevailed and the streets of London were like ghosts of Christmas past. 

But back at 10 Downing Street they were raving the evening and night away as if nothing had happened. Quite clearly there was a blatant sense of gross injustice in the air, feelings fuelled by the irate citizens of Britain who felt as if  Boris and his cronies had overstepped too many boundaries, taken far too many liberties and of course they were having a laugh. Who on earth had given these politicians dispensation to do whatever they liked? The nation had been ripped apart emotionally by a deadly virus  and were about to storm the barricades and here was a government behaving abysmally. 

Never were the class divisions so starkly exposed as they were then. The rich Old Etonians were drinking several gallons of beer, wine and general booze and raising a toast to a grand old Christmas. Across the rest of the country the public were drowning their sorrows with a couple of bottles of lemonade and a couple of packets of peanuts. 

We are now used to those politicians with their snooty air of privilege and entitlement, their total indifference to the homeless, the forgotten figures in draughty doorways, the criminally disadvantaged who may never be able to look forward to a future because they've only got themselves to blame. So while Boris and co were doing the Hokey Cokey and boogying the night away to the hypnotic DJ beat, Britain was staring at the clock and doing nothing at all.  Once again Boris had apparently let down the country. Oh the double standards, the bare faced hypocrisy. 

Here we are a year after the scene of crime and the Tories are now rapidly covering their backs, defending their right to have a good time. And yet England, Scotland, Wales, Northern Ireland, Eire, the Commonwealth and the global community were experiencing a kind of prohibition. Everything was either banned, banished, off limits for the duration and the freedoms we'd taken for granted had now disappeared for months on end. 

The questions remain though. Who on earth had given a group of Hooray Henry Tory grandees and benefactors permission to booze the night away, kicking their legs into the air ecstatically and behaving with all the civility of football hooligans who used to patronise the terraces of Millwall during the 1970s. Those of course in the hallowed corridors of Westminster will of course maintain that nothing was smashed or nobody hurt and that all the correct guidelines were strictly observed. 

So that's OK then. Most of us though are more or less completely disillusioned with anything that comes out of the Westminster Hall of Comedy. They are resigned to monosyllabic ministers who just waffle about nothing in particular when confronted with a microphone. They sit on their green benches, some wearing masks and others simply snoring away as late afternoon becomes an early winter's evening. 

For Boris Johnson the last couple of weeks have been particularly bad days of office. There were the childish stories about Peppa the Pig, mumbling, muttering inanities and general poppycock. Then underneath his breath, Johnson forgets what he was supposed to be talking about and generally getting his knickers in a twist. So he meekly apologises to who ever happens to be in earshot and the Johnson persona shrivels up as if he'd committed the ultimate sin.

Still, we can only hope that if Christmas can go ahead then nobody blurts out anything about last year's frightful fiasco. Who wants to be reminded of a past that may well come to haunt them. This may not be the right time to compare Mr Johnson to Ebenezer Scrooge. Oh bah humbug Boris let the Christmas festivities commence. Whatever you do though don't you dare mention anything related to lockdowns. The people of Britain are in no mood to give our caring, sharing Prime Minister the benefit of the doubt.     

 

My football poetry.

 My football poetry.

Gather around folks. Yours truly has ventured into the wonderful world of poetry. But this poetry has a marked difference to what some would regard the conventional poetry, verse, stanza and everything that rhymes. My poetry is football poetry, poetry with guts and tenacity, poetry with imagery and vivid description, football heavy with nostalgia, topical relevance and football that cheers from the terraces. 

So here it is. If you go to Football Poets. org and look for Joe Morris you'll find my slowly expanding collection of football poetry. It is a poetry laced with originality and verse that doesn't necessarily rhyme at all but it's thought provoking, full of the frustrations that come with supporting your team for a considerable length of time, the FA Cup, several Euro 2020 poems and right up to date poems that could make you chuckle and laugh.

We've always known that any kind of written poetry still falls into the niche market but if you've got a tea break in your day and you simply want a mildly amusing poem for just a couple of minutes then feel free to browse, peruse and cast your eyes on my football poetry. 

Oh yes and if you want to comment on any of my poems please leave your reaction or maybe it isn't your cup of tea then that's fine. This is an entirely new direction for my writing and it's all just for fun. So it's Football Poets org. and my name is Joe Morris. 

Thanks everybody

Joe Morris

St Andrews Day- not long until the festive fiesta.

 St Andrews Day- not long until the festive fiesta.

In the glens and highlands of Scotland they'll be wearing their tam o'shanter to all those magnificent parties that the Scots seem to carry off so well. Today of course is St. Andrews Day in Scotland, a day for recognising the Patron Saint of Andrew, a significant date on the calendar for everybody who loves to wear the tartan kilt and enjoying the festivities that will almost certainly accompany the day. They'll be dancing around their swords, swigging back the whisky in abundant quantities and reminding the English that 54 years ago the Scots reclaimed the World Cup at Wembley a year after England had won it the year before. 

This may have been regarded as a moral victory for the Scots back in 1967 but it was just a Home International end of season friendly tournament and that probably won't be remembered for too long. Still here we are on St Andrews Day, a day when the battles of Culloden and Bannockburn are marked again, a day when Nicola Sturgeon, the First Minister of Scotland, will rightly declare that Scotland's claim to independence still has a ring of truth to it. 

In recent years Scotland have yearned insistently for greater freedoms, greater autonomy from the English stranglehold and a desire for a personal identity that some in the Scottish parliament has made patently clear. But there can be no denying the sheer beauty of the Scottish mountains, the wondrous scenery, the breathtaking crofters, the enduring thistle and shortly the imminent arrival of Hogmany at the beginning of the New Year. The Scots have always been our friendly rivals at a time when nationalism threatened to swallow up both the English and Scottish. 

Of course Hadrian's Wall remains that traditional dividing line that continues to antagonise both sets of football supporters when the English meet the Scots. During the summer England metaphorically ran into a brick wall when the Scots stood tall and immovable in the face of a slovenly England side who simply ran out of both ideas and ideologies in their attacking armoury. The 0-0 Euro 2020 group stage draw was neither here nor there and by the time the referee blew the final whistle, England had exhausted themselves in a terribly under cooked performance. 

But tonight they'll be jigging between the ancient swords, devouring plates of haggis by the hundreds and thousands, a nation united by its admirable desire to retain its stubborn individuality, its historical adherence to its folksy ballads and that delicious skirl of the bagpipes. Scotland may think that the English hate them and the feeling of course may be mutual but any country that gives us the comic genius of Billy Connolly, a former Prime Minister in Gordon Brown who once declared his allegiance to Raith Rovers and who once produced the inimitable figure of James Bond as depicted by Sean Connery must have something to commend it.

So Ladies and Gentlemen. Today is St Andrews Day and the Scots will be in appropriately alcoholic mood. Here is a nation whose favourite son gave us the life changing TV. When John Logie Baird connected some loose wires to a very primitive transmitter the age of the cathode ray gave way to a technological revolution that would change our lives for ever. Baird told us that the future would be the humble TV or television, the revolutionary medium that now spews up record breaking numbers of channels from all over the world. Now Sky compete frantically against the likes of BT Sport, MTV, CBS, Eurosport and thousands of other alternatives. It is the franchise that keeps giving. So if you've a spare kilt at your disposal think of our Scottish friends and three cheers for the Sassenachs. 

Storm Arwen is on its way.

 Storm Arwen is on its way. 

Oh no! The alphabetical storms are on their way. Now way back when, storms or any meteorological phenomena were just regarded as periodical weather events that simply blew over our rooftops, knocked over a couple of tiles, shook several telegraph poles and trees before just stopping. They'd probably play havoc with our plans for the day because, let's face it, you can't play croquet or tennis while wild winds and gusts of rain are sweeping through your local park. 

But Ladies and Gentlemen. Storm Arwen is preparing itself on some unsuspecting British coastline and you may wake up tomorrow with branches and twigs scattered all over your driveway. Storms have now become a common occurrence during the calendar year and Storm Arwen won't be entirely unprecedented because we've all seen storms in their different manifestations and now know what to expect. Of course storms can be powerful and tempestuous but that comes with the territory. 

In recent years we've seen all kinds of storms. There were the dramatic hurricanes that increasingly made their presence felt. We'll never forget the storms that were never predicted but then suddenly materialised the following morning. There were the storms that should have amounted to nothing more than several bucket loads of rain but then had a change of heart. There are the storms that you found to be utterly terrifying as a child as you pulled the blankets over your head and hid under the bed sheets. After several claps of thunder and lightning you dropped off to sleep, nervous, apprehensive and hoping for no more. 

Of course in October 1987 Britain was given the ultimate re-assurance by BBC weatherman Michael Fish that any forecasts of a major storm would be no more than a rumour. By the following morning we all woke up to find damage, carnage, debris, trees lying across roads and cars in an imminent state of complete disintegration, a world now horrified and perhaps traumatised by the evidence before them. For quite some time Britain must have thought the world had indeed come to an end. And yet this was not a disaster maybe a mini disaster where somehow we could pick up the pieces. 

In recent years there was a storm that became a tsunami, a vast mountainous spray of water that surged horrifically towards the mainland of an exotic island and tore down everything in its path. Suddenly, shops and houses became floating pieces of twisted steel, wood and glass that had left the people helpless and despairing. There were drifting restaurant signs, cars and buses now merely swimming for their lives. It was devastation on a massive scale and for those whose lives were turned upside down from that point onwards, it would leave them homeless, distraught and, in some cases, inconsolable.

Storm Arwen though is on its way and 100mph winds are expected to blast their way through the North East of England and then poor Scotland who always seem to get the brunt of bad weather. But we love the weather anyway. Who cares if it rains because you'll never hear any of us complaining? Storms though leave us conflicted with the whole gamut of emotions. Why do they have to wake us up during the night and why do they have to make such a raucous noise when they arrive. Could they perhaps not keep up that incessant howling, whistling, rattling and roaring refrain? Could they turn down the volume and the intensity, the crashing, sweeping, shrieking cacophony?

There are some who may take some quiet pleasure in a major storm or a succession of storms. Perhaps they remind us of CS Forrester's Hornblower stories or Joseph Conrad's lyrical descriptions of ship wrecks. Then there are the thick sheets of rain sweeping across the yardarm followed by yet more ferocious gusts of wind that leave Conrad's boats battered and in splinters. Storm Arwen though is poised to leave us high and dry, quivering and quaking at the sheer immensity of it all. 

It could be that by the time Storm Arwen blows itself out and heads for another country or continent, we'll all turn to each other and wonder what all the fuss was about. For the time being it is time to batten down the hatches, lock your doors, cover the ears of your pets and cower under a kitchen table. There's no need to panic, no thoughts of an emergency because by this time next week a sweltering heatwave could catch us out altogether and that passing storm was ancient history. So folks don't beware of yet more storms that have now been immortalised by alphabetical sequences and everyday names. They are merely storms that look nothing like teacups.   

More Boris Karloff than Boris Johnson.

 More Boris Karloff than Boris Johnson. 

This is beginning to resemble a classic episode of Yes Minister where Paul Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne exchange light hearted pleasantries about government legislation and government red tape. Then the conversation becomes completely lost in any translation and before you know it both are talking a load of nonsense about nothing in particular. For Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne read Boris Johnson. You really couldn't make this one up. Poor old Boris is suffering from what is commonly known as foolhardiness. And that's putting it very mildly. 

On Monday he spoke before the leading businessmen and women about the crucial issue of social care caps and the continuing importance of the NHS. Halfway through his speech Boris crashed into a metaphorical wall, shot himself in the proverbial foot and fell headlong into the prickliest of bushes. Here was the ultimate catastrophe. In fact it couldn't have got any worse had he tried. For a moment Boris looked as if he simply wanted the ground to open up such was the severity of the blunder that had just claimed him. 

For several cringeworthy, deeply embarrassing and barely believable moments Boris Johnson was in danger of being laughed off stage and treated like the end of the pier comedian whose jokes had reduced his audience to a lengthy silence. The Prime Minister really didn't know which way to look. He was both ridiculously apologetic and did nothing but plead for forgiveness. What else could he have done under the circumstances? He'd lost his place, had failed miserably to make himself abundantly clear on anything connected to said speech and it all fizzled out miserably into some peculiar, rumbling undertone. 

So this is how things panned out on Monday afternoon. Johnson outlines all of the major Tory policies on social care and suddenly his voice goes off on some weird tangent that none of us could understand. Then he looks down on his pile of papers and before we knew it the whole performance turned into a Whitehall farce. There was a horribly muddled incoherence about his words and sentences that sounded as if the rest of the speech had been written in a Latin that even he could make neither head nor tail of. 

Almost immediately things went downhill. There was the by now familiar bumbling, fumbling, mumbling and shuffling of papers. Then Johnson just shamefacedly lost his way, rather like a man who was reading last week's shopping list. Suddenly Page One was now Page Five and on Page Three were references to jars of jam, cereal, bread, cleaning fluid and cheese flans. No, that can't be right Boris. He could have sworn that everything had been prepared and was in the right order. And finally  Johnson was reduced to a comical whisper and a desperate plea for understanding. 

Now the latest episode of Yes Minister started imitating reality. Johnson must have felt pathetically isolated, the spotlight burning down on him intently and at this point even improvisation couldn't come to Johnson's rescue. He could have taken a deep breath for a couple of moments and just bluffed his way through an ever increasing sense of crisis. But he didn't because this was damage limitation and besides he was well and truly stuck. So what could he do? The fact is he went off on some hilarious account of his weekend. You know the kind of thing. 

On Sunday Boris and his wife Carrie had taken their children to Peppa Pig World, a theme park for very young toddlers barely out of Farley's rusk, bottles of milk and dummies. He then explained the delights of wandering around a location where all you could hear was the uplifting sound of crying babies and our little darlings throwing tantrums. So it was that Johnson began the painstaking process of back tracking, humouring his audience as best he could and then pretending that nothing untoward had happened. 

For several open mouthed minutes Boris's stunned audience thought their Prime Minister had drunk too many glasses of wine the previous night or that their man had reached a mental roadblock. The blond hair by now was in a state of complete rebellion, the face white and creased with anguish, nay less total confusion and hidden under the Johnson persona was a private longing for the trapdoor. This was Johnson doing what only he can do when faced with adversity only funnier. It was time to blag and make it up on the hoof. Not a chance. 

He then had the audacity to ask his captivated listeners whether they'd heard of Peppa Pig and whether they knew anything about the characters in the book. Some of us are, to be honest, extremely concerned about the Prime Minister's welfare since quoting a children's book in the middle of a gathering for some of the most high profile businessmen and women in the country falls horribly short of what many of us would consider rational behaviour. 

At the end of the meeting everybody left the building none the wiser. Maybe the Prime Minister had finally lost the plot, a man estranged from the real world and staggering around in the dark looking for a light switch. What on earth are you talking about Prime Minister? Can we do anything to help you? The fact is none of us knew where exactly where he was going. If this was meant as a cheap publicity stunt to remind everybody that he was only human and flawed then this was not the way to go about such matters. So his words just vanished into some surreal world of complete incomprehension. 

Today the news topic will probably move onto something entirely different. But you can't help but feel that, for Boris Johnson this has been the week from hell. And we're still on Wednesday. The appeals for forgiveness and clemency were that of a condemned man who had gone down for pinching sweets. So Boris slouched away from the scene of a crime, emotions scattered all over the place and quite possibly giggling because only Boris could get away with treating the serious issues with all the frivolity of clown falling off their cycle. You chuckle for a few seconds before sticking a custard pie in the face of the master of ceremonies. Oh Boris. For how much longer are you going to subject your public to so many acts of buffoonish tomfoolery? It may be time to e-mail 10 Downing Street.   

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer- next for the sack.

 Ole Gunnar Solksjaer- next for the managerial sack. 

Something had to give at Manchester United and it did. This wasn't entirely unexpected and, on reflection, perhaps only a matter of time. Poor Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, the now previous manager of Old Trafford, departed the club via the exit door at Old Trafford. The natives, once restless, have now been rewarded for their patience. After all how many crushingly heavy defeats could United take in recent games without looking like broken pieces of machinery.

But the axe has now fallen at Manchester United and the man who once scored the decisive goal that completed United's treble season with a last gasp Champions League Final victory against Bayern Munich in 1999 is now no more than some evil pantomime villain who should never darken the club's corridors again. How fickle can the finger of fate be when, after United's poorest run of form for ages, the baby faced assassin from Norway has now become nothing more than some distant, historical figure, a careless mistake on United's part, a rash judgment that should never have seen the light of day. 

So it was that Solksjaer packed his belongings, left his office at Manchester United and became the latest victim of the back stabbing brigade who love to see the back of managers who simply can't hack it at the highest level. Of course Solksjaer is an honest, law abiding, respectable and perfectly capable coach. But the truth is that managing a club of Manchester United's size, status and globally famous magnitude was never likely to be a suitable match. 

When Sir Alex Ferguson left United for the last time, after those colossal Premier League title winning achievements which now stand at some remarkable, record breaking high. United were left with a huge, gaping gap that has to be yet to be adequately filled. The  years following the Ferguson golden years would always be both traumatic, transitional, uncertain and almost anti climactic. But Solkskjaer was perhaps too kind, diplomatic and philosophical to be as ruthless as his predecessor. Besides the Norwegian never did find a packet of chewing gum to his liking. Fergie was never without his. 

Now United have worked their way painstakingly through the likes of Louis Van Gaal, a Dutch market researcher with clipboard permanently in his hands. Tactical formations were never Van Gaal's forte. Then there was the current West Ham manager David Moyes who Ferguson personally recommended to United but then realised that Moyes simply wasn't up to such an onerous, almost thankless task. Then United turned to the demanding perfectionist who was Jose Mourinho. When all was said and done Mourinho gave a convincing impersonation of a man who simply found himself with a hand grenade in his hand that suddenly went off. 

Today United are manager less once again, looking around and beyond at another what they hope will be a higher profile appointment. The name of Zinedine  Zidane has been mentioned and although a world class talent for the French national team, will always be remembered for that shocking head butt of an Italian defender Marco Matterazi in a World Cup Final. At the time the global game could hardly contain its outrage and condemnation at such a violent attack and some United fans may have their reservations.

So now United are simply back to square one. You remember those awkward years after the departure of the memorable Sir Matt Busby, a footballing giant, a man of immense knowledge about the game and a man of intelligent erudition. Once Busby had gone, United thought they'd turn to Frank O' Farrell and Wilf Mcguiness as messiahs and salvations. Sadly there would never be any hint of a trophy to adorn the Old Trafford trophy cabinet and neither man truly covered himself in glory. 

By the time Dave Sexton and Tommy Docherty had warmed the manager's bench at United, the once holders of the European Cup in 1968 were just treading water and going nowhere. When United were relegated to the old Second Division for the first time in recent history in 1974, this was no temporary setback. United came straight back up to the old First Division and cheerful Docherty planted the lid of the FA Cup on his head when United outwitted and beat Liverpool in the 1977 FA Cup Final. 

Then there was the larger than life Ron Atkinson who looked more like a suave businessman than a football manager. Atkinson won the FA Cup for United in 1983 and 1985 but the old League Championship proved beyond them and utterly elusive. Atkinson finally waved the white flag of surrender and Alex Ferguson, a hard piece of granite from Aberdeen, was recruited for the United job. It took Ferguson ages to get his feet properly under the table but still United stumbled, staggered and toppled over like drunken sailors at chucking out time. 

The famous Mark Robins goal for United in a vital FA Cup third round tie against Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest at the City Ground proved absolutely crucial. United never really looked back and by the time David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs transformed the club from top to bottom, the change in fortunes was almost immediate. It was a renaissance with a touch of baroque thrown in for good measure. Now the club's culture and infrastructure had been given a thorough cleaning. United would win umpteen Premier League titles, the FA and League Cup on several occasions and the Champions League twice. Oh and we mustn't forget the Treble. Sir Alex would be most incensed at such a glaring oversight. 

But now United face another period of head scratching, deep introspection and worrying morbidity. It almost feels as though the club have run out of plausible options and are afraid to experiment again. Zidane sounds as though it could be the right appointment but the occasionally hot headed Frenchman could find himself imitating his fellow Frenchman and United legend Eric Cantona. Cantona wasn't normally partial to martial arts but the kung fu high kick on a Crystal Palace supporter wasn't a good look.

Today United were considering the possibility of bringing Mauricio Pochettino out of cold storage. The former Spurs and Southampton boss does look tailor made for the United managerial vacancy. After all Pochettino did take Spurs to a Champions League Final which they promptly lost to Liverpool. But Pochettino must be longing to find another Premier League club. Of course he is fiercely ambitious but United want success now rather than later on which, given the predicament they find themselves in, does sound distinctly unreasonable. 

And so the managerial merry go round takes another rotation. Managing a football club of any standing does require a health warning. In the old days managers such as Bill Nicholson, Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Brian Clough were all given a settling in period. Then all four proceeded to build attractive, well designed teams and within a short period of time, eventually took their clubs in the right direction.

But Manchester United will always be Manchester United and Premier League titles must seem like an old silent, black and white film where the leading characters always seem to end up on the losing side. The next week at Old Trafford is bound to be eventful and United must be hoping that in some corner of the country Sir Alex Ferguson will have one or two ingenious suggestions up his sleeve. Watch this space.     

David Lacey - chief football writer of the Guardian dies at 83.

 David Lacey- chief football writer dies at 83.

David Lacey, who died yesterday at the age of 83, was one of the foremost authorities on British football. He covered an era when football boots had proper studs, the ball was a hard, medicine type that some of us can still feel today and football supporters would huddle together on the terraces in their 60,000 and 70,000 throngs. He came from a time when Charlton Athletic's old Valley ground once held the best part of 70,000 and fathers passed their sons over the shoulders of fans below them. Lacey though was the most stylish of writers, a man with a sardonic sense of humour and a natural gift for the opening paragraph.

In an age when sports writers were almost revered for who they were rather than the purple prose they were so capable of turning out, Lacey was renowned for the sharp turn of phrase, the breathless analogy, the witty metaphor and a liberal sprinkling of quotes from the history books. The truth is that although a hard working, jobbing journalist for the Guardian newspaper, Lacey was never afraid to express his own set of forthright views about a manager who'd wound him up or a player who looked as though they'd just got out of bed. 

For Lacey the greatest footballer he'd ever seen was the incomparable Pele and for that he was absolutely right. He could have chosen the liquid artistry of a Johan Cruyff or Johan Neeskens. He may have opted for the now sadly missed Maradona but Lacey knew instinctive genius when he saw it and wasn't about to change his mind. Pele, according to Lacey, was the personification of footballing brilliance, a sculptor of goals rather than a workmanlike player who downed his tools at 5.00 on a Saturday afternoon and went for a pint with his colleagues. 

After completing National Service, Lacey, a loyal Brighton fan, came to London in search of work. He had plied his trade on the local newspapers of Sussex and then discovered that the Guardian were looking for a replacement for Albert Barham who had so successfully written for the paper. Then Lacey met the glorious Frank Keating, a word wizard, a man with very much the poetic licence to write as descriptively as he wished. There were no barriers here and Keating wrote like a dream. Lacey, in complete contrast, just wanted to write about football and did so with much distinction, wit and flair. 

The Monday match reports in the Guardian were Lacey's natural domain. His opening paragraphs were deceptively simple and yet immensely clever. They were neat, compact and very much to the point. Sometimes fairly long but all the same very detailed and often amusing, Lacey would string his words together like pearls. Then towards the end of one of his memorable commentaries he would spice up the piece with wonderful references to John Wayne or James Stewart, Harold Pinter or General Custer. 

Lacey loved the old time Hollywood stars, historical battles, the people who made him laugh both in book and film form. There was a humorous, conversational slant in all of his post match analyses. The one example that comes to mind is Lacey's reference to Everton's Henry Newton after Everton had played Arsenal at Highbury from many decades back. Lacey described Newton's performance as Newton's theory of relativity. It was apt, succinct and accurately summed up the Lacey mindset. 

But it was in the 1970 World Cup in Mexico where Lacey truly came into his own. He'd always admired the Brazilians as most of us had at the time. When Lacey set eyes on Pele he couldn't take them away from him. Here was a player who had everything; world class skills, a natural aptitude for making the impossible look so easy and the kind of delicious ball control that had most of us besotted and infatuated. 

According to Lacey Pele's football reminded him of the great Australian batsman Sir Donald Bradman. Pele could destroy the opposition with a flick of the foot, a mesmeric drop of the shoulder that would take out at least three defenders, an outrageous repertoire of shots from the half way line and dummies that left most defenders tied in knots. Here was a constantly creative brain that was always functioning minutes ahead of everybody else. Lacey knew this and conveyed that joy it brought to him before his attentive readers.

Lacey covered umpteen FA Cup Finals, League Cup Finals, European Championship and World Cups for the Guardian and never strayed from the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. There was an honesty and sincerity about him which accompanied all of those clear thinking and intelligently written articles.

David Lacey retired in 2002 but he leaves a valuable volume of work which goes right back to that fabled day in 1966 when England won the World Cup and Britain danced in Trafalgar Square fountains. Lacey was in the press box that unforgettable day and although just a spellbound observer that late July afternoon, knew that Geoff Hurst had won the Alamo, Bobby Moore was a Roman emperor and Alan Ball was that happy go lucky kid in the playground who always wanted to play up front in the school team. Of course Ball was the mature and adolescent player who just wanted to play until it was dark and his parents were still calling him in for dinner. Lacey may have mistaken him for Just William or maybe not.   

Ronnie Scott's

 Ronnie Scott's

When Ronnie Scott was wandering around the West End streets of  London back in 1959 he must have thought his world was about to change dramatically. He may well have stopped for a minute, paused for breath and gazed at the huge potentialities around him. Scott was already establishing himself as one of the most accomplished jazz musicians Britain had produced up until that point. The hugely respected jazz community would come to hold Scott in the highest esteem throughout the early 1960s, late 1960s, the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s and up to the moment he sadly passed away a couple of years ago. 

But back in the late 1950s when Soho was already jumping, jiving, rocking and rolling to the vibrantly productive years that would provide a fertile breeding ground for the likes of both Scott and his contemporaries, Scott would launch one of the most richly relaxing, laid back jazz clubs that London would ever know and see. It would also give a rock solid platform for the legendary greats of Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Oscar Peterson, John Coltrane, Johnny Dankworth, Cleo Laine and the late Tubby Hayes, who on Sunday the Simon Spillett quartet paid tribute to with some of the sweetest jazz in London town. 

My wife, daughter and yours truly were enormously privileged to be a part of and witness to the stunningly  evocative sounds of the late, great Hayes. Some of us had never heard of Tubby Hayes but by the end of a polished two hour set which began at lunchtime we were all hooked. We were tapping our fingers on the table in front of us and nodding our heads deferentially to a master blaster of the saxophone. It was late night music, early evening twilight music, the kind of music you normally listen to when the kids are in bed, everything is quiet, the moments are deeply reflective and the coffee pot is on.

In America jazz has been the dominant sound for as long as anybody can remember. There were the blown cheeks of Louis Armstrong and the aforementioned Dizzy Gillespie, trumpeters and trombonists of the highest calibre. Gillespie had been one of the greatest of all jazz musicians and when Stevie Wonder asked him to play the trumpet on one of his albums, the world of jazz reached Olympian heights of excellence. But we were there on Sunday to acknowledge this sultry, soulful saxophonist. Hayes was, as Simon Spillett pointed out in his introductions, a larger than life, extrovert and colourful figure with a wicked sense of humour and just a hint of irreverence thrown in for good measure. 

Most of the songs performed on Sunday were completely unknown to any of us but we were given a detailed and amusing account of Hayes career. Hayes had been recording albums at a fair lick during the 1960s without being prolific as such. Of course he travelled to New York, Tennessee, the jazz capital with its overtones of Dixieland and all points of the global compass. There were the periods of eccentricity when he revelled in playful compositions and titles of songs that were both bawdy and raunchy. 

But some of us were of course delighted to be back in the world of live music and so was Simon Spillett and his quartet. Ronnie Scott's was jam packed with the connoisseurs and aficionados. huge rows of seats and tables and an photographic gallery of the great and good. You couldn't help but notice the great Ella Fitzgerald and all of the other jazz singers and stylists who had passed through the hallowed doors of Ronnie Scott's.

Finally Ronnie Scott's came out of Covid 19 hibernation in July and yesterday it felt good to be back again among the people who have always loved and hung on every note, quaver, crotchet, reedy blast on the sax. It has to be said that the Simon Spillett quarter were magnificent and lived up to all your expectations. This was jazz at its most languidly elegant, a soothing antidote to all of the troubles that may have been left behind during the coronavirus. It was jazz that had smoothness, a vintage sophistication, and contrasting moods that left you feeling as though Sunday lunchtimes would always be that appropriate moment to just chill out and become absorbed in the beauty of the piano and the saxophone. 

On drums was the brilliant Pete Cater, a spectacular exponent of his craft, all fast and frenetic stick work that was a pleasure to watch. And then there was the breathtaking Rob Barron, a pianist whose fingers glided nonchalantly and balletically across the keyboard as if he'd been doing it for all of his life.  On the double bass the son of the great and late |Jonny Dankworth Alec was plucking his double bass for all its worth. There was a moment when you felt Dankworth was totally immersed in the moment, face wreathed in intense concentration. 

So we finished off our drinks, looking back all the while at those old fashioned orange glowing lamps on the tables, the people tucking into their Sunday roasts, the contemplative ones who were probably thinking back to the golden age of jazz if such a period ever existed. The truth is of course that jazz will never die, a musical genre that will always be celebrated grandly wherever pianos, saxophones and double basses are played. Wherever you are Ronnie Scott we salute you sir. Frith Street, the home of Ronnie Scott's, Greek and Dean Street can still hear you.