National Puzzle Day.

 National Puzzle Day. 

In the age before high tech wizardry and challenging computer games, the old hobbies and distractions now seem like light-years away. Remember the days when none thought of anything of digging out dusty Hornby railway sets, piecing together plastic Lego bricks to create the most fabulous looking petrol station, a house, the most elegant stately home or just some very impressive castle complete with portcullis and drawbridge. What about some well-manicured park or maybe your own team's football ground. It would have been your choice entirely. 

But we seem to have conveniently overlooked perhaps the most absorbing of all pastimes, one we'd never have believed would ever be replaced by modern-day I Phones and Smartphones with card games of online Solitaire, chess, Scrabble or any other word game that would just leave you with a permanent glow of satisfaction even if it had been comparatively straightforward. 

The leisure pursuit we have in mind is the famous puzzle. And you'll never guess what today is. No we're not kidding and this is no joke so be prepared for what has to be the most relaxing of all interests. So if you've just finished your evening meal or found some rainy day during the middle of the week this maybe the time to complete a jigsaw puzzle. 

Now in the general scheme of things jigsaw puzzles are designed for people who just can't be bothered to do a reproduction of the Mona Lisa or give us their very personal interpretation of the Sistine Chapel with their very own paints. We did think of that thought-provoking and cerebral game of chess or perhaps some basket weaving for good measure. On second thoughts there has to be something we used to do years ago without ever thinking for a minute that it would come back into fashion. 

Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls. Today is National Puzzle Day. So there you are and now we're all enlightened if only because it just seems highly unlikely. There is something though about the penultimate day of January which lends itself easily to looking for 5,000 jigsaw puzzles or crossword puzzles, some innate desire to pick up the Rubik's cube, that splendid invention of modern times. a multi-cubed and colourful object that apparently the Hungarian inventor of the same name had enormous difficulty in working out. He just couldn't get the hang of it no matter how hard he tried although he did crack it eventually in double-quick time.

Who ever thought it seemed like a good idea to have a day devoted to a National Puzzle Day is quite ironically baffling. But you have it on good authority so let's go for it. We know there is no particular reason for going back to those old fashioned puzzles on today of all days. But whyever not. Besides, there's no law against it and those pieces which normally result in the creation of a farmyard tractor or cows grazing and ruminating in lush green fields, are the stuff of life and nature. 

For some of us the crossword puzzle is still just compulsively fascinating. What prompts us to fill in the missing words that fit so seamlessly into their correct order and just be drawn into its intricacies and complexities? In a sense crossword puzzles should be simple, a piece of cake and no trouble whatsoever and there can be no shame in admitting defeat if one or two clues do catch you out somewhat unsuspectingly. 

My wife and I discovered the joys of crossword puzzles on luxurious cruises in recent years and it didn't occur to me for a minute that anybody would want to retire to the ship's library and finish off a huge jigsaw puzzle in 80 degrees of heat outside the vessel. But there it was right in front of you and rather than sample the exotic delights of a Mediterranean, South American or African tourist magnet you preferred to sit in a quiet corner and search for the appropriate missing pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.  

But this is the day. It's a day for mind-blowing conundrums, trying to find out the meaning of life, to working out why things happen in the way do and convincing yourself that nothing makes sense any more. Puzzles are, by their very nature, mysterious, annoying, irritating and a  nuisance at times. They can leave you feeling totally flummoxed, scratching your heads for days on end and questioning yourself at times, doubting your ability to carry out a task you may have thought would come naturally under any other circumstances.

For a large part of the British population who read their quality national newspapers The Times has been compiling one of the most testing, demanding and fiendishly difficult cryptic crossword puzzles for decades and quite possibly centuries. It was invariably situated on the back page of the paper and tucked away next to the sports page. For those with an aptitude for disentangling plays on words, palindromes and cunningly hidden phrases, The Times has been the one paper to work our minds to the limit, giving our minds the Jane Fonda work out, the full aerobics session. 

So there you have it folks. It's National Puzzle Day and that's a fact that can't be denied. If you think about it for any great length of time the current global pandemic simply can't be fathomed at any level. How did what seemed at the time a minor outbreak of illness onboard a cruise ship suddenly turn the whole world into at first an accident and emergency case before hitting rock bottom and millions of deaths on a monthly basis?

Still here we are at the end of January and the puzzle is that nobody knows quite how we've come to this pass without being made aware of the real source of the crisis. Conflicting reports still rage from wet markets in China to scientific laboratory experiments that seemed to have been gone belly up. What we do know is that puzzles are here to stay with us for as long as mankind. The human race is both terribly fragile and vulnerable although most of us know that anyway. This puzzle will, quite assuredly, sort itself out and a permanent resolution will be found. For now let's all sit tight, keep our chins up and never be pessimistic. The vaccines are rolling off the conveyor belts and if you keep that unwavering faith then the viurs will disappear. Sooner rather than later. 

Holocaust Memorial Day.

 Holocaust Memorial Day. 

Today needs no explanation. Today is the most painful of all days. It is a day heavy with reflection, a sobering, chastening day, a day for raw reminiscence, a day of all days, the day the global Jewish population try desperately hard to collect their emotions together and just express their feelings in their own very personal way. 

Today is Holocaust Memorial Day, a day that carries with it that heartbreaking solemnity, an indefinable gravity and the most dreadful of all realisations. Because today we are reminded of hellish suffering, man's inhumanity to man, torture and torment on the most barbaric scale and death as the inevitable consequence that can barely be comprehended. How was it allowed to happen and what kind of sick, twisted and murderous mind would think, even for a moment, that the death of six million Jews was morally acceptable? But Adolf Hitler, without a shred of remorse or compunction, shamelessly wiped out most of the global Jewish population and thought nothing of it. There were no regrets and besides who cared at the time? The world may well have seemed as though it had turned the other cheek but my grandpa knew every shocking detail.  

But this is my story and one that has to be told. It is not a cautionary tale because this would imply that humanity has to wrestle with its conscience. We know what happened and nobody can be at fault for any of the horrors and abominations apart from those who perpetrated these callous, disgusting and barely imaginable, abominable acts of genocide on the grandest scale. My plea is that this should never be allowed to happen again at any time in the passage of history in any generation. 

One day, at the height of the Second World War, my brave and formidable grandpa stepped out of the home he was living in with my lovely and adorably affectionate grandma and decided to buy some cigarettes in a local shop. He was going about his business and he wasn't hurting anybody. He was just living his life and looking after his family. But that world was about to be shattered into a million pieces of shrapnel, bloodshed, carnage and destruction. 

Around my grandparents, life was falling apart at the seams. Buildings, shops, homes and livelihoods were being irreparably destroyed, fires were burning and six million Jews were dying helplessly. On this one day though my dear grandpa would be the victim of the ultimate crime, the man who just happened to be Jewish in the wrong place and the wrong time. He almost paid the price for his religion and the persecution complex that has haunted all Jews since then is perfectly understandable. 

You can only imagine the aftermath of this brutal attack on my grandpa's freedoms, this knife in the back of humanity, this despicably violent violation. As he opened the door of his home, blood pouring from his nose and running down his sunken cheeks, my grandma must have greeted him with the shocked astonishment that any human being could descend to this most inhumane level. What on earth had happened to Jack, my proud grandfather? This had to be stopped because who knew what the Nazis were capable of doing and what further acts of savagery and manslaughter had they in mind? 

Still, both my grandparents and mum, with nothing left but the clothes they were wearing, shuffled wearily towards some far distant railway station and just jumped onto the first train. How they must have been mortified and inconsolable when they discovered that my grandparents family had perished in the gas chambers. But they were now in safe territory, a heavenly moment in their lives. 

Now that family would be bundled onto the cattle trucks and never heard or seen again. Their lives would be over, annihilated and the repercussions that the Holocaust would leave behind would be condemned to ashes and smoke. You apologise for using such graphic descriptions but how can you convey to today's children the unremitting misery, the torturous punishment meted out by those low life Nazis whose atrocities can never really be forgiven. 

Of course, deeply moral questions should be asked about German killing machines who must be shown just a little compassion and leniency. After all, the acts of our ancestors should not be held against them just because today's Germans possess entirely different mentalities. The point is though that the Far Right Nazi extremists are still prowling around the globe, spewing out antisemitic poison from their mouths,  hatred, vile vitriol, denial, an insistence that the Jews have just made this all up. 

Well, here's the frightening evidence. At the height of the Second World War these are the stories that must have haunted my grandparents and mum permanently. One morning my grandpa set out to buy a packet of cigarettes and by the time he'd got home his nose had been broken with blood pouring out and a horrified wife could only weep with despair. Presumably the Nazi stormtroopers had threatened to kill my grandpa with a rifle and threatened to take all of his worldly possessions. 

It took another 45 years for the full horror to register with my wonderfully affectionate and beautiful grandma. Having moved into their new home in Gants Hill, Essex in the early 1970s, my grandpa and grandma settled down to what they must have hoped would be a contented retirement. They were both approaching old age but still hopeful that life would resume normal service. 

For my poor grandma though it all unravelled nightmarishly. One day you suspect that she woke up and discovered that in 1976 the Nazis were still there. They were still hovering around my grandma and still ready to kill if they had to. Now my poor grandpa could only look on in stunned astonishment, as my lovely grandma started screaming hysterically, convinced that the Nazis were about to pull the trigger.

This is not to suggest that I've been psychologically traumatised by what I saw. But it wasn't pleasant. My poor grandpa started throwing my poor grandma across the living room, growling like a grizzly bear, boiling over with red-blooded anger and exasperation. Of course he didn't resort to physical violence because my grandpa adored my grandma and always would. 

So that's my Holocaust story folks. At some point during this day, you would like to think that all of the Holocaust deniers will just accept the error of their ways, becoming both ashamed of themselves and always guilty. But 76 years have now passed since the end of the Second World War and for some of us you doubt whether the sceptical naysayers will ever come to terms with what they believe is the truth. You would like to think that they will come to their senses. But you very much doubt it. Never ever forget the Holocaust.  

West Ham on the road to Wembley. It's wishful thinking but you never know.

 West Ham on the road to Wembley?  It's wishful thinking but you never know. 

We've all been here before. There were those agonising moments when West Ham almost succeeded but then found that the FA Cup had been cruel and betrayed them at the final hurdle. It's now 41 years since those of us with claret and blue arteries experienced that triumphant day in an FA Cup Final and yet the trophy cabinet at the London Stadium remains threadbare and full of cobwebs. The dust is rapidly gathering, the fans totally disillusioned and the rumblings of discontent are growing in volume for every season that passes without any tangible reward and nothing to tell their grandchildren about. 

But in a small corner of East London the drums will be thundering out resoundingly across the Westfield Shopping Centre in Stratford. Because this year is their year, our year, the one with destiny written all over it. We are now aware Tottenham have now monopolised the FA Cup bragging rights when the year ends in a one. This season has been though quite the most unusual and unique of any football season. The new season began back in September as opposed to the week or two before the August Bank Holiday. 

Yesterday afternoon amid battleship grey, wintry skies, West Ham comfortably moved into the fifth round of the FA Cup with a leisurely, insouciant air that must have deluded their fans into thinking that this was their turn to win one of the most coveted trophies ever to be awarded to any team. Of course, West Ham's seemingly untroubled progress to Wembley may well end in defeat at either Liverpool's Anfield or Manchester United at Old Trafford in the next round of the FA Cup but certainties in football have never been set in stone. 

In recent years West Ham, as is their custom in recent years, would have struggled to beat lower-division opposition and have invariably bowed out of the competition with their tails between their legs, shamefaced and utterly humiliated. Last seaon it was West Brom at home and before then AFC Wimbledon who were bottom of their League at the time. So there seemed no reason to suspect that yesterday would have produced a similar outcome. Stranger things have been known to happen and they certainly did. 

The third round of the Cup had seen West Ham give their marching orders to non-League Stockport on a saturated, muddy allotment site and when the rains came down at Edgley Park we sniffed the sweet odour of a giant-killing. But Craig Dawson, now a seasoned trooper, joined his colleagues for a corner in the last minutes of the game.and leapt high to head the ball into the net for West Ham's late, late winner. 

For West Ham though this was not the customary banana skin that would have sent them packing in any other season. Suddenly the FA Cup has become very personable and friendly to the East Londoners but for those who have paid the penalty of pinning our colours to the mast, our fears were understandable. The dreadfully embarrassing defeat to Hereford during the 1970s now seems like an aching wound that simply refuses to heal. Then there was the narrow 1-0 victory over Kidderminster Harriers during the 1990s while Wrexham once came to Upton Park and beat the Hammers 1-0. 

However, this was not the vulnerable and gullible West Ham of old. This was not the wobbly, jittery and nervous West Ham who once had their tummies tickled before turning over and toppling out of the FA Cup. In any other season, West Ham would have been the subject of much mockery and teasing derision. What did we tell you about West Ham? They just can't hack it when the moon is quite clearly in the wrong position and they lose against teams of what would appear to be inferior, sub-standard opposition.

When the whistle went in Stratford to signify full time, West Ham were relieved to have all of their feathers intact. Now their Premier League status had not been tarnished and undermined by one of those teams from lower down in the League who must have been convinced they could capitalise on West Ham's inevitable anxieties and ever-present stage fright. Their chin would have been exposed, the guard down and before you knew it the East London side would have been out of contention for any FA Cup glory. 

Yesterday at 3pm on a Saturday afternoon had intruded on us when few knew that even this seemingly outdated concept would have been dismissed as some rare novelty. This year's Premier League season has now assumed some weird and chronologically silly complexion. Now the fixtures seem to be strategically scheduled and squeezed together into close proximity. There are the matches played just after the early evening TV news, matches on Tuesday, Wednesday and of course Thursday in a tight, confined space and no consideration given to the overall welfare of any of the players.

West Ham did beat League One Doncaster Rovers but a vast majority of their supporters must have been watching the game at home on TV denied the pleasure of witnessing their dearly beloved team completely outclassing the visitors. This was perhaps the most preposterously one-sided FA Cup match in the competition's star-spangled history. Quite how Doncaster must have thought this was their day is anybody's guess. Then of course we then discovered that Doncaster were only here as neutral admirers, setting out for a day out in London town even if the whole of London had been declared a no-go zone.

From the kick off, West Ham went straight for Doncaster's jugular, weaving, knitting and sewing their festival of passes across the centre of the London Stadium pitch. For the first time in ages West Ham looked like genuine world-beaters. There was the dawning realisation that maybe Doncaster had come down to the capital city with capitulation on their minds but were defiant to the bitter end. By half time this fourth round FA Cup tie was over as a real contest and West Ham just tripped the light fantastic, completing a couple of jives, the tango and the waltz, cohesive, harmonious and quick-witted. 

At the back of West Ham's defence Issa Diop, Fabian Balbuena and Ryan Fredericks carefully built and then strolled forward like inquisitive observers at a fireworks party. Diop admittedly did look awkward at times but Ben Johnson, one of the many promising academy players at West Ham was venturesome, enterprising and always looking to break into the Doncaster half at the first opportunity. Then Ryan Fredericks began to look like the kind of full-back West Ham were hoping he'd be. Fredericks plunged into attack, overlapping intelligently and pulling back low, cut back-crosses that Doncaster simply couldn't hold onto. 

After only five minutes or so the home side were in front. Andriy Yarmolenko, Ukranian winger who could have delivered so much more to West Ham, found his feet. Played up front on his own deputising for the rested Michal Antonio, Yarmolenko was bright, lively, spritely, electrifying at times on the flank and then there was that deceptively lackadaisical approach where the game seems to pass him by. Yaromolenko was forever stepping over, tricking and taunting his defender, dragging back the ball too flamboyantly and then accepting that this was not the way he'd penetrate Doncaste's stubborn defence. 

The home side's opening goal was swift, ruthless and marvellously executed. Yarmolenko, sensing that Doncaster had no idea how to handle him at any stage of the game, started trudging menacingly. The Ukranian flank man collected the ball near the touchline, shuffled along and then gathered pace, tricking, fooling, deceiving and easily wrong-footing the visitors defence. He then laid the ball perceptively into the stride of  Ryan Fredericks whose sharp cut back across the visitors penalty area found Pablo Fornals, a quick -thinking, influential midfield play maker, who came charging across his defender to sweep the ball home for West Ham's first goal.

Just over the half-hour Fornals, Manuel Lanzini and captain Mark Noble took it in turns to move and rotate the ball skilfully and constructively, passing movements of the highest quality, flicks, tricks, delicious one-twos, wall passes galore that occasionally reminded you of the Brazil of 1970s, the Germany of a decade or so and the French World Cup holders.  One-touch football at any level is sheer nectar to roll around the mouth, a decorative ornament that stands out from the mundane and a beautiful, aesthetic sight to behold.

Noble, with almost too much time to weigh up his attacking options, fed an educated through pass after a piercing run and then the increasingly prominent Said Benrahma fed the ball accurately into the path of Yarmolenko. The Ukranian, always alert to Benrahma's lovely movement, darted onto the ball and ran behind the Doncaster defence to clip the ball wide of the Doncaster keeper and into the net. It was almost certainly mission accomplished. 

When West Ham skipper Noble floated over his corner and into the heart of Doncaster's penalty area a regiment of players went up and unfortunately for the visitors the ball seemed to be sucked into the net off Andy Butler who just seemed to help the ball over the line with his thigh, an own goal to forget in a hurry.

 Three goals to the good the second half now yawned interminably since the visitors had long since thrown in the proverbial towel. West Ham were now cherishing and protecting the ball almost affectionately, stroking the ball around with an almost proprietorial ease rather like some family heirloom that may need to be dusted down every so often. West Ham now flaunted their finest finery and most appealing costume.  

And then West Ham did some substitute swapping of their own choosing. First Oladopo Afolayan, a young claret and blue whipper-snapper came bounding onto the pitch as if hardly believing his luck. 24 hours earlier Afolayan had just finished an Under 23 match for West Ham and now he was exposed to the very glamorous glare of the FA Cup spotlight. With minutes to go the youngster, breaking elegantly into Doncaster's now gasping defence, tuned into his team-mates wavelength. A neat ball from Noble was precisely weighted to Fredericks, powering towards the by-line and then firing a shot at the keeper who couldn't hold the full back's shot and Afolayan joyfully rammed home the rebound for a debut first team goal. 

So it was that you could honestly say that you had sat down to see your team's first televised 3pm match on a Saturday afternoon. It was a very revealing insight into the way football and TV can come together and find common ground with each other. Of course there were no football supporters in the ground and of course this just feels morally unacceptable with every passing game. But taken in context this was a rewarding way of spending your Saturday afternoon even though it still doesn't feel right. Still, this was the FA Cup and football just loves to embrace tradition. Don't we all.  

     

Welcome to the club Mr. President.

 Welcome to the club, Mr President. 

And so it was that Donald Trump trudged grudgingly into political obscurity and America welcomed one Joe Biden, a quiet but purposeful figure, a man dedicated to resuscitating the sick patient he believed his fellow Americans had become under the comically inept man who was Donald Trump. Finally a man named Biden had become President of the United States and whichever way you dress it, there can be nothing more satisfying to see than a man replacing another man, a fresh new start under a new face with sensible ideas and proper leadership qualities. 

The inauguration ceremony a couple of days ago in the capital city of Washington was a very ceremonious event, radically reduced and diminished in scale because of coronavirus but still America in all its glamour and showmanship. Biden stepped forward to obey all of the religious and sacred commands before pushing up the mask on his face gently and agreeing to become the 46th President of the United States. 

You sensed that America had finally landed on the kind of guy who could make it all work, transforming the country's mindset, a man convinced that he was the man to inject hope and ambition back into the hearts and minds of this vast country of seemingly untapped potential and already substantial riches. He was the man to guide the country out of the dramatic slump it had found itself as a result of the outrageously illiterate cowboy who was Donald Trump. 

For four long years America have suffered and endured ceaselessly under Trump, a bankrupt businessman three times over who made so many bewildering and monosyllabic statements that had a translator been required, we would still have been at a complete loss as to what exactly he was talking about. There was a real danger that had Trump held onto the grenade he'd have probably allowed it to explode in his face. For four years America seemed to be treading on eggshells, terrified in case Trump actually carried out some of his more bizarre threats. 

But now is the time for the 78-year-old Biden to dig out the new broom, sweep up the ashes and carnage from the Trump explosion and just get on with the business of doing things in a considered and measured way, rallying the White House and Senate together, speaking intelligently and articulately rather than blundering forward, speaking his mind in quite the most deranged fashion and then blustering nonsensically at Press conferences like some mindlessly opinionated social commentator at Speakers Corner in London. 

Age of course should be no obstacle whatsoever to Biden since Ronald Reagan was still being irrepressibly enthusiastic in his 70s and riding horses with British Prime Ministers who also never minced their words. Biden will have to establish and maintain the amiable entente cordiale with British Prime Minister Boris Johnson in a way that has now been considered the accepted norm. When Reagan was President, Margaret Thatcher was perhaps too bossy and authoritative for anybody's liking but you do get the impression that Biden's relationship will be altogether more reasonable and amiable. 

This could be the time for Joe Biden to bring America back into the land of living since the last four years under Trump's administration have been nothing less than farcical, amateurish and incredibly embarrassing. First, there were Trump's savage attacks on the American press and the remorseless battering he handed out to either Fox, CNN or any American TV channel he seemed to take an instant disliking to for no apparent reason. Then he started blasting out his verbal artillery at some of his colleagues, sniping at senators and then crushing the egos of close friends who had now become his enemies. 

So ladies and gentlemen of the United States you can now come out because it's safe to venture into the  refreshing world of Joe Biden. To all outward appearances, Biden is statesmanlike, understanding, compassionate, hugely intelligent, far-sighted and full of suave assurance. He will be firm but fair, serious but humorous when the occasion warrants it and unlike Trump, he will know exactly what he's doing without resorting to cheap publicity stunts, hostile attacks on everybody he encounters and never coarsely critical of those he thinks may be patronising or ridiculing him. Joe Biden, welcome to the White House. Your receptive audience awaits you.  

Not another storm- this relentless bad news.

 Not another storm - this relentless bad news.

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse it has and how on earth are we going to deal with this latest setback? You keep wracking your head and scratching your head in complete bafflement. First there was the political tedium of Brexit that just kept driving us around the bend for an infinitesimal period of time. Everything that seemed to matter to only the men and women at Westminster suddenly became our problem, our insoluble difficulty, an issue that we were asked to be resolved but clearly had no training in dealing with. 

Then we reached a comprehensive agreement over the conditions laid down by those in Brussels relating to Britain's withdrawal from the European Union. It was all plain sailing, a piece of cake and then we breathed a massive sigh of relief when the negotiations were complete and we were free to do whatever we were doing in the past without all that pesky interference from those European neighours. All amiable handshakes and polite doffing of caps could now be dumped in the dustbin of history. 

At the beginning of 2020 we thought we could all cool off, face the future without our EU chums and just get on with another very uneventful and bland year. Little did we know then is we quite clearly had no idea how things would pan out. What we thought we'd get was a gradual consolidation of relations between the rest of the world and trading alliances in every commodity you could think of. And then the whole world stopped on its axis, the universe collapsed in a heap of deadly viruses and all of the machinery that had kept us alive for so many decades had suddenly been turned off. Welcome coronavirus. 

For almost 10 months Britain, Europe and every continent under the sun has come to a complete halt. Frightful death and hellish suffering have stalked the corridors and residences of every conceivable human habitation. If we thought the 1918 flu epidemic, which claimed millions of lives, was bad we hadn't seen anything yet. Covid 19 has been terrorising, traumatising, tormenting and then reducing vastly talented doctors and nurses to gibbering, sobbing wrecks. We thought we'd seen enough to last a lifetime but once again we were wrong. 

Almost overnight the great world climate has gone about its business and caused absolute consternation. Ladies and Gentlemen we give you Storm Christoph and last night we heard it whipping and whistling, howling and crying, an almost mournful lament pleading for help. For the last couple of winter, storms and tempests have rocked Britain with almost ominous intent. They have tugged at washing lines mercilessly and whined in excruciating pain as if coming out in sympathy with the human race. 

But Storm Christoph really did sound as though it had been swept in from the English channel and just wanted to voice its disapproval about something none of us could quite understand. Then the rains came pouring down in those by now customary Biblical torrents, swirling around in the dark, wintry sky before soaking the roads and pavements with relentless intensity and power. The snows have threatened without quite reaching their intended destination. Storm Christoph though had the proverbial needle. Don't mess with Storm Christoph.

So let's see. In what seem now an endless succession of really bad weather outbreaks we've had forest fires in Australia, hurricanes and typhoons in America and Asia while just for good measure, earthquakes and cyclones have rumbled and then shaken the planet to a fatal standstill at times. Houses and schools have been ripped from their moorings, shops and local businesses now nothing more than a chapter from history and families are in inconsolable grief over the loss of loved ones. And then there was Storm Christoph. 

Then our noble band of weather forecasters provide us with a detailed, running commentary of storm names. Now, for whatever reason, storms have followed a strict alphabetical order . And then we discover that all of these storms have adopted a gender and sex. The fact remains though that if at some point we should get some welcome respite from all of these desperate trials and tribulations then perhaps we may forget what it was like to be normal. Many are searching for any kind of good news and cause for celebration but that's pretty thin on the ground at the moment. 

Still, while there is life there is indeed hope. Surely, by the law of averages this worldwide tragedy will slowly but surely blow over but has now wrought the kind of emotional havoc we have never seen in our lifetimes. You find yourselves drawn easily into comparisons with a proper, full time war and real ammunition, real guns and bombs, all of those ghastly armaments that have so disfigured Planet Earth since perhaps time began. Or seemingly so. 

For a while the winds of circumstance, once so beautifully quoted by the great cricket writer Neville Cardus, are blasting their inexorable way through the shires and counties of dear old England. Global warning is still hiding away at the back of our consciousness and still we wrestle with those knotty issues of the damaged environment that have now come to characteristic modern discussion rooms of our times. 

But this can't last because how much longer can humanity be starved of that psychological connection, the relationships that mean the world to us and the social interaction we so achingly crave. We have endured and tolerated since this is the way it has to be at the moment. There is a recognition of where and how this all began but it still sends shivers down our spines every time we hear about the phenomenal loss of life on quite the most unimaginable scale. 

Still, there are people on life support machines and struggling to breathe and that's the hardest fact to take in. But for the moment even Storm Christoph is making its presence felt and heard quite emphatically and just a bit too boisterously for those who may decide to have an early night and a spot of shut eye. 

So here we are speeding towards the end of January and all we can sense around us is the kind of depressing morbidity and doom laden negativity that none of us could have so accurately predicted at the beginning of last year. The thought occurs to you that perhaps we are about to shortly come full circle and that brighter times lie ahead. Come March and April we'll all be doing the conga around the Trafalgar Square fountains, the lights will go in Piccadilly Circus, demob happy soldiers will grab hold of their girl and plant the most sensual kiss on their mouth. Hold on, this will not mark the conclusion of the Second World War and there will be no need for air raid sirens to remind us that another of Hitler's evil bombs is about to wipe out the City of London.

We will not have to listen to one of Churchill's morale boosting speeches on the Home Service or the Light Programme nor will Dame Vera Lynn be gracing us with those dulcet, honeyed songs. Those were the days that died long ago and the recent passing of Dame Vera Lynn was another reminder of those halcyon days for those who were there. Don't forget though to tell Storm Christoph should swiftly go back from wherever it came from. It's all very regrettable and all so unbearable at times. Don't despair though because we're all here together and we won't be defeated. Keep going everybody. 

Wayne Rooney- the new Derby County manager.

 Wayne Rooney- the new Derby County manager.

Now what on earth would Brian Clough have made of it all? Clough was the now legendary manager of Derby, Leeds United, albeit very briefly, Brighton and, quite brilliantly, Nottingham Forest. Clough though acquitted himself to the onerous task of digging all of the above out of the doldrums, cleaning them up, remodelling them, reviving all of them all apart from Leeds and then pumping new life into them with the air of a Messiah. Clough was a natural, a man with an obvious aptitude for coaching players, motivating players and instilling a lasting belief that they were the greatest players he'd ever seen. 

But Clough was blunt, outspoken, controversial, iconoclastic, a combustible time bomb just waiting to go off and frequently getting exactly what he wanted after yet another verbal explosion. Clough though was, surprisingly, an educationalist, a trade unionist, a purist, a master psychologist, a miracle maker, innovator supreme, a classicist, a scholar of the game but he could be a nuisance when he wanted to. Clough of course was a managerial genius and you wonder what he would have made of Wayne Rooney being appointed as manager of one of his old clubs. 

Yesterday Rooney followed in the esteemed footsteps of the inimitable one affectionately referred to as 'Ol' Big Head'. How would he have analysed the mindset of one of England's greatest modern strikers? What considered advice would Clough have passed onto the man whose private life occasionally threatened to overshadow his playing career. There were the lurid off the field antics that would have been ill fitting any rookie manager finding his feet.

On the other hand, Clough would have blushed with embarrassment at some of Rooney's extra curricular activities. Of course Clough was never an angel during his abruptly terminated playing career at Middlesbrough. But he would never have dreamt of engaging in some of Rooney's dubious behaviour. Clough was very much the family man and when son Nigel made the transition to management you'd have been hard pressed to find any skeletons in Brian Clough's cupboard. 

Still, the fact remains that the Derby of 2021 has now been entrusted with the one player who has now broken all goal scoring records for England and loves the game with a wholesome passion. But ex England strikers have never really made the grade and the examples are too many to mention. Trevor Francis was certainly one of the deadliest forwards to pull on an England shirt but when it came to pulling on a coaching and managerial track suit top, Francis, by his own admission, didn't take the game by storm. At both Sheffield Wednesday and QPR, Francis was well meaning and competent but achieved very little. 

The great Sir Bobby Charlton, one of England's most adored of all World Cup winning forwards and blockbuster rocket shot strikers, went to Preston as manager for a while but then decided that this wasn't really what he was looking for in football once the boots were hung up. Kevin Keegan, of course fared moderately as manager with well acclaimed spells as manager of Newcastle, Fulham and England manager but Keegan had itchy feet, a restless soul and if results went against him, acted on impulse by walking out on the said clubs. His playing career at Liverpool was rather more memorable. 

And so we find ourselves back at Wayne Rooney, the Everton teenage sensation who went on to deservedly win Premier League titles with Sir Alex Ferguson. These would appear to be exemplary credentials for a player who just became besotted with scoring goals at both club and international level. The remarkable bicycle kick goal against noisy neighbours Manchester City was one among many. 

But Rooney was never satisfied with his fertile goal-scoring ratio. He was always on the move, arguing petulantly with referees, back chatting almost constantly, angry with the rest of the world. On one occasion Rooney became so het up and incensed with the way things were going during one game for United that when he thought United were denied attacking advantage at Old Trafford, he was about to complain to the official again. Then, in quite the most magnificent moment of inspiration, Rooney, sensing a shot, volleyed the ball spectacularly past a shell shocked Newcastle goalkeeper. Quite brilliant. 

Then there were goals for England. During Euro 2004 Rooney, in a purple, goal scoring patch for the national side, was picked to play against Croatia. In a thumping 4-2 victory against the Croatians Rooney was quite unstoppable, an electrifying striker with goals of the highest quality. Rooney was inspired, a player who knew exactly where the goal was and was never bothered by the excessive hype around him. 

So to the present day. Wayne Rooney is the new manager of Derby County and that's a sentence none of us would have even contemplated when he first burst onto the Premier League scene. Rooney was brash, moody, temperamental quite regularly but wondrously skilful. Rooney could score devastating goals from nowhere, a lethal, explosive goal scorer and always on the look out for more and more. 

Twice Rooney scored against West Ham at Upton Park with the kind of goals that strikers wake up in the middle of the night and just have fantasy images of. Both Rooney goals were struck from near the half way line and possessed of brilliance. Sizing up the trajectory of the ball, Rooney floated the ball serenely over the back pedalling West Ham goalkeeper and into the back of the net. 

Now though Rooney is in charge of a football club from the technical dug out. It's hard to know what his predecessor Brian Clough would have thought of Rooney as manager. Besides the man is completely unproven and if he does win a Premier League trophy with any team then we may have to revise our opinions. Clough of course won the old First Division championship with Nottingham Forest in back to back titles and then there was the small matter of winning the European Cup twice with Forest.

This time though Rooney has no Peter Taylor beside him and nobody like Don Revie to quarrel with over playing styles. Rooney is though a man with a mind of his own, very much an individual who may well have Clough's Midas touch at his disposal. And he probably wouldn't tell a rival club to bin their trophy winning medals because they were worth nothing. Wayne Rooney was the kid from the back streets of Merseyside, hungry, determined and a prolific scorer of goals. If Derby persevere with Rooney and the future looks promising then who knows? As long as nobody takes the Mickey.    

Oh for those mysterious days of Trump, impeachment and Covid 19.

 Oh for those mysterious days of Trump, impeachment and Covid 19.

If somebody had told you 50 years ago that the world would be confronted with a deadly virus, a dodgy, crooked and corrupt American president and Brexit, you might have been inclined to believe the one  rather than both. The memory of Richard Nixon sniffling uncontrollably into his handkerchief as a result of the most disgraceful, discreditable, disreputable, pernicious and dastardly act of deceit and double-crossing is like a scar in the history books.  

Roll forward another 50 years or so and we're very much back where we started with one or two notable exceptions to the rule or maybe that should read as the one major difference. Back at the end of the 1960s and 1970s, nobody would have imagined that by the year 2021 we'd all be struggling to come to terms with a global virus and pandemic that literally shook the world to its foundations and left us all dumbfounded and shocked. 

And yet we are. In America of course all hell has broken loose on its Washington streets, the natives have run riot and the protesters have become appallingly violent. They've broken into the Senate, smashing doors, wrecking any piece of furniture that might come their way, throwing their weight about with unbridled aggression and then threatening to break every rule in every law book into the bargain. None of us can believe the sheer monumental scale of  modern society's rude awakening to the hard facts of life. 

Now we hear that Donald Trump is about to face impeachment charges for sparking off that frightening skirmish. He was the one who keeps insisting that he was blatantly robbed of serving a second term in office and has only now grudgingly accepted defeat. Some of us were rather hoping that Trump would just shuffle off into the land of isolation and seclusion never to rear his head ever again at any political rally. But Trump apparently is still spitting feathers, getting hot and bothered, throwing more tantrums and generally causing disorder on the highest scale. 

Shortly Joe Biden will become the next President of the United States but you wonder whether the former incumbent is sulking and moping so much that he'll have to be dragged out of the White House kicking and screaming. To say that Trump is a painful liability would be a gross understatement. The man has quite clearly lost his marbles, sanity has deserted him altogether and the man's mental health is hugely questionable. Any comparisons with Richard Nixon are perhaps not entirely appropriate since at least Nixon had the decency to apologise for his misdemeanours. 

For his part Trump is probably languishing in a dark room, refusing to be told what to do and generally behaving with all the decorum of some bolshie three year old who keeps throwing their paint brushes across the room. He won't be coming out or responding to any requests for a word or two until they give him back his toy cars. It's as simple as that. 

Sadly, American politics has now descended to its gravest point where the totally irresponsible actions of its President has brought the whole of the office into complete disarray. He maintains that last year's election was rigged, that the votes that were counted had been counted so inaccurately that a good deal of jiggery-pokery and manipulation has been at work here. How to read the mind of a man whose thoughts are so muddled now that he may just as well be totally ignored because nobody will be listening to him at any point.

But here we in the first month of 2021 and not a great deal has changed. The news agenda still reminds  you of early episodes of Doctor Who, the total number of people who have died in Britain since the beginning of the first lockdown is now in its thousands almost every day and it almost feels as if the bombs are still raining down on us, the missiles are hammering into the buildings and the explosions are just relentless. 

During the Second World War most of London took to the Tube railway shelters underground to hide from the evil monster of the Nazi tyranny. This time though the enemy is invisible but still destructive in so many ways. This time we're subjected to a whole barrage of grisly percentages, mind blowing statistics, more graphs, men in suits delivering the same old message over and over again as if we need to be reminded of it all.  

A couple of nights ago you watched a young woman beside herself with grief at the loss of her husband. The BBC reported on the terrible plight of a wife sobbing bitterly and still shocked at the abrupt ending of her husband's life. The verdict was that the husband had died because of Covid 19 but the tears became rivers and then oceans. You really didn't know which way to turn because your heart was in the process of breaking for her. Of course they both had everything to live for but nothing would ever bring the husband back and she remained inconsolable. It was the most sobering moment of the year so far. 

But then you remembered another BBC shock horror story when we were shown the full predicament being faced by doctors, surgeons, men and women in operating theatres working around the clock to save lives in their hundreds and thousands. You saw nurses breaking down, eyes red with tears yet again while some of the most eminent and knowledgeable of those in the medical profession were just overwhelmed, mortified, at their wits end, privately crumbling under the pressure but still impeccably restrained and dedicated to their calling. 

Throughout the ages we've always been able to cope with seasonal flu outbreaks during the winter but this one has quite literally knocked us for six. It looks like hell on earth but maybe we've now been conditioned to the harsh reality of it all and shouldn't be unduly surprised. The fact is though that although the number of infected cases do seem to be showing slight signs of levelling off, our streets and roads are still graveyards, all manner of masks are being donned as further evidence of something we've known about since last March and most of us are just surviving on the essential foods to keep us alive. 

Now we acknowledge that health, mental health and safety are of paramount importance. But for those of us who haven't seen the inside of a restaurant, theatre or cinema since goodness knows when this may feel like a custodial sentence or being trapped at the bottom of a well. Eventually we'll be rescued but for the time being we've just got to sit and wait. Patience will have to be a virtue whether we like it or not. 

The good news is that the vaccines for the coronavirus are being rolled out in the time honoured fashion of a conveyor belt. We can't get enough of vaccines, the jabs in the arms that are designed to fend off the virus until whenever. Almost two million people have now been administered with these various vaccines so far but there's a long way to go and the full effect of the said vaccines may not be known for some time. 

Still, we've all got a roof over our heads - or at least a vast majority of Britain has. As for the homeless, hungry and destitute this must feel like genuine torture and your hearts go out to those who have nothing. When will they be receiving the vaccine? It's hard to tell but we will be told in due course. Our stomachs are full and we still have the comfort of knowing that this will end. We can still sleep at night and we can still wake up in the morning. We have to be grateful because life is the gift that keeps giving. That coffee looks delicious. Keep calm everybody.        

Non League Marine - a breath of fresh air but dumped out of FA Cup by Spurs.

 Non-League Marine- a breath of fresh air but dumped out of FA Cup by Spurs.

Shortly before breakfast time, a small corner of Lancashire readied itself for the game of their lives. It would be a Sunday afternoon quite unlike any they were likely to experience again and by lunchtime they were probably pinching themselves hoping that they were dreaming but still aware of the epic magnitude of the occasion. It was FA Cup third round day and little non-League Marine from the ninth tier of English football were taking on high flying Premier League Spurs with no illusions and seemingly no hope whatsoever. But you know what the FA Cup is like. It can creep up on you and take you by surprise.

Sadly, by late tea time as darkness fell over Crosby, a Merseyside suburb a world away from the seething cauldron of Anfield and Goodison Park, it was time to reflect on the inevitability of this result. Reality came crowding in on tiny Marine and swamped them with a vengeance. It was hard to know whether to laugh or cry but judging by some of the few voices that could be heard around the ground, you'd be inclined to think that it was just a jolly good day out for those who were hardy enough to brave the cold. 

So here's what happened on a freezing evening in the footballing backwater of Marine, North West England near the Mersey. A week beforehand Liverpool had lost one of its favourite sons, that 1960s pop icon Gerry Marsden who had done so much to enliven the proceedings at Liverpool's Anfield for so many decades with rousing renditions of 'You'll Never Walk Alone'. Now Marine, who could only have fantasised about playing their neighbouring Premier League giants Liverpool, were left all at sea by Premier League pace-setters Spurs. 

After a hearty full English breakfast with toast and a healthy bowl of cereal, mums and dads, uncles and aunties, cousins and nephews were accompanied by the kind of Marine supporters who had followed their team from the cot. Friends and neighbours then polished off a Sunday lunchtime roast fairly swiftly before rummaging through cupboards for old whistles and klaxon horns, venturing out onto their patio and garden and then settling down for the most unforgettable match they would ever witness. 

They then headed towards their fences and whitewashed walls, let out a series of uplifting cheers and whoops. Courageous souls then climbed onto their sheds heroically and sat down on what looked like corrugated iron. It was a day that epitomised the romance of the FA Cup but you did feel sorry for them, denied the pleasure of a properly luxurious seat in their own ground. The boys on the shed seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely, casually surveying the night sky and wishing that maybe just maybe this could be their finest footballing night of all-time in Marine. Their worst fears were realised. 

Then at the far end of Marine's quaint home from home, a group of girls emerged from their home drinking thin glasses of Prosseco, an alcoholic delight that fizzed away quietly while their Marine were trying to turn the footballing world upside down. This was though a fruitless quest but it was a fitting metaphor for the occasion. You can still celebrate the exploits of your local footballing team even though nobody gives you a chance.

Then there were the good citizens of Marine, hidden away in the row of houses that so picturesquely dotted their sweet little ground in the middle of nowhere. The bedroom windows were twitching and the greenhouses that backed directly onto the pitch were trembling with understandable anxiety. At tea time somebody got out the toasted marshmallows, arranged an impromptu winter barbecue and then knocked back a small quantity of lager or wine just to add an extra flavour and spice to FA Cup third round day. 

And that's where we leave this domestic idyll because Spurs were no in mood to hand out any favours, no sign of the charitable Christmas spirit and just a single-minded determination not to let anybody get in their way. Of course football leaves no room for sentiment and Spurs knuckled down to their task with immense professionalism and a ruthless conscientiousness. There would be no messing about for Spurs and once their minds were focused, Marine would be yesterday's chip paper. 

It could not have escaped the notice for the more observant and superstitious football fans that this is the year that ends with a one and of course Tottenham invariably win some trophy. They'd swaggered towards the Double of League Championship and FA Cup in 1961, they'd won the Cup in 1901, 1921, the League Cup in 1971 and the FA Cup again in 1981. So why should 2021 be any different? And of course Spurs must be sensing something in the air even though May is some way off and January is no time for crystal ball gazing. 

Still, after a nervous and jittery opening for Spurs, normal service was restored for the visitors. When Marine youngster Neil Keningi found room for a shot he didn't spurn the opportunity. Keningi didn't hesitate as he jockeyed for position and range before cracking a ferocious drive that floated over helpless Spurs keeper Joe Hart and rattled the crossbar. Spurs were probably hoping that this was just a timely reminder that even the big boys can be fallible and caught out cold.

It was now that the outstanding Spurs midfield player Dele Alli came into his own. Alli has had more than his fair share of critics after an impressive World Cup for England three years ago. Alli does have an annoying tendency to blow hot and cold but there could be no denying that here is a wonderfully cultured player who can influence a game with the most refined of touches on the ball, gleefully exploiting the acres of space in front of him with a truly delicious through ball guided over the tops of retreating defenders.

For the first twenty minutes Tottenham were measuring the temperature with a precise exhibition of passes strung together like a cat's cradle. Marine must have thought they'd gatecrashed a knitting session as Spurs moved the ball round the centre of the pitch almost spontaneously as if this was a training session. The ball travelled from side to side, up and down, over and across with the one specific purpose of gingerly picking their way through a shell shocked Marine. At times you felt tempted to take out a calculator since this would be the only way of establishing the passing count. 

With roughly 20 minutes gone Spurs broke the deadlock, the man of the match Dele Alli scurrying into space and after the most intricate of one twos, the ball eventually came into the penalty area where the Brazilian Carlos Vinicius, deputising for England striker Harry Kane, rounded the keeper and then slammed the ball into the net on the goal-line. The floodgates would now open for a rampant Spurs. 

By now Matt Doherty, the immaculate Toby Alderweireld, the precociously secure Ben Davies and Joe Rodon had bedded down at the back and were never likely to be troubled at all by any vague Marine attacking threat. Moussa Sissoko and the wet behind the ears young Harvey White, a product of Spurs now thriving academy looked unfazed by the FA Cup hype and just stroked the ball around with an effortless authority. 

Then Gedson Fernandes, oozing prim and proper assurance and imperturbability, carried the ball across the pitch as if in complete command of the ball at all times, never panicking when out of possession and a player of instinctive knowledge.  Fernandes was always in the thick of the action, prompting, intercepting, nudging the ball shrewdly towards one of his colleagues and then dribbling with a lovely intelligence. 

For the second goal Dele Alli barely had to be out of second gear with an almost identical second goal to the first. Latching onto the ball in roughly the same position, Alli guided the ball beautifully diagonally over the now gasping Marine defence where Matt Docherty, up from the back for Spurs, helped the ball onto the Brazilian Vinicius who simply blasted the ball into the net as if he could have carried out the same act blindfolded. 

At this point the plucky non-Leaguers were clinging onto dear life. Then a needless free kick conceded just outside their own penalty area was cruelly punished. Another Brazilian striker of whom there seem to be a multitude and genetically related to Pele, Lucas Moura eyed up the angles and possibilities, curling a sumptuous free-kick over the wall and high into the net for Spurs third goal.

Just before half time Spurs rubbed salt into bleeding Marine wounds. Vinicius who was having the kind of game that all strikers can only be deeply grateful for, struck again. When you're playing a hapless non League team in the third round of the FA Cup oysters and worlds were somehow meant for each other. Lurking on the edge of Marine's penalty area after another bewildering blizzard of Spurs passes, Vinicius chose his spot and arrowed a neatly directed shot through a gap and once again high into the roof of the net for Spurs rubber-stamping fourth.

The second half had become nothing more than a numbing formality for Spurs. The game was up for Marine and the romantic connotations that have curiously attached themselves to the FA Cup ended up as just a one-off flirtation. The girls with their glasses of Prosecco giggled light-heartedly and the man with the Jurgen Klopp cut out was now packing away his supposedly lucky mascot and then just giving up. 

Then a 16-year-old by the name of Alfie Devine, who should have been concentrating on his school homework, came out to play. Tottenham were always renowned for starting them young although even the likes of Glen Hoddle would have been a tad jealous. Following some stunning approach work and quick-witted, slick one-twos with Lucas Moura, Devine cut back inside his defender, tricking and scheming into position before drilling the ball home for Spurs final fifth. 

And then the late-night January air had bitten into the hearts of every Marine supporter. No, this would not be their night of nights. The FA Cup had brought us with its customary back stories of what might have been and what was never likely to happen. Non-League Chorley had created one moment of giant killing with their merciless dismissal of Premier League Leeds. Football still finds itself on an emotional tightrope but when non-League Marine can still warm the cockles of the heart against the professionals of Spurs you can be sure that the game can still offer us something very life- affirming. How comforting to know.        

FA Cup weekend.

 FA Cup weekend.

Ah yes! We can sense it from here. We can smell its wondrous fragrance. We can sigh with misty-eyed nostalgia. There is something in the air reminiscent of the good, old fashioned days. These were the days when small communities, villages the size of the conventional matchbox, towns with snug post offices, chemists, bakers and butchers would get very excited for reasons which would become starkly obvious. 

We recognise it for what it is because essentially this is the weekend when the footballing democracy shows its true colours. It is a very special weekend, a weekend for harbouring lifelong dreams, fulfilling those long held ambitions and just feeling a real sense of belonging in football's fairground atmosphere.This year is the one year when one famous competition is thrust under the footballing spotlight for different reasons, players around Britain plying their trade in a totally alien environment, taking stock for just a moment or two and pondering upon the law of probabilities. They imagine that the impossible may just become possible because you have to believe in miracles. 

This weekend marks the third round of the FA Cup, one of Britain's most stunning national treasures, that celebrated competition where the working-class proletariat lock horns with the glamorous noblesse oblige, the earls and dukes, the landed gentry of football's social fabric, the noblemen, the strutting peacocks, the monied aristocrats, the teams with a couple of million bob in the bank, the Premier League's big boys. 

In the old days the bombastic bourgeoisie who loved to turn their nose up at their so-called inferiors or lesser mortals would invariably fall at the first hurdle because stage fright had overcome them. But then there were the Yeovils, the Leatherheads, the Sutton Uniteds, the old Second Division Sunderland who once memorably humiliated old First Division Leeds in the 1973 FA Cup Final. Old Fourth Division Hereford beat top flight West Ham in another age and the underdog did snap and bark at the elegant Dachshunds, the teams with the more clearly defined pedigree but always wary of a giant-killing .

On Sunday non League Marine, a team from a suburban Liverpool outback, will be testing the FA Cup third-round waters with Premier League high fliers Spurs. In reality there can only be one result and Tottenham enter the FA Cup lion's den knowing that a cricket score against a bunch of part-timers can never be taken for granted. The FA Cup should be a level playing field when the Cup comes calling but sometimes current form takes a winter holiday and Jose Mourinho's Spurs may need to be on their guard.  

But the FA Cup third round will always be dominated by rosettes in shop windows, flags and banners richly festooned with saucy messages and people dressed up appropriately in their club's colours. In the old days the rattles were suitably oiled, hats and shirts splashed liberally with all the shades of the rainbow and so much more memorabilia. The klaxon horns were dug out of the cupboard and animals were symbolic, match day good-luck mascots. It was their day, their weekend and their chance to grab the permanent glory.

Tomorrow the likes of Marine and their lower division brethren will all be attempting at the first time of asking to dump their supercilious betters out of the FA Cup. It is the most daunting of assignments but they will kick off over the weekend feeling as though the romance of the FA Cup will leave the prettiest bouquet of flowers on their doorstep. Sometimes the candlelit dinner for two can often lead to the ultimate embarrassment for those who live their lives in the full glare of the Premier League limelight. 

Sadly, it may be safe to assume that come May the non-League part-timers will only be privileged observers in front of their TVs watching the Cup Finals from a respectful distance. There are some of us though who would love nothing better than egg on faces, damaged Premier League reputations, fallen big-time Charlies and the Premier League dandys who love to swan around with a superior air slipping on the banana skin and leaving the competition with a shamefaced smirk on their faces.

When Arsenal beat Chelsea in last August's FA Cup Final we thought we'd witnessed one of the strangest Cup Finals of all time. It was rather like watching a municipal library without any browsing readers and then expecting a member of staff to remain quiet when not a murmur could be heard. The 2020 FA Cup Final will always be known as the coronavirus FA Cup Final when Wembley Stadium began to resemble a scene from the Keystone Cops. No sound and only populated by hollering players. 

We must be wishing fondly that the 2021 FA Cup Final will once again welcome back its supporters and fans en masse shortly. A Wembley Stadium without 90,000 or a jam-packed 100,000 before health and safety intervened in recent years, was a sight to lift our hearts and move the soul. The FA Cup loves to tease and flirt outrageously, almost coquettish in its manner. But when the final whistles are blown at all of this weekend's FA Cup ding dong battles, we must hope that it will once again be victorious. 

When the FA Cup used to play its matches at 3pm on a Saturday afternoon in the prehistoric age, the headline makers would jump around joyously in their communal baths, bottles of milk spilling riotously down their cheeks and then wiping mud-caked faces with effervescent champagne. Now of course football has been dictated by satellite TV channels with vast sacks of money. Now football is spread across the whole of a working week and can be found at any time, day or place of  TV's choosing. Still as long the FA Cup can still remain at the forefront of our consciousness at some point in May then maybe we can get all sentimental all over again. Perhaps we can all meet up at Wembley stadium with  our friends and family one day. We'll be glad to see you all. We'll even buy you a pint.       

Colin Bell dies. A Manchester City poster boy.

 Colin Bell dies. A Manchester City poster boy. 

The fedora hatted, cigar-smoking Malcolm Allison was always a shrewd judge of players. Footballers always did have a sensitive and emotional side to them even though some would rather be remembered for their harder, more abrasive and grittier moments. Nobody though could ever accuse Colin Bell, who yesterday died at the age of 74 of being anything other than a retiring and shy wallflower although he did cherish his privacy and the intimacy of a supportive family network. For Bell, his wife and children took immediate priority to any other consideration.

After the recent passing of Jack Charlton, Ray Clemence and Nobby Stiles football seems to have been drawn into a seemingly indefinite period of mourning and loss. But Colin Bell is the latest in a long line of very special and outstanding footballers who could do everything once they crossed the white line and out onto the pitch. Short of keeping goal for City, Bell was the very model of versatility, an energetic, box to box, indefatigable, hard-running player whose footballing engine never seemed to conk out.

Bell was shrewd, industrious, full of life, constantly demanding the ball, carrying the ball great distances without ever breaking sweat and an all-purpose, upright, clean living individual. He was immensely respected by his fellow professionals, never dropped out of any seedy nightclub and was always in bed by the end of News at Ten. Bell always did as he was told, a fiercely dedicated and disciplined player who did everything by the book, obeying his natural instincts and never out of control. 

Malcolm Allison once compared Bell to Nijinksy, the celebrated race-horse who was renowned for being tireless and victorious when the chips were down. And Allison was absolutely right. Bell, with the long, blond and flowing hair, was neat, graceful, gracious to all, never flinching a single tackle and more than prepared to get his hands dirty. His passing had a meticulous accuracy about it, a sense of proportion and balance, a heightened awareness of where his colleagues Francis Lee and Mike Summerbee would be to receive the ball in space.

Of course, Bell's career would be rewarded by trophies. That almost goes without saying. There was the 1969 FA Cup Final victory against Leicester City, the old First Division championship under Allison and Joe Mercer and the stylish European Cup Winners Cup trophy to add to his ever.increasing -collection. But Bell never hogged the headlines nor dominated the back pages for any unsavoury behaviour. He was the never the bothersome troublemaker, a member of the salacious, kiss and tell brigade, never one to step out of line with the authorities. 

Bell won 48 England caps in an age when he should have won so many more. He remained devoted to Manchester City after serving his apprenticeship at Bury. He flowed and fluttered across the muddy pitches of the 1970s like the proverbial swan, a man with educated feet and economical in his movements. There was never anything rushed or hurried about Bell, a controlled midfield player who studied the game from all angles, scurrying around when necessary but never resorting to the long ball into no man's land. 

By the end of a distinguished career at City, Bell had chalked up 501 appearances, a remarkable tribute to his stamina and endurance, a man for all seasons. He was never disappointing and his football always had a postive message without resorting to cheap publicity stunts. There was an authenticity and value about everything he gave to the game. 

When Bell reached the twilight of a career that had been blighted with injuries and severe setbacks that would clearly have finished off those who were less resilient than he was. He did bounce back over and over again determined to leave that enduring legacy that would always be cherished. Footballers love to recall the good, old days when everything was much simpler and the rewards they were hoping for were never really forthcoming.

When he did wind down after a fabulous and award-winning career at Manchester City, Bell did venture across the pond to America where the game was about to explode into a spectacle that was both colourful and glamorous. Suddenly Bell was surrounded by excitable girl cheerleaders with their pom poms, Pele, Johan Cruyff and the always elegant Bobby Moore. Now he would have to contend with the likes of the Tampa Bay Rowdies and the New York Cosmos. 

More recently Bell has become very much an ambassadorial figure at Manchester City still a highly esteemed icon who gave blood, sweat and tears to the club who gave him his chance in the big time. But, above all Bell was the very model of politeness, a gentle, humble and grounded character who never forgot his roots. Thankyou, Nijinsky you were always a seasoned thoroughbred and we'll never forget you. Colin Bell may you ring out over your city forevermore.          

And so it goes on.

 And so it goes on. 

We may be at the beginning of a New Year but little changes. The dark cloak of viral illness, oppressive restriction and utter dejection falls over the world with every prospect of yet more misery, discomfort and, now an almost imminent lockdown. We keep asking the same questions, holding the familiar discussions until deep into the night and by the time we hit the pillow tonight our minds will be burdened by the same, old aching frustrations, the same echoes from a recent past reverberating in our head and then the general state of doom-laden malaise.

It could be described as insufferable but even then, this is open to debate. We've trodden this rutted concrete pavement for so long now that the blisters are now turning into verrucas. For ages now we have almost become conditioned to our own fate without ever believing for one moment that we could reach rock bottom, the nadir of our lives, close to what may seem like the end of the world. Over 75,000 people in Britain have now died as a result of Covid 19 and the writing on the wall still makes for grim reading. 

Tonight the UK Prime Minister Boris Johnson will once again make another bleak address to the nation, full of stark and harsh pragmatism mixed in with a deeply unappetising after taste and messages that serve no other purpose than appearing to be statements of the obvious. It can't be denied. We are now in this for the long haul and this could rumble on indefinitely. There is no clear time-frame and by the time you drop off tonight Britain will feel like the most dangerous war zone for reasons that have now become painfully evident. 

Today the children of Britain were supposed to be renewing acquaintance with their education fully aware at the same time that their friends wouldn't be allowed to come anywhere near them. Schools are once again closed and the kids are struggling to understand the enormity of this crisis. They were told that all of that fulfilling academia and painstaking study would never again be disrupted by a global pandemic for quite a while. And then there was the bombshell from nowhere. The kids would have to endure the worst, grimacing and then slumping in front of their TV or smartphones with a look of brooding melancholy. Oh no, not again surely.

Now more than ever the children of the future will have to take it on the chin, realising immediately that the vital end-of -term exams they'd been preparing for diligently were once again threatened with extinction, never to be retrieved from the rubbish tip, their career prospects seemingly in ruins. Who would be parents in today's utterly traumatised society? What on earth are they to make of a world where their precious offspring have now been subjected to an interminable state of anguish and agonising stagnation? This will end at some point but nobody seems to know when.

And so it is that the announcement from 10 Downing Street came to pass very briefly and succinctly because brevity is the best medicine even though you may not want to hear it. The nation is now in  a much longer lockdown than was ever thought possible. Some are almost inconsolable because they've had enough and even the goldfish is beginning to wonder why the human race is behaving so strangely.

It's time to take a deep breath until at least the middle of February since that is the shortest month of the year and besides March reminds of us spring and those heartwarming tulips. There has to be a conclusion though. It's just taking slightly longer than we thought it would. Keep drinking the Nescafe and imbibing caffeine folks. It has to be good for you.    

New Year's Day- Happy and Healthy New Year everybody.

 New Year's Day- Happy and Healthy New Year everybody. 

We did it then, didn't we? We saw out 2020 defiantly until the bitter end, riding the storms, battening down the hatches when and where necessary before punching the air ecstatically, breathing slowly and then recognising that 2020 had just been one of those years although as a singular entity it was by far the most dreadful twelve months in living history. In fact just when we thought it couldn't possibly get any worse than it turned out to be, then it did. The sorrow, suffering, pain, death and unremitting misery had become the most prominent themes of our lives and even now it still seems as though Covid19 is destined to stay. 

And yet here we are on the first day of 2021 and it's a happy, healthy New Year to you all. You may have thought that we wouldn't have got there without our strength of character, the hardiest of British fighting spirit and a good, old-fashioned display of pluck, determination, inner belief and just a smattering of courage. So let's just pat ourselves on the back heartily and open up a new chapter in our lives, one of optimism, positivity, whole-hearted happiness and thick lashings of enjoyment. If only we could imagine that things will start to improve shortly rather than at some random date at the end of June. 

Here it is then. 2021 in all its multi-coloured splendour and glory, a year of careful rehabilitation and recovery for most of the world and then a gentle convalescence at home with the families and friends we've been missing for far too long now. At the moment Tier 4 in Britain has meant nothing more than some unfortunate relapse back to where we probably were last April.

 The world is still firmly closed, a viral, bacterial mess that just seems to be leading us backwards rather than forwards. There are distinct signs of deterioration and there doesn't seem any month in this year's calendar that the world would feel so much better with a quick jab of the new vaccines. The vaccines of course may well take us down the road to redemption, that paradisal day when it all comes good and the lockdown finds that gold-embossed key which opens up a million shops, restaurants and cafes permanently. Yes, for good and never bad again in any generation, time, decade or century. 

Just when we thought we'd turned the corner earlier on in the year a new variant of the virus came charging towards like a marauding army, snarling, angry and stampeding towards us like some supernatural force, a threatening pain in the neck we simply couldn't shake off however hard we tried. At first we thought we'd cracked it, seen the back of it all, knocked it on the head decisively and by now we'd all be on easy street, back at work, back at school and back in the land of the living. 

But oh no this was never going to be easy and if we were honest with ourselves we privately knew it would be pretty tough even though we're on the first day of 2021. This could drag on until perhaps the end of February or given the worst-case scenario Easter but let's not think in such pessimistic terms. Some of us are beginning to look around us and wondering exactly what must be going through our battered and bruised minds. We could just sit back and resign to ourselves to the fate endured by Doris Day. Whatever will be will be! That though would be ridiculously defeatist.

Today should have been the day when London abandoned itself to the fun and frolics of its yearly New Year's Day street carnival, where hundreds of American drummers, brightly coloured floats featuring men and women dancing their way through the West End of London and then more people grinned happily at the kids who have been longing to get out of mum and dad's feet for ages. But Covid19 has blown that idea out of the water and it all feels as if little in the way of progress has been made. We may just as well be back at that late March day when all of this first began. 

Last night the traditional New Year's Eve fireworks display staged at London's Embankment still went ahead but this was very much a dramatically watered-down version of the real thing. This time it was the turn of the Dome and Wembley Stadium to catch the discerning eye. First there were the striking, wartime searchlights which did you remind you of that Churchillian spirit. But then the Catherine wheels started spinning in a riot of greens, reds, whites and then giving way to soaring rockets which exploded into colour before fizzling out into some oblivion far away from the River Thames. 

It felt like an apology for a fireworks party inasmuch as it didn't seem the real life version rather than that spectacular pyrotechnical extravaganza that normally decorates that part of the world on that night of the year. The London Eye just looked very depressed although the Shard was lit up in a way that was reminiscent of the Empire State Building. London does like to get all dressed up and ready to party but this year it couldn't flaunt its fancy dan finery, the clothes and glad rags that seem so fitting on New Year's Eve and especially parties. 

The River Thames, which would normally provide a very colourful mirror of the night's proceedings, just sat there listlessly and genuinely looked down in the mouth. What happened to all of those humans by the side of the river, huddled together very communally, gazing enthralled at the fireworks, their eyes like saucers and then discovering that although it may be bitterly cold at midnight there was still a half an hour fireworks party to look forward to so maybe the evening won't be wasted at all. They might as well stick it out even though they may have to walk back home because the trains stopped running hours before.

Still, there was always Jools Holland perennial Hootenanny music fest to turn on the TV to and almost revel in since Britain needed some jazz trumpets, a tinkling piano, a couple of lively violins and the Jools Holland band by way of impressive accompaniment. Last night the BBC gave us Alicia |Keys at her most polished and sweetly melodic, New York the most heartwarming of anthems on a New Year's Eve gathering among friends. Keys background consisted of rows of empty chairs as the BBC's graphics department struck just the right note. 

Then Britain and the rest of the world fell almost exhaustedly into a new year as if it could hardly keep its eyes open a moment longer. Australia, New Zealand, India and the rest of the other side of the world had already shaken its bottles of champagne to see in 2021 the day before. But the clocks had now moved forward in Europe and by midnight last night the whole of the world had found its equilibrium. 

Once the fireworks had gone off Britain turned around and found that it had left Europe by the tradesman's entrance. Boris Johnson, the UK's PM, had released the Brexit valve and Britain felt it could do whatever it wanted to without feeling any undue pressure from those Brussels lawmakers and busybodies. Britain was now at the beck and call of the whole globe for its trading prosperity. The world was the UK's oyster and it was time to negotiate with the Far East, new and emerging markets that had been strictly off -limits up until now. So it was time to say farewell to Europe. Britain thinks you're now surplus to requirements and don't forget to switch off the lights for the last time and lock up afterwards. Ta Ta Europe!