Yesterday my mum died.

 Yesterday my mum died. 

The death of a loved one can never be properly explained or described since no words ever seem to be adequate and you find yourself struggling to hold everything together. The grief, sadness, sometimes guilt and self-reproach come surging in like a tidal wave and threaten to engulf you with its intensity, ferocity, its power and its heartbreaking inevitability. 

Yesterday my lovely mum passed away at the age of 84 and of course it was the saddest and most painful day in my life. The woman who gave birth to you 58 years ago is no longer around to share the good times, the bad times, the trials and tribulations, the setbacks and triumphs. All seems lost and utterly forlorn. There are no consolations at the moment death happens and any of those compensatory replacements for the raw emotions that may take you an age to find. You are here with your lovely and wonderfully supportive family and those who care passionately for your welfare. But this is not the time for if only and what if. 

The hard, cold realities send a shiver down your spine. Your mother has died but she died peacefully and in a sense it was a blissful release from the almost unbearable suffering she was experiencing both mentally and physically. There is a part of you that confidently believes that death is some far-off country that you'd rather not explore but then recognise as the ultimate finality whether we like it or not.  Of course death will happen to all of us one day but with every passing day we try to push it to the back of our minds while cherishing every single moment and second of our own lives. 

For me personally this was the end of a traumatic journey for my family where the death of my mum felt entirely expected and not completely out of the blue. This was not a shock and we knew that as soon as she became seriously unwell, my family and I had resigned ourselves to our fate. When she passed away yesterday morning you felt as fragile as a sunflower, bending and swaying in the gentle breeze, bereft, devastated, broken inside, helplessly crestfallen, searching for answers, feeling understandably vulnerable, heartbroken because that's the way it should and does feel. But above all you are numb, dumbfounded and shell shocked, not exactly traumatised as such but wishing you'd done more as the first son of your mother. 

When my equally as wonderful dad died 16 years ago the grieving process took many years to register with me. Sadly, my dad and I had absolutely nothing in common and that was an overwhelming tragedy. His mental health issues were frequently discussed and analysed and last month I found some semblance of closure. I took myself into a private room and cried like a baby.

 I began to recall the happy days, the memories of sun-filled holidays to Spain when adolescence was just a year or two away. I remember the days when he would spend the best part of the morning either washing his beloved car or sitting in the family garden listening to the dulcet and powerful tones of the legendary Frank Sinatra. I could still see my dad relaxing in his deckchair, bronzed and tanned in both face and body, sunglasses perched languorously on his forehead, revelling in the togetherness of family life. 

But when my dad passed away in 2005, a small part of me had lost something indefinable. As his son there was a sense that although my dad had died, the tears were difficult to discover. Of course as a kid I can still see myself  longing for him to return from work as a menswear salesman in a shop that is now a pizza parlour. I would stand outside on the pavement patiently waiting for him, excited almost because he was my dad and I loved him deeply. But the emotional attachment was horribly absent. 

Yesterday my mum also passed, instinctive reactions and thoughts raging through your head, battling for attention and recognition. At the moment though it is raw, it hurts like hell in your subconscious and conscious because your feelings are caught up in a private warzone, trying desperately to put everything into some kind of perspective. But you don't quite know how to deal with that minefield of mixed- up feelings as the result of a death of a parent. You cling onto the halcyon days, the day trips to Southend with your grandparents and mum, the groaning bags of egg and cucumber sandwiches, Rossi's cafe, trousers rolled up, knotted handkerchief on head and a packet of Ice Gem sweet treats with our tea.  

You trace your thoughts to those of childhood recollections. You think once again of your mum sunbathing and sun-worshipping for seemingly every waking hour. You remember the one Wimbledon tennis tournament when your mum enthusiastically adjusted her small TV in the garden and then watched the likes of Bjorn Borg and Jimmy Connors dominating world tennis ad infinitum. You flip through the family archive memory treasuring the long walks your parents took you on at Valentines Park, Ilford, Essex, a park allegedly immortalised in a Small Faces song called 'Itchycoo Park'. 

You can still see your mum spreading out a whole pile of postcards on our Spanish odyssey like a pack of cards, lovingly and diligently scribbling thoughts from an exotic isle. You can vaguely remember the ice cream van pulling into your road and your mum racing towards the vehicle as if her life depended on it. Along with the rest of my wonderful neighbours, parents of your children would obligingly pay for that delightful 99 vanilla ice cream with flake that always seemed to hit the right spot.

But for all the recent complications and petty feuds that scarred my recent relationship with my mum, you find yourself believing that one day that any buried and totally unnecessary animosities will be completely forgotten. You have a misty recollection of your mum pushing you on the park swings that seemed to go higher and higher and then the roundabouts where you were dizzyingly flung around until you'd run out of childhood elation and innocence. But of course with hindsight that never happened because then there were the slides and here was another opportunity to let off youthful steam and energy. 

My mum's story is the most harrowing and horrific of them all. She came to England after the war, the fiery flames of Holocaust hell still burning but now slowly ebbing away with the passage of time. She was educated in England but she was born in Warsaw, Poland when the Nazi stormtroopers threatened to deny her a future before it had had time to unveil itself. She worked briefly as a secretary before I arrived on the scene and what followed was an unwavering devotion to family life in all of its wondrous domesticity. You felt honoured and privileged to be the centre of your parents life because that was my mum's foremost priority. She cared, nurtured, protected, giving unconditional love and yet always convinced she could go that extra mile.

Then those confidential chats before bedtime in our kitchen drift through your mind pleasantly. And yet there had been a complete breakdown in communication because my mum couldn't understand me and there was a sense that an unfortunate barrier had come between us. Here was her son in some terrifying world, a barren wilderness where employment and career - or any kind of a job- became an impossible dream. We used to enjoy those late-night cups of char with a biscuit or two because it was only then that I could open up fully and express my innermost desperation and ever-present anxieties. 

Mum did become very understanding and sympathetic because she could see what I was going through at the time. In a way though it was all very bewildering for her because nothing had prepared herself  for a son who had lost his way in life. So we talked and talked, reflected and reflected some more. At the time Autism in all its varying manifestations hadn't become the topical issue of the day. And yet my mum never stopped thinking of me, considering everything in my best interests and for that reason I'll always love her. Mum, my family and I will always love you. Love you deeply mum. Always forever.   

Vaccines done and jab complete.

 Vaccines done and jab complete. 

You'd have thought they'd have given us a cup of tea and a biscuit after the trials and tribulations of being vaccinated this morning. But my wife and I were successfully given the Covid 19 vaccine and we survived the experience quite comfortably. So far neither of us have either fainted, gone to bed with raging Yellow Fever or a sudden onset of malaria. We are here on the afternoon after the morning before and any initial fears and reservations we may have had about subjecting ourselves to the jab, were promptly dismissed from our minds. 

In a corner of  Hackney in London Fields, England, a military-style vaccination centre that looked remarkably like that field hospital in that long-ago TV hit comedy MASH, a scene of organised chaos. We took our turns to be administered with the Oxford vaccine, a mere pin-prick in the arm admittedly but mildly disconcerting since most of us thought we'd just get away with that simple flu jab last autumn. This though was something much more serious and critical. We'd braced ourselves for this ultimate protection against a Covid 19 recurrence at the end of this year but let's take one step at a time. 

We must pray that once the nation has been injected with the Covid 19 vaccine the despicable virus will just vanish overnight and never ever come back. The country is well and truly sick and tired of this endless medical crisis so to speak. But today most of my wonderful family have now received the vaccine and all we can do now is to sit and wait patiently. Because there is a nagging suspicion that this may not be the ultimate antidote to our ills and now we'll just have to grit our teeth, be brave and hope for the best.  Be prepared for the boosters to the vaccine. 

As soon as we arrived at this gleaming new vaccination centre in Hackney we somehow knew that red tape and cold bureaucracy would present us with problems, obstacles and hoops that had to be overcome. On entering the building we were told to hand sanitise- for only the 38,000th time. It has to be said that your hands have never been cleaner and as you opened up your palm and were given the bar code treatment you then progressed to a series of questions from the eminent members of the Royal Air Force where your documents, shopping list, bags, shoes and socks were all rigorously checked. 

But seriously this morning's life-defining vaccine couldn't have come at a better time. For almost a year we've been wrestling with and agonising over that elusive vaccine. That's the one. You couldn't be sure but it did seem that you were given four different vaccine options which were all superbly effective although the rumours were rife that some were more potentially problematic if only for a while.

 We were told by our friend from the Royal Air Force that we would still be prone to the shakes, shivers, fevers or just a plain old headache that could be temporarily painful but would soon be relieved by another appearance from Boris Johnson, live at tea time from Downing Street. Still, beggars can't be choosers. It could be far worse. But the gentleman from the RAF was extremely reassuring and as long as we didn't have second thoughts about the vaccine everything would be hunky-dory. 

We found ourselves wandering around this hastily built vaccine surgery and kept looking for Alan Alda and Red Cross vans. All around us were men and women with masks and those, quite rebelliously, without masks. It was hard to say who looked the silliest but this was for a wonderful cause so who were we to complain? Those light blue surgical masks always look as if all they need is a scalpel, an operating theatre and a group of industrious doctors for whom we owe an enormous debt of gratitude and can never be properly recognised enough. They are the ones at the coalface and they are the heroes and heroines at every level of society. 

Still, here we were finally at the end of the procedure, ushered towards a private cubicle where the needle was planted and a whole North London suburb could blow out their cheeks. What an ordeal although that may be an exaggeration since we're all in the same boat. This is one predicament we can all identify with because this has been one, long hard slog. We are not psychologically traumatised but our minds have taken a severe beating. 

The fact is though that we've had our vaccine although there was a cautionary tale. You have to come back in 11 weeks time for a vaccine booster. So this was just a preliminary stab in the arm because there are more to come.  Surely not. And yet the sooner this is over the better for all concerned. Another period of confinement, self-isolation, remoteness and apartness is barely imaginable. This may be the right time for being grateful, increasingly more tolerant and understanding because we could be detained for just a while longer. Tony Hancock may not have seen the funny side of this virus but then again this has been going for far longer than half -an hour. A biscuit would not go amiss. Keep well everybody, stay at home and three cheers for the NHS. They are indeed angels. 

The wonderful world of the Covid 19 vaccine and a bright future.

 The wonderful world of the Covid 19 vaccine and a bright future.

Now we could be imagining this but finally there is indeed a flickering light at the end of the tunnel. After almost a year of teeth-gnashing, end of the world proclamations, morbid pronouncements and an almost incessant bombardment of hellishly bad news, it could be that we have, in a very cliched fashion, turned that proverbial corner. The bends were terrifying, of course they were, the turbulence has been nothing less than violent and for those who thought this would never end, we did tell you that one day it might reach a natural conclusion. 

Here we are heading towards the end of February a year after the year before and it's upwards and onwards. Of course there was that fork in the road, the barbed wire of danger, the assault course of setbacks, panic attacks and the feeling that Covid 19 would just go on and on without ever stopping. To be honest in January it didn't look good and the omens were distinctly discouraging but how much longer could one virus mutate and vary? A line had to be drawn in the sand sooner rather than later. 

And so it is that we wake up this morning with a buoyant spring in our step, a bundle of fun, skipping around the kitchen in our pyjamas, perhaps dancing with the toaster, smiling fulsomely at the kettle and then boiling the eggs with a jubilant song in our hearts. It could be the re-start of something brand new, the resumption of normal life and a way back into a world that can once again breathe. We're not there yet but the likelihood is that by perhaps the middle of March and April, Britain and the rest of the world will be back up and running, functioning in the way we always thought would come naturally. 

Now here's the story so far. During January we were about to surrender and throw in the towel, a world poised to dive headlong into a black hole from which there was no return. The number of fatalities and the number of infected cases showed that the global community was about to disappear overnight, helplessly sucked into a horrible vortex of death, disillusionment and complete meltdown. It was all over for the world bar a miracle. There would be no chance of survival whatsoever. 

At this point Britain and NHS were confronted with the soul-destroying realities. Over a 1,000 deaths a day were being recorded and suddenly that temporary reprieve Britain experienced last summer, was no more than a lull in the dramatic storm of events. Last July and August we might have been harbouring hopes of a comeback, the road to a full recovery, a bumpy road admittedly but nonetheless a road of sorts. By the end of autumn though the vultures were hovering and the battle was far from over. 

By the beginning of January we were back to where we were last March, bowing our heads, crying mournfully into our tea and almost resigned to our fate. We might have thought we'd cracked Covid 19 but quite clearly we hadn't reckoned on another relapse, another regression, another tale of misery and woe. The variants of Covid 19 were spreading like wildfire around Britain and for those in hospital on ventilators the prognosis wasn't encouraging. This wretched virus was here for the duration. 

Now though we find that the number of infected cases does seem to be slowly declining, the R number is at a heartening level and the number of deaths is back in three figures. We may be wrestling with Covid 19 but there can only be one winner in this fight to the bitter end. And the reason for this joyful news update is perhaps the one we knew would have beneficial consequences. It is the answer to our prayers and the ultimate solution to a deadly virus that could have dragged on for ages. 

Ladies and Gentlemen. Will you please be upstanding for the vaccines? Yes folks vaccines have come to our rescue and we can never thank you enough. For months now we have been waiting and anticipating those life-changing and life-saving vaccines hiding away in some very remote laboratory and just poised to leap into our consciousness with a happy refrain. But the vaccines are now in circulation all over the world, conquering the odds and saving countless millions of lives with their life-affirming qualities. 

In a matter of weeks, the infected cases have dropped sharply and we are heading slowly but surely into safer and calmer waters, off the critical list and almost believing that the rest of the year could happen again in a form that is instantly recognisable. It is to be hoped against hope that by the middle of this summer, the streets of London, the West End, East End, the City of London and all of those modest, self- deprecating counties, shires, cities and towns will be holding carefully prepared street parties. 

We can barely imagine it now but we have to cling onto just a sliver of hope, a modicum of optimism, a feeling that humanity will once again be making a new series again with a cast of stars, a brand new format, an exciting supporting cast and a future without fear. Everything is far from certain but can we make the first of many confident predictions and forecasts. We have to believe that by the middle of June perhaps the West End of London will become a land of eternal song, musical, laughter, delightful Covent Garden street entertainers, the restaurant and cafe capital of the world and glorious self-expression. 

Once again the people of the world will gather in their ecstatic droves, running for buses and trains,  gazing at the innumerable, technicoloured shop windows of Oxford, Bond and Regent Street and queuing up for hours outside Madame Tassauds and the Hard Rock Cafe in Piccadilly. Maybe we'll be champing at the bit, desperate to revisit the art galleries, the stunning museums, the comedy clubs and the Shaftesbury Avenue theatres in all their timeless grandeur. And then we'll drop by Soho with all its artiness, its carefree bohemianism, its cafes and the sense of nostalgia for 1950s coffee bars, juke-boxes, peep shows and voyeuristic sleaze. Nudge nudge wink wink. But it's best that we quickly move on. 

One day though we will wake up and find that nobody has died and the infected cases are just historical statistics, faded memories, unpleasant recollections admittedly but nonetheless painful ones. One day we'll have a wash or shower, enjoy a satisfying breakfast and then run over to our parks and our gardens, the sylvan pastures, the recreation grounds where cricket and football compete for space at different times of the year. We'll smell the roses, admire the laburnums, marvel at the begonias, the ever pretty violets, the neat nasturtiums, the weeping willow dangling languidly in the boating lake, the soaring gulls and the wheeling birds who swoop daringly into uncharted territories.

We'll discover that the heartbeat of the world is still ticking over with a vibrancy that it didn't think it would ever know again at any point in the immediate future. The lights will be flashing triumphantly in the Piccadilly Circus neon light show and tourists from all over the world will be converging on the West End with smart-phones, matchstick small phones that now pass for cameras and Selfie sticks in abundance. They'll be sitting at Eros comparing photos, scrolling through their Facebook and Twitter pages for the best part of several months and then just giggling at those lovely distractions once again. 

But what we will treasure once again is our freedom, the liberation from denial, repression, anguish and yet more heartache. Once again the human race will be reunited together, a collective force once again, a co-operative, communality in full vision, families and friends shaking each others hands, hugging each other affectionately and not without relief. Oh how good it is to see you again. Absence does indeed make the heart grow fonder. 

Our children will once again be able to race into the arms of their grandparents who they may have understandably forgotten. The people of the world who once sustained the economy with diligence and dedication to the cause will be jumping onto trains and buses and back to their office, factory and warehouse, all of those high- tech industrial parks and all of those manufacturing outlets we might have taken for granted. 

For we are now back in the land of living after months in hospital operating theatres, surrounded by doctors and surgeons tending lovingly to thousands of sick Covid 19 patients on ventilators. We are not quite there yet but we will and we can. The natural rhythms of everyday life will be beating healthily, the sounds of the world will remind you of those stirring operas and powerful voices will be heard in every corner of  the globe. It's a gradual process but we'll be back stronger than ever and still enthusiastic. Let there be no doubt whatsoever.    

It's Pancake Day.

 It's Pancake Day. 

There is something charmingly traditional about Pancake Day that never fails to hold our attention. In the general scheme of things it probably means nothing to anybody in particular. But the fact is that a nation of children will be nagging their parents silly for an all-day session of baking, flipping, watching your pancake hit the ceiling and stay there for however long pancakes remain there once the temporary thrill and fun disappears until the same time next year. 

You were never quite sure what to make of Pancake Day since it always seemed a convenient excuse to use up the flour in your cupboard, make a horrendous mess in the kitchen and generally feel good about life. Pancake Day meant intensive preparation, loving care and a mouth-wateringly palatable sweet treat to seduce your senses, flirt with your taste buds and leave a sugary legacy in your mouth. 

Perhaps more than ever, Pancake Day is an absolute necessity when all around us is gloom, doom, desperation, devastation and utter depression. The coronavirus crisis, dare we say it now, does seem to turning a barely visible corner but a corner nonetheless. We do need something by way of a pleasant distraction, something to restore our faith in human nature when all around is the lingering threat that things will almost certainly go downhill again. 

For as long as you can remember now Pancake Day was that comforting break in the day when, just for a while, we can luxuriate in cholesterol heaven. Some like their pancakes with jam, some with sugar, others with that heavenly sugar rush that sends us all into some nostalgic wonderland when everything seemed set in stone, permanently fixed and destined to last forever perhaps. It was the time when the kids would be allowed to go stir crazy in the kitchen and a time when the back doors were always reliably open all day. 

The BBC's flagship children's programme Blue Peter would regularly give their very unique interpretation of Pancake Day. It did seem that every year without fail, John Noakes, Peter Purvis and Val Singleton would challenge Britain to make the most appealingly delicious pancake of all time. You wondered as a child whether you'd ever seen anything quite so banal or silly at any time in your life. Here were three very sensible and intelligent adults imploring you to get out your frying pan, manoeuvre said ingredients around the pan before reaching the conclusion of the operation with a flip-up into the air and then watching it landing face down on the pan. Mission accomplished. 

But then it suddenly occurred to you that there was indeed a method in their madness to quote the great Bard himself, William Shakespeare. Here was a celebration of the famous pancake, that magical tea time guilty pleasure laced with berries, cream, as much sugar as you desired and just a Digestive biscuit by way of accompaniment. It may only last a day but it did transport you back to a time when you came home from school, converged on your parents biscuit tin or bread caddy before gorging yourself on anything that had either chocolate or tons of sugar on it.  

Little did we know it at the time but in years to come, those years of sumptuous indulgence would come to haunt your teeth and gums. Pancakes though were never on your radar since your parents would insist you finish off the latest packet of biscuits or that irresistible slice of cake that had to be consumed come what may. 

And this is the moment when the very mention of pancakes takes you back to those mid-1960s tea times when chocolate Digestive biscuits, Rich Tea biscuits, Swiss rolls and Bourbon biscuits were prominently featured on your very personal menu. Then there were those moreish cream sponge cakes, the addictive Garibaldi biscuits dripping with raisins and those Nice biscuits that had those wonderful sugary bits and pieces on top that were too good to be true. 

However today is  Pancake Day, where up and down the land, tiny villages will be gathering together in their local church hall, setting up their bowls, mixing together their flour and water and whipping up pancakes in all shapes and sizes. There may well be bitter rivalries among certain neighbours or families from different roads, a fiercely competitive streak running through all of the contestants. This has suddenly turned into serious competition and there's pride at stake here. 

It is hard to remember what happened to either Val Singleton's or Lesley Judd's culinary creation on Blue Peter but you do recall certain studio cameramen cowering with fear in case one of the pancakes found its way onto their lens. Of course it's just a bit of harmless, gently inoffensive fun but the subject of pancakes does remind us that we still have much to pat ourselves on the back for something that is essentially frivolous. 

In a world that seems to have fallen apart at the seams, perhaps the subject of pancakes and their historical development should be made a compulsory exam subject at school. Besides, there has to be something life-affirming to laugh about, a moment to giggle at those delightful tea-time concoctions with lashings of everything that's supposed to be bad for your waistline. 

So let's turn on the cooker, crack a couple of eggs should you so wish, dig out your trusty wooden spoon and pretend that your childhood never really deserted you at all. Around Britain and wherever Pancake Day is recognised, pancakes will be flipped and flopped vigorously and then we'll probably be convulsed with laughter because hey who cared anyway. Anybody for a strawberry yogurt pancake smothered with hundreds and thousands, several packets of any biscuit of your choice and a wholesome cup of tea just to wash it all down. And don't forget the marzipan cakes and currant buns. We will indeed party again one day. Of course there can be no doubt. 

Welsh dragons breathe fire into Six Nations rugby union epic against Scotland.

 Welsh dragons breathe fire into Six Nations rugby union epic against Scotland. 

Rugby union hadn't really seen this one coming. It had hoped that at one point that the annual Six Nations tournament would explode into life but it wasn't quite sure when that moment would come. Earlier on in the day England had quite obviously steamrollered all over an Italian side who had the audacity to score the opening try at Twickenham but then succumbed to superior English fire-power. 

For those impartial obsevers who still regard the oval game as something of a mystery and far too complicated to understand at times, this was the one match that had you gripping onto your sofa and wishing it would last well until the early hours of Sunday morning. It wasn't so much a match as a brilliant and breathless game of rugby union which left most of us totally enchanted and fascinated. In fact it had to be one of the best games of international rugby union you could ever remember. 

It was one of those ding dong, end to end, relentlessly exciting matches that perhaps we thought we'd never see again on a rugby field. For those unfamiliar with the technicalities and finer points of the game, it was a cracking, electrifying and magnificent confrontation between two teams who just wanted to entertain the masses. 

Scotland against Wales used to be one of those finely balanced, intriguing rugger contests between two seemingly gifted sets of players, players who could dart, hop, skip, weave, hop-scotch and generally exude a permanent air of genius and ingenuity. Scotland once had the peerless Andy Irvine, a natural ball carrier who would drop his shoulders before jinking, shimmying, swerving and swaying past the opposition with an imagination and cunning that had to be seen to be believed. 

Back in the 1970s Wales of course reached their very peak and often played the dreamlike rugby that still sends a warm glow through you. When Phil Bennett, Gareth Edwards, JPR Williams and Barry John got together on a Saturday afternoon with Bill Mclaren as the BBC commentator par excellence you knew you were in for an afternoon of education, compulsively watchable rugby, splendid improvisation and that delicious air of the unpredictable. It was rugby at its most inventive, rugby at its most off the cuff and rugby to rejoice in. 

Yesterday the latest class of Welsh dragons breathed fire and brimstone on a freezing February afternoon at Scottish headquarters Murrayfield. Scotland, of course were still beating their breast and bragging from the highest Grampians and Highland glens after last week's dismantling of the Auld Enemy England. But this was not to be one of those intoxicating afternoons in the land of the resounding bagpipe. Oh no, those whisky distilleries would have to keep on hold another Scottish celebration since this was not their day or time. 

There have been more pleasurable and perhaps more gripping afternoons in the world of the Six Nations but it is hard to think of them. Scotland and Wales went at it hammer and tongs, throwing the proverbial kitchen sink at each other, growling and sneering, grinning and contorting their faces at each other, revealing the very latest in gum shields in each other's face. This was not a game for the faint- hearted or lily-livered, not for those who simply believe rugby union is only about pushing and shoving, grabbing and pulling almost incessantly. 

Of course it is a game of red-blooded masculinity and invigorating virility. It is a game where brawn collides with muscle, various parts of the bodies are subjected to the most ruthless of batterings and violence hovers threateningly in the air. Scrums are rather like military battalions where huge armies of players lock horns, linking strapping shoulders together and then rumbling forward like Sherman tanks as if determined to rip off each other's ears and poisoning each other's tea given half the chance. 

Scotland went off like an express train, powering and marauding their way into the Welsh half with a vigour and intelligence that has rarely been seen on the big occasion. This was Scotland at their most businesslike and fearsomely aggressive, Robert the Bruce warriors with steel and iron in their weaponry, navy shirts crashing rumbustiously at a wall of red Wales shirts. This was a barnstorming Scotland, in the mood for humiliation perhaps and just intent on getting one over Wales. 

By the time Darcy Graham had rolled over for the Scots opening try it looked as if Scotland were on a crusade, a mission to dominate this year's Six Nations. The oval ball was being flung from one hand to the other with an effortless impudence, navy shirts hurtling themselves against the red Welsh barricade as if this was a military battle for real. It was all very earthy and authentic from a Scottish team who must have had several bowls of porridge before this game. Finn Russell, a fly half from the finest Scottish lock would easily convert all of Scotland's penalties but how the Scots strutted their stuff. 

When the superb Stuart Hogg, an immense figure, stretched Scotland's lead with a delightful pick up from his own kick. it was clear that here was a Scotland team with its very own distinctive identity. Then Hogg came up with the same formula, a scurrying, urgent and positive presence both in possession of the ball and without it. It looked for all the world that the Scots had the Welsh exactly where they wanted them, buried under a mass of Welsh shirts, a massacre on the day before Valentines Day. 

Then a young Welsh man going by the name of  Louis Rees Zammitt emerged from the heaving, heavy breathing rucks and mauls, a player so outstandingly talented that in years to come he may well think back to the likes of Barry John, a player of frightening speed, suppleness and wonderful anticipation. Rees Zammitt seems to have come up straight from the Welsh coalfaces, a player of nimble feet, sharp thinking and memorable movement. Here was a born a Welsh star. 

After a Leigh Halfpenny penalty had arrowed home his penalty for the Welsh, a comeback was on and forthcoming almost immediately. Shortly into the second half Rees Zammitt revved his way through the gears with a deceptive turn of pace, a sinuous wiggle and wriggle of the body before planting the ball firmly over the posts for a lead in the game for the first time. It may well have been a disguise of Gareth Edwards from another era but comparisons should not be made. 

Wales were now driving forward, winning their mauls, creating strategic scrums and making Scotland's lives a constant misery. Now the Scots looked to be running out of steam, sucked horrifically into the Scotland trap. Now the likes of Dan Biggar at fly-half,  Liam Williams, Alan Wyn Jones, Ken Owens barrelling into the Scots half at will, a hooker in his element and Nick Tompkins were shifting the ball away persistently away from any sight of a Scotland shirt with adroit handling of the ball and a passionate Welsh heart. Then fellow midfield builder Owen Watkin bundled his way through challenge after challenge, an ominous and bullish figure who seemed as though he could have run all day. 

Wales had now edged in front for the first time in the match and with minutes to go, they established a vice-like grip on the game. Louis Rees Zammitt, a man now uncontrollable and unstoppable, was tearing large holes into the Scottish defence, steam pouring from his nose and pounding his way towards the try line as if he'd been born to score tries. Now he would jink his way cleverly in for a decisive try after another cinnamon-scented, free-flowing Welsh move, dunking the ball down gleefully.

Now Wyn Jones, Callum Sheedy and Zammitt were just picking their moments to exert their unmistakable influence. When Zammitt thundered forward from a dazzling sequence of  a cross-field handling manoeuvre, the game was up for Scotland.  Zammitt burst towards the try line, left a slight shoulder droop on his way and scored the game- winning try. The Scottish magic touch had been applied. 

Wales had won a remarkable, basketball of a game by 25 points to Wales 24. It had been a game for the connoisseur, a good wine to roll around the mouth and a game the missing Murrayfield crowd could only kick themselves for not being a part of. Still, in years to come, Scottish grand and great grandchildren may well tell their offspring that they were there, in spirit, after all if not visible.  There are days when rugby union does excel itself and yesterday was another exhilarating example of the game as it should be played. Sport does hit the jackpot from time to time and here was the gold plated evidence. Bravo, Wales.    

Barnsley grit almost gets the better of Chelsea silk.

 Barnsley grit almost gets the better of Chelsea silk. 

Deep in the heart of the once-thriving Yorkshire coalfields and collieries, Barnsley, middle of the Championship, went toe to toe with Premier League swaggerers Chelsea. In theory there could only have been one result but when the FA Cup sends out all of its romantic greetings to one and all, the candle lights will burn brightly and the red roses of the imminent St Valentines Day may seem like a very good idea. Sadly, Barnsley will not be receiving any of those sweetly innocent cards that adorn a vast majority of female mantelpieces. 

Last night Barnsley were in no mood for a dalliance with anybody but were still intent on crushing the hearts of a Chelsea side who now take their place in the FA Cup quarter-finals for what seems an astonishing number of times. Here in the heart of Yorkshire where grit and graft, labour and toil, quite often take precedence over frills, fripperies, bows and ribbons, Barnsley held Chelsea at arms length for long periods of time. 

At Oakwell of course, there is always room for fun and frivolity as and when the occasion warrants it but realistically this was simply a night designed for far-fetched fantasies, wishful thinking perhaps and a good, old fashioned night of dreaming. Barnsley though went out of this year's FA Cup with defiance and heroism much in evidence but were still ever so slightly delusional. Besides Chelsea have now won the FA Cup on a number of occasions recently so their supremacy last night was clearly underlined. 

After the departure of Frank Lampard Chelsea have allowed themselves the indulgence of a stirring FA Cup run and although Barnsley were far from overawed by the size of the challenge in front of them, Chelsea, slowly but surely, made attacking inroads into the Barnsley half. But quite often the Londoners would find themselves trapped at the end of cul de sacs, clumsily if patiently moving the ball out of their defence and making extremely heavy weather of this FA Cup tie. 

However, FA Cup ties such as this one invariably go according to form and Barnsley never really looked as if they were about to cause a memorable upset. Occasionally their football was both uplifting and a pleasure to behold but there were times when it all seemed to come unstuck in vital areas of the pitch. The likes of Cauley Woodrow, Callum Britain and the outstanding Callum Styles were decorators rather than destroyers but Barnsley's end product in front of goal didn't really suggest anything other than a victory for the visitors. 

You can imagine two of Barnsley's favourite sons former cricket umpire Dicky Bird and legendary chat show host Michael Parkinson watching from home and perhaps hoping for the unexpected. Instead Barnsley pressed back Chelsea, pinning back the Premier League side incessantly, huffing and puffing at times and were admittedly supremely well organised. But Chelsea had the silkier touches, a side of pretty embellishments and classical passing. At times Barnsley looked almost consumed with envy.

For much of the game Chelsea's passing reminded you of a pinball machine arcade where the silver ball whizzes around and bounces around quite happily before accumulating a huge score. Chelsea's richly textured football was somehow symbolic of the club, all flair and flamboyance, a side with a permanently arty and bohemian tradition, once again here to make sure that it all went right on the night.

The 1970s memories came flooding back to some of us. There was the 1970 FA Cup Final on a disgraceful bog of an old Wembley pitch. There were the honourable likes of Charlie Cooke, visionary and perceptive, Peter Osgood, a stick of dynamite for Chelsea, Dave Webb, hard as the proverbial nails, Ian Hutchinson with that superhuman throw, the evergreen Peter Bonetti and manager Dave Sexton who became very thoughtful and philosophical at Manchester United in later years. 

Roll forward 51 years later and Chelsea are still at the top table of football's sometimes patronising elite. Occasionally the noses are turned up both rudely and disdainfully while others choose to look down on the likes of Barnsley with a very snobbish snarl. But for those who were wearing the high- class dinner jackets and stiff tuxedos this was a night for level playing fields rather than champagne or caviar. 

For much of this rather lack-lustre FA Cup tie Chelsea just kept possession of the ball for as long as they could without any of the cutting edge that neutral observers had taken for granted. The ball would be spun and woven around the blue shirts with mesmerising accuracy and sometimes arrogant presumption. Maybe Chelsea thought Barnsley were just beneath them, some inanimate object to be trodden into the ground.  And yet Chelsea were not quite in the mood to just witness any kind of giant-killing. 

This was a night though for rubbing hands together for warmth, imagining the Barnsley hordes waving their scarves and being beautifully boisterous. Oakwell though was deserted with nothing but patriotic flags on the terraces and often hilarious shouting from managers and players alike. New Chelsea manager  ThomasTuchel sat warmly wrapped up in fashionable hoodie and tracksuit top every so often pulling up the said garment over his now frost-bitten face.

Still, Tuchel's new charges zipped the ball around quite fetchingly and becomingly, his team rather than the one Lampard left behind. With stunning achievements at Borussia Dortmund behind him, Tuchel looked very concerned about his team's well-meaning display. Chelsea were good, sometimes very good and often in a class of their own. But you know what the FA Cup is like. There can be no room for sentiment and every so often it kindly gives us a Hereford United moment to savour. 

And so it was that Kurt Zouma, brilliantly poised and in control, combined knowledgeably with Andreas Christensen and Emerson Palmieri who were completely unflustered and unyielding at the back for Chelsea. Once again N'Golo Kante was at his most exceptional, a commanding presence, a delightful fusion of feathery touches on the ball and an uncanny awareness of players running into space. Kante must have been terrific at geography when he was at school. 

Then there was the still young and wet behind the ears Billy Gilmour who only seemingly turns up for Chelsea in Cup ties. Gilmour is a natural talent, a player of sublime artistry and an idealistic playmaker in the great tradition of the now much-missed Ray Wilkins. Gilmour glides and floats over the ground, not too laid back and relaxed but ever so sophisticated. Maybe an England call up may not be too far away. 

There was Callum Hudson Odoi as bright -eyed and bushy-tailed as ever, prompting and leading the way for the visitors, a player with educated feet and often a polished air about him, Chelsea were impressive and instinctive in their use of the ball, never afraid to show off or flaunt their peacock finery. Marcus Alonso and Hakim Ziyech were also here, there and everywhere, lively and enterprising on either flank. And Tammy Abraham could be anything he wants to be, tracking back by heading the ball off the line from a Barnsley corner and darting at defenders with daring and aplomb. 

When it looked as if Chelsea would never score suddenly the goal they knew they'd find at the bottom of the draw burst into life. Not for the first time in the match Chelsea produced one of those familiar Pass the Parcel movements. A brief exchange of intricate passes in the centre circle found Rees James who powered away towards goal and then ultimately slipped the ball across to Tammy Abraham who literally tapped the ball into the net from on the goal line. 

So Chelsea move promptly if somewhat laboriously into the last eight of the FA Cup. You find yourselves thinking of Chelsea's halcyon years under Jose Mourinho when trophies arrived on their doorstep by the lorryload. But their favourite son has now left and Thomas Tuchel is the man entrusted with the responsibility of singing the Blues. Blue may be the colour for the time being.  

Manchester United edge their way past West Ham and into the FA Cup quarter finals.

 Manchester United edge their way past West Ham and into the FA Cup quarter-finals. 

On a cold Manchester evening it almost felt as if somebody had taken the plug out of the electrical socket. The Stretford End at Old Trafford is surely one of the most intimidating of all sights for any opposition who dare to think that they can actually beat Manchester United. But without the volume turned right up to full decibel power and nothing but a hollow, cavernous feel about the ground, this was not the way FA Cup ties were meant to be. But we got there in the end and the better team eventually triumphed. 

Manchester United are through to the quarter-finals of the FA Cup for another triumphal, record-breaking time and the visitors West Ham could only wonder whether it was worth the bother of turning up at all. For West Ham of course the good times are, quite uncharacteristically, rolling and after holding a top-six position at the top of the Premier League altitude sickness may not be quite the ailment they thought they were suffering from. 

Sadly though this was not the kind of match that will live long in any of our memories. Perhaps both teams were just creatively burnt out or maybe the sheer intensity of it all, had taken its toll on both sides. The fact is this was a shambles of a game, well-intentioned and well mannered but distinctly lacking in any kind of sparkle or glamour. Both Manchester United and West Ham United have both been natural entertainers at various times throughout their history but this game was lacking in slapstick and the kind of theatricality that normally accompanies both United and West Ham wherever they go. 

What we had here was an FA Cup tie that almost felt like a dress rehearsal for the main act, a curtain- raiser for something much more momentous. There was an air of deliberation and anti-climax about the contest that felt as if it were simply going through the motions. In fact truth be told it was lifeless, plodding, pedestrian and never really the FA Cup tie we thought we'd get. Both teams look pre-occupied with more pressing issues on their minds and simply distracted by the absence of any atmosphere. 

The last time these two teams met, an irascible and grumpy striker named Paolo De Canio slid the ball with the outside of his foot past Manchester United Fabian Barthez to ensure West Ham the only goal of the game and a place in the next round. When United manager Ole Gunnar Solskjaer played his part as a United player in the 6-1 thrashing of West Ham several years before, United were already winning trophies galore, monopolising the Premier League title and also holding aloft FA Cups- not forgetting Champions League Final victories on two occasions.

But having waved farewell to three managers since the days of the Sir Alex Ferguson bejewelled reign, United are now back to where they were before Jose Mourinho almost ruined and polarised the whole of the United dressing room with his outrageously cautious tactics. Louis Van Gaal was the Dutch eccentric who thought he could change the attacking scenery but then found that a clip-board in his hands and an uncanny resemblance to somebody carrying out market research didn't advance his cause. 

So in came the highly recommended David Moyes and Manchester United thought they'd found the next Ferguson. But Moyes, still basking in the glow of his Everton years, could never emulate the feats of Ferguson even with the luxury of time on his side. United wanted success immediately and Moyes was just lost in a muddled jumble of thoughts that could never be translated into cups or trophies. 

There followed the barren years, years of re-building, intensive cosmetic surgery, that transitional phase when patience becomes the watchword. United fans are though, rather like most supporters, notoriously impatient and United's last FA Cup Wembley triumph was another convincing victory against Crystal Palace seven years ago. So it was back to the drawing board and here in 2021, United are touching base once again with Norwegian baby faced striking assassin Ole Gunnar Solskjaer as United boss this time. 

The 6-1 embarrassment United experienced against Spurs earlier on in the season would have meant the end of the world had the United fans been there to see it in all of its grotesquerie. Still, here we are in February and United are rubbing shoulders with the big boys once again. You still suspect that by the end of the season United will still be clutching at straws again but FA Cups and United somehow trip off the tongue very sweetly.

After West Ham were finally shown the exit door of this year's FA Cup, the critics may still be sharpening their pens and adjusting their laptops. United were still swinging, still flowing, models of elegance and effortlessness but for much of this FA Cup fifth round tie, it felt like a labour of love, a work in progress, an art gallery devoid of landscapes and portraits. United do like to put on an exhibition when the mood takes them but there were none of those breathless watercolours on display and besides it looked as if somebody had forgotten the easel.

For United, captain Harry Maguire, who seems to have put his private life into cold storage, was dominant, immovable at the back, a nuisance at set pieces and never really tested. The United academy of Brandon Williams and Mason Greenwood were controlled and comfortable on the ball without really being effective. Greenwood could be Marcus Rashford's best buddy up-front, a striking liaison that could blossom in years to come if maturity really kicks in.  

With Aaron Wan Bissaka mopping up easily at full back and also lending useful presence in the United attack, United were in cruise control, joining together the building bricks of their methodical passing patterns as if they could have carried out the task blindfolded. United had so much possession of the ball that West Ham must have thought they were simply wasting their energy by trying to chase the ball. United were disciplined, patient and easy on the eye. West Ham were desperate for half time without letting in a goal before half time and you could hardly blame them for feeling that way.  

Then in the second half the increasingly adventurous Victor Lindelof combined tidily and imaginatively alongside Dutchman Donny Van De Beer with much sharper incisions into the West Ham defence. The scalpel was out and the now very distinguished-looking Nemanja Matic was finding the pockets of space between the West Ham back four that had hitherto been unavailable to United before then. Matic is a shrewd, worldly and experienced campaigner who loves a good, old fashioned scrap. 

But after the half time break West Ham, now driven forward by their canny captain Mark Noble and another impeccable defensive performance from Declan Rice, had grabbed Manchester United by the scruff of the neck and began to impose themselves as a genuine attacking force. Rice is turning into a very assured and versatile player for West Ham, capable of dropping back into the heart of defence and then carrying the ball forward without a care in the world. Some believe that the jury could still be out at the moment in the case of Rice as an England player but we may be able to tell more if the Euros go ahead this summer. 

By now Angelo Ogbonna, who had to come off with what looked to be a serious injury, Craig Dawson, the wisest of birds and Aaron Cresswell were rock solid, dependable and never afraid to show themselves on the full-back overlap. At this point the partnership between Pablo Fornals and the quite brilliant Tomas Soucek began to look a healthy and fruitful one. Fornals bustled forward busily, Soucek kept the ball sensibly and intelligently while Jarrod Bowen was always probing and scheming, cutting inside United's attack with a lovely turn of pace and quick-wittedness that gave hope and point to West Ham's attack.

And yet it wasn't really working for West Ham at any level. Their passing became sloppy and dishevelled, their movement too predictable for words and there was a lumpy stodginess about their football that looked terribly unco-ordinated. At times you could just about to work out some semblance of a cohesive attack when the ball was clipped between them precisely and within close proximity. Sadly though the Ukranian forward Andriy Yarmolenko began to look like a lost soul and trudged wearily around Old Trafford like a man stuck in treacle. 

As the match reached its conclusion you still felt as if the home side would have the last word and laugh on the matter. The winter snows were now falling on the green acres of Old Trafford and a chill had now eaten into West Ham's bones. After 90 minutes the two teams were still level and the ghosts of FA Cup past were hovering eerily around West Ham. Manchester United were still in complete charge of proceedings, Marcus Rashford sprinting directly towards the West Ham penalty area like a sleek red greyhound who bursts out of its trap and Anthony Martial providing similarly productive service. 

Deep into extra time United charged up their engines once again and the ball was paraded around the red shirts like a colourful float at the local street carnival. The passes were short, neat, permanently accurate, symmetrical and fluid. The game now seemed to set up camp in the West Ham half and United flooded forward at will sensing the inevitability of a goal. And then it simply appeared.

Halfway through the first half three Manchester United came haring out of defence, breaking together in unison, as Martial and Rashford stamped their foot on the accelerator and put on the after-burners. Now on the edge of the West Ham penalty area, Rashford quickly laid the ball off to the effervescent Scott Mctominay who, with the most enchanting of drag backs, found space to drill the ball low past West Ham keeper Lukasz Fabianski. Manchester United were into their latest FA Cup quarter-final and West Ham had no answer.

There is a school of thought which would have you believe that no team has a divine right to win Cups or any trophy for that matter. But the diamond-encrusted years of Sir Alex Ferguson now seem like a lifetime ago. Still, there are Manchester United fans who believe that happier times are just within reach for United and the FA Cup is still something to gaze fondly at when the going gets rough.  The Premier League is perhaps another vitally important consideration. First things first though, as they say.    

Snow and floods on the way as Britain prepares for another Ice Age.

 Snow and floods on the way as Britain prepares for another Ice Age. 

Oh well. You might have thought at some point that Britain would get another barrage of wintry snow and if you were to believe some people the weather will turn a distinctly whitish colour by the time you wake up on Sunday morning. As if the news could hardly have got any worse. But it's probably best if we get prepared for the white stuff since we haven't seen any evidence of snow since at least last winter. Then there was a brief visitation and just a mere sprinkling on roofs and some pavements but you'd have thought we'd get off lightly. Whatever your views on the subjects the snow is on its way.

The English weather is renowned for its frequent mentions by the British population at any time of the year but somehow in the light of everything else going on around us it won't really come as a major surprise. But we do love talking about the rain, the cold, the wind, perhaps the depressing unpredictability of it all and just hope that it all goes away as quickly as possible. Before long we'll be discussing the widespread presence of road gritters, snow on railway lines and utter chaos. 

The fact is though it may hang around for quite a while and while it does make for a welcome sight, all of that slush and ice that follows in its wake can leave us wishing that it would simply rain for the whole winter with just a few dry days thrown in for good measure. And yet tomorrow morning a nation of motorists may well found their cars buried deeply under thick mountains of snow, windscreen wipers caked in snow and tyres submerged by more of that melting white goo before carrying out shovels and cloths to get rid of it once and for all. 

And then we'll watch our precious children rush out to the local park, build their improvised toboggans which used to be tea trays, sliding joyously from the top of a hill and then to the bottom with an innocence and youthful enthusiasm that their parents are not supposed to share. It won't be long before those loving and doting mothers and fathers are joined by the neighbours and then the entire community. You can bet that the inevitable snowballs will be thrown indiscriminately at each other and snowmen will be constructed with all the architectural expertise kids normally display. 

Recently, there was the story of a dustman who was ludicrously sacked by his employers for deliberately knocking over a child's snowman. Oh, the tragedy and the mortification of this episode could hardly be understated. It's hard to know whether you should laugh or cry under the circumstances but the punishment here doesn't really seem to fit the crime. What next? Milkmen being fired for delivering the wrong milk and being heard to insult the good name of all cows. Inflammatory comments have been expressed about Hereford cows and those who come rattling around our neighbourhood at the crack of a dawn could be looking at certain suspension and confinement in a police cell. 

But the subject of snow takes you back to your first couple of years of infancy. It was November 1962 and weather forecasters across the country were giving us prior warnings about the imminent arrival of heavy snow, and quite literally, wheelbarrows of snow and more snow. So it was that on a morning shortly before Christmas 1962 the snows fell in torrential tons and truckloads. And it continued to snow continuously and persistently, never relenting for a single minute until eventually we surrendered to snow because that's what the winter of 1962 had presented us with.

You look back with some amusement but you were told by your mum that she had to get out to do some shopping regardless of those thick white flakes falling from the sky and settling on the roads, pavements and streets with stubborn insistence. Now what has to be remembered here is that you'd just been born and your mother was just trying to get some food for the evening meal and the rest of the week. This is where things fell down with almost disastrous consequences. 

In an understandable moment of absent-mindedneess your mum forgot that her new-born son was screaming his guts out, pleading for acknowledgement, bawling his eyes out and crying for what must have seemed the best part of that morning. The fact is that you had been completely forgotten about and by the time she had returned back to our North London flat, her new offspring wasn't there. You had been abandoned by your mum when quite clearly it wasn't her fault. Goodness only knows what the owner of the sweet shop where yours truly was, thought of this desertion by a still euphoric mother. 

Here was a first time mum with her first son in the middle of the most ferocious snowstorm since 1948, a storm that would last for months and months, day after day, week after week incessantly or seemingly so. You can probably see her in your mind's eye, my mum holding her arms out against the gusty, fiercely blustery winds, the slanting snow increasing in volume by the second and then gathering its forces on the ground for yet another return visit. 

It's well documented that the snows of 1962 would still be in evidence by the time of the first crocuses of spring 1963 and Britain was not only freezing but stuck under unfeasibly large igloos of snow. Your parents were trapped for the best part of three or four months, at their wits end and not quite knowing whether they'd ever see a road or street ever again without slush, snow or ice. But the resilience of the British population was such that we did battle our way through the white forests that had now sprung up all over the country and we could all break into a watery smile.  

Tomorrow though the forecasters are predicting that Britain will have to brace itself for a white lockdown which hardly seems the right description for the wintry climate. Lockdown now refers to a global pandemic but if you do open your front door and are suddenly bombarded by energetic kids chucking more snowballs at you, you'll just have to puff out your cheeks and just go with the flow. It'll only be here temporarily and besides it's pretty, decorative, and in some European countries, traditional. 

However folks, it'll be time to batten down your hatches and just admire the typically Christmas picture- postcard scenery because you do know that things will just grind to a halt. Hold on didn't things grind to a halt last March so it'll be just business as usual? The fluctuating temperatures of the British climate are just a constant source of debate and nothing will shock us about the snow. We've been there, got the T-shirt and the mug so hold on tight everybody. 

   

Captain Sir Tom Moore dies at 100.

 Captain Sir Tom Moore dies at 100.

He was the nation's darling, a national treasure in every household up and down the land. The United Kingdom immediately took him to their hearts and embraced every single one of his charitable deeds. In another century he may well have been regarded as a saint but for now it may be as well to salute and richly acknowledge his Second World War sacrifices, his unwavering devotion to the cause and a fighting spirit that never dimmed at all. 

Today Captain Sir Tom Moore, the man we fell in love with last year because of what he did, sadly died at the grand old age of exactly 100. When the numbers of Covid 19 deaths were soaring into the stratosphere and all seemed inexorably lost and beyond hope, Captain Sir Tom entered our living rooms and lifted us to the loftiest heights with an act of generosity and heartfelt benevolence that will never ever be forgotten. There have been innumerable heroes and heroines throughout the ages who have never chased headlines or sought deserved recognition but the good Captain will always have a place in our minds and memories.  

These are the people who remain in the shadows, on the periphery of our attention. They raise vast sums for charitable causes at summer village fetes, jumble sales, and terminal illness fund-raisers who just want to give something back to their community because they feel it is their obligation and how grateful we are for their services. They run marathons throughout the year, climb mountains in some cases and then just insist on anonymity because they are the backbone of the country and everybody appreciates everything they do warmly. 

For Captain Sir Tom Moore the cause he was raising millions of pounds for was Covid 19, the now deadly virus that has now claimed the lives of over 100,000 people throughout Britain. We have now been informed that Captain Sir Tom died of pneumonia but the coronavirus symptoms were also cited as an indirect symptom which led to his passing. It is surely one of the saddest days this year since while all around the good Captain people were dying, Sir Tom was walking tirelessly and selflessly to raise millions for charity. 

What started as a gentle walk up and down his garden patio then became a national event, magnified and highlighted by social media, every TV channel and millions of radio stations across the world. Suddenly one of our oldest and most admirable war veterans had the bit between his teeth. He set off at his own leisurely pace, never fazed, never the glory hunter and just doing his bit for the country because he simply wanted to feel as though he was playing an active part in the rehabilitation of Britain's slowly dwindling morale. 

Britain and the world had had it up to here with those demoralising and agonising stories of death, those news bulletins that began to sound like the most depressing film or book you'd ever seen or read. But this was no fiction or non-fiction anecdote. This was happening in front of our eyes and one man stepped forward to make his handsome contribution. Nobody asked him to walk because he volunteered himself to be part of the generation that must have thought the world was about to end. But he just kept going on and on and on, never flinching, never complaining. He was just happy to make his lovable voice heard above the chaos and tempests that were raging around the world.

So today we say an effusive thankyou to the one man whose only flirtation with fame was a brief appearance on the BBC's delightfully silly but funny quiz show Blankety Blank in the late 1970s and 1980s. Now though Captain Sir Tom Moore has passed nobly into the annals of the history books. The man who single-handedly popularised garden patios and paving stones died when he reached his own personal milestone of 100 years on Planet Earth. Captain Sir Tom Moore will undoubtedly be remembered as one of England's greatest humanitarians. Britain is immensely proud of you, Captain Sir Tom. You'll never be forgotten.   

West Brom and Fulham battle it out for the draw.

 West Brom and Fulham battle it out for the draw. 

We are now in what football calls the business end of the Premier League season. The second half of this most extraordinary of football seasons is well and truly underway and it's beginning to look ever so slightly lopsided and unpredictable. There are no clearly recognisable leaders of the pack and the lack of any supporters inside the grounds has meant that most teams aren't quite sure whether they're coming or going. 

Since the beginning of the Premier League season back in September, whole batches of teams are being required to play matches at unearthly hours of the day and then finding that they've hardly had time to digest their evening meal or breakfast. Large clusters of matches have been spread out over the entire week and the schedule, while not necessarily punishing, once again emphasises the needless panic and urgency which has set in. It almost feels as though the FA in their infinite wisdom, can harldy wait for the season to end so that they can tell you, with a notable case of vindication, that football can be played to its conclusion without supporters in the ground. 

Still, there's no turning back now and on a Saturday afternoon at 3pm, football's traditional kick off hour, West Bromwich Albion and Fulham battled gamely towards a 2-2 draw without establishing which team is more likely to be relegated to the Championship this season. There are no crucial six-pointers as they say in the football vernacular but sooner or later one of these teams is going to fall by the wayside, cracking up under the most unbearable pressure and then struggling desperately to keep afloat in the Premier League.

On Saturday afternoon though we closed our eyes and thought back to those halcyon days of yesteryear when footballers had long hair, comparatively meagre bank balances and Chicken in a Basket for tea. We are now talking about the glamorous 1970s when fashion took the wrong turning and vinyl records eventually turned garish shades of punk red, green or orange depending on your personal preferences. 

At the Hawthorns West Bromwich Albion were those hustling and bustling revolutionaries banging on the gates of the old First Division elite and competing for the right to play fluent and attrractive football. Albion boasted a glittering galaxy of competitive and naturally gifted players who just happened to be black. And that was, unforgivably, the sticking point, the main bone of contention. Racism was rampant during the 1970s and Albion just happened to be in the wrong place at what should have been the right time. 

But when the tragically late Laurie Cunningham, an inspired buy from Leyton Orient, Brendan Batson, a hugely dependable full back who would later become involved in the Professional Footballers Association on a campaigning level and the equally as missed Cyrille Regis gave raw power and muscularity to the Albion attack upfront you knew immediately that there was something in the air that had to be bottled for posterity. 

 Laurie Cunningham, all twinkling feet, breathtaking speed on the wing and dashing dexterity had a huge canvas of talent, an oil painting in a footballing world that had been blighted by miners strikes, power cuts and grey 1970s austerity. Cunningham was the most remarkable player who had so much to offer but was suddenly cut down in his prime when his car crashed on the way back from a training session at his new club Real Madrid. 

Cyrille Regis, for his part, was a powerful, stocky and lethal striker with shoulders like boulders and a hungry appetite for goals. Regis was a bruising battering ram of a forward full of snarling menace and a red-blooded bullishness that could never be tamed. He scored prolifically for West Brom but sadly died recently and all we had were those memories of rampaging belligerence and direct running at goal. 

Nowadays of course Albion are like one of those trampolines where athletes bounce up and down hypnotically until they're more or less exhausted. Albion have yo-yoed between the Championship and the Premier League for ages now. They crave stability but then find themselves caught in no man's land, neither here nor there. It is hard to believe that such a gem as former England captain Bryan Robson started his career at Albion when he could have left much sooner than he did. 

Still here we are at the beginning of 2021 and Albion are back in the Premier League for what seems like the umpteenth time. Their manager is one Sam Allardyce, who began his career at Albion as assistant coach at the Hawthorns many moons ago. Much water has passed under the bridge since then and Allardyce's managerial career has now come full circle. 

Now the trouble with Sam Allardyce is that he divides opinion and none of us can quite be sure what judgments should be passed on his playing style. At Bolton he was hailed as a managerial genius, at Newcastle they were just baffled, at West Ham they simply despised him, at Everton they just thought they'd seen enough and when he took the England job he simply dug a hole for himself. 

Allardyce attracts controversy for his outdated and anachronistic style of football, a dinosaur who still believes in cloggers, grafters, toilers, sweating blood for the cause and gritty hard labour. There is nothing of the purist of him, the landscape painter or anything remotely stylish. Allardyce believes in the hard yards, the percentages, the back to basics pragmatism that would much rather play the long, predictable ball rather than the picturesque short pass in the cleverest of triangles. Subtlety on a football pitch was never his forte. 

But when Fulham's Ademola Lookman floated a cunning ball forward to persistent striker Aleksandar Mitrovic, there were panic stations in the West Brom defence. Mitrovic found in turn Bobby De Cordova Reed who latched onto a well -worked movement with a low shot which found the corner of the Albion net in no time at all. Albion were now on the back foot and gasping for air. 

Now though the defensive unit of Kieran Gibbs and centre half Kyle Bartley emerged into the cold light of day and injected a much greater urgency into West Brom's football. Jake Livermore started to look the player who could have fulfilled his potential but now looks as though he may have wasted it at Albion. Conor Gallacher looked both comfortable and composed on the ball, while both Karlan Grant, Matt Phillips and Darnell Furlong all expressed a desire to consider their options rather than be hurried into a series of mistakes. 

For Albion there is still the evergreen Robert Snodgrass who, to all outward appearances may have passed his sell-by date according to some of his critics. But the midfield schemer from West Ham can still run at players, carving out his passes and then still prepared to battle for every ball. Alongside the young and coltish Callum Robertson, Snodgrass still moved very intelligently and Albion still looked in the rudest of health, glowing with the healthiest complexion. 

Half way through the first half Albion were back on level terms. Kyle Bartley, darting in between his defenders smartly, hovered between the last Fulham defender after a neat exchange of passes, Mbaye Diagne chipped the ball into a gaping channel and Bartley flicked the ball home wide of  the Fulham keeper for the Albion equaliser.

Deep into the second half Albion were beginning to re-capture the spirit of Cunningham, Cantello, Batson, Regis, Brown and Regis. Ron Atkinson was still manager of Albion in the minds of some Albion fans and you remembered the photo of soul sisters The Three Degrees posing with Batson, Cunnigham and Regis. It was an iconic image but the current generation of Albion fans may choose to think of the present and what could still be. 

Now Albion began to move forward and attack Fulham with much greater mobility, a sense of adventure, united in their cohesion, impressive in their movements, creating rather than blundering, constructive rather than just sluggish. Diagne, once again hugely influential and instrumental in everything Albion attempted, latched onto a ball, cutting the ball back in one fluid turn of pace and the superbly quick witted Mattheus Pereira sweetly tucked the ball into the net for Albion's second goal. 

Minutes later though just when you thought it was safe to look at Albion again, Fulham were back on level terms. Up until that point the beautifully creative Reuben Loftus Cheek, the neat and nimble Ademola Lookman, the steadying influence of Mario Lemina, Ola Aina and Kenny Tete didn't really look as though they could cope with Albion's more progressive football. 

But then the thoughtful Harrison Reid had other ideas. Reid, with a good deal of hard work and dedication to duty could become Fulham's next Johnny Haynes or Tosh Chamberlain but he does look the genuine article. Reid jinked his way into space and his well flighted cross exposed Albion's rough edges at the back where Ivan Cavaliero burst into the six-yard box to plant a fierce, downward header past the helpless Sam Johnstone in the Albion goal. 

So it was honours even for both West Brom and Fulham who in their contrasting ways are just looking for Premier League survival. At the moment the Premier League season is beginning to resemble a traffic jam at the height of what used to be called the rush hour. Players are crashing into games like exhausted marathon runners, fixtures are being played out against a cardboard cut out of artificiality and games are being crammed together like the proverbial sardines at ridiculous hours and times.

 And yet football will flourish because it always has and always will. Liverpool and Manchester City look as though their season could end in glory and the rest are simply there to make up the numbers. When we reach the merry month of May the chances are that either the side from either Anfield or the Etihad Stadium will be lifting the Premier League trophy. But you never know.