England beat Albania in World Cup qualifier

 England beat Albania in World Cup qualifier

Never has an England football team looked stronger, fitter, chipper, upbeat and, above all else, confident. We could get used to this. After breezing through their inevitable 5-0 opening World Cup qualifier victory over San Marino, we were led to assume that Albania would prove no less demanding opposition for Gareth Southgate and so it was that England promptly obliged. But this was a far from rampant England who had swotted aside  San Marino so dismissively that even the painful recollections of that bonkers 10- second goal England had conceded against San Marino back in the early 1990s had now been banished to the archives of long, long ago.

At the moment both club and international football just can't be taken seriously and even the trickle of applause that accompanied the England players on their way to their starting position brought to mind the World Croquet championships rather than football's blue riband global tournament. Shortly those fanatical, vociferous and flag waving England supporters could be allowed to travel around Europe with their team as soon as football and sport are given permission to fill the terraces again with unwavering support. 

In early June the whole of England will hold its breath in breathless anticipation of Euro 2020, a year later than scheduled but nonetheless relieved to be in full song, brandishing banners, banging drums, playing trumpets and giving a glorious rendition of the Great Escape. It will be one of the finest, loveliest sights in modern day football because the ancient stuff has to be condemned to another age. England will be back in harness and their football supporters will have rehearsed plenty of the gallows humour variety. 

In deepest Tirana, England performed with all the panache of a Norman Wisdom stand up routine. Wisdom of course is the great English comedian who once had them rolling in the Albanian aisles, a man once given the freedom of Albania. But there were no slapstick routines for England as Gareth Southgate, yet to display his latest line in waistcoats, modestly praised his England for their patience and perseverance. 

Now the fact is that none of us should get too excited about this rather low key England performance. They did what they had to do and no more. They did get the job done and there were very few flaws, foibles and worrying moments. But surely England must be used to playing such lightweight European opponents. In fact so conditioned have they become to playing teams like Albania that they could probably have beaten them in their sleep. This result had all the predictability that had preceded most of England's European adventures in previous qualifiers. Much of Eastern Europe has been conquered so Albania were rather like target practice for England. 

But last night in Albania, all of our expectations were blown out of the water within an hour. For much of a tedious, dull, plodding first half England seemed to be strolling around the pitch rather like tourists taking in the bracing air at a seaside resort. England assumed an almost arrogant indifference to their surroundings. This would prove to be far too easy for an England side who, five years ago, were beaten by famous world beaters Iceland in the Euros. We all expressed shame and disgust then but Albania were never remotely as vulnerable and compliant as England were against Iceland. 

True, this was no walk in the park for England and England had set out their stall. It wasn't impressive. When Albania had built several defensive banks across the centre of the pitch, England were reduced to keep ball. What we now had was something akin to five a side practice match for the away side as England proceeded to take out their mathematical protractor, creating cute but cultured passing patterns that owed more to Pythagoras Theorem than international football. England were passing, moving, cutting in cleverly from the flanks and then recycling the ball as if it had adopted a new life at an airport baggage carousel. 

For more than an hour or so there was an incessant drumbeat of passing and passing and passing that left most of the Albanians in a drunken stupor, hypnotised and mesmerised by England's very academic looking short passing game. There was a sense here that England were mocking their opponents status in an attempt to just grind them down and then score a hatful. This didn't happen though and eventually England broke through twice to take the sting out of their opponents and then came home top of their World Cup qualifying group.

When the consistently steady and thoughtful Luke Shaw rallied together with Manchester City's calm and upright John Stones, England never looked even remotely troubled. England were switching gears, pulling on the handbrake and moving the ball around as if it were some kind of beach ball that had been left behind last summer. There was something missing about England's game, no real conviction, cutting edge, incisiveness and penetration, a lack of any world class radicalism about their football. Everything looked as if England had left their thought processes back at St George's Park. 

Instead we had a slumbering England, a dozy and drowsy England, a lazy and lethargic England, an England who just assumed that all they had to do was get out of bed, shower, brush their teeth and just give the office the day off. Before this match some of the England staff  were ever so concerned about the treacherous state of the pitch in Tirana, claiming it was rough, sticky and not properly prepared. Still, excuses were thin on the ground and England did beat Albania and business had been done. 

In midfield England resembled a very youthful sixth form combination, a sweet mixture of level headed maturity and shrewdly fashioned football from the start. The average age of Gareth Southgate's young bloods bordered on roughly the late teens and just old enough to vote. Mason Mount looks a complete and exceptionally skilful player both in and out of possession, closely protecting the ball and manipulating it with a wonderful awareness of his colleagues. Chelsea have much to be proud of. 

Meanwhile West Ham's Declan Rice emerged as one of the best defensive midfield players in recent times. He is certainly no Bobby Moore at the moment but there is something about Rice that re-assures you that all will be well if he makes the expected progress at international level. Rice was more than content to play the short, simple ball into space without panicking about his bearings. Whether he can achieve the necessary consistency at international level remains a moot point. 

England could also trust the likes of Raheem Sterling, Kalvin Phillips, Phil Foden and Harry Kane were slowly but surely unravelling an obstinate and well organised Albanian side who, whenever England threatened to score, just shut the door, bricked up their seemingly impassable defence and then held the English tide. Both Foden of Manchester City, who does look a player naturally suited to his very advanced attacking role and a very controlled looking Phillips could be the genuine articles in Gareth Southgate's well stocked squad. 

Admittedly Liverpool's Jordan Henderson should be pencilled in immediately for Euro 2020 or perhaps it should be referred to as Euro 2021 but Henderson feels the most logical choice for captain of the team. There is obviously something of his Anfield predecessors Emlyn Hughes and Steven Gerrard about Henderson and both were England skippers of some celebrated renown. Henderson has almost inborn leadership qualities and if England do need somebody who can pump fists at demoralised players, rolling up his proverbial sleeve and providing inspiration at every stage of an important game then Henderson has to be a certainty for the tournament.  

After 37 minutes and much labouring, careful jabbing and sparring, England accelerated, lifted the tempo markedly and scored the game's opening goal. Following a blizzard of short, sharp exchanges between Sterling and then Shaw, the ball was swung invitingly into the six yard box and firmly low onto the lethal head of Kane. Kane crouched to meet the ball and flicked a beautifully directed header past the Albanian keeper. 

This seemed the ideal platform for a major England victory but regrettably the second half was more or less an extension of the first. England continued to look after the ball rather like a child protecting their pet dog or rabbit. England normally take out a lease on possession when the game remains in the balance and there was a slight hint of fragility with England only a goal up. But the passes were correct, neat, succinct, overwhelmingly pretty and sometimes too ornate at times. There has to be a point when all of the delicate muslins and silks have to be sewn together and presented for approval.

Finally, after much Pass the Parcel and Musical Chairs, England abandoned their party pieces for the second goal that would wrap this game up once and for all. Raheem Sterling, still an effective and graceful presence on the wing, dropped shoulders, slid and slipped through challenges as if they were in another country. Now Sterling burrowed his way to the by line again, laying the ball across the Albanian six yard box deftly before Mason Mount clipped the ball home with the outside of his boot. Job done and England head their World Cup qualifying group.

The deserts of Saudi may seem far off at the moment but once England hitch their camels and prepare hopefully for their ultimate World Cup excursion next year, we could look forward to next year with adventure on our minds but once again the caution of a side who invariably get stage frights at any international tournament. 

Last night England's World Cup campaign looked as far removed from their age defining World Cup Final victory in 1966 as it was possible to be. Most of the stadium was just a mass of marketing brand leaders and famous names. The advertising hoardings told us that E-Bay was still very much in business and that those prominent blue chip companies were still in control. Oh for the sight of those entertaining English supporters. How we've missed you. Still, it can't be long now. Keep safe everybody.    

Passover- Pesach, springtime festival of cheer.

 Passover- Pesach, springtime festival of cheer.

Normally tonight would have marked the perennial Jewish festival of cheer, cheery anecdotes about ancient Egypt, Biblical exoduses and pilgrimages, a night of reflection, thought, exchanges of smiles and laughs, questions and more questions from inquiring children and not leaning to one side. Pesach(aka) Passover is upon us again and once again it is without its formality and ceremony, its traditional consumption of matzas but there may not be quite as many crumbs on the wine stained Haggadahs or the expansive tables groaning with food. Pesach will be put on temporary hold because Covid 19 has stopped it in its tracks. But it will be there in spirit and we'll still celebrate.

For those of us who have always loved Pesach for as long as they can remember there will be no emotional investment tonight nor tomorrow for the second night. Once again this does not represent the end of the world nor is it a major tragedy because we can still do Pesach or Passover next year and we can still drink wine, eat bitter herbs, eggs, karpas and then the substantial feast that normally follows. But once again there will be estrangement from our loved ones and family so we'd better just accept the fact and we will since there can be no alternative. 

Your thoughts turn back to the mid 1970s when your grandparents, parents, brother would regularly gather together in familial intimacy in a large dining room in Gants Hill, Essex for the yearly homage to matzas, wine and springtime rebirth. We would patiently sit around the table every late March or the beginning of April in what would prove the ultimate recognition of a festival that kept giving. As a young child and then teenager at the time it all seemed slightly bewildering at times but eventually you managed to get the gist of what was going on. 

There would sit my smiling, grey-haired grandpa, a learned Hebrew scholar, tiny wisps of a silvery beard on his face which was more of a five o' clock shadow than  proper whiskers. But the face was wise, dependable, patriarchal, immensely knowledgeable and every so often the pursed mouth would break into a watery smile. He was never judgmental or critical but he was a Holocaust survivor so the pain would linger on his cheeks, understandably resentful for what had happened 30 years before to his family but glad to be among the family he felt such a deep and enduring love for. 

Then the seder service and would finish in what seemed a couple of minutes, not nearly long enough to absorb or digest what he'd seemingly muttered and mumbled both incoherently and almost presumptuously. You would sit as a very young whippersnapper, staring vacantly at your grandfather and wondering what on earth he'd been talking about. But, quite confessionally, he would tilt his head with a knowing air about him that was always trustworthy and would then re-assure me that all was well and he knew exactly what he was talking about. 

And now my dearly sweet and lovely grandma would place Elijah's cup in the middle of the table and half way through the prayers there was a deliberate pause as Elijah's cup would wait to be summoned in for a quick sup. At this point you would convince yourself that nothing or nobody had touched a single drop of the said Palwin wine and this had all been made up on the hoof, just some urban religious myth that nobody could prove or for that matter could claim any semblance of historical proof of. 

On both nights my parents and grandparents would take it in turns to hold the Pesach seder service and over the years there would be that fond adherence to yearly tradition. There were the hilarious moments such as the evening my grandparents came around to my parents home and my grandpa's trousers would shamelessly part company from his waist and drop to the ankles. In one year quite foolishly and innocently you swallowed several prune stones without any heed of the consequences. Soon you were quickly ferried to the local hospital and were patched up without any real idea of what you had just done. And you were only 33 at the time. Seriously you were a very young child.

But Pesach(aka) Passover has again been postponed for much of the global Jewish population although in countries such as New Zealand they'll probably go about their business as if Covid 19 had not happened. The Jewish community in New Zealand will have the whole of their extended family around to snap and crunch your matzas, probably very pleased with themselves and wondering why the rest of the world is still nervous, shuffling along at a snail's pace and waiting for the right moment to see their families. But this is not the case because we're just as good and efficient as they are if not better than they are. 

The fact remains is that my wonderful brother in law and sister in law and their family will not be holding  the yearly seder service. How frustrating, exasperating and beyond explanation this is although most of us know why by now or should do. Tonight my wife and our daughter will simply munch our way through a mountain of Rakusen's matzas and have a bite to eat but obviously it'll all feel like a damp squib again. The coronavirus is still parking itself outside your home and won't shift for perhaps another a month or two. 

Outside in our communal garden, the back wall has been half painted in a peculiar shade of black and the glitzy, glamorous apartments which now form part of the dramatic regeneration of Manor House have shot up like towering ziggurats. The area does look very brand new, 21st century, impressive looking but still a work in progress now in the Seven Sisters Road. A whole family of cement mixers have now been given their marching orders and told to re-locate around the corner from us. 

Tonight though is Pesach and an almost bunker mentality still exists around here. We are clearly not at war but a virus is proving a very stubbornly medical problem that refuses to go away. Still, we'll see this one through, taking a deep breath and counting to ten. We'll keep leaning and wondering why this has to be the case. At some point within perhaps the next fortnight movements will be afoot and it'll be time to celebrate part of the gradual re-opening of all the places we thought would never disappear for rather longer than we thought they would. Keep munching your matzos, world. We knew these days would be ours again. Happy Pesach and Passover. Chag Semach to you all.    

National Waffle Day.

 National Waffle Day. 

Ladies and Gentlemen. It gives me great pleasure to tell you that today is National Waffle Day. You had to inform the great blogging community because they were anxious to know and couldn't hold back their enthusiasm any longer. We had to let the rest of the globe know because in the general scheme of things there had to be some alternative agenda at the moment and besides you can never eat enough waffles when the skies are dark, the rains are falling and the cold draughts of winter demand comfort eating. 

So let this day dedicated to those lovely, sweet waffles commence. Waffles it has to be said are extremely versatile and flexible, always available to those with both sweet teeth and something to give your palate an immediate stimulus, a guilty pleasure whenever the mood takes us. There has to be something about those syrupy breakfast treats that leave us asking for more and more. It looks attractive and utterly appealing, an invitation to some wild land of cholesterol enjoyment. 

In all of its guises waffles are that complex latticework of tiny squares that seem to owe their origin to Belgium, terribly misunderstood and misconstrued, a nation more commonly renowned for its yummy chocolates, Detective Poirot with that twirling moustache and not a great deal else. But waffles do it every time for us particularly if you're looking for a sugary breakfast. 

We all know that breakfast is probably the most important meal of the day but before Covid 19 perhaps a vast majority of the population never really attached a great deal of importance to that first chunk of food in the morning. In what used to be normal times we would get up at dawn, wash and shower in a matter of minutes, throw on the chosen uniforms of the day, stampeding down the stairs, switching on the kettle and then abandoning any thoughts of a proper breakfast. So we grab a rushed piece of plain toast, a frantically consumed cup of tea and then find ourselves racing out of the front door quite possibly hungry and stressed out. 

The conventional patterns of life were, and in some cases still are, observed regularly and without thinking. This is the point when perhaps we ought to be remembering waffles, pancakes, packets of healthy oat bars, snacking on mischievous muffins with tons of sugar in them and biscuits that are supposed to be bad for us but none of us regret eating because they're in a frenetic hurry and they'll miss the bus or train to work. So after all this frantic hyper activity we reach our lunchtime and suddenly recall the waffles we treated our digestive systems to because plain old cereal with jam and toast just doesn't fit the criteria of our days. 

But yes folks today is National Waffle Day when toasts and cereals are just surplus to requirements or just won't do. You're just famished and need a boost to your sagging spirits because the in tray in your office looks like Mount Everest. It's time to whisk together all the necessary ingredients, bring out the fruits of the forest, sprinkle on more sugar and then devour those waffles with all the zest of a Belgian family who have done this for as long as they can remember. Remember it's National Waffle Day and this has to be observed and recognised. Enjoy those waffles. 

A year down the line- exactly a year since the first lockdown.

 A year down the line- exactly a year since the first lockdown.

So here we all are exactly a year down the line since the first lockdown. How has it been for you? Are you sore, bewildered, dazed, furious, indignant or just plain shocked? Do you just feel like exploding with frustration and anger? Is there a temptation to just go back to bed or hide in a dark room until the coronavirus has simply exhausted itself and the rapidly dwindling numbers of deaths becomes nothing and everything looks as if it could be the right time to stop this chronic global crisis from spiralling out of control. 

A year ago today all we knew was that in some far off wet market in China or some experimental science laboratory a seemingly innocent medical condition horrifically degenerated into a full blown, deadly virus that would, as we know now, kill millions of people leaving the rest of the world in utter paralysis when quite clearly none of us thought that a couple of poorly passengers aboard a cruise vessel would be just a temporary news story. 

But the fact is that we are now, to all intents and purposes, showing promising signs of a full recovery from Covid 19, the coast is almost clear and shortly the thumbs up could be given for a clean bill of health. Now let's not get ahead of ourselves here because the good news could become bad in a matter of days or weeks and we all know that. However, the proposed April 12 and May 17 dates should never disguise the raw truths. We have now been drawn into a game of possibilities, probabilities, guesswork, crucial contingency plans if it all goes belly up and the thought persists that this could be just a smokescreen. 

Yesterday our friends in the rest of Europe decided that they didn't particularly want to play ball with their British counterparts. Not for them the peaceful solution to the virus, more a case of awkwardness and stubbornness, a rigid, uncompromising stance to wind us up deliberately with a complete lack of co-operation and a readiness to just complicate matters when everything in the garden looked rosy. So we gritted our teeth, murmured our annoyance and threatened to give the rest of Europe the bloodiest nose they've ever received. 

Now what do you do when you look to your neighbours and you may need a helping hand, a push forward, a sign of encouragement. Everything in Britain seems to be on course for a triumphant day of re-opening the economy and switching the on button for normal everyday life again. But then our grumpy European allies make it abundantly clear that they're not going to play ball. Come April Britain will be alone, reduced in medical capacity, denied those important supplies of the life saving vaccine. Go figure, hey!

It was all going swimmingly well until those European interfering busybodies stuck their oar in and refused to budge. No, they insisted, we are not going to allow you to bulk up on the very vaccine that could take us out of this predicament sooner rather than later. So here we are now a couple of weeks away from the end of the first stage of this comeback, this rejuvenation of the world, this return to the good old days and there are some who simply don't want this to end here and now. 

Apparently the rest of Europe seem to be under the misapprehension that we're stealing its thunder, getting far more vaccines than we should and that's just not fair. So what do they do? Sulk? Quite possibly. They tell Britain that effectively we should slow down and wait until they're ready for another consignment of vaccines or merely suffer the consequences. We are now stuck between the devil and deep blue sea. We're damned if we do and damned if we don't. There are though no winners in this case. 

Suffice it to say that Britain is boiling, seething, red in the face with incandescent rage, not knowing how to react but intent on waging a petty war over something that should have been resolved much more quickly than it seems to be at the moment.  The crux of the matter is that at some point heads should be emphatically bashed together and an agreement set up in place that would hurry everything up and just sort out those childish differences of opinion. We're almost there now so it may be advisable to get on with it decisively and stop dragging your feet. How much longer can we take of this?

The truth is we've all been possessed of truly remarkable powers of stamina and endurance because quite frankly this  energy sapping infection, contagion, virus whatever it may be called, is just going around in ever increasing circles, tiring us, upsetting us and determined not to go without a fight. And yet we must be positive and not let anybody destroy our morale, discouraging us, undermining us because we must ignore those doom mongers.

Yesterday Boris Johnson, Britain's talking head and Prime Minister, warned of a third outbreak of Covid 19 washing up on our shores. Now when a British Prime Minister compares their country to a beached whale on some English seaside resort you know things have got really bad. Still, the blond one from Uxbridge with that proud crop of dishevelled wheat on his head, doesn't quite know what to say if truth to be told. He's heard about our the pesky intransigence of our European acquaintances and he fears the worst. Very few know what to believe anymore although perhaps Mr Johnson has lost his way. 

The fact is that there are some people who believe that a whole year has been criminally stolen from their lives, a year with no substance, no excitement or drama to look back on. But hold on, we're all still here aren't we? Nothing untoward has happened to us, nothing evil or heinous has taken place and we're still living, the pulse and blood pressure at its healthiest and the BBC are still giving us incessant news bulletins about the obvious. We have to be grateful and we have to just keep making allowances.

It may be as well to cast back our minds to what happened last year. We're all familiar with the story of that cruise right at the beginning of last year if not further back to the year before that one. The images of several passengers being taken aside into quarantine because they were seriously ill at the time, are now graven onto our minds. We can remember them as if it were yesterday which of course it wasn't. But what we didn't know at the time that this would get significantly worse before it had a chance to get better. 

At the beginning of March, after a brief lull in the proceedings, concerns were being expressed. By the time of the Cheltenham horse racing festival it was all too late. Hundreds and thousands huddled together in rural Gloucestershire and the rest is history. The outcome of that one horse race meeting was so nerve jangling and disastrous that you'd have thought the world had come to a screeching end. Cheltenham was singularly blamed for the deterioration of a condition which none of us had ever heard of before and weren't going to worry about for any great length of time. 

Then there was the episode at Liverpool's Anfield ground. Liverpool were playing Atletico Madrid in a Champions League game. Nothing wrong with that or so it seemed at the time. What became clearly evident though was that thousands of Spanish supporters had flown into Merseyside, plonked themselves ludicrously in the middle of a vast Liverpool throng and it all got out of hand. Flares were lit in the Madrid end of Anfield and thousands of away supporters mingled quite happily. It wasn't the best idea in the world even by the visitors admission. 

The next day a profound sense of disgust and condemnation lingered around Liverpool like the most vile smell of all time. How on earth were those Spanish supporters permitted to congregate together in such numbers and huge multitudes. It seemed that a mass migration of Spanish supporters had come to rest in England when they hadn't been invited. It must have felt the whole of the Iberian peninsula had landed in Britain and weren't going anywhere for a while. 

Then there followed a year that even now feels as though it must have been some terrifying return of the 1950s sci fi TV programme Quatermass where the world is taken over aliens or men in masks with horns sticking up from their heads. It felt as if the Great British public were being held hostage for a crime they had never committed. 

Suddenly supermarkets were being emptied of toilet rolls, egg boxes and every other edible product it could find as if a real emergency had been declared. Then the rest of the retail world found itself teetering on the edge of almost instant extinction. Shops were closed for ages and ages while London began to resemble a mausoleum, a gloomy old monument that looked as if somebody had pulled the plug out of the electrical socket and left it looking like the Sahara desert. Then 10 Downing Street got into the act, highlighting the problems we would become familiar with and we already knew anyway. Boris Johnson kept telling us to stay at home rather like a parent tells its child that if they're not up for going to school the next day they should stay in bed and sweat out the fever. 

There then followed that daily fiasco, three men walking into the room and a constantly evolving virus that eventually overwhelmed everybody. The chief medical and scientific officers did their utmost to be cheerful but then just got fed up with it all, urging extreme caution and not to go out at all. In fact there were times when you felt so scared to go out that for a while even the supermarkets represented a very real moral dilemma. Surely we wouldn't be expected to starve. Thankfully not. 

Still, here we are two or perhaps three lockdowns in if you include the one that only lasted for a while and April 12 seems like the impossible dream. So we'll hunker down in our bunker, contemplate re-reading another chapter from War and Peace before looking for an alternative hobby such as kite flying, bungee jumping, tackling the Times cryptic crossword or just basket weaving. What about counting to a million and then climbing up Mount Kilimanjaro or perhaps a hike around the United States of America? It can't take that long surely. 

Anyway this is the first entire year of coronavirus which doesn't sound as though it should be regarded as a noteworthy achievement. Instead we will now start counting the days down before we can be released back into a world of instantly identifiable humanity. Some of us will be back at our local gym all being well on April 12, eager as a beaver. Ladies and Gentlemen. Please don't panic over that yearly expedition to your favourite holiday on Spanish, Italian, Greek, Cypriot or American shores. Just keep hoping and believing but try to put on a happy face. This must work out for the best, hopefully.       

Peter Lorimer dies - a Leeds hot shot with thunder in his boots.

 Peter Lorimer dies- a Leeds hot shot with thunder in his boots. 

The numbers are increasing quite rapidly and too distressingly for our liking. Footballers always seemed to live on even when they sadly pass away. Their spirt remains, their presence in the ether, somewhere, lurking impressively in the dusty corridors of football's past, never really dead as such but present on our lips always on the vine, spoken of in the warmest and most affectionate tones. 

This morning we learnt that Peter Lorimer died. It does sound very cold and clinical, almost final, the last chapter of the book, the end of an era but the names still strike at the heart, a bitter body blow for those who remember the Lorimer trademark. When Don Revie's delightful, fleet footed, twinkle toed darlings were waltzing through defences as if they were just specks of dust that just had to be brushed off as if they weren't there, most of us thought those names would live forever and today was some far off island. 

But Peter Lorimer undoubtedly had one of the hardest, fiercest, fearsome, ferocious shots ever seen in the Beautiful Game. Lorimer's shots were loaded with gunpowder, cordite, leaving a significant legacy wherever the Leeds of the 1970s travelled. Lorimer's shots could be heard in distant continents, palm tree fringed islands where the BBC World Service could only just be heard and then booming out from a cannon when Leeds United's Elland Road ground was jam packed to capacity. 

For a while now Lorimer has been in a hospice, seriously ill but without so much as a whimper of complaint. Now though the Leeds hotshot, known warmly as 'Lasher' has struck his last rocket shot, a lethal missile when released from either left or right foot. Lorimer was often known to score thunderbolts from way outside the edge of opposition penalty areas and goalkeepers were often tempted to take out medical insurance in case their fingers were struck, sprained or just damaged. Lorimer was perhaps the most essential component in a Leeds side that during the 1970s were unstoppable but controversial. 

Lorimer, although a trophy winner with Leeds, did endure the setbacks, the grave disappointments and those terrible moments of injustice that threatened to haunt him for the rest of his career. He won League titles with Leeds when Leeds were just flowing like a jar of honey with just a hint of molasses. But Lorimer also knew bittersweet moments when it didn't quite go for him. There were the traumas of coming second, goals disallowed, the frustration of knowing that he'd come close but not close enough. Of course Lorimer knew despondency and deflation because footballers have to be prepared.

Having joined Leeds as an angelic 15 year old teenager, Lorimer was bound to be wet behind the ears and still a developing adolescent but the young man seemed to grow up very quickly. With maturity, Lorimer became wiser with the passing of years and when Don Revie chucked him unceremoniously into the fire a couple of years later, the Scottish stick of dynamite picked up the baton and ran with it. 

Then the old First Division League championships would follow in quick succession perhaps too early but nonetheless eagerly appreciated by Lorimer. In 1973 he would join in with the general expectation, hype and hyperbole surrounding his team mates in that year's FA Cup Final. Surely Leeds would use the bulldozer to demolish Second Division Sunderland, red and white striped impostors at Leeds lavish party where victory would be savoured before half time. Leeds would smash Sunderland to smithereens. No sweat. No problem. 

But then fate intervened. Just when it seemed as though Norman Hunter and Trevor Cherry had locked up the Leeds defence with a secure Chubb key, thoughts turned to the lethal Leeds attack where Johnny Giles was chipping passes with precision engineering, a midfield landscape artist, strutting and swaggering, humiliating Sunderland with his very presence on the Wembley pitch. Then there was the fiery red head of Billy Bremner, captain and chief sparkler and firework, needling, winding up, provoking players but still a player of knowledge and a huge footballing intellect. 

And then Ian Porterfield, the Sunderland striker trapped the ball on his knee from a Sunderland corner and crashed home what would prove to be Sunderland's winning goal. Leeds promptly unleashed the artillery and cavalry, perhaps too much military hardware. The proverbial kitchen sink was thrown at Sunderland and Lorimer saw his moment of glory only to find that it was indeed just a figment of his imagination.

At the end of another frenzied, overwhelming attack on goal, Leeds sent all of their hungry troops forward desperately searching for a seemingly imminent equaliser. Sadly for Leeds this would be their bad day at the office where the printer wasn't working and the photocopier was on the blink. In a blizzard of shots in front of the Sunderland goal, Lorimer's shot from point blank range in front of Jim Montgomery, the  Sunderland keeper, was tipped onto the bar after Montgomery had, by some miracle of nature, flung himself across to push two shots onto the bar as a helpless Lorimer could only flick out at thin air. To this day it remains the most amazing double save in any FA Cup Final. 

Then two years later after Leeds had indulged in another spot of League title winning, Leeds went to Paris to take on the brilliantly organised and classy German side Bayern Munich in the 1975 European Cup Final. In an evenly balanced game both Leeds and Bayern Munich had gone toe to toe. Once again Lorimer came face to face with yet more rejection and heartbreak. When the ball fell to him perfectly outside the Bayern penalty area, the Scotsman leathered a low shot low and beyond the German keeper Sepp Maier which, for all the world, looked as if might be the winning, decisive goal for Leeds. 

Suddenly while Bremner, Giles, Madeley, Cherry and Jack Charlton were ready to celebrate on the Champs Elysees and the sweeping boulevards of Paris, along came the cruellest of decisions. The referee had blown for offside, the goal was chalked off and Bayern Munich went on to win the European Cup. Lorimer, in common with the rest of his downbeat and distraught colleagues could only stare at several bottles of red plonk and then hit the bars next to the Gare Du Nord with perfectly good reason. An understandable reaction.

Lorimer though would continue to  wear the white shirts of Leeds United with utter distinction, never objecting, sometimes questioning authority but always aware that the hardest shot in football would never be that far away. There were powerful pile drivers which rippled opposition nets or low, firmly driven shots that fizzed underneath  flailing opposition keepers. 

There is a school of thought that, by modern day standards, none could possibly compare to Lorimer. The medicine ball which weighed several tons in bygone years, is now almost as light as a feather. And yet Lorimer swung back his foot from any distance and scored goals that sent shock waves through the old First Division. The rocket had been delivered and the reverberations could be heard on the other side of the Pennines. 

Now though most of that celebrated Leeds side has now left the Elland Road building to a celestial game of five a sides where Billy Bremner is still shouting vociferously at his players for more effort, Johnny Giles is still painting pictures with his feet and Norman Hunter is probably biting knees. Peter Lorimer is the latest great to join his team mates in heaven. Farewell Peter Lorimer. We can still hear that shot. The last shot has been fired but if you listen carefully, you'll still hear it somewhere. 

It's almost spring but not quite.

 It's almost spring but not quite. 

We are now approaching the first day of springtime. Have you a spring in your step or you still finding your feet? The ides of March, with all its blustery winds and howling storms, are now subsiding into some far off land that winter used to know. For exactly a year now, a violent virus has swept the world, transforming it, breaking it in half and then leaving the finality of death behind it. 

Recently you've found yourself drawn to poetic outbursts and wish that life had a poetic symmetry rather than the rough edges and painful repercussions that could last for quite a while. Still, here we are a couple of days before spring takes its floral pageantry into another time and place. The seasons have come and gone since the dawn of the calamitous coronavirus and the shock waves can still be felt. But perhaps there is a concluding chapter to this hugely dramatic episode in our lives. And maybe it's made us stronger and mentally harder, capable of withstanding anything that may come our way. 

Spring of course is that rebirth, that renaissance where everything looks rosier, healthier, prettier, brighter, smarter, boding well for the future since the past was pockmarked with all kinds of burnt out shells, damaged souls, sluggish minds and a whole host of aches, strains and pains. Spring is that recovery period before summer when batteries are recharged, mindsets are adjusted accordingly and you just want to rush out of your front door and hug your brother, sister, aunt, cousin or uncle. Goodness me when was the last time you saw them?

Essentially spring is a celebration of nature, when burgeoning gardens with tulips, daffodils, crocuses and daisies always seem to know when the time is right. It's that transitional period when all the ailments of winter can be shrugged off almost miraculously with a seven mile, invigorating walk with your dog and a 20 mile run through a whole succession of suburbs. You may be tempted to follow that up with another sequence of roads, country lanes, forests and a couple of laps around the park just for good measure. 

This has undoubtedly been one of the most historically challenging periods of our lives, a gruelling assault course of restrictions, restraints, an abundance of new laws, breakdowns, lockdowns, sound and fury, disbelief and shock. Then there were the Thursday evenings of our lives tinged with syrupy sentimentality, heartfelt clapping and a desperate plea for the virus to just come to an end. But then it went on and on until there seemed no turning back. We were stuck with it and that had to be the final word. 

And yet here we are poised to embrace spring a year later yet again hoping that what used to be never ever happens again to anybody. It should be the time of the year when the ducks, swans and geese greet the new season with a hospitable quacking sound that can be heard in every town, city and village. To be honest the sooner Covid 19 vanishes into some dark hole the better. It's outstayed its welcome and we'd rather you not come back at any point in the foreseeable future. 

We're done with the incessant breast beating, the arguments, the recriminations when things had hit rock bottom, the constant accusations levelled at misbehaving politicians who were determined to break the law they'd just implemented. We've had enough of those seemingly endless Press briefings at 10 Downing Street when Boris looked at Patrick and Patrick looked at Chris without ever knowing quite where the virus was going. So Boris shrugged his shoulders like a man who didn't see the accident and couldn't possibly comment. 

Still it'll be spring shortly and in Amsterdam the tulips should be blooming in profusion, although the canals have yet to welcome back their increasingly frustrated tourists because you just can't do boat trips at the moment. In the London parks of Hyde, Regents, St James's there should be an air of freedom, a sweet perfume of primrose, the merest suggestion that summer has started knocking on the door while the blackbirds and pigeons tuck  ravenously into another loaf of Mothers Pride bread. 

So ladies and gentlemen spring is in the air and none of us are entirely sure whether those cultural certainties such as the Grand National or the London Marathon will be allowed to go ahead. Thoughts normally turn to that annual University boat race but even rowing a simple boat seems to be fraught with risks and dangers. But fear not because spring has not been cancelled because Easter chocolate eggs and Pesach(passover) matzos are still available and even chocolate matzos are dirt cheap, a real bargain. Oh you can feel it in your bones. This year will happen. It has to and it will.    

Murray Walker- a motor racing legend dies.

 Murray Walker- a motor racing legend dies.

Murray Walker, who died yesterday at the grand old age of 97, was never short of the right words for the big occasion and never lacking in the communication skills that more or less came naturally to him. Walker was instantly recognisable as the voice of F1, a motor racing TV commentator par excellence, a man who genuinely loved his sport with an unmistakable passion and was swept away by its many moods and mannerisms, its intensity and urgency, and its often horrific outcomes. 

When Walker made his BBC debut in 1949 it was as if the world of motor racing had just discovered a stick of dynamite, a turbo-charged force of nature who just launched whole heartedly into a riot of verbal eulogies, grammatical works of art and the kind of short, sweet and laconic descriptions that were never less than endearing. He embraced motor racing, energised motor racing and believed implicitly that it was quite the most magnificent sport he'd ever seen. His words were punched out with a delightful enthusiasm that none could possibly come anywhere near  matching. 

Yesterday the helter-skelter, daredevil, explosive and death defying world of motor racing lost a man whose very appropriate and high pitched deliveries in front of a microphone lit up the sport in an instant like a flash of lightning. But above all he became besotted with motor racing's characters, those boiler suited gentlemen who squeezed into those tiny, cramped F1 cars and then clung onto their steering wheel as if their lives depended on it which was quite often the case. 

In the days when Murray Walker was a BBC commentator, motor racing was one of those popular and fashionable sporting attractions but never quite as high profile as cricket, football, tennis or rugby. The rarefied world of F1 has always been glamorous and enthralling but, for those of us unfamiliar with its finer points and technicalities, it always seemed tedious, repetitive, frightening and almost too hard to bear. You would watch motor racing through closed fingers, a palpitating beat of the heart, shock and bafflement, something you would never recommend to your son or daughter.  

But if any man was more qualified to familiarise us chapter and verse with motor racing's often hectic tempo, its inexplicable risks and always inherent dangers, then Walker was your go to man. From the moment the chequered flag went up at Brands Hatch or Silverstone or any of those iconic F1 venues across Europe and the world, he would scream and shout, holler and yell at the top of his voice which had now begun to show signs of rebellion but would never become a blunt instrument. 

In recent years Walker would find common ground with Damon Hill who he willed home to victory in many a grand prix. Hill's father of course was Graham, that classy, stylish, neat moustachioed English gentleman who was posh but disciplined, refined, dashing and debonair, a man Walker could always identify with. When Graham Hill died in a tragic accident, Walker must have been heartbroken but Hill's son Damon would emerge from dad's shadow like a knight in shining armour. Walker was in seventh heaven.

Walker though was always at the centre of motor racing's fast and furious universe. He waxed lyrical about the romantic Frenchman Alain Prost, an outstanding driver who was never far from controversy but illuminated F1 like the brightest chandelier. Walker had plenty of time for the likes of Emerson Fittipaldi, Britain's very own Jackie Stewart, an intrepid Scotsman, Nelson Picquet and Britain's Nigel Mansell, quite possibly misunderstood by the British public as bland and boring but nonetheless a winner and that's what mattered to Murray Walker. 

Above the deafening roar of a thousand engines, Walker's voice boomed out above the din and the clamour. Then there were women who adored the male and machismo image that F1 had now cultivated. There was something about the acoustics about motor racing that we knew he couldn't get enough of. You somehow suspected that every race, every heart stopping moment was the ultimate challenge for  Walker's now strained tonsils. At times it must have felt like a competition. 

Above all though Walker was an enthusiast, a zealot, a man addicted to the thrills and spills, the dramatic crashes, the uncontrollable speed, cars spinning off the track with sparks flying and engines now trashed forever more. He thrived under pressure, knew exactly what to say and then captured that nail biting moment of life and death with stunning understatement. Go Go Go he would say at the beginning of an F1 classic as if quite suddenly the organisers had decided to call off the race. They would quite literally go like the clappers, 150mph at every bend or chicane so we warmed to him immediately. 

And then there were the modern day favourites like Ayrton Senna who tragically died when the future seemed mapped out for him. Walker just went into raptures knowing full well that here was a tactically ingenious driver who knew exactly when to hit the front and stay there. There was something of the charismatic charmer about Murray Walker that never faltered at all in any given race. He ate, drank and slept motor racing because he knew that the sport's followers did much the same thing.

Sadly though Murray Walker died yesterday and the gap maybe impossible to fill. Because he knew quite knowledgeably, every chassis, carburettor and every gear stick in every car that it was possible to know. He knew those tireless mechanics, the engineers, the constructors, the men who changed the tyres with astonishing efficiency and professionalism, men who could change the course of a race in a matter of seconds, the owners, the often complex management behind the scenes. Murray Walker has now seen his last F1 race and the world of motor racing will send its very fondest wishes to his family and friends. Farwell Murray Walker. Your voice will never, ever be forgotten.     

A year on and Covid 19 rolls carefully towards the end.

 A year on and Covid 19 rolls carefully towards the end. 

It doesn't really feel like a year but it is and that's an undeniable fact. It's been one whole year since the entire globe stood still, static, statuesque, blinded by the headlights and then reduced to utter stagnation, immobility and finally lockdown. Little did we know at the time that it would take nearly as long as this to resolve or find the definitive cure to a worldwide medical ailment which eventually became a torment. 

But the ides of March are upon us and abnormality could be about to meet up with normality in a way that it had never thought possible. Who could have foreseen this state of affairs at any time in our lives. But for a year now we have withstood the rigours of Covid 19, regretted what could have been but never was and then blamed anybody who knew nothing of this mysterious virus. We looked at each other, examined all of the statistics, figures and scientific data and still we agonised endlessly. How did it happen and why was it allowed happen? More to the point could the coronavirus have been avoided? Probably not.

Still, this could be that crucial moment when we gaze across at our friendly medical officers, hoping that sooner rather than later that the green light will be given, the air traffic controllers have given their thumbs up and the world can be restored to the rudest of health. It is not quite the time to put on clown's outfits or dress up as court jesters or indeed throw custard pies at each other because June 21 is the day set aside for colossal celebration and monumental, mammoth street parties. Some of us would like nothing better than a week in a pub garden, maybe a medieval banquet groaning with plentiful supplies of chicken legs, mutton, venison, beef or just a family barbecue that just keeps going until the end of this year. 

Today we learn that a vast majority of Britain have now had the first vaccine designed to keep the numbers of infected Covid-19 cases down to a respectable level. We are down to only an average 250 deaths a day which, although still a wretchedly disturbing amount, is still much more of a substantial achievement than it was back in dreadful January when we were talking of well over a 1,200 fatalities a day which still sounds like quite the most horrendous number. 

The wards and hospitals of some of Britain's finest hospitals are no longer populated by quite as many visors or masks than there were a couple of months ago when it looked as if some of those poor nurses were on the point of a major breakdown. How we sympathised with the two nurses who had to be ushered to one side and told to cry it all out. They simply couldn't take it any longer. The unreasonable pressures placed on some of the most admirable and well qualified members of the medical profession had now taken its toll on them. They were at breaking point and some were pleading for end to this seemingly incessant illness. 

Now however the tides are turning and by the end of May hopefully we can all turn to each other once again and slap each other on the back in congratulation. And then we can abandon ourselves to a million glasses of foaming Guinness, a huge consignment of every conceivable lager ever produced and then just wash away our sorrows with vineyards of red and white wine from every corner of France. Then we'll attack large off licences of brandy, port, whisky, cognac, an impertinent Chardonnay and another lorry load of  spirits, scotch, mead if you can find it anywhere before downing every intoxicating cocktail in western civilisation. It should be the most unforgettable party of all time. 

Then we'll head off to the teeming, heaving West End of London because that's the way it should be even when we didn't think it would ever be. We'll put on our glad rags, brandish some of the most outlandish flags and banners ever seen, print  whole sequences of funny, old messages and the latest in jokes of the day before doing the conga around the lions in Trafalgar Square for the 570th time. We'll have a ball and we'll never forget this particular day because there were times when we must have convinced ourselves that this day would never arrive. 

If Westminster council, in their infinite wisdom, have got any sense of occasion, the great British public should be able to attend the loudest pop music, 1970s and 1980s disco, the most classical names, bands and singers from the 1950s and 60s. And then perhaps for an hour or two homages to the great composers of the 18th and 19th century with a dash of wartime glory from Glen Miller, Frank Sinatra, Duke Ellington, Count Basie and Dame Vera Lynn. 

For quite a while some may have been tempted to make nonsensical comparisons with the Second World War. But this is quite absurd. And yet it just feels as though we have been totally estranged from our loved ones, kept imprisoned in our homes and then compelled to stay there for as long as possible. There is a lot of lost time to make up and much psychological damage that has to be addressed and healed. Some of us feel as though the outside world has now become a permanent exclusion zone, a world trapped in complete isolation, where even the birds and pigeons are more or less clueless. 

But hey come on folks. The world is now about to open up its springtime song book, the season of cuckoos and tulips, more and more runners in parks, loose fitting shirts, longer days, abundant cherry blossom, gambolling sheep and lambs just itching to get out into that meadow for a good, old fashioned snack of grass while the rest of us think of Easter and chocolate eggs, Pesach or Passover for the proud Jews that we are. 

Before you can bat an eyelid April will ignore the inevitable showers, shrugging them off as some urban myth when the thermometer says 80 degrees in the shade or maybe wishful thinking. By the middle of May the coronavirus could well be dumped unceremoniously into the dustbin of history and we can begin to climb out of this deep well, this large hole in the ground from which there seemed no redemption. So here's the slogan for the age. Never stop believing. It's slowly but surely and very cautiously but June 21 has a lovely ring and resonance. Keep safe everybody. And try to focus on the longest day of the year. This may be a gross understatement but it could be pretty memorable. 

Schools in for spring.

 Schools in for spring. 

Hooray! And not before time. This morning a nation of parents leapt up and down in their respective kitchens and living rooms in quite the most ecstatic outpouring since their precious offspring were born. It was a seminal day, perhaps a turning point in the fortunes of a country who thought perhaps their children would never ever return to school, thus depriving the kids of a wholesome education and a future that would glow with health forever more. Some of us were beginning to wonder whether any of us would we see a generation of academically equipped and stimulated teenagers who could reach out for the stars. 

On Monday morning the children of Britain went back to school and a vast cross-section of the population and parents up and down the land could happily wave their children goodbye and back into an environment where they could thrive and learn, socialise normally and harmonise with their old friends, the friends they must have thought they would never see again. So off they went down the road, satchels on their shoulders, shoes shone to perfection, tie straightened and respectability ensured. Oh and don't forget to tuck in the freshly ironed shirt because that's vitally important. No, seriously it is. 

It now seems like an age ago since the school gates were abruptly shut for what at the time seemed like a temporary break since there was a silly old virus at large where people coming into close proximity with each other were somehow regarded as outcasts, pariahs, infected and ultimately deadly. But try telling that to a young and impressionable kid who just wants to play football with his mates or skip the evening away. How do you begin to explain a deadly global virus to a child who just wants to get on with everyday living?

But today the kids went back to school and the parents will shut their front door, privately relieved and hoping that all of the voluntary home school tuition will become permanent history. The children have once again been re-united with the times tables, their essential grammar, vocabulary and English lessons, their maths, geography, history, physical exercise, biology, chemistry, art, drama, woodwork and metalwork, all of those properly structured disciplines that serve as that fundamental foundation stone of their lives. It was at this point that their lives began and the first seeds of inquisitiveness, fascination and learning are planted. 

And yet for what may have seemed like an eternity the kids have finally re-discovered the enjoyment of real life rather than some frustrating hiatus that where very little was achieved. So the children sat down with mum and dad after the daily intake of Coco Pops cereal and knuckled down to the onerous task in hand. Mum and dad may have had the world of patience but neither could have prepared for this eventuality. 

There was a time when of course when the school curriculum and timetable became something we may have taken for granted. You started your educational climb to the summit of your chosen life career assuming that everything would go smoothly. It was roughly the week after the August Bank Holiday, just in time for the conker season and then the autumnal festivals of Harvest Festival, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. 

Then your son or daughter would logically follow their planned schedule of lessons until perhaps the middle of October before racing towards the Christmas and Chanukah break. At secondary school you were then conditioned to a punishing regime of homework followed by masses of more homework, preparation for life defining exams and then the last year GCSE's and A Levels in their last year. 

Regrettably though last year ran to an entirely different pattern for schoolchildren. Suddenly the playground would turn into some lonely desert island and the kids were just stuck at home, twiddling their thumbs and fingers. So mum and dad would now clock on for employment as substitute teachers,  roles they quite clearly felt they were wholly unsuited for and didn't seem too keen on signing up for. 

This morning though Britain and Boris Johnson's Tory government found it in its heart to give the thumbs up for a full return to springtime classroom activity. It's been a long time coming but to quote that worn out cliche, all good things come to those who wait. You always found yourselves wondering why schoolchildren had to be the unwitting victim of circumstances. How were we to know that youngsters were just as susceptible to Covid 19 as the rest of the world but then the doors were closed in those mostly Victorian buildings of study, contemplation and scribbling things down in exercise books. 

When former Prime Minister Tony Blair came into office in 1997, he promised that all of the country's best efforts would be concentrated on Education, Education, Education. Our children would be Britain's next economists, lawyers, solicitors, policemen and women and perhaps more pertinently now, medical scientists. History will pass judgment on Blair's leadership but you are firmly of the opinion that he was pretty right and accurate about most of Labour's manifesto pledges.

Now though Boris Johnson is faced with the almost impossible task of reassuring parents and children that their lives will become considerably simpler and infinitely easier than it might have been a couple of months ago. School days, we were reliably informed, should be the best of our lives from the moment we heard that first scratch of chalk to the detailed explanations about everything that needs to be taught. 

But then along came the coronavirus and all life seemed to come to a grinding halt. Throughout the whole of the first lockdown we were informed that kids shouldn't have to suffer because of some clumsy accident in some far off laboratory or a wet market in China. They had to be in school come what may and now finally on day one of their disrupted education, they're eager than ever no doubt and desperate to hear the commanding bark of a million teachers voices. Or maybe not depending on your point of view. 

So here we are at the first stage of the great British rehabilitation, that tentative, slowly, slowly, softly,  softly recovery back to full health in the UK. The kids will run enthusiastically back into their playgrounds, chasing, scurrying, screaming, laughing and just enjoying what comes naturally to kids who just want to be socially connected rather than distanced. This has been all too much for them and it couldn't have come at a better time. 

The normally stuffy, conservative image of the fusty old teacher at the front of the class with a gown, cap and stick may be a dusty, old antediluvian one, a direct throwback to Goodbye Mr Chips. But then we entered the school premises with all those wondrous pieces of playground furniture. There were the grubby looking drinking water fountains, numbers painted onto the wall that would signify some strange kind of playground game and then the changing room shed for the boys after a vigorous football match.

These are the moments our children couldn't wait to be a part of if only because they must have felt a terrible sense of alienation from a world they'd become used to. So the kids are back at school and parents around the world will be openly greeting their offspring after another busy day at the Great British school classroom.

We are now eight days into March and within the next couple of weeks, the world will gradually be easing its way back into customary routines once again. And how we've missed them. For some of us April doesn't seem that far away although it's hard to imagine what'll actually happen within this crucial period leading up to early Spring. We are now within shouting distance of the winning tape and June 21 has now been pencilled in as the official opening date for normal life. 

Still the kids are back at primary, secondary and grammar school and that's probably the best news we've all heard for quite a while. We may be struggling to find a clearing in this now haunted woodland but we're getting there and resolution is almost upon us. There is a conclusion in this very dramatic saga, a rosy cheeked complexion on the face of Britain, a genuine feelgood factor that could reach fruition sooner rather than later. So everybody, get out the bunting for the street party, book your place in the West End, drag some whistles and horns out of your cupboard and celebrate. You deserve it folks.       

Into the final straight and not long to go now.

 Into the final straight and not long to go now. 

For many of us this has been the most emotional roller coaster of our lives and recently it has become very troublesome and moving, touching and raw, deeply penetrating your soul and mind, attacking the very core of your being without destroying it as such. So you detach yourself, force yourself back to where you were before this all started. And still it probes away at your subconscious, taunting and teasing you every so often, asking impossibly profound questions and leaving you drained, still devastated, sinking into morose introspection, crying like a maternity ward of babies and still missing the mother who gave birth to you. 

It has now been over a week since my dear, lovely mum passed away and they tell you that the pain of loss doesn't really subside until you reach that moment of ultimate closure, where the childhood reminiscences float ethereally around us like angels with harps who just want to comfort you. But you have no words and you have no sentences, no paragraphs for a minute or two before realising that this feeling has now taken up residence in your mind, still drifting across your vision like sepia- tinted photographs in Kodak Instamatic splendour. 

There were the ground-breaking holidays to Spain, the Costa Del Sol, Benidorm, Majorca among a multitude that would follow in later years with your wife and family, when you became the parents they used to be but are sadly no longer more. Those were the days when your mum tucked you up in bed tenderly, shortly after Crossroads with Noel Gordon, then looked forward to the weekend when you would sit in the swings and then cling onto the roundabouts of your local park because mum and dad loved to make a fuss of you. 

Now though you are without the lady who did her utmost to make you feel important, dignified, loved, wanted, cossetted, pampered, protected from the potential dangers that might lead to that first fall from your charming, lime green bike with stabilisers. Mum was the one who kissed it better, stuck the firmest of plasters on a bleeding wound and consoled you deeply when you came last in the egg and spoon race on school sports day. Mum smoothed your passage into a world sometimes fractured and divided, argumentative and hostile, frequently at war with itself and politically anguished. 

But mum always knew best, always had her sons best interests at heart, preparing you carefully for the failures and the setbacks, the minor disappointments and then the victories against the odds when you'd passed an exam or got full marks in your spelling test. You'll always think back to yesteryear because that was a time of safety and security, of gentle encouragement and light hearted chastisement when you simply refused to read a book, knowing foolishly that you had to read in order to get on in life. 

And so you try to imagine what your mum must have thought of the ongoing coronavirus crisis. Warmly wrapped up and cocooned in the place she called her dolls house, a flat merely a couple of miles away from the house she and her family used to live in, she would express her agonised despair and frustration. She would affectionately refer to Covid 19 as the CV, a splendidly simple description for an enormously complicated virus that had killed millions across the world. 

Today we now reach what feels like the final furlongs in a horse race that seems to have lasted forever. We are heading towards the back straight and approaching that golden horizon where the world will shortly fling open the blinds and watch an explosion of jubilation, a global celebration, the end of the Covid 19. Even the beginning of March feels, quite bizarrely, like the end of April such has been the speed of change in the air and the exciting possibilities that a full recovery will now bring sooner rather than later. 

You can still see your late mum closing her eyes in utter bemusement, wiping her legs and ankles in some fruitless quest to keep the blood flowing and in functioning circulation. She would rest her head back  awkwardly, movingly, helplessly, trying tearfully to find solace in something that would finally bring an end to her mental and now physical suffering. But then we would laugh at the wondrous progress that was being made to combat the virus, crushing it into oblivion once and for all.

But when my dear mum said goodbye to her doting family for ever, she must have known that the virus was almost over because mum always had exceptional powers of foresight. Even now you suspect that mum is still here with our family confidently believing that by Easter and Pesach, matzos and chocolate eggs will be eagerly devoured surrounded by our families and your families, our smiles and your smiles, our jokes and your jokes. Oh happy days. 

Ian St John, Liverpool's striking warrior and TV joker.

 Ian St John, Liverpool's striking warrior and TV joker. 

Ian St John, who died yesterday at the age of 82, was one of British TV's most unlikely and improbable of funny men. During the ground-breaking, eventful, revolutionary and eventful 1960s when the whole world spun on its axis a hundred times over, St John was one of the most effective, powerful and lethal strikers for one of the greatest football clubs of all time. The team was Liverpool and St John always carried himself with a modesty and humility that very few could match.

Ian St John scored one of the winning goals for Liverpool in the 1965 FA Cup Final with a trademark poacher's goal that was typical of the man. St John was always in the right spot at the right time and finished off those beautifully constructed Liverpool attacking movements with either a fierce header into the roof of the net or a thunderbolt of a shot that billowed the opposition net in no time. He was a fundamental part of two of Liverpool's old First Division championship teams who lifted the League trophy with a righteous pride and dedication to the cause at all times. 

But yesterday the effervescent lad from Motherwell passed away peacefully among his family and friends, a father, commendable fund raiser for local charities and, most certainly, one of the most cheerful men on London Weekend TV in a Britain who instantly fell in love with his engaging quips, infectious laughs and the unrivalled humour that came to define his outlook on life.  

For a number of years 'Saint and Greavesie' shot to prominence as one of the funniest, quirkiest and, above all, most entertaining of football's TV magazine shows. By the time St John had teamed up with that other legendary forward Jimmy Greaves, the whole of Britain could identify with two men who had established not only the warmest rapport on TV but cast an entirely new and radiant light on the game they'd always loved. 

For Ian St John it had all started way back in those swinging, rocking and rolling 1960s at a time when everything suddenly became possible, feasible, accessible, desirable and impressive looking. He'd grown up in Motherwell, a Scottish team who had muddled their way through the years and seasons without ever challenging the status quo and the established dominance of both Rangers and Celtic. 

So what did he do. Bill Shankly, Liverpool's hugely revered and idolised manager, was hunting around for strikers to complete Liverpool's all conquering, unbeatable aura. Before St John's arrival Liverpool had won the old First Division trophy on a number of occasions. But then Ian St John was plucked from relative obscurity and Liverpool were both reformed and transformed overnight. They went from being nobodies and easy pickings to the team nobody wanted to face on a Saturday afternoon. 

St John, as we all know, played alongside some of the most irrepressible talents ever to be seen in a red Liverpool shirt. There was the whippet quick, fast and furious, delicate and deceptive wing wizardry of Peter Thompson, all slippery, sinewy, snake hipped movement, petrifying pace and a goal scorer extraordinaire. There was Ian Callaghan, controlled, studious, a midfield engineer and architect with all the tricks of the trade. Callaghan had the softest touch on the ball, a steadying influence amid the muck and bullets, quietly going about his business and then seizing on the opposition's shortcomings with a slide rule pass or measured through ball. 

At the heart of that very distinguished Liverpool's defence was Ron Yeats, a Goliath at the back, ruthless, immovable, impregnable, a rock, a boulder blocking all paths to goal and totally unapologetic. Yeats must have taken a young St John under his wing and told him that if he didn't score a hat-trick on any match day for Liverpool his ear would be blasted by a verbal grenade. And yet, in all seriousness, St John was never one for hiding from the artillery, the critical comments that he must have bombarded with from the Kop when Liverpool were struggling for goals.

Yesterday though Ian St John joined the rest of his professional colleagues who have so recently departed the global footballing community. St John, though will be recalled with enduring affection because he was the forerunner for Liverpool's conveyor belt of successors to his throne. Maybe the likes of Kevin Keegan and John Toshack will raise a toast for Liverpool's 1970s attacking royalty. It will surely be the finest of red wines.

Or maybe St John will be slotted into the category of fabled strikers who lit up the 1980s. When the likes of Ian Rush and Kenny Dalglish offered their warm condolences to the St John family, friends and acquaintances, they knew that they too had been the authors of one of the great footballing stories of all time.

But for now Ian St John will be laid to rest and you can still hear that unmistakable cackle of laughter, the easy going sincerity in his voice when he referred to football and Liverpool. For St John scoring goals was not so much an art form more of a genuine pleasure. This morning the Kop will indeed bow its head once again because they will readily acknowledge that St John had, in a sense, become one of their adopted and favourite sons, a player who gave everything, blood, sweat and tears, goals galore. There will be fond reminiscences of the team in red. In a sense St John was one of Liverpool's own.     

St David's Day.

 St David's Day.

The first day of March was usually synonymous with the very first suggestions of springtime, the faint perfume of those first burgeoning daisies, the tantalising glimpses of tulips, those restless rabbits who keep nibbling away at your household carrots and the English countryside finally sheds its wintertime hibernation, its eerie earnestness and infuriating inhibitions. How alliterative can the seasons be?

Today though is, as you may well know, is St David's Day, a celebration of everything and everybody Welsh. Still, the land of our fathers has been silenced once again, the sweet melodies of Welsh male and female voice choirs now reduced to nothing more than a pained whisper. The continuing coronavirus crisis will hurt the good people of Wales on today of all todays since they can't sing in harmony and the thoracic throats will have to be quietened down since today is not the day for belting out old sea shanties, projecting old hymns from medieval times and good, old fashioned sing songs around the pub piano if indeed they still exist. 

In theory we should be holding up Wales as the land of song, the land of verse and poetry, a country rich in history and tradition as much as the rest of the United Kingdom is in its own way. And yet here we are in the middle of the most devastating global pandemic and all is glumness in Cardiff, gloom in Swansea and inconsolable in Glamorgan. It may be the case that St David's Day will still go ahead in Wales but it may seem like one lingering, anti-climax where all the people just sit there looking both stunned and bewildered by the completely destructive toll that Covid 19 has taken on all of us. 

Deep in the whistling and rustling valleys, the magical mountains, the once very prosperous mining villages and the rich, arable farmland of the Welsh agricultural communities, there is now grief, a real sense of mourning as if perhaps the end of the world had arrived before anybody had asked it. At the best of times Wales was renowned for its stunningly talented rugby union teams, famed for being the best at singing and more recently for having a Welsh football team to be immensely proud of after their Euro 2016 exploits but now it's all come to a grinding halt because a virus has effectively stopped everything. 

True, the Welsh did thrash the English on Saturday with a comfortable victory at the Millennium Stadium and once again you were reminded once again that every so often, when you put an oval rugby ball in the lily-white hands of a red shirted Welshman he does like to put on a spectacular exhibition. When the Welsh decide to play rugby properly it's rather like asking an Italian opera singer to oil his vocal chords and belt out a memorable aria. When a Welshman is in the right mood and the moon is in the right position you can bet your bottom dollar that a thumping victory has been kept up his sleeves. 

St David's Day would perhaps have been far livelier and deliriously happier than perhaps it may seem today. The pub doors would have been flung open at the crack of dawn, the sheep and lamb dressed up and decorated with its brightest and most vivid colours of red and white and old Max Boyce jokes  would have been dug up from the dusty cupboards of history. You almost find yourself wondering what ever happened to Max Boyce and maybe somebody should encourage him to tread the boards again although at the moment that may not be physically possible, advisable or legal. 

You remember the Welsh dragon breathing fire and dogged tenacity at the old Arms Park when Bennett, Edwards, JPR Williams and Mervyn Davies were sweeping the opposition aside like a kitchen broom picking up all the dust and dirt from the floor without so much as batting an eye-lid. The Welsh have always been passionate about life, sport, song and eating leaks with their evening meal but today will be tinged with sadness and annoying exasperation because today normal life has been suspended for the time being at least. 

 Years ago on a family holiday we stepped onto an enchanting steam train that wound its way artistically around the valleys and hills, the misty moors and the brooding mountains. The train journey was rather like a voyage of discovery, a revelation, rather like watching the most perfectly stitched embroidery gradually emerging from the cotton wool clouds hanging delicately over the landscape. 

Then we disembarked from the train and were promptly treated to a magnificent evening of old time jazz music from the finest jazz band you could ever have wished to have heard. Admittedly, it wasn't a paddle steamer on the banks of the Deep South in America. But we merrily gorged ourselves hungrily on burgers at the astonishing barbecue on the station's platform. It was an excellent evening although you did get a temporary bout of food poisoning the following day. 

But of course Wales take enormous pride in its singing tradition when a whole nation grabs hold of the nearest available microphone, bellowing out beautifully the hymns, the folk tunes, the collective sound that will echo through the Brecon Beacons, down into the lush, green fields of  rural Wales, through Llanelli, the welcoming red carpet treatment extended by those postage stamp market towns and villages that mind their own business and then invite you warmly in for an invigorating pint of best bitter.

So today is St David's Day, the day that should have been reserved for lyrical ditties, tales of gothic mystery from the lands of Harlech and classical Welsh sound tracks from many, many moons ago. Somewhere out there Max Boyce may be gathering his thoughts and the good people will be oiling those tonsils for an evening of wine, song, alcoholic refreshment and the charm offensive. Let's make a noise for St. David's Day.