Boris and Sir Keir read the riot act.

 Boris and Sir Keir read the riot act. 

This is probably the most difficult time for any British politician worth their salt. After the most tempestuous year of all time for all concerned, you might have thought  they'd show a little more tact and understanding. But show them a TV camera and give them as much latitude as you can and they'll grab the microphone, pose inanely and then wallow in the adulation. We should have known that, given half the chance, British politicians will always play to the gallery and then brazenly flaunt their speechmaking talents. 

Yesterday, Prime Minister Boris Johnson facing his Labour adversary and shadow leader Sir Keir Starmer quite literally got stuck into Johnson with all manner of colourful accusations that brought nothing but disrepute and discredit upon the House of Commons or as it should be more affectionately referred to as the House of Comedy. 

It may have not escaped your notice but both Johnson and Starmer behaved despicably and appallingly, men deeply at odds with each other as you'd expect them to be but this was just an ugly, unsavoury slanging match that almost descended into a bloodthirsty heavyweight boxing scrap. At any moment you felt sure that eventually the towel would be flung into this fiery pit of oratory and babbling rhetoric. There are times when politicians really do need to remember where they are and the constituencies they profess to represent. 

Here's the story so far. In the middle of a pandemic- which does feel as though it must be approaching its end now, surely- Boris Johnson has been accused of selling the country down the river, ducking and diving, stealing money from the taxpayers pocket, exploiting the system for all its worth and spending the dirty lucre on fixtures, fittings and furnishings on his well appointed home. The mud was promptly chucked at Johnson's face by an exasperated and impassioned Starmer and once again all hell broke loose and not for the first time. 

When Starmer stood up to launch his virulent attack on the Prime Minister, you knew this was not going to be a clean fight. And so it was the gloves were ripped off, teeth were bared, fingers were pointed, inflammatory gestures were made and both men adopted their familiar side on position, backs turning to face a mass of empty green benches and both men's faces beginning to turn a bright crimson red. It could have been any chapter from an Anthony Trollope novel and you suspect that Trollope would probably have had a field day with these two characters. 

Starmer called Johnson a dodgy dealer, a sly, secretive, deceitful and totally dishonest cad who has unforgivably misled the country and dragged the United Kingdom through another sleazy episode in the life and times of Boris Johnson. Starmer could have referred to Johnson as the most incompetent and inept Mayor of London, the worst Foreign Secretary of all time but discretion proved the better part of valour. Instead the Labour leader gave the Prime Minister both barrels but then thought better of it since he'd already indulged in character assassination and besides this was just another day in the office in the House of Commons. 

At this point Boris Johnson, normally quite restrained and mild mannered, exploded in a way that the Mother of Parliament had rarely seen before. Johnson just started yelling loudly at his Labour counterpart, blasting away at Starmer in quite the most explosive fashion, attacking Starmer, peppering his words and sentences with memorable fury. boiling over at times like a seething volcano and then hollering, shouting, desperately humiliating Starmer with the kind of language we didn't know he had. It was shocking, stunning, Churchillian in its force, intensity and sheer volume. 

All around were acres of green benches with ghosts sitting next to both Johnson and Starmer. There was not a soul in sight apart from a small gaggle of politicians who didn't quite know whether to hide or cower away from these brutish bruisers. Of course they were wearing masks because we knew they would and always have done. But the blustering and bellowing continued unabated as Johnson landed punch after verbal punch on Starmer's exposed chin.

Johnson was a  man possessed, releasing powerful and damaging blows on Starmer's crumbling defence. There was a sense of the poisoned pen letter in everything both men could find to undermine each other. The vicious hostility and personal vitriol showed no signs of letting up. By now Johnson was on the warpath, face blazing with wild passions, rattling Starmer, cheeks reddening all the while, blood pressure soaring into the ether and then crashing back onto the ground like a meteorite from outer space. 

At the end of the afternoon session you could almost imagine the metaphorical blood flowing across the floor of the House of Commons, flooding the lobbies and corridors outside with an almost relentless flow. Both Johnson and Starmer laid down their gloves, slouched out of the door while doing their utmost to avoid eye contact. They were not sworn enemies because for the foreseeable future this is how it's going to be in Westminster. They'll reluctantly acknowledge that both had made their point but will continue bickering like feuding neighbours over the garden fence, questioning each other's moral compass, perhaps threatening to snatch each other's lawnmower during the night and then simmering down with a cup of Latte coffee or a mug of Ginseng tea.

Eventually both Johnson and Starmer will achieve some peace of mind because the realisation will dawn on them that a vast majority of India is now suffering with another bout of coronavirus, people are dying in their hundreds of thousands and a good, old fashioned argument in some London debating chamber resounds to the noise of their voices only. You really couldn't make this one up, could you? Shame and disgust are the predominant emotions here. When will British politics get its priorities in the right order. Possibly never. Oh how we despair. 

The quiet Oscars - Hollywood silent again.

 The quiet Oscars- Hollywood silent again. 

Camera, lights, action. Yes folks it's that time of the year again. In glitzy, glittering, glamorous Hollywood, Los Angeles the stars were out there in the firmament, smiling broadly, grinning almost incessantly and pleased as Punch. Once again that vast acting community slapped themselves on the back and indulged in yet more self congratulation. Sadly though, Hollywood was as quiet as a library, a grim setting for the  actors and actresses who ply their trade in front of the cameras, unfortunate victims of circumstances but nonetheless puffed up with delusions of grandeur, always recognising that they were still the centre of attention. 

Throughout the years, decades and another century, the great and good of the Hollywood merry go round have touched and moved us with their breathtaking brilliance and wondrous acting dexterity. The honorary likes of James Stewart, Cary Grant, Burt Lancaster, Paul Newman, Gregory Peck, John Wayne, Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers, Bette Davis, Lana Turner, Meryl Streep and everybody who has ever been associated with Hollywood greatness, will never be forgotten but last night it all looked as if everybody had been run out of the Wild West saloon once occupied by John Wayne and disappeared.

Last night the yearly film fest that is the Oscars award ceremony parked itself on a deserted car park, trying to pretend that all was well but privately grieving another Covid 19, bio-secure bash. This is not the way it should have been and we're all painfully aware of the underlying reasons for this no show. But the ceremony was still given the green light even though it may just as well have been in black and white. 

Now we had the spectacle of well rewarded film stars sheepishly accepting their fate because there was no other way of completing the evening. They were all elegantly dressed of course they were virtually, dinner jackets, shirts and ties in impeccable taste while the ladies smiled dutifully in their fashionable, designer influenced dresses. But somehow the Oscars went ahead although you would never have known it. 

There were no flashing cameras, no microphones the size of the conventional Hollywood mansion and none of the fixtures and fittings of stardom, the trappings of celebrity that normally goes hand in hand with the Oscars. There were no red carpets, none of what some would describe as its enduring superficiality and therefore nothing to talk about. We could have sung the praises of the celebs who did make it for the ceremony but that wouldn't really have done any justice for what really happened. It was a show but then again this was more of a show without the necessary supporting acts. 

This was a parody of the Oscars, an unavoidably downsized and very downcast Oscars, an almost lifeless occasion where some of the more legendary names of Hollywood past and present were struggling with their anxieties, their frustrations and then there was that unmistakable desire to be the most outstanding star on the night. The feverish audience they may have become accustomed to had now been reduced to a video conference call and their faces had been narrowed to a square in front of your TV screen. 

But strikingly there was one of  Britain's greatest of all thespians. Sir Anthony Hopkins is quite possibly one of the most versatile film stars the United Kingdom has ever produced in recent times. Hopkins will always be renowned for his role as that sinister looking character in Silence of the Lambs, a man who came face to face with Jody Foster and hissed like a snake in the famous prison scene. 

Little has been seen of Hopkins for well over a year since the whole of the film industry had now been shut down for the duration, studios locked down and friendships temporarily put on hold because of coronavirus. But Hopkins has been working tirelessly and the result was 'For the Father', a story about a man suffering from dementia and all the attendant heartache that comes with this debilitating disease. Olivia Colman, another remarkable actress, plays her part wonderfully and with immense assurance. 

The Best Actress Oscar went to Frances Mcdomand and the best film was Nomadland while Chloe Zhao became the first Asian woman to become Best Director. And so it was that the Oscars of 2021 was over for another year barely noticeable if truth be told. There were no emotionally heartrending acceptance speeches to a huge audience and there were no novel length thankyous that normally take us deep into the following morning when most of the caretakers had gone home and the lights were switched off at midnight. There's no business like no showbusiness like no business we know or so the song goes. Where are you cinema? We've been missing you so much.  

Shakespeare's birthday and St Georges Day.

 Shakespeare's birthday and St Georges Day.

Deep in the heart of Stratford Upon Avon, the candles will be ablaze on the birthday cake and that venerable playwright and poet will be patriotically praised, lionised, quoted and trumpeted across every literary landscape where his name is now as familiar as the National Anthem. He was the one who composed all of  those pioneering, theatrical productions that were so fabulously performed by every actor and actress since time immemorial, that the Oxford English Dictionary may find it hard to adequately express its eternal gratitude. 

William Shakespeare was born on this day in 1564 many centuries removed before anybody had ever thought of electricity, TV, the Internet, radio or even Corn Flakes. Shakespeare was one of Britain's most renowned and foremost of all writers. It is impossible to place him in any potential Top 100 bestsellers list but there will always be room on one of the Times Literary Supplement features. You can imagine wandering around all of those well read literary festivals in Britain and feeling inspired to write your story. But Shakespeare seemed to get there before everybody else and the ripples can still be seen in Shakespearean school classrooms where the Bard is still a prominent force for good on those groaning library shelves. 

For the last year or so none of us have been anywhere as such and even the Globe Theatre, the London home of Shakespeare's most dramatic sonnets and acting excellence, is still waiting patiently for the end of Covid19. Who could ever forget  those unforgettable lines that have been precisely articulated with utterly correct pronunciation wherever the Bard is flavour of the month? At the moment though the spirit of Shakespeare may still be flourishing but some of us believe that somewhere out there dear William must be in floods of tears. What on earth would he have made of a 21st century virus that just seems to go on and on?

Ever since his death in 1616 the world and his family have known, heard about or discussed the name of Shakespeare in hallowed school and university corridors, the most exhaustively remarked upon and historical name of all time. The adaptations of the Bard's work have travelled the length and breadth of every corner of the world and everyday we unwittingly utter a sentence that has its direct origins in one of Shakespeare's plays or comedies. 

But here we are on the birthday of Shakespeare and any celebration of St Georges Day still seems muted and almost hardly visible. Of course the English have forgotten their very own patron saint because they always have done and feel no shame whatsoever. While the Irish down several keg loads of Guinness and the Welsh sing sonorously on St David's Day in full choir mode, in England they still believe that the only one historic event we should ever feel proud of is the 1966 World Cup Final or beating the Aussies at cricket while not forgetting the boating regattas at Henley. We do rather well at Wimbledon tennis every 70 years or so and we're not bad at hockey from time to time. 

The truth is that St Georges Day is, and has been for as long as any of us can remember, one of those non events where nobody does anything to mark the occasion. There are no lavish street carnivals, no festivals, no flags apart from the odd tattered England flag or banner from 1966 and none of those street parties for the kids and families that invariably stretched deep into the evening after the Second World War. 

So what is it with England and St Georges Day. Are we afraid to express our innermost feelings or are we quite content to cherish our privacy. Is it that repression, that modest, stiff upper lip, a natural reserve in case we bump into each other and show too much pleasure. Maybe it is that close proximity to each other, the sense that if we do break out into wild paroxysms of enjoyment that nasty old virus will just send us sliding back to where we were at this point last year. 

Ladies and Gentlemen. Let us, for perhaps a while, think about England in all her beauty and diversity, the countryside with its lush layers of green fields and that agricultural majesty. The cynics may tell us that it's all too easy to fall into  dangerous nationalism rather than patriotic chest beating. We'll always have our England and we'll always have St Georges Day and Shakespeare. So sit back and enjoy that day because things will get easier  and besides Shakespeare might have afforded himself just a hint of a chuckle at today of all days.     

Football in the dock.

 Football in the dock.

Somehow this had to happen. Football once again finds itself in the dock and the jury will have to think very hard in their deliberations. This is not going to be easy watch by any means. In fact there have already been incriminations and recriminations, a sign that football has sacrificed itself on the altar of financial greed and blatant capitalism. There can no other way of dressing this one up. Football should but probably won't hang its head in shame because the profiteering spivs and shysters who allegedly have the best interests of football at heart have turned around and held football to ransom. 

So here we are hopefully approaching the end of a hellish year of the dreaded virus that still lingers in certain parts of the world and all football can do is stick its head in the money trough. Oh what a deplorable state of affairs. There was a time when football was a game of simple methods, timeless values and extremely high standards. The truth is of course that football once had integrity, probity, principles, an enduring care and consideration for the people who both run the game and play the game. 

But today football stands accused of the ultimate crime. Football can only cover its face because it knows it's done something horribly wrong rather like the toddler who opens up the biscuit tin and grabs as many as they can. It is the most heinous act of betrayal, the most radical departure from the norm, almost smacking of treachery and, quite possibly, treason. 

Yesterday a dissident group of UEFA officials came up with one of the craziest, silliest and most impractical idea in the history of football. The proposal of a European Super League involving the very elite of clubs in England and the rest of Europe's leading lights, has exposed so many fault lines in European football's top brass that you'd barely think they would descend to the lowest of levels. 

Some of us were still scratching our heads in utter incredulity because we've heard this potty suggestion before and even then it seemed barely credible. What must be going through the minds of these selfish, mindless, self obsessed members of the football community who think it might be a good idea to set up a competition that nobody wants and more to the point couldn't give two hoots about. But then maybe they've nothing better to do with their time than compile ludicrous ideas to improve the game. 

What we have at work here is the mentality of the absurd and idiotic. A plan to squeeze a seemingly impossible schedule of football matches into the smallest space of time is now on the drawing board. It is logistically nonsensical, realistically insane and just sounds like some despairing cry for help. For the last year football has been skint, destitute and wholly without the vital revenue for its continued existence. There is an air of poverty within the game that none of us could have foreseen and now can hardly believe is still at large, ominously hovering over the sport like the darkest of clouds. 

When Project Restart brought football back again at the end of last June after a seemingly endless oasis of no football at all  the thought of football digging an even deeper hole, seemed scarcely imaginable. But yes, you were right. Football has indeed lost its mind. It has been asked to do something which can only be regarded as a positive breakthrough by those whose pockets are already bulging with millions of pounds.

Now how many long hours, months and weeks have been spent pondering, poring over the possibility of a new format, the kind of brainchild that dear Clive Sinclair must have thought would become a reality. But although Sinclair gave us the C5 to drive on our roads what he didn't know at the time that it was just a passing fad. Sinclair of course was a great inventor but when you come up with new fangled creations you have to believe that they might just work. The C5 didn't quite catch on did it?

And so football must try to re-examine its thought patterns and try to go down different avenues. For the powerful and wealthy likes of Bayern Munich, AC and Inter Milan, Barcelona, Paris St Germain and Uncle Tom Cobley and all this may sound one of the shrewdest ideas ever conceived. But it does seem that football needs to recover its marbles and commonsense since none of us have got time to worry about an already criminally overloaded fixture list of Europa League and Champions League matches and then hope that football can take a European Super League seriously. 

Your mind goes back to the very early days of the UEFA Cup when it was known as the Fairs Cup or when the European Cup Winners Cup was just a superb vehicle for those teams who had just won their country's equivalent of the FA Cup. You now lament sorrowfully the disappearance of the European Cup and now have to make do with the Champions League, a tiresomely long winded competition that seems to go on for ever. 

Way back in the mists of time, we had but only the European Cup, a straightforward knock out competition over two legs where the team at home would have to establish such a commanding lead in the first leg that the second leg would have to be utterly intriguing if the scores were level. But oh no! Now we 've got to contend with those faceless bureaucrats who are now firmly of the opinion that a round robin of apparently glamorous sounding matches between these obscenely wealthy teams is just what football needs at the moment. 

Sadly, football now finds itself beholden to the millions and millions of pounds and euros to be offered by those grasping, acquisitive, moneymaking chairmen who couldn't care less about  football's lowest classes, the commoners, the peasantry, the ones at the bottom of the heap or just about solvent. The likes of Sky Sports and BT must be salivating at the prospect of yet greater riches and let's totally forget about the likes of Rochdale, Torquay, Grimsby and Barrow. They're utterly beneath us. They're old school and should never be spoken of in the same sentence as any potential European Super League. 

Both Arsenal, Liverpool, Manchester United and Manchester City, Spurs and Chelsea though can hardly be blamed for looking enviously at a financial windfall that could make them even more affluent than they already are. But we must hope that football will ignore the publicity, the wacky insistence on feathering its nest and just stamp on this foul smelling proposal. If football can bring itself to its senses and the necessary legislation put in place for the abandonment of this crass piece of thinking. Good riddance to the European Super League and don't darken our corridors again. 

Chelsea reach their second consecutive FA Cup Final.

 Chelsea reach their second consecutive FA Cup Final. 

It almost as if Chelsea knew they were going to reach their second consecutive FA Cup Final. Nothing had changed and nor was it ever likely to. Wembley Stadium was still an oasis desperately need in water, the fans were still at home watching from a very atmospheric living room, rosettes on their club shirts, rattles faithfully playing the same old tune and scarves waving from far and wide, lagers and cups of tea punctuating every goal kick, free kick or corner while on the sofa dads were convinced that their team was by far and way the best team in England.

Football is still missing its familiarity, its traditional home comforts, its old fashioned identities, the sound systems, those incessant vulgarities, the fans mischievous sense of humour, those insulting comments, voices laced with contemptuousness, rivalries deep rooted, the hatred on their tongues, intolerant of each other and wishing nothing but age old misfortune on their respective opponents. 

This is now the business end of the Premier League season. Manchester City, who were determined to win all four of the major trophies on offer at the end of the season, have more or less cleaned up on the domestic front and the Premier League title can only be a matter of weeks away. Chelsea are of course firing on all cylinders and after a shaky, jittery mid season have finally emerged from their winter hibernation as strong contenders for a place in next season's Champions League. 

Yesterday Chelsea booked their place in this year's FA Cup Final with a performance that suggested at some point they will once again become the dominant force that they were when Jose Mourinho was in charge. For much of their season that novice manager Frank Lampard had often skilfully constructed a young team of lively talents, learning their trade and adapting to the go- ahead, innovative style of their manager. It was a team of vibrancy, huge intelligence, wondrous imagination and eye catching cleverness on the ball. 

But then somehow Lampard lost his way and Chelsea suffered. The assured victories had now degenerated into a sloppy, slovenly mess. The team were not working on the exalted levels that they had enjoyed under Mourinho and standards were slipping quite alarmingly. Defeats and dropped points went hand in hand and Lampard was shown the exit door. 

Historically of course Chelsea have always been one of the game's great entertainers, cabaret performers, music hall artists, renowned gag tellers, West End glitterati, tap dancing their way through matches as if football was some outlandish high wire trapeze act or a portrait gallery. When Dave Sexton was boss during the 1970s, Stamford Bridge was reminiscent of Shaftesbury Avenue, a theatrical landmark full of the latest musicians and dancers of the moment, a West End melting pot. 

Some of us still fondly recall the magically mercurial Ray Wilkins, now sadly no longer with us but a midfield player of extravagant gifts, a playmaker of the highest class and always comfortable on the ball. There was Charlie Cooke, tireless, artistic, scheming, subtle, delicate as porcelain, hard tackling and driven. Ron Harris was funny but ruthless, hard as they come at the back, always leaving his legacy on his opponents. There was Ian Hutchinson, he of the celebrated throw and Peter Osgood up front, a lethal goal scorer of stunning goals and a wonderful supporting act when the ball had to be held up.

And yet yesterday evening Chelsea once again showed the swagger, polish, exhibitionism and the expressive short passes. There was a natural cohesion and understanding which was still there like a mahogany cabinet in the corner of your dining room, varnished, immaculate, not a scratch in sight. Chelsea displayed their entire back catalogue, the tricks, the flicks, the subtleties, the trademark craftsmanship, the draughtsmanship, the fine tuned excellence, the fastidious finery, the bows and ribbons, the silky filigree, the braids and tassels.

Under Thomas Tuchel, Chelsea looked like a well oiled piece of machinery, flowing easily and gracefully across Wembley as if football had temporarily become ballet or ballroom dancing for 90 minutes. Their passes were sweet, precise, technically perfect, their movement on and off the ball a fluid mechanism, a team of harmony and melody at times. But this was because you could actually hear the soft shoe shuffle, the ball tapping a thousand notes on your consciousness. Without football supporters football is now clearly audible as well, the ball sending out its very own Morse Code. 

So it was that the likes of Cesar Azpilicueta, a mountain at the heart of Chelsea's severely disciplined defence, Kurt Zouma and Antonio Rudiger stood firm and impregnable at the back, barely troubled if at all. Then the brilliant Thiago Silva was all finesse and refinement, stylish and smooth. Ben Chilwell, a shrewd signing from Leicester City, could be England's most consistent full back, neat and tidy, rarely flustered. 

Then there was the Chelsea midfield engine room, a place of natural creativity, of instinctive touches, utter simplicity and an inclination to attack fluently and dangerously, pausing for thought when they had to and then speeding up the tempo as and when required. Mason Mount is already an England player and deservedly so. Mount's footballing mindset has an obvious originality, a level headed personality, a player with a handsome passing range, a man with almost peripheral vision, youth, confidence and so much to offer the game. 

Both Mount, the imperious Jorginho and the beautifully balanced N'Golo Kante, always the controlling influence and a passer of whimsical magnificence, dominated the middle of the pitch. Kante was perceptive, composed, a player of now experienced pedigree. Up front the German striker Tino Werner, who has struggled to score for Chelsea since he arrived at the club, this time made sure that he would not be forgotten about. 

As for Manchester City this was not the Manchester City of this season or the one before Liverpool so completely bossed last season. Your mind goes back to City's first Premier League title or trophy of any description when on the last day of the season they wrapped up the title with a final day victory over Queens Park Rangers. On that day City were almost driven over the finishing line by hundreds and hundreds of thousands supporters whose fanatical support may have been the difference between finishing first rather than runners up. 

But this season falls into an entirely different time zone and environment. Football is the same as it's always been and yet it doesn't seem to bear any relation to the genuine article. City are back where they belong at the very zenith of the game and after a seemingly irrecoverable slump in the middle of the season when they looked utterly out of contention for anything let alone the Premier League title, Pep Guardiola's pass masters were knitting their quick, quick, slow, slow, staccato, rat a tat patterns, swivelling their protractor around at all manner of  beguiling angles and taking geometry to new heights. 

Sadly City will not be gracing Wembley Stadium with their dignified presence in the FA Cup Final. The immensely gifted Kevin De Bruyne is still capable of producing the most remarkable of long, stupendously accurate, crossfield and diagonal passes. He can also still  slice open defences with  that heavenly collection of slide rule passes in between gaps that suddenly open up in opponents defences without blinking an eye lid. Ruben Dias was a study in poetic motion as well as the ageless Fernandino, grace personified. Aymeric Laporte and Ilkay Gundogan were always searching for something to take the breath away. The Cup Final is not though City's destiny. 

And yet City frequently had nowhere to go at times, their attacking avenues blocked by a blue wall of Chelsea shirts who seemed to grow into the game. Jorginho, the permanently forward looking full back Reece James, Mount, the magnificent Thiago Silva, N'Golo Kante, Hakim Ziyech and Christian Pulisic and Kurt Zouma all seemed to possess a much greater sophistication and subtlety. There was something rather more dashing and debonair about Chelsea's attacks that always looked like winning this FA Cup semi Final. 

Chelsea's winning goal was enough to settle a hugely disappointing first half that seemed to be locked away in some dusty vault. In fact there was something very tiresome and shapeless about the whole game that cried out for something spectacular. For the best part of an hour the match seemed to stuck in a huge vat of sticky treacle, a leaden footed, ultra cautious game stifled by fear and anxiety. 

Eventually Chelsea broke away from the City stranglehold. Tino Werner, Chelsea's German striker who couldn't score a goal however hard he tried, finally ran directly at the back pedalling City defence, kept running before reaching the edge of the City 18 yard area and then laying the ball off simply for the onrushing Hakim Ziyech who came hurtling into slide the ball past the American keeper Zack Steffen. 

So Chelsea are back at the FA Cup Final where they have now become frequent visitors in recent years. Last August they were outmuscled and outwitted by Arsenal, who in the end went the extra mile in the Wembley showpiece. This year Chelsea will meet either Leicester or Southampton in the FA Cup Final which is rather like telling a middleweight that they've just been told that they'll probably come face to face with a cruiserweight. There will no be hint of tentative jabbing or the southpaw leading with a savage hook but you suspect that blue will once again be the predominant colour. Football will indeed be the game.      

Cricket- eternally the summer game.

Cricket - eternally the summer game.

Cricket never really needed any introduction nor it did require any emphasis or confirmation. It was always there quietly waiting its turn until it was told to move forward to the head of the queue. When the strangest Premier League football season heads for its traditional summer break in just over a month, cricket will tumble forward like an excited kid who can barely contain their relief when the school bell goes.

Cricket just does it with its customary style, an effortless bounding down the pavilion steps after which the players in thick white sweaters appear as if by magic and the umpires with their pristine white coats spin coins from bunched fists, treading forward very deliberately and carefully. The English summer can commence on time, in chilly April, hoping that a warm May can pave the way for the sweltering heat and, occasionally mugginess, nay less humidity, of June and July. 

It only seems like yesterday since Joe Root's England team were rushing around in joyous circles, celebrating a gripping World Cup Final victory over New Zealand with a ball to spare. How enthralling was that as a sports spectacle. In fact most of us were covering our eyes, holding onto our breath and hiding behind the sofa such was the intensity and melodrama of that memorable day. But now we've all calmed down and it will be just over a year since the covers came off, the wickets were tenderly maintained and the sound of ball against willow bat was heard resoundingly across the land. 

We do vaguely remember surrendering the Ashes to Australia but we'd rather not be reminded if you don't mind. A vast majority of English cricket supporters do like their moments of patriotic fervour but losing to Australia and the Ashes is just about the worst thing that can happen to upset sporting sensibilities. England, it has to be said, are not gallant losers because they believe that their cricket team are infinitely superior but then the feeling is, you suspect, probably mutual. 

Exactly 40 years ago Ian Botham and his merry men of England rode roughshod over an Australia team who must have regarded defeat as the ultimate affront, a diabolical liberty in fact, an earth shattering indignity that could never be tolerated again under any circumstances. But then facing near certain defeat Mike Brearley, England's studious and highly intellectual captain, whispered something in Botham's ear and the result was a hyper active, animated and improbably destructive display of bowling and batting that English cricket may never see again. 

Still, things happen and if we turn the clock forward we now find a new County Championship season is almost upon us or so we hope it will be. At Lords, the Oval, Headingley, Old Trafford, Trent Bridge and Southampton's Rose Bowl the cricketers in their immaculately ironed shirts, bulky pads and snazzy helmets will clomp their way down the pavilion steps to trickles of applause. From the very young to the elderly they will, between them, conspire to whip up a proper atmosphere at some point during the summer. 

But then again we may have to wait for the cricket season just for a while. Boris Johnson, Britain's now battered and bruised Prime Minister, has given shops, non essential shops, gyms, nail parlours, department stores and most of Britain's now creaking infrastructure permission to function again. Yesterday the regional shopping centres were rejuvenated and revitalised as if suddenly somebody had flicked a switch and a thousand light bulbs were shining brightly. 

On the cricket fields of England the feeling is one of nervous trepidation, a sense of deja vu, a recognition that cricket will still be left staring grimly out of its window and getting very bored. The trouble is that those postcard pretty village green cricketing strips in the English countryside are raring to go and nobody can give them any date as to when normal service will be restored. Besides, this is where the heartbeat of English cricket can be heard quite clearly and grassroots cricket may just go up like a puff of smoke if they can't be allowed to wear their brown and green caps, the chance to put up that makeshift scoreboard where numbered slats are still the order of the day.

Away in the distance  hundreds and thousands of combine harvesters and tractors will be ploughing their lone furrow, acutely aware that a village cricket match could be up and running shortly. Frustratingly it's the uncertainty that could be eating away at every cricketer across Britain. They'll be twiddling their fingers in their dressing rooms, dreaming of half centuries and centuries while all too aware of the significance of the next couple of weeks or so.  

In the meantime all we can do is think back to those mellow days of yesteryear when the celebrated cricket writer and legendary broadcaster John Arlott would go into chapter and verse about the wine he'd just polished off while considering the merits of a Wally Hammond century or the artistic brushstrokes executed by a Len Hutton, Denis Compton or the extraordinary Sir Donald Bradman. 

Cricket offers soothing comforts to fevered brows when the washing machine stops working or the drill next door to you is simply designed to make your life hell. Cricket is synonymous with picnics in the park, summer fetes, village craft fairs, smelling the honeysuckle of the summer festival of life, the goodness of life, the cracks and pulls of the opening batsmen to the boundary, the tentative nudges to backward square leg, forward defensive prods to silly mid on and off, flicking and sweeping the ball arrogantly past third man and then telling yet more jokes to humorous umpires. What other sport could possibly offer more? It has yet to be found.   

Grand National Winner.

 Grand National winner. 

You wait a whole year and then two come along at once. Yesterday for what seemed like the first time in ages  you found yourself a Grand National winner. Now how many years ago since that last happened. Last year of course sport disappeared without trace and never looked like happening at any time or place. So here we are into the fourth month of 2021 and the Grand National did take place but the occasion was once again overshadowed by yet more tragedy and a grievous sense of loss. At some point something nice will occur and we may not be ready for it. 

On Friday morning His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh sadly died and on a Saturday afternoon at Aintree racecourse the memory of Prince Philip was celebrated and richly recognised by nobody in particular at Aintree itself but certainly remembered with fondness by the jockeys, trainers and perhaps even the horses themselves. Grand Nationals are always special occasions and yesterday was no exception. In fact it was pretty historic if truth be told and ground breaking as well for good measure. 

For the first time in the history of this delightfully hardy perennial a female jockey came charging past the winning post at Aintree, thereby ensuring that a very specific breakthrough in the world of horse racing had been confirmed. It isn't often that the ladies have left any kind of imprint on the Sport of Kings but now the word is out. Anything that the men can do women can do equally as well. It may be no small coincidence that both in football, rugby union and cricket, women are very much competing on a level playing field. 

Yesterday Rachael Blackmore, who, a couple of weeks ago, had taken control of the Cheltenham Festival, monopolised  another big race venue with some of the most impressive horse riding that any of the perhaps sceptical punters had ever seen, dominating the event with considerable flair and then making a lasting impression on the fine, upstanding people of Gloucestershire. The Grand National though, was hers to win and she rode her winner Minella Times with astonishing and consummate ease. It may just as well have been an undemanding gallop along Blackpool beach, so comprehensive was her victory. But she did it and gee whizz that felt good. 

But some of us could hardly hold back the excitement since once again we picked the outright winner and we were just overcome with simple elation. The usual procedure of course is that you normally jab a pin into the Saturday sports page of your daily choice of newspaper in the vague hope that a lucrative afternoon will be yours at roughly tea time. Your field of expertise does not stretch to the choice of one horse in perhaps the most famous horse race in the world. So you jab your pin into the Saturday sports section of your newspaper and just hope for the best. It is, admittedly, more by chance than any shrewd judgment. Still it's perfectly harmless and no bookmakers should ever feel remotely troubled by what amounted to guesswork from my humble position. 

In fact yesterday you simply turned to the runners and riders of the Daily Mail Grand National page, assessing all the while recent form, strong recommendations about the potential winner and just going with your gut instinct. So my wife put an each way bet on Minella Times and you then hoped that the inevitable victory would ensue never really sure whether you cared if it did or not. The scene was set on a nippy Saturday afternoon in the spring sunshine of Aintree and Liverpool held its breath. 

Now we're all familiar with the Grand National by now. It is one of those ancient sporting treasures that never fails to enchant and enthral if only because the race itself tends to be regarded as a lottery. Every year a large group of well looked after, almost pampered horses stride elegantly through the paddocks of Aintree, sleek, beautifully groomed animals who always look as if they're about to rub shoulders with royalty. 

Then they all cantered down to the starting tape in the distance, ears pricked, legs full of athleticism and pumped up energy, eyes staring nobly out into the Pennines. Once again the punters and fans who constitute the very spirit of the Grand National were not there to see their favourites. Instead men and women wearing black masks held onto their steeds with proprietorial love and care, stroking their backs, clinging onto their stirrups and then smiling at them as if they were extended members of their family. 

So it was that the runners and riders quite literally jockeyed for position, kept circling around each other at the start rather like one of those John Wayne westerns where the cowboy trots into a wild west town and demands a drink. And there went the breath-taking stampede of hooves, jockeys on horses and a whole sequence of those impossibly daunting fences that seem to get more frightening by the year although this may not be the case.

There they go flying over Beecher's Brook, a fence of such intimidating height that you almost feel a deep sympathy with the horses that have to negotiate it. Then  there's the Chair followed by seemingly endless fences with thick bushes, higher and higher, steeper and steeper. Yesterday a vast majority of male riders must have assumed that this would be just another ordinary day of victory for their gender.

As a blur of bewildering jockeys on their mounts came towards the final mile or so you were reminded of the sheer visceral thrill that can only be experienced by the kind of person who always wins the Grand National. Heads down, crouching forward on their equine friends, their colourful silks now flashing a rainbow of colours, the jockeys aboard their horses sprinted towards the finishing line as if their lives depended on it. 

Now Minella Times, ridden by the inspirational Rachael Blackmore, hit the front followed by a veritable stable of challengers. It was the most riveting finish of a Grand National for many a year  with four or five horses emerging as possible winners. But Minella Times did the business. This was sport at its most nail biting, a real horse race, a high quality race of the most mature vintage and one the memory bank will always have a soft spot for.  

It hardly seems like 48 years ago since a world class horse by the name of Red Rum galloped joyfully home in one of the first of three Grand National victories. In the mind's eye, you can still see poor Crisp tiring and flagging as the finishing post beckons. Then Red Rum, quite possibly the most charismatic horse ever to take part in the Grand National, won this most prestigious of races. Sport could hardly have produced a more fitting champion. But Minella Times. You were a worthy winner. Well done Rachael Blackmore.        

Duke of Edinburgh dies

 Duke of Edinburgh dies

Early this morning it was announced from Windsor Castle, that the Queen's loyal and steadfast husband His Royal Highness, the Duke of Edinburgh had died. In the light of everything that has happened during the last year this would not have come as a shock and entirely unsurprising since Prince Philip had reached the venerable age of 99. He was an old man with all the ailments, back pains, stresses and strains that might have been expected of a person of his age. But His Royal Highness had died peacefully at Windsor Castle surrounded by his deeply mournful and grief stricken wife Her Majesty the Queen. 

For all of his lovable eccentricities, quirks and verbal gaffes, the Duke of Edinburgh will always be regarded as a noble, honourable, fine and upstanding public figure who brought stability to not only the monarchy but also behaved with a lifelong dignity and grace that none of us can possibly question or gainsay. We all remember the great Duke's periodic tactlessness, that infinite capacity for putting his foot in it and making the kind of outrageous comments that in retrospect seem ever so quaint now. 

But this morning Britain, the Commonwealth and the whole world lost a man who always preferred to keep firmly in the background, never envious of those in his family who might have been permanently destined to claim the front page headlines on a daily basis. Prince Philip was worldly wise, well informed on most subjects and never afraid to be less than diplomatic. He led a life of unstinting service and dedication to the role of  husband to Her Majesty the Queen. He was there for his family, determined to put family first, prioritising his children, nurturing them through thick and thin and equally as gracious as his wife. 

Most of the cynics though would rather choose to recall those blunt assessments on the world around him and the people he met. There were the adorably sarcastic asides which in a way many of us seemed to warm to, the plain spoken irreverence but then the charming gentleman who just wanted to be one of the boys. Of course Prince Philip never held back and never suffered fools gladly but this may have been due to the fact that he was simply reacting to something that must have seemed patently obvious. 

There were the Royal visits to factories where the Duke apparently made contentiously racist remarks, the alleged criticisms of those belonging to the establishment who probably needed to be taken down a notch or two. The Duke was notoriously sharp, down to earth, pragmatic, no nonsense but that has become common knowledge. We all knew he was economical with the facts and could always be relied on to deliver the devastating put down when the occasion warranted it. 

But the truth is that the Duke of Edinburgh created the Duke of Edinburgh award, an accolade bestowed on the few and deservedly so. It was an award given to those who had done notable voluntary and charitable work on behalf of their country. When you were awarded with the Duke of Edinburgh award you must have felt as though that this was the highest personal achievement you had ever been a part of..You felt important and recognised, the centre of attention, the universe and then utterly privileged. 

Throughout the years and decades Her Majesty the Queen has always sung the praises of a man she referred to as her rock and stay, a man of appropriate elegance, smart navy jackets gleaming with discreet buttons, a man of substance and breeding. The Duke was the quiet, unassuming figure who always stood a couple of paces back from his wife because that was royal protocol. 

After a difficult childhood, the Duke of Edinburgh blossomed into maturity as the irresistible naval officer type who the Queen fell deeply in love with at first sight. Prince Philip and Princess Elizabeth duly married in 1947 and then adopted the background role of husband to the Queen after the Coronation in 1953.

Then the Prince seamlessly eased his way into life as a vastly supportive influence and an ever present source of inspiration to the Queen on all occasions. He was there when the whole of the family gathered onboard the QE2, the moments when the family came together on special occasions on summer holiday get togethers at Balmoral. He was there to smile warmly at his wife when there were troubles within the Royal Family unit. He was there to pick up the emotional pieces when Princess Diana tragically died in a Paris car crash. Of course there were the unfortunate comments but Prince Philip was very restrained in his dealings with those who fell foul of him. 

Famously of course he will always be renowned as a keen carriage driver, taxi driver, outspoken on both the environment, wildlife and people who couldn't possibly agree with him. But above all Prince Philip was always a family man, a man of the people, a man who cared passionately about Britain, the Commonwealth and the world. 

But then age intervened, the face became puckered and heavily lined, the eyes almost seeming to be  now completely shut. The reflexes had obviously become slower, the walk even more deliberate than ever and the life force now fading to its dimmest light. After a whole number of hospital stays, Prince Philip's most recent hospital confinement would sadly be his last. He was carefully ushered into the back of a waiting car and the once vibrant face had now become gaunt, haggard almost sunken beyond recognition.

So Britain and the world will now mourn the loss of  His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh, unfussy, straightforward, straight speaking and unforgiving of those who were, in his eyes, disagreeable. Her Majesty the Queen has lost a devoted husband, an inquisitive man with firmly held opinions, a compassionate man who always craved enlightenment and knowledge but could be ruthless when he felt the time was right. The nation and the world will grieve the loss of a Prince. A veritable Prince Charming.    

Drink to us Boris- April 12 is the day for the great British pub crawl.

 Drink to us Boris- April 12 is the day for the great British pub crawl. 

So it can be officially confirmed. April 12 is the day that marks the return of the great British pub crawl. Nobody could possibly have believed that that day would ever arrive and if there are any of us who may find ourselves sober by the end of the day then we may have to send out a search party. Now the chances are that most of us have now reached the stage that anything that used to resemble the customary routine of over our lives is now a delicious reality.  

They will be counting down the hours and days before the pub opens its saloon doors, welcoming in those seasoned alcoholic tongues, grabbing hold of that much longed for tray of the nectar amber and just getting completely blotto, intoxicated by the thrilling thought that drinking is back on the British menu. For the first time in what might have seemed many years let alone just the one year, the British pub customer will be reaching out to the barman or woman, spending their hard earned money and downing as many pints as they can possibly handle. 

A couple of days ago British Prime Minister Boris Johnson, who now looks like Robinson Crusoe on a desert island, will be taking himself off to the pub and drinking himself into a stupor and then encouraging the rest of the nation to do likewise. He informed most of Great Britain of his decent intentions and said that he'd raise a glass of Guinness to those stunningly conscientious NHS workers who'd cared for us, saved his life and wrestled with the most colossal crisis that any of us can ever remember. 

By now of course Prime Minister Johnson looks as though he's had enough, that all those mental and emotional resources have been pushed to the limit and beyond. By his own admission, the hair is crying out for help and sustenance, the face worn and the general appearance gaunt, white with exhaustion, a man desperate for something good to happen and running out of ad libs, prompts and analogies. His heart is obviously willing and there is a sense that he's probably done as much as he can do. But the comparisons and metaphors are dwindling by the day and the Latin phrases are noticeably thin on the ground. 

On Monday he promised the nation that he'd raise a toast to those who have suffered interminably for over a year, ensuring that everything would be done to provide Britain with some much needed cheer and long term happiness. Then we would all just swallow down breweries of lager, several scotches, whiskies, a bountiful sequence of hearty brandies and, understandably, a whole row of glasses of gin and tonic just to prove that he knows what Britain has been through. Cheers Boris. 

There is something quintessentially English about the drinking culture. We've been drinking since the Middle Ages to the point where we simply can't hold any more without staggering, stumbling and then collapsing to the ground, our minds now completely influenced by the demon booze. Monday will be Boris's day of judgment, our day of reckoning, the moment when Britain can finally come up for breath at long last. 

For centuries booze has been that one source of celebration, consolation, redemption and salvation when it looked for all the world that things would just crumble to dust in our hands. We drink of course at weddings, barmitzvahs, funerals, family gatherings, barbecues or just for the sake of getting very merry or tiddly. We drink because previous generations have found it be perfectly acceptable and respectable. Our uncles and aunts drank like fish so why shouldn't we follow their lead? If you drank a skinful you would gain instant status and recognition in your peer group so why not. Everybody else does. 

At the beginning of the 20th century, families and colleagues would stand around the pub pianos, sawdust on the floor of that pub before breaking into song. Men who'd just finished a punishing shift in the mining collieries and shipyards would swing open the pub doors, demand that the barman pull the pumps quite energetically and then, with cloth cap on head and the tightest waistcoat, launch into a whole variety of music hall favourites. The Industrial Revolution was underway and Britain was drinking the night away without a care in the world. 

And yet for the first time since March 2020 and with a temporary return to business at the beginning of last autumn, the Great British pub will become a hive of activity again. On Monday, the pub culture will become an integral part of  Britain's way of life again. It'll seem strange and yet curiously familiar since many of us may well have forgotten how to enjoy ourselves again in the pub even though we know who we are and how to conduct ourselves.

It may seem the world has now become a very different one to the one we were accustomed. The pubs of course will be there, as an attractive building with the same windows, doors, seats and pictures on the wall. Essentially the atmosphere will be much the same as it always was. And yet things will not be the way they used to be because now our mindsets and sensitivities have now been taken to the edge and almost thrown into complete meltdown. Will our psychological approach to drinking with our mates ever feel right anymore or will we just become very wary, more careful and circumspect? 

It is hard to imagine exactly what'll happen when the landlord declares last orders and it's time to head for home. Boris may well be onto his 64th pint of Fosters or Carling by then but then you could hardly blame him for this evening of riotous debauchery. It isn't often that global pandemics rip a large hole through the world fabric. So maybe we'll join Boris for several swift pints and the chance to re-build the foundations of a society that must have feared it would never be able to function ever again. So Boris, cheers my man and mine is anything celebratory and richly alcoholic. We will not go overboard of course but we do want to re-connect with those who mean the world to us. Monday can surely not come quickly enough.        

The Boat Race- oh how lovely.

 The Boat Race- oh how lovely.

After a year of restrictions and deprivations, limitations and reductions, the light at the end of the tunnel can finally be seen. We are moving away from depression, pessimism, statistical analyses, agonising, soul destroying cynicism and finally nearing the end of Covid 19. Surely we can see it from here, glinting refulgently on car bonnets, bus tops, the gabled roofs of terraced, semi-detached homes, flats and council estates. The shops were once plunged into a horrific state of lamentation and an indefinite state of anxiety while all around us the ducks, swans and geese in those pure, salubrious parks have been lonely and reflective, wondering what on earth has happened to the human race. But everything is looking upwards and this is all heading onwards and forwards. 

Today though, that great British cultural and national treasure The Boat Race is back on the sporting calendar after a year of absence making the heart grow fonder. Last year all of us were dumbstruck at the sudden disappearance of one of Britain's most traditional, middle class, elitist sporting occasions. We didn't know it at the time but the Boat Race was at first postponed then cancelled when the realisation dawned on us that what seemed a medical nuisance known as the coronavirus had rendered the race null and void. It's not happening guys so you'd better get used to the idea. The virus then got serious and for just over a year we've been hopping and jumping out of each other's way, terrified at first, then totally at a loss as to what the future may have held for us as a species. Still, we've done it.  

The Boat Race has been restored to the cultural calendar of our lives, etched indelibly into our consciousness and how we've missed those riverside antics, those eminent and formidable universities battling out for supremacy on dear old Father Thames. What we'd have given for those he men, macho and fearless students of Oxford and Cambridge going oar to oar through Hammersmith and then Putney before taking a short cut to the nearest boozer, an alcoholic establishment we could all do with at the moment. 

Year after year the undergraduates of Oxford and Cambridge have re-enacted all of those familiar mannerisms and theatrics, those nerve shredding dramatics and, occasionally, lovable eccentricities. They'll be heaving with red faces, pulling, pushing, gritting their teeth, growling and groaning, willing each other to the bitter end without ever losing sight of that very personal quest; to thrash the living daylights out of each other in a University Boat Race where the bragging rights become the central theme of the day. 

Sadly though the River Thames will not be the location for this year's Boat Race because we're not quite out of the woods yet. It does seem a crying shame that the good residents of Hammersmith and Putney will not be experiencing the delights of two sets of normally very well behaved and equable gentlemen who just want to slump back in their winning boat and slap each other on the back effusively by way of congratulation. 

This year the Boat Race will be held in Cambridge which, by any other definition, sounds totally unfair. There is a travesty of justice here and that all pervasive sense of home advantage for Cambridge. Of course Cambridge is one of the most beautiful cities in Britain and there should be no denying them the right to hold the race on their own territory. Surely though Cambridge must hold the upper hand and yet maybe not. This is the Boat Race after all and anything can happen. 

Still, the yearly Boat Race battle royale will go ahead after all and not before time as some would say. They'll be busting a gut to the finishing line, arms and elbows digging their oars commendably into the foaming water of Ely, faces twisted with superhuman effort, utterly committed and driven, cheeks flushed and exhausted, sweat pouring heroically from a throbbing forehead, pain engraved on saturated eye lashes. 

In years gone by the BBC's flagship Saturday sports fiesta Grandstand would invariably be handed over to Harry Carpenter, that admirably impartial and composed boxing commentator. Carpenter would stand by the riverside, smiling at the privilege that had been bestowed on him and introducing us to the scenic charms of the Tower of London, Big Ben and the House of Commons in the distance.

Then either Oxford or Cambridge would set off in the confident belief that either would just win by  country miles or the length of the River Thames. At some point during the race the cameras in the sky would show one of the crews either on its own or waving the white flag of surrender since there was no point in trying to catch the other. And so a white puff of resignation would go up, the nation would acclaim a university powerhouse their victory, a university so athletically superior that it's hard to believe that anybody would dare question their academic and sporting superiority. 

Some of us though have always been bemused at the participants in this thrilling rowing boat spectacle. Why do they always choose the same two universities every year for a race that could have been regarded as an afterthought under the current circumstances? What harm have Britain's other highly distinguished universities done to deserve this glaring omission. Are they any less capable of rowing along a river where the sparkling sunshine of early spring lends it a much shinier sheen and lustre?

What we do have though this afternoon is the Boat Race, a yearly riverside treat that restores our faith in a sport that at no point would receive the nationwide publicity that it so rightly deserves. True, the Olympics, rescheduled to Tokyo later on this year, will once again be hosting its esteemed coxes and crews, those natural successors to the incomparable Sir Steve Redgrave and Matthew Pinsent. 

Meanwhile and hopefully during the summer drowsiness of it all, the Henley Regatta will be leisurely and lazily languishing in bottles of champagne, trays weighed down with considerable numbers of canapes and vol au vents and smoked salmon on silver platters by the hundred. It will be England re-discovering its cultural reference point, its common courtesies, its impeccable manners and its polished dress sense, the comfortable boater hat, its well ironed shirt and natty bow tie. 

But first things first. It's the Boat Race, our first glimpse at the one of the social event of the year we must have thought had been forgotten about. Soon the Tokyo Olympics will be upon us and the rowers of Great Britain can show their true colours. Oh how good it is that one of our favourite sporting certainties is now set in stone. Yippee!   

Memories of 1973 and revenge is sweet 48 years later.

 Memories of 1973 and revenge is sweet 48 years later. 

For a moment or two time was suspended and we were all back in October 1973. England had to beat Poland in a vital World Cup qualifier and West Germany awaited Sir Alf Ramsey's sweat soaked heroes a year later. We were about to be launched into a revolutionary era of flared trousers and platform shoes, England was still a country in a horrible, industrial slump, the economy was teetering on the brink but Edward Heath was still sailing boats and conducting orchestras with some vigour. 

Then thoughts turned to that match itself 48 years ago when the whole of England assumed that nature would take its course and that the national team would just close their eyes and walk into another World Cup Finals, hot on the heels of a World Cup in Mexico three years before. Then Sir Alf had been overwhelmed by a rush of blood to the head by tampering with a team destined for greatness yet again only to fall on his sword by taking off his most important players when England were cruising to victory against West Germany.

Roll forward to the present day and there were no Polish clowns at Wembley and this time England remembered their 3-0 thrashing of Poland during the 1986 World Cup when Gary Lineker applied the coup de grace, the killer finishing blows that saw off the Poles in no time at all. England now re-captured that Mexican moment in the sweltering heat with another outstanding display of confident passing that looked as though it might have fizzled out in the second half only to be re-kindled ten minutes before the end. 

England's qualifying matches for both Euro and World Cup tournaments have almost become absurd formalities where the opposition almost seem to give up the ghost as soon their coach parks outside the entrance to Wembley Stadium. On Sunday Albania were somewhat laboriously swept aside by Gareth Southgate's team and in the first of the double headers, San Marino were given a disdainful brush off. There are times when you simply know what's going to happen because some things never change when the talk turns to the national team. 

Last night England met Poland against a familiar backdrop. For just a second they had flashbacks to the traumas experienced in 1973 and then consoled themselves with the 3-0 victory in the World Cup tournament meeting in 1986. This time England read through the script and discovered that although the theme was the same, the environment they were playing in belonged to an age when Wembley used to accommodate 100,000. This was no such occasion. The mood was one of almost commiseration. 

In 1973 Sir Alf Ramsey's job was on the line as manager while 13 years later Sir Bobby Robson briefly thought he'd cracked the code in Mexico before slumping in despair by a Mexican hotel poolside. It took a moment of Diego Maradona magic and sorcery to finally topple Robson's England in the 1986 World Cup. 

And so we came to last night's World Cup encounter with our Polish allies, a meeting of technical minds with the same World Cup objective. Irony often collides into irony and history has a mysterious way of repeating itself. England, for most of the game last night, had Poland in the palm of their hands, putty in their hands, ready to launch another bombardment of quality attacking football to make the eyes water. This was England masquerading as France, Germany or Brazil, a passing masterclass, a street parade of passing, a stunning kaleidoscope of short, sweet passes among each other, a necklace of passing perfection, a nectar of Nirvana.

For a while it all looked as though it may have been going nowhere. But then there was a collective belief  that finally those flurries of movement on and off the ball, the intuitive understanding, appreciation of space, the cohesion and understanding would pay dividends. Then as if on cue, Raheem Sterling gave another demonstration of his repertoire. The Manchester City winger is slowly turning into Sir Stanley Matthews and Tom Finney from a 1950s Pathe Newsreel while also reproducing Peter Barnes and Steve Coppell from a 1970s and 1980s vintage. 

After a lengthy period of sustained domination and deeply attractive cameos that had colour and idealism running through it, England handed over the baton to Raheem Sterling. The Manchester City flank man who can do no wrong for his Premier League title chasing club at the moment, took off on a mazy, weaving, dodging, darting and thrustful run that pierced a gaping hole on one side of the Polish defence and his low centre of gravity was enough to dismantle his final defender who could only lunge helplessly at Sterling, hauling the England player to the ground. Harry Kane's firmly struck penalty straight through the middle was like a signature at the end of a letter. 1-0 to England.

It was only in the second half that the beautifully balanced and intelligent Phil Foden, also of Manchester City and Kelvan Phillips who could become a permanent fixture in Gareth Southgate's plans, began to disappear from the English midfield, sucked inexplicably into a wind tunnel before vanishing altogether. Phillips, lively and imaginative, combined neatly with the one youngster who has all the makings of forming England's  best and most consistently creative midfield combination for ages. 

Along with the Aston Villa playmaker Jack Grealish, not on duty last night but available whenever his manager clicks his fingers, Mason Mount is quick witted, perceptive, almost intuitive, a man with a telepathic awareness and a keen eye for a pass or goal. Graduating through Chelsea's youth academy, Mount has all the credentials for super stardom, a classically proportioned player who is barely out of his teens and whose potential is there for all to see. 

With Declan Rice, West Ham's sturdy defensive midfielder, cleaning and mopping up efficiently and stylishly at the back, England were still in control but stuttering from time to time. Then after much huffing and puffing, England took their eye off the ball. Poland began to work their way into the match, picking up loose England possession and carving out chances on the flanks, edging their way back into positive involvement in the game. 

Suddenly the red shirts flooded into English territory. A bout of English defensive sloppiness culminated in John Stones, uncharacteristically giving the ball away to Jakob Moker who promptly slammed the ball into the net past England keeper Nick Pope. With the minutes ticking away it looked as if England had lost their cue, their former rhythms disrupted by some unusual distraction. But then it came to be that all would work out in England's favour. 

There were minutes left on the clock when a deep, high, in swinging corner was lobbed high to the far post. John Stokes, as if redressing the balance for his defensive clanger that led to the Polish equaliser, headed the ball firmly back into the six yard area. The ball eventually came to the Manchester United stopper Harry Maguire who wrapped his foot around the ball and fired a low shot severely into the net for England's winning goal on the night. 

So Gareth Southgate raised his hands together to salute his team. England's schedule now is rather like a busman's holiday where preparations will be made for the European Championship being played around Europe in June- or so we hope it is. And then you gazed around an empty Wembley stadium, all solemn solitude and hoped in your heart of hearts that in a couple of months time, a fit to bursting Wembley will be seething with a vastly atmospheric English crowd. In the mood for celebration. It will happen. Of that we can be sure.