Chelsea win the Champions League and City just can't respond.

 Chelsea win the Champions League and City just can't respond. 

When it came to the final hurdle Manchester City stumbled, staggered and then collapsed as if their punishing season and schedule couldn't hold it all together for them. It was as if they'd seen the finishing post and winced in the blinding lights, startled as a rabbit that suddenly sees the car at the last possible moment. At one point that almost physically impossible haul of four trophies in one season became like some elusive star prize or some irritating clue in a crossword puzzle that you simply can't get. 

But after another season of pure magnificence in the Premier League with another Premier League title  under their belt, City simply couldn't handle another 90 minutes. The Champions League for City just withered on the vine for Pep Guardiola's flashy and flamboyantly expressive team, a side of artists and exhibitionists, vastly gifted performers and specialists in the art of the simple and straightforward. 

At times City have reminded you of all of Guardiola's Barcelona and Bayern Munich teams of recent vintage. City have been models of spontaneity and touch, free spirits and independent thinkers, a cohesive attacking unit, working for each other almost constantly, reading each other's mind almost instinctively, pressing tightly, closing down their opponents and then carving out gaps in the Chelsea defence as if it had all been choreographed a thousand times before. But a Champions League trophy was beyond their reach and Chelsea have been this way although they weren't about to be intimidated by City's gilded reputation. 

Chelsea, since the arrival of Tomas Tuchel after the departure of favourite son Frank Lampard, have been a side dramatically revitalised and refreshed to such an extent that on a Saturday night at the end of May and effectively the last game in Europe this season, they brought an embarrassed blush to Pep Guardiola's face who must have been longing to knock back a huge quantity of sangria once the game had ended. 

On Saturday evening in the sweltering heat of a Porto evening, Chelsea planted the most impassable fortress in front of the City light blue infantry and pinned them against a wall they could never escape from. By the end of the evening City were so transfixed and dispirited that the Premier League title they'd won only the week before must have looked like some Roman artefact dug from the charred ruins of a once mighty empire. 

And yet for both Manchester City and Chelsea this season must have been like an even distribution of power where the balance of probabilities worked out for the best. City had won the Premier League at a steady canter barely troubled by the rest of the heavyweights behind them. Then their opponents Chelsea had gone back to Wembley for another go at the FA Cup Final confident in the knowledge that sooner or later those Foxes of Leicester would disappear back into a dark forest never to haunt anybody's corridors again. 

But in an evenly contested Cup Final both sides indulged in that familiar series of mind games and intriguing psychology, refusing to budge one way or the other. Once N'Golo Kante had stopped nipping, darting, sneaking around defenders and wedging open a good Leicester side, Chelsea began to run out of puff. When Juri Tielmans fired a thunderous 25 yard rocket into the net and way beyond Kepa Arrizabalanga's desparing reach, Chelsea may well have forgiven for just giving up all hope. But there was a Champions League trophy to hunt down and how they rose to the occasion on the big night. 

For a change the Champions League Final had lived up to the lofty expectations that we may have come to expect of this blue riband competition. Two years Spurs and Liverpool served up a grotesque caricature of a football match where nobody seemed to win any points for either artistic or technical merit. It was a messy hotchpotch of a game, a match that was much more compost and manure rather than some blooming bouquet of flowers growing from the ground. 

Now though we had one of the most pulsating of European Cup Finals or Champions League Finals where both Chelsea and Manchester City played football that resembled American basketball. This had game had fluidity, flowing, freewheeling one touch football of the classiest kind. Both teams committed themselves whole heartedly to attack, flicking the ball almost affectionately to each other, telepathically almost, nudging the ball around corners effortlessly and then nudging the ball into wide open expanses of space.

Over the years football has had to live with comparisons to chess when both teams are so familiar with each other's style of play. Admittedly the bishops and queens did live dangerously at times but then castles were taken and nobody knew what to expect. The queen and king did look vulnerable while Chelsea manager looked in no mood for either cheque mate or humble submission and defeat. 

But for roughly an hour or so Chelsea spent most of the time successfully nullifying the City threat, bunching up their defenders tightly together and just spreading a dark blue blanket across the 18 yard box. At times it looked like a highly dangerous minefield, an invisible screen where no City attacking player dared to tread. City shifted the ball easily between themselves and beautifully at times but then Chelsea's Cesar Azpilicueta threw his body in the way and City were beginning to think this was a wasted journey. 

After a tight first half with no holds barred and poker eyes on the faces of both teams, Chelsea slowly but surely built their platform, pinching the ball off City audaciously and then weaving passes together as if they'd been doing this for ages. They reminded you of a group of old colleagues who had known each other for a lifetime. Their football was neat, tidy, composed, a radical force for good, pure as the driven snow, engineered with the finest tools, fashioned and designed with the silkiest material. 

While the likes of Ilkay Gundogan, the often immaculate Riyad Mahrez, the splendidly cultured Bernardo Silva, the quietly conscientious Oleksander Zinchenko and the effervescent Phil Foden had occasionally skipped their way around the Chelsea back four quite niftily and intelligently, the Premier League's winners cutting edge had deserted them and this was a match too far for them. 

For Chelsea this was a royal command performance, a performance that took you back to their posh, bohemian past when their football was once witnessed by film stars and celebrities from every echelon of the industry. But now there is a Chelsea village and harbour, a palatial infrastructure rather than the scrap of metal which was once the laughing stock of the game. Now under the astute chairmanship of Russian oligarch Roman Abramovich, Chelsea are swish, stylish, go ahead and progressive, cosmopolitan, bold, fearless, a team of cavaliers rather than roundheads. They are going one way and that is definitely in the right direction. 

Tomas Tuchel is no Tommy Docherty, nor is he quite certainly a Dave Sexton, or even an Eddie Mcreadie since there are no flared trousers, kipper ties or extremely loud jackets to be seen. Tuchel has, in all fairness, no desire to be seen in the company of Sir Michael Caine and even if he has seen Ken Bates on his travels the German has his own very forward thinking plans on his mind. 

Once again though the energetic and tireless Reece James breezed his way past City players, rumbling forward ferociously into the City half without any prompting. Antonio Rudiger was a giant at the back for Chelsea, literally throwing himself in front of a City forward to cut out a certain City goal. Jorginho was all subtlety, delicacy, poise and security for Chelsea, a peacock flaunting his plumage proudly. And then there was N'Golo Kante, perpetual motion in a blue Chelsea shirt, always looking for that devastating ball that leaves defences gasping for air. 

And so it was that Chelsea scored the game's only and winningly decisive goal. After easing their way through the game's opening stages, Chelsea won the ball deep in their half. Ben Chilwell, surging forward out of his own full back position, clipped the ball to Mason Mount and Mount obliged with the game's one moment of genius and perception sliding his through ball to his striker.  Spotting  Kai Havertz, timing his run brilliantly, Harvetz galloped away from trailing City legs, headed for goal on his own, keeping his cool and then rounding the keeper. He then slotted the ball into the net with a cigar in his mouth. Chelsea must have convinced themselves that this was always going to be their afternoon. 

When the referee blew the final whistle confirming Chelsea's well earned victory, you thought of what might have been for a Manchester City team who have won the hearts of the entire football community.  It almost seemed to be in the stars for City to claim their European recognition. But sadly there were no Blue Moons to light up the City firmament and Chelsea found themselves as City's party poopers. You suspect that we may not have seen the last of these two and next season could prove to be one of the most eventful and enlightening ever seen in the Premier League. The impartial observers are rubbing their hands in anticipation. But for now Chelsea are now lords of the manor and Stamford Bridge will now enjoy its moments in the sun. Chelsea, Chelsea indeed.            

Champions League Final in Porto.

 Champions League Final in Porto. 

Firstly the Champions League Final was scheduled to take place among the bazaars and minarets of Istanbul, Turkey. Then some bright spark noticed that because a global pandemic had taken hold for just over a year now, Turkey was simply unable to fulfil its obligations because people were either dying and it just didn't seem right and proper that sport should take precedence to life and health. 

Besides, Turkey just became an unfeasible proposition and football was the last thing on any of our minds. True, the Premier League season has now finished and the Champions League trophy, so highly sought after by every single club in Europe, would still go ahead even though the venue for the Final was still undecided. It seemed absurd but true. Still, there was a lot to look forward to since for the third time now in its illustrious history the European Cup, as it used to be known, will be hosting two English teams in what should be called the Champions League final just to complicate matters even more. 

A couple of weeks ago it looked as if tonight's match would have been pencilled in for Wembley Stadium but then the FA withdrew their services because two English teams in an English national stadium just didn't sound fair. And, on reflection, home advantage would probably have favoured Chelsea, whose Stamford Bridge ground is but a London Eye distance from Wembley. Manchester City would probably be seeing light blue if not red but preferably the former since their noisy neighbours United are now licking their wounds after the Old Trafford team's defeat at the hands of Unai Emery's Villarreal in the Europa League Final.

Anyway the fact remains is Chelsea and Manchester City will be walking out into the Portuguese heat this evening doubtless buoyed and disappointed in different ways. Chelsea were beaten quite movingly by  Leicester City  in this year's FA Cup Final in their second consecutive Cup Final which might have seemed carelessness bordering on negligence. Then Chelsea discovered that all was not lost because Champions League football had been rubber stamped for next season. This could have been interpreted as a decent consolation prize rather like the kid who's denied the goldfish at the fair but was then rewarded with a bag of sweets. 

Manchester City, for their part, are in seventh heaven yet again, winning the Premier League title with some of the most delectable football seen in Britain since Sir Alex Ferguson's Manchester United and last season's Premier League winners, Jurgen Klopp's Liverpool. They didn't run away with the League as such but they did leave some deeply attractive legacies for future generations to come. City's football had astonishing originality, innovation, duplicity of the legal kind, cunning, wit, quick witted impulsiveness and a passing repertoire that belonged in the National Portrait Gallery. Tonight City will be hoping to add another masterpiece to their ever expanding collection. 

Your mind went back to the last time two English teams met in the Champions League Final. Then Mauricio Pochettino's Spurs literally burnt themselves out to an equally as frazzled Liverpool in what turned into one of the most forgettable Champions League Final since the last all English Final between Manchester United and Chelsea. 

There is a part of you that wants to believe that tonight's concluding game on the European football calendar will not be like the stinker between Spurs and Liverpool. A controversial penalty was the only goal of a game that miserably fell flat on its face. Even Mo Salah, surely one of Liverpool's most consistent striker and brilliant into the bargain, could hardly believe his luck. Porto must be crossing its fingers that Englishmen abroad will try to bring a classical end to the football season rather than one that deflates like a thousand punctured balloons. 

The neutral among us would like Manchester City to finally clinch the one prize that has just remained out of their reach. You hope that Kevin De Bruyne, City's cleverest, smartest, and most cultured of play makers will get his just desserts, a player who uses paintbrushes rather than blunt hammers to light up vitally important games. You trust that Riyad Mahrez, a master of invention and reinvention for City, will turn up to add yet more delicate touches to the City's attack. Then Fernandinho, full of Brazilian herbs and spices, accompanied by Ilkay Gundogan and Bernando Silva will be pushing, pressing, probing and stretching Chelsea to the point of no return. 

But Chelsea of course will naturally think that it's about time the Champions League trophy landed back in London. Besides, Chelsea used to be the centre of fashion, money, wealth and those arty types who used try on big hats in the 1960s Kings Road. Presumably Chelsea will be pinning their hopes on another N'Golo Kante, Jorginho and Ben Chilwell can find all of the right attacking connections. They will be hoping that Rudiger wins enough constructive ball to feed his willing attackers while also believing that Tino Werner can finally be a goal scoring match winner up front. The Stamford Bridge club also have to believe that the superb Mason Mount can be a conjuror and sorcerer in midfield. 

Today hundreds of Chelsea and City fans will gather in the bars and restaurants of Porto, flags aloft, beers customarily in hand, partisanship by the bucketful and gladly insulting their rival Premier League counterparts without a hint of remorse. This time though the Champions League Final will have to be a significant improvement on the Spurs- Liverpool debacle of 2019. If it doesn't meet the lofty standards expected of Liverpool's Bob Paisley sides then both Chelsea and City may have to live with the repercussions of their non actions. English football expects and deserves.     

A Greek odyssey to remember.

 A Greek odyssey to remember.

We were travelling through the night and had just begun to believe that things could hardly get any worse. We'd enjoyed a memorable holiday and we'd embraced the whole holidaymaking experience when, all of a sudden, things nose dived spectacularly. At no point did we ever panic or just fear the worst because in the light of everything around us, we should have known what to expect. Privately we were bound to come face to face with complications and bureaucratic mumbo jumbo.

My wife, daughter and yours truly had temporarily immersed ourselves delightedly in the wonders that Greece could offer. But we knew we'd have to jump through hoops because the British government had made it abundantly clear that British holidaymakers were just not welcome on Mediterranean. On May 17 they'd implemented a traffic light system which meant that only the most middle class or wealthy could afford a break by a Greek, Spanish, Italian, Cypriot or Turkish beach or hotel. 

There were frequent reminders about the red, amber or green lights indicating which would be the most suitable and not so suitable. What we hadn't bargained on was that the amber light we had chosen for our destination would be fraught with problems from the beginning to the end of our holiday. The truth is of course that had we known that Greece would be so problematic, we would never have bothered in the first place. 

On arrival at a deserted hotel in Kos, we found quite literally what bore an uncanny resemblance to a haunted castle. There were no people, no guests and nothing but an empty swimming pool, a liberal sprinkling of chairs and tables and umbrellas that looked as they were just huddling together for warmth. It was hard to know whether to laugh or cry, our conflicting emotions playing havoc with our genuine sense of disbelief. And so it was that we settled down, packed away our belongings and set out to discover more about the uncharted territories around us, accepting our destiny willingly because this was how things were meant to be. 

Our first day was spent wandering around the volcanic island of Nisyros, a truly blasted landscape of humming craters that sounded like a thousand boiling kettles going off at the same time. Every so often you would hear the most alarming mini explosions that sounded as they'd been detonated to go off every couple of seconds or so. Most tourists are encouraged to climb down the steep rocky terrain which would eventually take you to the epicentre of the island and we were no different. 

Our daughter had no trouble at all negotiating the tricky ground but some of us were gingerly treading down towards a huge expanse of what looked like a concrete rink. Suddenly all you could see were vast tracts of land where nothing seemed to be happening. This had to be the most fascinating day visit to a place that looked forbidding but strangely appealing. Hundreds of tourists were inspecting nothing in particular and just delighted to be on holiday with friends and family. 

The rest of our Greek pilgrimage was spent sunbathing on our own and watching a dear old lady trying desperately to smile behind the poolside bar. She was also responsible for the preparation of breakfast and maintaining our morale. Now then she would gratefully oblige with daily deliveries of eggs, cheese, two pieces of brown toast, small slices of lemon cake and several yogurts for good measure. But all around us was isolation, solitude and privacy, an oasis of calm but no sign of humanity whatsoever. 

Of course the Greek people were models of hospitality and good natured bonhomie, friendly, concerned, sympathetic and always inquiring about our welfare. The man at reception could hardly have been more amiable and when we found a bottle of wine in our bedroom we knew we'd melted their hearts. The wine marked our wedding anniversary, my lovely wife and yours truly were immensely appreciative and then we inspected the rest of a hotel that felt as if it had been looted, ransacked and raided. 

In the far corner of our hotel there were two of those padded chairs which are meant to massage your aching backs, the obligatory pool table and another bar tucked away at the far end of the reception area. Then you could hardly fail to notice what looked like the entertainment area where discos or singers were ready to be let loose. You had to stop for a minute before trying to imagine that eventually hundreds of children and families would fill the floor to bursting point at some point during the summer. 

For the moment Covid 19 has torn the heart out of the Greek tourist industry. The local restaurants were now crying out for the Brits invasion of their glittering sands, those trendy bars that were begging for the presence of teenagers ready to drink the night away in those seething clubs. Sadly, though all you could see were straw coloured scrublands with wispy grasses that had been allowed to grow uncontrollably. In the back streets boisterous motor bikes would roar around corners at breathless speed. It was eerily quiet at times but then hearteningly loud when the bikers screeched into town. 

Then our nightly visits for dinner were illuminated by large groups of the cat and dog community. Almost every evening we were accompanied by every ginger, black and white cat imaginable. They would gather in their small armies, creeping stealthily towards us before sitting up at our table, piercing marble eyes staring intently at us as if privately expecting a lavish feast. So it was that our feline friends persevered with unhesitating tenacity hoping against hope that the human race would feed them.

After occasional trips to the beach, which conveniently backed onto our hotel, we began to turn our thoughts to home. We would be left with memories of Greek haute cuisine, that lovable insistence on providing all the Brits with the almost inevitable chips and everything. For a couple of nights you would request spaghetti bolognese and, in a dramatic departure from the norm, chicken schnitzel that tasted like butter washed down by intermittent carafes of rose wine. 

So now my lovely wife, our daughter and yours truly headed home somewhat dazed by a holiday that we must have known would be unconventional but never believing that the only sound we'd hear for most of it would be a bizarre silence. Now the fun would begin as, for the last time we loaded our suitcases into the back of the taxi's boot and bid a fond farewell to this unspoiled Greek island. 

Pulling into Kos airport, now completely abandoned and looking almost grief stricken, we dragged our suitcases towards the check out.  At the luggage conveyor belt we were met by a stern and annoyingly officious Greek woman who refused to give an inch. Under no circumstances would my family be going anywhere and for a while visions of a summer spent in Kos began to float across our vision. Covid test certificates had to be shown immediately or else. A severe interrogation would have to ensue but thankfully didn't and how grateful we were that this would not be the case. 

After repeated pleas for a swift flight back home to the UK, another taxi driver would be summoned to take us to some remote medical centre. For a moment you thought you'd use your initiative by convincing the Greek air authorities that Homer's Iliad was the finest piece of literature you'd ever read and that Captain Corelli's Mandolin was utterly compelling from first page to last. But this would probably have been regarded as emotional blackmail so we just resigned to ourselves to a night in a bar drinking retsina and admiring the decor. 

Racing towards our first port of call we eagerly anticipated our confirmatory Covid test certificates. You can probably guess the next sequence of events. The said medical centre was shut so here we were in the dark of a Greek night, wondering what on earth the Greeks were thinking of when they thought plate smashing after an evening meal would have been the perfect way to end your repast. So back in the taxi we got, a now increasingly bemused taxi driver putting his foot down before reaching our second medical centre. This time we struck lucky. 

Covid certificates in our hand we sprinted back to the airport by which time midnight was about to strike. Rushing back furiously towards customs and then the checking of the passport and with minutes to go, we ran towards the steps of the plane, hoping against hope that we'd be allowed to finally go home after all the commotion and consternation, the panicky discussions, the pointless protestations. The UK Government had finally relented and we were homeward bound. 

You began to feel sorry for the whole of the tourist industry for the rest of the summer because even they're just as clueless as the holiday revellers  now caught up in the most horrendous middle of a muddled mess. You hoped that those very pleasant restaurant owners would still be inviting their customers into their establishments with whole hearted relish and a permanent smile on their faces. It could be an eventful and highly successful summer for our jolly Brits and the rest of the world. We must hope that things will work out for the best.   

Leicester City's Foxes win the FA Cup for the first time in their history

 Leicester City's Foxes win the FA Cup for the first time in their history.

So it wasn't for the want of trying. This was a victory for perseverance, a case if you don't succeed at first try and try again because you never know and besides capitulation and surrender to defeat were never advisable. You had to keep going on to the end of road because the law of averages insists that one day it'll all come right and besides you can't keep losing. 

Yesterday Leicester City won the FA Cup for the first time in what is proving to be an illustrious history. Five years ago Claudio Ranieri brought home the unlikeliest Premier League title for a Leicester City side who could hardly believe what was happening to them. They did so with the kind of derring-do, adventurous football that swept aside disbelieving Premier League contenders and ensured that fairy tales do indeed come true even when you thought they were just wishful thinking. Leicester did indeed kiss the frog and then discovered Cinderella's carriage had just turned up at the right moment and time. 

After losing four FA Cup Finals from yesteryear even the most deluded fantasists must have thought that Leicester were just wasting their time. How many times can you keep visiting Wembley on FA Cup Final day only to find that the woes of defeat would just dissolve in tears and sadness? Admittedly Bill Nicholson's emerging Spurs team beat Matt Gillies Leicester underdogs with something to spare and were never likely to challenge Spurs overall dominance 60 years ago. 

Then 52 years ago Joe Mercer's Manchester City scored the only goal of the game when Neil Young and City won their first FA Cup for seemingly ages, Leicester slinking away into the undergrowth never troubling the Wembley authorities again until yesterday. And so it was that the cynical among us didn't know whether to laugh or cry at Leicester's modern exploits and whole hearted exertions. Some of us were privately hoping for a change in their fortunes since the sight of Chelsea trying to make amends for last year's FA Cup Final defeat against Arsenal was more than enough and hadn't we tired of the same old teams gracing the Wembley arches?

But Leicester yesterday were prepared for the big occasion and this time fully equipped to make a mockery of the odds. This is not to suggest that Leicester should have ever assumed the mantle of quiet, restrained underdogs who would simply roll over and have their tummies tickled. In 1973 Bob Stokoe's brave and valiant Sunderland, then in the old Second Division, were just expected to lose quite humiliatingly to Don Revie's celebrated Leeds United, a team who polarised opinion throughout the country with their sumptuous attacking football. But then they were condemned as villains of the piece when Billy Bremner glared and snarled at Sunderland with what looked to be malicious intent. At heart though Leeds were softies and wouldn't have harmed anybody. 

Then in 1988 Bobby Gould's Wimbledon rough and tough scufflers won the FA Cup, beating the much more aristocratic Liverpool who had won innumerable old First Division championships with their eyes closed. And yet driven forward by the tigerish Dennis Wise and the ferociously unapologetic Vinny Jones, the team from South London scored from a glancing header by Lawrie Sanchez. A year before, Coventry City, who had once been pioneers of match day entertainment under Jimmy Hill, had now narrowly if gleefully beaten David Pleat's much more fancied and experienced Tottenham in one of the more eye catching Cup Finals.

And yet Leicester have finally done it their way and how triumphantly was this FA Cup victory so emotionally marked. Three years ago the father of Leicester's owners died in the most horrific helicopter crash and the whole club were plunged into a desperate state of mourning. The memory of Vichai Srivaddhanaprabha is still engraved indelibly in the hearts of all Leicester City fans and yesterday the cunning Foxes of Leicester hunted down their London prey and got their just desserts. 

For those of us though who have been longing for the day when football fans would be warmly welcomed back into football stadiums, our patience was suitably rewarded. 21,000 fans cranked up the volume on the dial and suddenly Wembley had come back to life. The life support machine had started flickering back to life, oxygen masks fittingly administered and the patient was breathing again. For just a year now football had been receiving mouth to mouth resuscitation without any hope of any kind of recovery. 

It was both distressing and disconcerting beyond belief but finally the wait was over. Small knots of Chelsea and Leicester City fans could be heard chanting, cheering, groaning and moaning, cheering and biting its collective fingernails. It was rather like listening to a harmonious orchestra that may have been extremely rusty and out of practice for months and months on end. Eventually somebody had discovered that the percussion and woodwind section was in the rudest health after all. The fans were back and not before time. 

Leicester City, in their strange looking brown shirts, were patient, methodical, tactically and technically skilful, endearingly spirited, nimble on their feet, well organised and ultimately the better side. For a while the brown shirts of Leicester were reminiscent of a newly born foal struggling painstakingly to its feet, nervous and almost terrified of its shadow.Then the doting parents lifted their child to its feet and Leicester grew steadily in confidence. 

In truth this was not the FA Cup Final we might have been expecting. Invariably we witness a game where both teams indulge in low body sparring, a contest of few jabs and very little of any significance to remember it by. The opening 45 minutes of this match became reduced to whispered mutterings, few if any goal chances and only the occasional flashes of the spectacular. The game seemed to get stuck in its own rut, both teams keeping each other at arms length and cautiously testing the game's temperature when the mood took it. 

By the game's hour some of us were beginning to wonder at the futility of the whole exercise. What on earth were the FA thinking when they decided to lure its devoted football supporters back into the ground? But it was good to see them back en masse again. Watching Chelsea and Leicester though, was rather like watching paint dry, two evenly contested Premier League sides who had so obviously cancelled each other out. The football was pleasant and flowing, ebbing and flowing, seesawing intriguingly from one end to the other. The goals were not forthcoming and a sigh of impatience could be heard back at Wembley Park tube station. 

Of course both Luke Thomas and and the evergreen Jonny Evans had provided Leicester with the most solid of defensive platforms, chain locking Leicester's back line with that unmistakable reliability. Then Evans limped off with an injury and Leicester began to wobble and sway disturbingly at the back. Now the roving, roaming Wesley Fofana began to find easily available spaces opening up, while the youthful James Maddison continued to look like one of Gareth Southgate's easiest of choices for June's Euros. Maddison was comfortable and dependable on the ball, always seeing the bigger picture and puncturing Chelsea's wilting defence with clever use of the ball and the most economical of touches.

When Wilfred N'Didi began to explore and collect the ball in dangerous areas of the pitch, Leicester broke free of the web Chelsea had woven and Ndidi was here, there and everywhere. He charged forward with all the zest of a man who just couldn't wait for the final whistle to blow, protecting his team with an almost paternal air of authority and then carrying the ball carefully into the Chelsea half weighing up the options in front of him and then delivering custom made passes that loosened the Chelsea defence with penetrative purpose. 

Leicester were beginning to grow into the game as the minutes ticked away and all of Chelsea's earlier trickery, imaginative promptings, finery and intricacy seemed to be opening up Chelsea with the surgeon's scalpel, all wily know how and guile. For a while Chelsea's football seemed somehow fated to send Leicester into a stupefied trance. Their short, sharp and neat, quick passing triangles were almost totally hypnotic, Leicester's players being dragged helplessly out of place.

Another England certainty for the upcoming Euros was Mason Mount, possibly one of the most promising young Chelsea players since Ray Wilkins. Mount is an artist, illustrator, carver and sculptor, a lovely looking touch player with impeccable control, visionary awareness and inventive inklings, a player of  daring and impulse, simplicity and grace for good measure. 

Alongside Mount Chelsea presented us with Thiago Silva, all vision, wit and sensitivity. With Reece James threatening damage and havoc whenever he thought the mood was right, Ben Chilwell, bounding and galloping along the touchlines like a full back who just wanted to be an out and out winger, Antonio Rudiger blending class and composure in bundles, Christian Pulisic working the Leicester defence to the limit and Timo Werner busting a gut to make his presence felt, a goal for Chelsea looked to be only a matter of time. 

But then Leicester clawed their way back into the game in a kind of nostalgic throwback to the way it might have been if things had gone right for them in their last four FA Cup Finals. There was Timothy Castagne who ventured forward with an enchanting sense of adventure, Caglar Soyuncu, a rare if talented find from Turkey, Maddison, Ndidi and the unmistakable Jamie Yard who were now firing on all cylinders. 

Then half way through the second half  Leicester, sensing perhaps that Chelsea had other things on their mind, surrounded  Chelsea with another educated attacking movement. It had the stamp of their progressive manager Brendan Rogers. Picking up the ball in the middle of the pitch after Chelsea thought they'd cleared the ball sufficiently, Youri Tielemans, one of an increasingly influential band of Belgians in the Premier League, watched the ball all the way before lifting his foot, addressing it like a golfer at St Andrews, and then following through with a memorable 25 yard thunderbolt that flew past Chelsea keeper Kepa Arrizabalanga high into the net. It was a goal Wembley will never forget. 

Chelsea were now struggling to find anything resembling cohesion or incisiveness. Their attacks looked blunted and misshapen, the body language that of defeated men who didn't quite know what to do on the day. They have now a Champions League Final against Manchester City to look forward to and another Premier League ding dong encounter against Leicester in their penultimate game of the season. But the moment had certainly gone as soon as they realised that Leicester goalkeeper Kasper Schmeichel had been watching videos of Jim Montgomery's acrobatic double saves that kept out Billy Bremner, Mick Jones, and Peter Lorimer in the FA Cup Final 48 years ago. 

And then it all came to pass that the fans who thought they had forgotten about their place in the general scheme of things had now come to revel in yet another thrilling spectacle that most of the more pragmatic Leicester supporters had thought was completely beyond them. Up in the TV gantry former  Leicester favourite son Gary Lineker was flinging his arms up into the air as if a childhood dream had finally come to fruition. Brendan Rodgers had cleaned up his seventh domestic trophy, the Leicester family owner hugged Rogers meaningfully and a sentimental lump in the throat convinced us that perhaps justice had been done. Leicester are FA Cup winners of 2021. It sounds impressive because it is.     

Cup Final tomorrow and heading for the final straight in the Premier League season.

 FA Cup Final tomorrow and heading for the final straight in the Premier League season. 

Can you believe it? Tomorrow Chelsea meet Leicester in the football season's end of season grand finale, the FA Cup Final at Wembley Stadium. How quickly the season has flown by and yet it only seems like yesterday since the end of the last season which only resumed at roughly the beginning of last July. How totally confusing and yet some of us are still wondering what happened to the season that is now approaching its last three games of this season. Some of us need a lie down in a dark room. 

Here we are at the end of one of the craziest, novel, unprecedented and strangely designed football seasons ever to enter our living rooms. The fact of the matter is of course that the living room was the only one place you could safely watch the season unfolding without infecting somebody. But finally in what promises to be a very special last day of the season football will be rubbing its hands with glee in anticipation of humankind. Now who thought we'd ever utter that sentence again. 

Now the chances are that there won't be a full complement of home and away football supporters in the game's final chapters but it's a start, a tentative start admittedly but a start nonetheless. Tomorrow's FA Cup Final will welcome 21,000 fans into Wembley Stadium although that may be a rough estimate. But just when you'd given up all hope of any football supporters filing through the turnstiles again, tomorrow will be the launch pad for something much more ambitious- a full ground perhaps. 

But surely congratulations should be extended to Pep Guardiola's exceptional, pre-eminent, all conquering, sublimely beautiful Manchester City. Once again City are splendidly deserving winners of the Premier League and it almost seems as if we've been here before in the not too distant past. Last season Jurgen Klopp's all purpose, at times spellbinding Liverpool ran away with a Premier League title that was so convincing and comprehensive that the pace makers behind were puffing and panting in Liverpool's wake. 

Then again though Liverpool had to wait until some anti-climactic point in the middle of last summer to pick up their first Premier League winning trophy and their first League title for 31 years now. Anfield was a riot of glitter, confetti and what can only be described as silvery scraps of paper by way of that final confirmation of  a richly rewarding season. Liverpool played the kind of astonishing football that some of us used to expect of them. Their game was seasoned with a  remarkable style and an enthralling ingenuity that quite took the breath away. It was precise, counter attacking football that even Manchester City couldn't quite keep up with. 

And once again one man in a light blue Manchester City shirt took all the bouquets of praise, garlanded with the rightful honours that can only be bestowed on the best. Kevin De Bruyne, Belgium's greatest player since goodness knows when, enjoyed one of his most superlative and scintillating seasons quite certainly since the last time City won the Premier League season. It is hard to categorise Bruyne in any football Hall of Fame and greatness is simply subjective. 

The bottom line of course is that genius in a sporting context is simply indefinable and Bruyne remains one of the most consistently brilliant playmakers in the club's history. Of course there had to be the lovable rogue who was Rodney Marsh, the beloved Colin Bell, the bustling Francis Lee, City's dynamic three musketeers, Maine Road cavaliers and show offs. But De Bruyne was no mere Belgian waffle more of a Black Forest Gateau with pretty cherries on top. 

But as City play out another season of  gold nuggets and decorative football to smarten up any League in the world it is easy to take them for granted. Liverpool, you suspect, were just keeping the Premier League title warm for their North West England rivals and City have been models of versatility and flexibility, a team of highly minted footballing all stars, footballers of the highest pedigree and stature. Two seasons ago City were almost untouchable, unsurpassable, almost invincible but not quite in the way of Arsene Wenger's Arsenal masterclass. They won the Premier League with a record breaking century of points and none could even remotely come close to them. 

Now though they're Premier League champions again and deservedly so. Their football has been overwhelming, beautifully co-ordinated, almost mellifluous at times reaching the highest notes and scales. They have been technically superb, polished and professional at all times and utterly ruthless in their finishing. When they come to write the definitive history of the game, City will be right up there with their noisy neighbours Manchester United, Liverpool, Arsenal and Spurs who last won the old First Division championship 60 years ago when everything seemed possible. 

The chances are that Manchester United, Leicester, Chelsea, Liverpool and one of many contenders will also be challenging for places in both the Europa League and Champions League. Your heart tells you that your claret and blue heroes West Ham will also join Europe's top table for a slap up, lavish meal in Europe's elite and not so elite clubs but the head is far more realistic.

Chelsea return to Wembley for their second consecutive FA Cup Final and Leicester can only be hoping that the Stamford Bridge team have fluffed their lines or suffered stage fright. During this week Chelsea came unstuck at home to Arsenal and may be slightly unnerved by the big occasion again. It would be fascinating to be a fly on the wall in the Jose Mourinho home. Mourinho once had the Midas touch but after another miserable period at  Spurs, Mourinho now contents  himself with TV advertisements for a betting company. We have no reason to think that Mourinho loves a flutter or two but Chelsea will be trying to emulate the achievements of the Portuguese miracle maker because Chelsea have come a long way since the so called 'Special One' parked his bus on a West London piece of turf. 

Oh wow. What a feeling. A week to go before global freedom.

 Oh wow. What a feeling. A week to go before global freedom.

Today it felt as if the world had been given all its birthdays on one day. Goodness gracious me! Whoopee, what jubilation unconfined. Finally, after what seemed like several centuries and decades of hardship, struggle, death, privation, pain, heartache, torment, universal bewilderment, delaying tactics and procrastination, we can all finally breathe out deep from the diaphragm and blow out the most exultant sigh of relief of all time. This global pandemic is drawing to a close and next week we can all hug. Yes folks we can all hug.

Hold the front page. It's the most sensational news story, an eye-popping revelation, a scientific breakthrough on a monumental scale. You'll never see its like again because this is just biologically exciting and we'll have to brace ourselves for its significant impact on the world. The BBC proudly announced this afternoon that hugging will be allowed next week in a major medical development unlike any we've ever known. 

From May 17 Britain and presumably the rest of the world physical affection will be permitted with all the enthusiasm that any of us can offer. There will be worldwide intimacy on an unparalleled scale and hugging will be top of the news agenda for at least the rest of the year. Now the cynics out there may well think that those of who believe in soppy sentimentality are just over reacting and should just calm down. We can hardly believe that this welcome opportunity to embrace after absence making the heart grow fonder has finally come to pass and we can finally grab hold each other with the most affectionate squeeze that any of us have ever known in our times. 

For those of us though that social interaction has been a bit on the thin ground in the last year but hugging does sound rather appealing. The fact is though, the act of hugging is just a simple acknowledgement of the depth of our innermost feelings or are we just expressing something that should come naturally? The point is that hugging will suddenly become completely fashionable as from next week. We've spent a whole lifetime hugging and holding our nearest and dearest in both crisis and celebration so how have the cultural and biological goal posts moved so dramatically or maybe we've missed something?

Still, as long as we can reach out for each other and wrap our collective arms around each other in some euphoric outburst of joy then the world will seem a much better place than it might have been before. But hold on, why has it taken a year long deadly virus to reinforce our mutual respect for and approval of family, friends and trustworthy people. But hey who cares it'll be a brilliant day and the best is yet to come. 

And yet we will be allowed to be as tactile and demonstrative as we possibly like since the law insists that on May 17 2021 we can re-enact that emotionally moving moment when we're together again and not prevented from hugging. But seriously folks what we have is a very seminal moment, a turning point in recent history when everything that looked so desperately bad has now come good and we can hug, hug again, devoting every day to the lost art of hugging. It'll be a day when we can finally re-discover the social cues and discussions, delighted to be in the same company as parents, grandparents, friends and colleagues, confiding in each other, unburdening ourselves quite freely without feeling self conscious. 

So it was that the BBC, with those admirable medical and scientific officers Chris Witty and Patrick Vallance, showed us what we hope will become the last of those very detailed graphs. It is hard to know what exactly both men have gone through for the last year, being the central figureheads and spokesmen during this whole calamity. But we thank them enormously for the wealth of their extensive knowledge, sharing their Covid 19 data and never flinching from this thankless task. 

It has undoubtedly one of the more forgettable episodes in our lives since none of us can barely remember what it was like not to be in the same room as our loved ones or munch popcorn in our local cinema. The roar of the theatrical grease paint and the rapturous applause from a night out in the West End is very much the missing link, the natural stimulus to everyday conversation and comment with people of like minds. But next Monday it'll be one giant step back on the road to recovery. And how we'll hug that day. Let the countdown begin. 

 

It's the green light for the dozen countries

 It's the green light for the dozen.

So there you are. You can breathe a sigh of relief or perhaps you should but can't be sure whether it's appropriate at the moment. Besides we must take this one nice and carefully because if we go too fast we may suffer the consequences of our foolhardy actions. You know what happened the last time we reached this stage. We assumed that we'd seen the last of this horribly wretched and egregious worldwide virus and look what happened when we did that. January and February were the worst months of this year but we all came through and survived. 

But now May dawned and today those at the medical nerve centre and the scientific data land, have now told us that we can go on holiday abroad but only with preconditions and caveats. There always seems to be a snag, some awkward hindrance rather than help. You knew there were strings attached because not every country has got to that same, multi vaccination stage where everything looks plain sailing and hunky dory. There are complications along the way and even if you do rock up in some Mediterranean hot spot the chances are that you might regret your decision to book your yearly excursion to the Costas Brava, Blanca, Benidorm, the Greek islands and any location where the virus still hangs around. 

Now from May 17 the UK Government boldly confirmed the first dozen countries that have now been given permission to let their British sun seekers back into their hotels. You can imagine it can't you? There they were desperate to climb aboard a plane to anywhere with palm trees and exotic cocktails. It was beginning to look as though it might happen without any problems. But even when you've negotiated the bureaucratic minefield that is now the Covid 19 test you may be required to take more tests and then there's customs, the mind blowing security checks and that's before you have to show your passports. 

Then once you've taken off your trousers belts, socks, shoes and then tipped out the thousands of pounds in your respective pockets into a tray, there are yet more fun packed attractions. Once you've entered that vast waiting area and concourse, there's the obligatory 26 mile marathon to be overcome. One minute you're traipsing around innumerable perfume shops, clothing outlets and then you find yourself back in a restaurant eating and drinking again because there's nothing else to do. 

Now, there are places serving bottles of wine and spirits that you always encounter on your airport travels. Next door are the waiting areas, thousands of seats with thousands of restless children running amok while mum, dad, uncle and cousin rummage through their suitcases just to while away the hours before the tannoy system tells you that Flight 12345 is ready to take off for Hong Kong. By now you feel as though somebody in the airport should, out of courtesy, offer you several bottles of plonk just to revive you after what can only be described as the most gruelling assault course you've ever undertaken. 

Now though we have the first twelve countries who have sanctioned your holiday, given it the thumbs up. You can go to these countries without fearing something deeply unpleasant. It is easy to be disillusioned  about the latest virus bulletins since the number of fatalities has now gone right down to 15 today and the number of hospital admissions with Covid symptoms is also showing deeply encouraging signs in the positive. Still, we're almost there within touching distance of freedom.

However, Portugal, Israel, Singapore, Australia, New Zealand, Brunei, Iceland, Gibraltar, the Falkland Islands, the Faroe Islands and South Georgia have all been given the all clear. Your captain and pilot is glad to have you travelling with them on the maiden flight back to the land of normal. He welcomes you on board because the tedium at home for the last year has been absolutely overwhelming at times and there are only so many crossword  books and jigsaw puzzles you can complete before it all gets a bit much. 

And so it is with feverish anticipation we will strap on our safety belts, wiggle our knees about in some ridiculously claustrophobic area and then either drop off to sleep, look longingly at the fluffy white marshmallow thick clouds at the highest altitude, flicking through the airline's brochure with utter indifference and wrestling embarrassingly with that tiny table which should, in theory, provide you with a hot meal and a refreshing drink but does nothing of the sort. Or maybe you've got more patience than some of us. Soon you're all fingers and thumbs, ripping up the wrappers which contain the plastic knives and forks and then squeezing open the coffee and tea sachet in the most confined of spaces. 

This summer though still has the potential to be one of the most triumphant. Of course you'll be confronted with teeth clenching delays, hours and hours spent painstakingly battling the forces of monotony and then looking at that electronic board with acres of flight times, timetables containing the names of some of the strangest sounding countries in the world and then you're back to pacing up and down the airport for the 275th time. 

Thankfully though the restrictions have all but been completely lifted give a take one or two that are proving to be annoyingly troublesome. It is to be hoped that shortly some of us will be taking our week's holiday somewhere warm and soothing to the soul shortly. We can't be certain when but we'd like to think that it won't be too soon. 

In the not too distant future you would like to be slumped on some very accommodating sun lounger with the familiar umbrella, light reading book in hand, loving family around you and everything that's just right. For the last year and week or so, we've all been subjected to the same scenery, the same buildings, houses, apartments, supermarkets, industrial parks and congested traffic stretching back for miles. Book your holidays everybody because this could be the summer we'll never ever forget for all the right reasons. Bon voyage tout le monde. Have a cracking vacation one and all and don't forget your donkeys, sombrero hats and those irresistible bottles of sangria. Postcards though are purely optional.    

Fan power rules again.

 Fan power rules again.

So the voices of dissent have been heard again. They've been threatening to exercise their vocal chords for some time now and on a spring afternoon in deepest Manchester they were at it again. Up until now they were the excluded, disenfranchised ones, the silent majority ready to storm the barricades in a passionate uprising, ready and waiting to break through doors, gates and football turnstiles. It all seemed so outrageously unfair and how much longer were they expected to just take it on the chin and bite their tongue. 

After several weeks of threats, furious arguments, vehement opposition and soaring blood pressures, football listened to its supporters and wondered whether anybody would take heed of what they were actually trying to say. There was red blooded acrimony, a sense of grievous injustice and a palpable air of disgust in the air. Somebody had gone over the heads of those football fans who had been completely overlooked and marginalised. There had been no consultation with the fans and maybe UEFA  were hoping for some tacit agreement. But nobody was doing anything at all and this was a plainly unforgivable proposal.

On Sunday afternoon matters came to a head when thousands of Manchester United, irate at the greed and selfishness of the owners who had plunged them into such debt, revolted on the Old Trafford pitch. UEFA had decided to complicate the issue with their single minded insistence that United should join the financial gravy train that would constitute a potential European Super League. Word on the grapevine was the Glazer family, an American family of super billionaires, saw the lucrative potential of a breakaway clique of wealthy and famous European clubs and if you didn't like it then you'd have to live with it. But this was the worst kind of suggestion. 

So here was the plan. Why don't the prosperous elite of clubs in the top six of the Premier League, household names in England, simply cut themselves off from the rest of the Premier League and be part of  some barmy vanity project which not only antagonised the supporters but also upset both managers and players alike. Here was the ultimate competition that would not only capture everybody's imagination but would be box office gold, compulsive viewing for football fans scattered around Europe and who could possibly resist this very tempting, mouth watering concept?

But almost immediately the esteemed likes of Arsenal, Manchester City and Manchester United, Spurs, Chelsea and, quite possibly, Leicester City were pencilled into some hair brained, crackpot tournament where the best of England would take on the rest of Europe in some fantasy European Super League round robin group of matches with little meaning or prestige. The only long term benefits it would give to the game would be a huge boost to substantial bank balance sheets of those already mentioned.

By the end of the weekend all we were left with were those typical scenes of footballing tribalism where things don't go quite as well as football fans would like them to. Hundreds of incensed Manchester United fans stampeded onto their hallowed Old Trafford pitch in the hope of persuading those in the hierarchy at Manchester United that the Glazer family should go immediately and pronto before they create havoc with their militant stance. Green and black flares sent plumes of smoke into the air, a severe warning to those in power that they're not going to stand for this terribly disagreeable state of affairs. 

And now the dust seems to be settling on this act of complete madness, a rush of blood to the head. The European Super League has now been dumped into the nearest available dustbin at least for the time being. The traditionalists who hold onto all the game's most precious values have now been thankfully pacified. Football is often prone to these Eureka moments when a light bulb goes off in some visionary's head and before you know it everybody thinks the game has lost possession of its senses.

We are now into the final month of the season and Manchester City will inevitably re-claim the Premier League title while Leicester City may well win their first ever FA Cup if only because they've lost all the other Finals at Wembley Stadium. But then football was never really about the law of averages and Chelsea may have too much streetwise savvy, winning the FA Cup once again. 

Realistically though, football will have to come to terms with the Arab sheiks and obscenely wealthy American baseball loving owners who profess to have their club's interests at heart. But football may well have to be resigned to to its long term fate, one where the millions and billions that seem to be surging through football's bloodstream are very much the status quo. 

Thankfully though the European Super League will be abandoned permanently and never disturb any earnest discussion about the game's future. Surely the movers and shakers who now dominate FA's headquarters must have something much more original up their sleeve. Maybe they should concentrate their attentions on something far more constructive to keep their minds busy. Some of us still fondly remember the Home Internationals at the end of a season where the English, Scots, Irish and Welsh play Musical Chairs and football tries to re-discover its sense of humour. We could do with a laugh. Farewell European Super League. You're surplus to requirements and don't darken our corridors again. Please.        

It's May Day and we're counting down the days.

 It's May Day and we're counting down the days. 

We all know that today is May Day. The excitement is building and the Travelodge hotel across the road from us is eagerly anticipating its first guests. The curtains are up, bedroom pillows thoroughly plumped, cleaned and ready to be slept in. For ages there was nothing but advertising hoardings and a bus stop that looked as if it would remain in the same position for ever. Manor House tube station and Finsbury Park were geographical landmarks rather than the backdrop for a highly impressive new hotel. 

Across the United Kingdom the first day of May has more than the symbolic significance it might have had in years gone by. The fact of the matter is that May could be one of the months of the year for quite a while. We are now seemingly weeks away from freedom, clarity, transparency, nerve tingling, palpitating fun, the bright clearing in nationwide forests around Britain. In fact this could be one of its finest hours, weeks, months of our lives in recent times. You can almost sense liberation from illness. 

We've waited long enough so Ladies and Gentlemen all being well, it's time to put on your glad rags, dig out the party hats, fling open your front and back door and dance, dance and dance again down your roads, through your neighbourhood, your high streets, your meandering country lanes and then tell your butcher that you want as much meat as possible for an impromptu barbecue today. It almost feels as though we shouldn't be celebrating the imminent end to this year long coronavirus because it could be a false dawn. Perhaps we've been given the wrong information before and the virus is still rampant, poised to come back again behind our backs. 

And yet today is May Day, a day that would usually be marked with the now yearly march in Red Square, Moscow. There is something military and intimidating about the sight of countless rows of stern looking Russian soldiers seemingly goose stepping in regimented formations that most of us now think of as dated and anachronistic given the Second World War has been over for 76 years now. Besides, who needs to be reminded of tanks, guns, rifles and threatening poses? Who needs a reminder of men wearing grey uniforms and hats, ready to fight yet more bloodthirsty battles in countries far and wide? 

But those dastardly days of stifling Communism and disciplined nationalism still exist in those far off corners of Russia. Sure, Stalin and Lenin are but far off historical names from the past whose ideologies can still be felt. Since the arrival though, of Lithunia, Estonia and Belarus, Russia has become a modern, trendy, highly influential and dynamic country open to change, willing and able to embrace topical technologies, an accessible and approachable nation that now reluctantly smiles and laughs because as much as it may not be feeling it at the moment, even Russia may be in the mood for some vodka fuelled happiness. 

Meanwhile back in Britain the collective forces of the trades union movement normally take to the streets of London to air their grievances, shouting at the top of their voices, protesting loudly, seeking justice and generally advertising the important influence they can still exert on the day. They wave their banners and flags, slowly winding their way along the roads and streets, announcing those grandiose statements and kicking up a fuss. 

But this year London is still coming around from its psychologically demanding virus and you suspect those august members from the professional classes, the blue chip companies, the shopkeepers and traders will have something to say although not quite in the way they used to. Although the world may be on the threshold of complete recovery, there is still a sense that the pavements aren't as golden as the perception would have you  believe. And yet this is May Day so this could be your chance to make sure that May Day is simply the prelude to a glorious June.  

Shortly that cultural songfest that goes by the title of the Eurovision Song Contest will be returning to our TV screens yet again rather like a long forgotten uncle and aunt you may have given up all hope of meeting again except for those who may be secretly dreading them. For years the merry month of May has been brightly illuminated by the widest variety of songwriters and composers who believe that their European pop gem has to win for their country. Since 1956, Europe's most memorable ditties have attacked our ears rather like a pneumatic drill on a building site or maybe not. Perhaps the lyrics are so melodious and easy on the ear that one day Great Britain will win it hands down again. 

Still, here we are on the first day of May and wondering whether the world will ever right itself again. That lengthy queue outside your chemist is longing to be on a healthy footing. We are about to receive our second Covid 19 vaccine and it can only be a matter of a time before we're out of this appalling horror movie. There have been rumours and endless speculation, whispered thoughts which imply that the virus is fading slowly into oblivion never to be seen again. 

Last night the young and hip movers and shakers of Liverpool were allowed to enjoy themselves once again. In an experimental, pilot event, a nightclub on Merseyside was the venue for a Friday night boogie, a magnificent rave that was on the right side of legal. Then there were the first gulps of alcohol and it just felt right.  Roughly 4,000 attended last night's musical homage to the latest sounds and trends. It was a very tentative move forward and finally tantalising glimpses can be seen. This is wonderful. But let's not be too hasty. 

The next couple of weeks could be absolutely crucial. If the nightclub event went according to plan then we could be looking at full steam ahead and all systems go. In a couple of weeks time Chelsea will be meeting Leicester in this year's FA Cup Final. None of us can be sure whether a full contingent of supporters from both teams will be given the go ahead again. But May is upon us and the trees have never looked so picturesque even though they don't really look too bad during the winter. Life has hope in its heart and even the TV weather forecasters look much happier and upbeat. Summer is there at the bottom of the road so let's switch on that smile and wave at it. This could be the summer of all summers. Keep well everybody because life is like the sweetest peach. Hold on tight.