Cristiano Ronaldo - second time around for Manchester United.

 Cristiano Ronaldo - second time around for Manchester United. 

It was hardly the best kept secret in footballing circles. We somehow knew they would and they did. Manchester United, quite predictably, have re-signed their talisman, the one and only Cristiano Ronaldo. Ronaldo is their all conquering hero, their darling and poster boy, surely one of the most popular and influential players ever to wear the red for Manchester United since the Frenchman Eric Cantona. He was the one who was convinced that sardines and trawler fishing boats could be applicable in a footballing context.  Eric Cantona was undoubtedly one of the most charismatic and philosophical of footballers, a Manchester United goal scoring striker of arrogance and impertinence. 

But now Manchester United have hit the jackpot again. When Cristiano Ronaldo thought he'd given everything he could possibly give to Juventus, he turned his thoughts to the club who had given him a perfect platform for his intellectual footballing brain, a chance once again to prove that his unique powers of self expression could give United a second Renaissance.

So Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, United's manager had the courage of his convictions and decided that Ronaldo had that innate capacity to not only become the definitive match winner but could also change the direction of a game with a deceptive sleight of foot and that lovely body shimmy that leaves defenders completely bamboozled. To say Ronaldo is a world class performer would surely be an understatement and the Portuguese hardly needed any persuasion or even  second thoughts when United came calling. 

At the age of 36 though the doubters, cynics and sceptics may well have been sitting in judgment just waiting for Ronaldo to fail miserably. Surely the flamboyance has now well and truly gone, surely the magical touches no longer at his disposal and how much longer can you keep doing it at this level? We all have been made aware of his powers of enchantment, the ability to lift an otherwise lifeless and listless League game into another mystical dimension. 

When Ronaldo was winning trophies galore at Real Madrid, most observers believed that he had nothing to prove anymore, that he'd been spoilt over the years, that if he went back to United, he would merely be a shadow of the player who'd brought such glamour and prosperity to United. They thought he would be a pale parody of  his former self. How often had former players at football clubs returned to one of their former clubs and found that the furniture had changed, the decor was different and the club had simply moved on? 

Now though Ronaldo is back at Manchester United and the world is, indeed, in a complete state of horrific disarray and dislocation. When Ronaldo was last at United he could always rely on the youthful exuberance of David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs to give the team value, a sense of proportion, balance, presence, personality, panache and the most expressive identity. It all clicked and gelled at the same time and United would win the Premier League title for fun to the point of repetition. But here comes Ronaldo again, fitter than ever before, full of turbo charged energy and a renewed sense of purpose. 

Over the weekend the favourite son from Portugal swaggered into the corridors of Old Trafford as if he'd never been away. More so than ever, Ronaldo continues to resemble the handsome matinee idol, a man with the svelte looks of a well chiselled film star from Hollywood, a six pack stomach oozing muscularity and a player who takes a genuine interest in his appearance. Of course he could be forgiven for passing as the ultimate fashion model on the catwalk and in an age of the fitness conscious athlete, Ronaldo is the most attractive of role models. 

Ronaldo now though faces competition from the gifted likes of Mason Greenwood, Paul Pogba, Marcus Rashford, Bruno Fernandes, Antony Martial and United's new and thrusting generation of slick, slinky and suave looking entertainers. It may occur to Ronaldo at some point that the pace he once possessed in spades is no longer on tap and the instinctive ball control may be slightly the worse for wear. But he can no longer be wholly dependent on the qualities that he used to have. The dazzling step over and audacious drag back may still be in his tool box but the mind may be less than willing to co-operate.

With the immediate future of Jesse Lingard still in doubt at Old Trafford, the arrival of Ronaldo at Manchester United will be greeted with feverish delight. When the great Eusebio retired many a moon ago, Portuguese football must have been plunged into a state of deep mourning. But yesterday Cristiano Ronaldo returned to English football and for those of us who have always admired the purity and lucidity of his talent, we can only hope that this emotional reunion has the happiest of endings.       

Covid 19, mental health and National Lottery Day.

Covid 19, mental health and National Lottery Day. 

Friday is normally the punctuation point of the week, the full stop, a temporary conclusion to toil and industry. For those of us who have now retired on mental health grounds it's the last day of the week and a chance to look back on recent events with perfect objectivity. You don't particularly mind about the substance of the week because every day is precious and a gift. Somehow the world will never really make any sense because there are travesties of justice and indefinable elements that just defy explanation. So you get on with the business of life and try to blot everything out that may be causing you any mental distress. 

Simply Autism, a condition you were diagnosed with quite a long time ago, plays tricks with your mind and distorts your reality, rather like a heavy downpour of rain which car windscreen wipers can never remove since the rain seems to intensify and you can never actually see the traffic in front of you. My Aspergers Syndrome condition is neither a hindrance or help but in these difficult Covid 19 times or post Covid times it can have a detrimental effect on your mental health because reality has escaped through the windows and left you feeling numb, shocked and dumbfounded. 

At the moment dear reader my sense of smell and taste has completely deserted me and, to be honest, my whole mindset has been gripped by some terrifying fear of the unknown. Your body becomes reduced to the point of emotional meltdown. You can't move properly with any enthusiasm, your anxieties become heightened and you begin to think that everything is your fault. Clearly this is not the case but the things you could normally engage with are now psychologically beyond your reach. You may feel like going to the gym and working off the frustrations and irrational thoughts in your head but now you feel stuck. 

The problem is that everything is blocked, out of order, not working, feelings now like dark holes in your mind, ever present, raging inside your head, tormenting you with a sense of inadequacy. Covid 19 has totally blurred the lines of perspective, a distortion of your focus on everyday life. The voices you used to be able to hear are of course the ones you can still recognise but the rest of the world is some distant exotic island where everything now feels haunting, disembodied, mysterious and yes, quite frightening. In a manner of speaking all of your faculties are no longer functioning. 

As somebody who has Autism, structure and routine are of paramount importance and without it you feel lost and robbed of the activities you used to take for granted. You miss the company of people who were friends with similar backgrounds and although you tell yourself that this is not the end of the world, you still miss their company and friendship. So how do you fill your time without thinking that the world is caving in on you. You try to pull yourself together because everybody insists that if you do that then things will seem much better than you think they are.

But your whole body is seeking some means of mental salvation, an immediate antidote to all the craziness inside your head. So you resort to Zoom, that glorious modern day video conference call device where people from all corners of the world can now meet up with each other on your computer screen and speak to each other at the same time. Zoom is now that wonderful piece of technology that enables us all nowadays to see each other, hear each other and talk to each other as if they were in the same room. 

Zoom is sociable, social, a way of meeting new people whom we would never ordinarily had the opportunity to make the acquaintance of. For those who have been working from home for the last 18 months or so this may have been just like any other day in the office, factory floor, shop, school or university. Besides, things haven't essentially changed for you. Zoom has now become your important link with whomsoever you may be working at the moment. Now we exchange the language, mannerisms and behaviour that would normally have been common practice in those days of normality with our Internet companions. 

So let's stop for a minute. It's time to stop dwelling on your mental health shortcomings and everything Covid- 19 related. Today folks it's National Lottery Day. Now there's a thought. It's always advisable to avoid thinking about something directly connected with the everyday news agenda. If we keep pondering on the death and destruction in Afghanistan, the now increasing number of innocent civilians who have perished in that part of the world and a myriad other disasters, the more likely we are to lose touch with the good things in life that we simply take for granted and may have forgotten about.  

And yet it's National Lottery Day. During the mid 1990s Noel Edmonds introduced the very first National Lottery draw to a captive audience on BBC One. At the time there was much excitement and you tried to imagine what it would have been like at that first session of Bingo all those decades and years ago. You try to think of all those first betting shops, that moment in your life that sparked off a gambling pastime which, for obsessives, tragically became an addiction. So you filled in your betting slip and sat down and watched a TV screen in some fascination as your winning horse made you richer than you might have been had you not taken the plunge. But how dangerous and foolhardy the Lottery has now become although there can be no harm in the occasional punt. 

The Lottery has now become a well established weekly fixture in your daily life. There's the Lottery, the mid week Lottery, the Euro draw, the Thunder Ball and the Lotto. Now the chances are that whenever you pop into your local corner shop for a pint of milk and a loaf of bread, you'll probably find a queue of people with Lottery scratch cards. Now this is the point where you begin to question the necessity to spend goodness knows how much money in the vague hope of  collecting a small million or a couple of hundred thousand pounds. The truth is that this won't happen and you're kidding yourself into believing that a handsome Lottery victory will dramatically change your life overnight. 

For how long now have we been deluded into thinking  that wealth is now the key to permanent happiness? We think that vast sums of money will guarantee a stress free life and then those materialistic possessions that we may have fantasised about but could never afford are the only route to life fulfilment. The truth is perhaps closer to home. What happens when you've acquired that house in the country with six bedrooms, three conservatories, horse stables and paddocks, library studies, elegant kitchens with copper kettles, bathrooms with three jacuzzis, an Olympic sized swimming pool, balconies and verandas with columns wherever you look. And a garden that backs out onto the stunning beauty of the Lake District. 

Then of course we return to reality. We think back to those years before the football Pools coupon when a nation of football supporters would come home from their local teams Saturday match and dream of fantastic lifestyles where the neighbours we used to know just ignore you because you've got millions in the bank and they've barely a brass farthing in their pocket. 

Still, today is National Lottery Day and you never know. It could be you but probably won't be you because it'll be anybody but you. So who cares anyway because what are you supposed to do when you've got too much money. You'll never have to scrape a living again and that speedboat you've always craved is yours to take out on the high seas. So you try golf and tennis. But then how many rounds of golf or sets of tennis can you fit in during the day. So please enjoy National Lottery Day because it merely is a Lottery and pot luck. If you've got your mental and emotional health then that is your personal Lottery. Every day is sweet as wine.         

Top of the Premier League Hammers.

 Top of the Premier League Hammers. 

Now this is a pleasant surprise. Who'd have thought it possible? After so many seasons of trials and tribulations, humiliating FA Cup defeats, lengthy residence in the bottom half of the Premier League, West Ham are top of the Premier League and some of us are pinching ourselves, privately believing that we'll finally wake up and find ourselves in the land of fantasy. We may be in the infant stages of the new Premier League season but West Ham are up and running, firing on all cylinders and playing like a team who have been together for years and are completely at ease in each other's company. 

After their ruthless dismissal of Newcastle in their opening day encounter at St James Park, West Ham emerged into their own London Stadium nervous and trepidatious but nonetheless on a high. West Ham swept aside FA Cup winners Leicester with an explosive display of full on attacking football, a side of dashing, carefree and cavalier intent. There were times when you thought you must have been hallucinating because this is not the way it was supposed to be for seasoned and hardened West Ham supporters. But how shocked they must have been. 

Last season, in quite the most peculiar season of all time, West Ham, without their passionate and adoring fans, still clinched a place in the Europa League. They finished sixth and must have thought all their birthdays and anniversaries had come all at once. Their football was brisk, crisp, neat and methodical, oozing confidence and then piecing their passes together with careful consideration, impressive one and two touch football and counter attacking football that simply demolished teams in a matter of seconds. 

For the first time in roughly 18 months, there were almost 60,000 claret and blue West Ham supporters who probably couldn't wait to give their lungs a much needed airing. At their old Upton Park ground, gallows humour invariably accompanied every pass, tackle and shot West Ham could muster. There were frequent relegations to lower leagues and painful embarrassment into the bargain. Then there was the famous League match against Burnley several seasons ago when the fans revolted and planted flags of protest on the London Stadium ground. They could take no more and disenchantment led to despair. 

But after Slaven Bilic and Manuel Pellegrini had either made too many mistakes and lost games on an alarmingly regular basis, David Moyes returned to the club as manager and now all in the garden is just right, the flowers are flourishing and everything is hunky dory, tickety boo. Poor Manuel Pellegrini, after leading  Manchester City to a Premier League title, must have thought he'd stepped on a landmine. There was definitely an incendiary period when, after a moment of brief promise, Pellegrini found himself holding a grenade and then watched helplessly as everything went up in smoke. 

Shortly after a couple of Christmases ago, Pellegrini had to go and the man who was initially appointed on a short term basis at West Ham was summoned again to steady the sinking ship. David Moyes is back at West Ham and has more or less regenerated the club from top to bottom. Moyes was  viewed with understandable scepticism but then guided the club to Premier League safety if only just. Some of us were a tad suspicious since if Manchester United couldn't see anything of Sir Alex Ferguson in him and Atletico Madrid were only too glad to get rid of him, Moyes had only a wondrous spell at Everton by way of consolation. 

In the pandemic football season, West Ham had achieved the double of victories over Brendan Rogers Leicester City. A 3-0 win at the King Power Stadium was followed by a much closer 3-2 victory for West Ham at the London Stadium when the home team almost threw away a three goal lead carelessly. Leicester of course went on to win the FA Cup in front of thousands of Foxes but last night they were prowling in the undergrowth without ever threatening at any time to disturb the equanimity of the hosts.

There was a time when West Ham were easy meat for opponents who found themselves with acres of open space that was hungrily exploited by the visitors because Ron Greenwood's teams were designed to allow their opponents to play. But David Moyes newly furnished West Ham team were an entirely different proposition. There was an air of  well drilled togetherness about them, a fearless experimentation, a looser, slicker, tidier team,  a side of infinite variation and flexibility, technically comfortable on the ball and moving the ball around among themselves with little inhibition and restraint. 

For the first twenty minutes or so though West Ham found themselves faced with a Leicester side who had so much possession of the ball at the back that it seemed only a matter of time before the visitors would make the breakthrough and score. But Leicester were going nowhere, stuck in a cul-de-sac of their own making. Their passing was fluent and fluid but the final product was just a shoddy piece of workmanship that simply fell apart on the rock of a well organised West Ham defence. And so it was that West Ham composed themselves, slipping quick and intricate passes along the touchlines while weaving and scheming, probing and pressing Leicester with eye catching movements. 

The counter attacking game that West Ham had now established as their focal point left Leicester in a high state of panic every time a claret and blue shirt ran at them with a magical intensity. When West Ham took the lead, Leicester capitulated almost immediately. West Ham drove forward in hunting packs, powering forward with Jarrod Bowen, Said Benhrama and Pablo Fornals speeding like juggernauts on a motorway, driving into areas where goals seemed to be only a matter of time.  

Then man of the match Pablo Fornals gave West Ham the lead that he had initiated in the first place. Darting into space, Fornals laid the ball simply into the path of Benhrama who then ventured into another pocket of space before clipping a low ball back to Fornals. The Spanish playmaker, alive to the possibility, scurried perceptively to receive the Benrahma ball and flicked the ball smartly past Kaspar Schmeichel for West Ham's opening goal. 

Shortly after half time West Ham made it patently clear that they were in no mood to just squander the lead, making inroads into the Leicester half. Declan Rice, now a fully blossomed captain and centre half, roamed past Leicester's back tracking defenders as if they were just statues. Now the game reached a fatal turning point for Leicester. Ricardo Perez, mistiming a challenge for the visitors after he had lost the ball, trod on Fornals ankles with studs up and, after VAR consultation, was sent off,  given his marching orders quite severely and then shown the red card. 

Within minutes West Ham had increased the lead, eagerly capitalising on a now 10 men Leicester side. After Leicester's Turkish defender Caglar Soyuncu had been caught out with a sloppy back pass, West Ham's Michail Antonio, now West Ham's record top goal scorer in recent times, snatched the ball back from a fumbling Sovuncu and Antonio burrowed his way into the Leicester area before squaring a superbly delivered ball low across to Benhrama who simply slid the ball home for West Ham's second. 

Now very much in the ascendancy, West Ham shredded their opposition with the kind of  aristocratic football that their fans had been denied last season. It was almost as if the finest crockery and cutlery was about to be placed on a banqueting table  surrounded by the wealthiest landowners. West Ham's football seemed to be flavoured with the tastiest of spices and sprinkled with breathless sophistication, Leicester now stretched and shunted from one side of the pitch to the other, completely at a loss as to what was happening to them and how to deal with West Ham's high energy approach.  

Temporarily though West Ham lost their foothold on the game and we began to see why Leicester had won the FA Cup for the first time last season. Their football had that reckless sense of adventure and captivating brilliance that had won the Premier League several seasons ago. Kelechi Iheanacho was always orchestrating some of Leicester's most constructive attacks with a level head and a calming influence. James Maddison displayed the kind of form that could open up doors in Gareth Southgate's England squad while Wilfred Ndidi had both grace and a sometimes over active imagination.

Mid way through the second half Leicester pulled a goal back when West Ham, for possibly a ten minute period, thought they'd done enough on the evening and weren't required to do any more. Jamie Vardy, that seasoned campaigner who still seems to enjoy the game as much as he ever did, popped out on the left just outside the Hammers penalty area, prodding the ball back into the danger area where Patson Daka completely missed his shot and the ball fell kindly to Youri Tielemans, the Belgium midfielder who will always go down in Leicester folklore for the goal that won the Cup for Leicester. Tielemans just swiped the ball home after Cresswell had fruitlessly blocked the initial shot  

That though was the extent of Leicester's contribution for the evening. After another surging and thrilling break down the flank Vladimir Coufal. West Ham's enterprising full back latched onto a ball on the edge of the Leicester penalty area. The Czech Republic defender, who is beginning to melt the hearts of an increasing number of West Ham fans, chipped the ball cleverly into the path of that man Michail Antonio who masterfully rolled his defender and then cracked the ball fiercely into the net and Leicester's lights had gone out.

Minutes later with Aaron Cresswell running riot on one wing and overlapping for fun, Coufal spreading mayhem on the other side, West Ham began to coast and showboat. Tomas Soucek was now full of casual nonchalance as if this was a leisurely five a side training exercise, stroking the ball around simply and precisely. Then the fourth goal followed as if the home fans were expecting it. Declan Rice scampered across the pitch and then through the lines, Fornals joined in again and when the ball came into the nimble feet of Antonio, the West Ham forward lunged out his feet and toe poked the ball home for West Ham's fourth of the night. 

With Liverpool also recording their second win of the season the sight of Brighton near the top  lends a somewhat surreal look to the top of the Premier League. For West Ham the Europa League beckons and judging by their exploits yesterday evening, this could be one of the most successful seasons the club has ever known. Then again for those who remember their week long occupation at the top of the old First Division during the 1970s, this could be a case of history repeating itself. At the end of that season West Ham found themselves languishing in perilous relegation waters. Some of us are accustomed to both West Ham and their traditional struggles. Not this time though surely.  

 

National Radio Day.

 National Radio Day. 

You must have forgotten all about the significance of today. You woke up this morning and wondered what marked out today from all other days because the suspense was so great that you could hardly wait to be informed. It isn't the kind of day you'd normally associate with the final weeks of August. But the day has now asserted itself and is determined to dine out on every single moment. Please tell us, dear writer. We're anxious to know. 

So ladies and gentlemen today is National Radio Day. Yes, today we must pay homage to the good, old fashioned radio, that reliable box of sound, noise and communication that has taken pride of place in every home throughout the world for over a century and even further back if you think about it. Radio has been informative, educational, enlightening, newsworthy almost constantly and a provider of music covering all genres. It was the first voice which woke you up in the morning and the first hit single or record album that took you back in time to those nostalgic moments in your life when music had resonance or gravitas. 

Radio played music for all tastes, prejudices and interests. It reminded you of where you were when something of deeply cultural relevance suddenly hit the news headlines. It was the music that transported you, so to speak, back to a golden era of your childhood or adolescence. Radio accompanied you to football or cricket matches and sprawling parklands where the oleander or the rose wafted through your senses during the summer. Radio boosted your morale when you were dispirited or helpless. It was there. 

For those who can recall it, maybe we should fondly think back to the transistor radio. We all remember the transistor radio. That was the radio which crackled or whistled almost incessantly because you couldn't really hear what you were supposed to be listening to. It had an aerial, a dial the size of a small town and radio stations that broke every law in the land. Pirate radio dominated radio during the 1960s.

Radio Caroline, based just off the coast of Essex, violated all of the rules and regulations, remaining illegal and rebellious for quite a long time. Radio Caroline bobbed and wobbled around the heaving seas with a towering mast that had an equally as prominent aerial soaring into the air and the Home Office in Britain tracking their every move. Frequently, Caroline were raided and taken off the air because nobody had given them a proper licence and they weren't allowed to broadcast. 

After repeated attempts to give a youth oriented market its 24/7 dose of groovy, heavy rock music and an abundance of album tracks that BBC radio wouldn't have dreamt of playing, Caroline finally waved the flag of surrender in 1967 when the Marine Offences Act rendered everything that the pirate station was offering taboo and unacceptable. It was time to take Radio Caroline off the air. Permanently. Or so they thought at the time. Caroline would defy the Establishment over and over again. 

Back in Britain, radio was almost embarrassingly devoid of anything that could be considered as entertaining for teenage listeners who were desperate to hear the latest Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, Cream or Hawkwind album or single as be it the case. None of the mainland radio stations could ever bring themselves to give any of these psychedelic, moody and long haired artists the oxygen of  publicity they must have been yearning for.

At Broadcasting House, BBC headquarters in London, a vast majority of Britain had to content themselves with either the Home service, the Light programme or just very serious plays over the airwaves. Throughout the two Wars such fare was regarded as both crucial and fundamental to our way of life. The likes of famous author George Orwell would unashamedly spread the latest news and current bulletins of our troops in Malaya, the evil Germans and Orwell's controversial stance on all of the above. 

But for years and decades after the Second World War we could only wonder what life would be like without  big band wartime music, men such as Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey or Ted Heath, three of the greatest bandleaders of all time. Of course both Miller, Dorsey and Heath were magnificent morale boosters and their music was remarkably stirring. Some of us though were already teenagers and in all honesty, were beginning to tire of Charlie Chester on a Sunday afternoon on Radio 2, Family Favourites earlier on in the same day and the Kings Singers just before the Top 40 with Tom Browne. 

There was of course Radio Luxembourg. Now this, in theory, seemed the ideal alternative to wartime trumpets and trombones. Sadly though Luxembourg were just a confounded nuisance. Whenever you tuned into Luxembourg you were always subjected to the most horrendous racket. The Luxembourg signal would keep fading in and out with insufferable regularity. Situated on the iconic 208 Medium Wave band, this mainstream pop music radio giant was barely audible. It was time to listen to something we could hear properly. 

Then in 1967 BBC Radio One announced itself to the British public in quite the most unprecedented fashion. How dare the BBC change the habits of a lifetime by playing loud pop music from the charts of the day? When Tony Blackburn became the first DJ to flip on Flowers in the Rain by the Move on September 30th of that year, radio had undergone a dramatic facelift. So they kept going with an almost fanatical emphasis on the music of the day. Manfred Mann, the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Dusty Springfield and Tom Jones would have a great deal to be grateful for Radio One.

By the beginning of the 1970s commercial radio would become the viable format for those who wanted something else. In 1973 LBC, a London based commercial station, would quietly make its presence felt at 417 in the Medium Wave band but those first announcements were almost silent. Shortly, LBC would move to 261 in the Medium Wave band and, for the first time in radio history, speech and phone in radio would be invented overnight. 

During the 1970s LBC would be confronted with a metropolitan music station called Capital Radio which became the first and most pioneering commercial station at 194 in the Medium Wave band. Capital could boast one of the most inventive DJs that radio had ever heard. Kenny Everett was cheeky, naughty, outrageous and too outspoken at times but Everett gave radio a sharp injection of anarchic humour and a sense of fun. 

Now of course radio has changed again and in the USA hundreds and thousands of radio stations, catering for all musical preferences, are blasting out from millions of Digital radios and Internet stations.  There are shock jocks, radio phone in presenters with a glorious sense of improvisation, talk show maestros and then there were ground breaking programmes such as the Goons and the Archers, two BBC institutions that broke the mould in 1950s radio.

So it is that we thank radio for giving us two of the sweetest sounding sports commentators it has ever been your privilege to open your ears to. During the 1970s BBC Radio 2 presented us with Bryon Butler and Peter Jones, football commentators par excellence. Through a deafening cacophony of interference from a thousand other stations, Butler and Jones painted artistic pictures with their heartfelt descriptions of classic football matches. Their voices were instantly recognisable in much the way that the marvellous cricket aficionado John Arlott had made his voice as familiar as the National Anthem. 

It's National Radio Day. Undeniably it wakes you up in the morning or if it's the weekend you'll probably turn over in bed and just ignore it. Radio echoes the sentiments of the popular zeitgeist, provocative, always fascinating, utterly enjoyable and mood setting for the day. Radio once came out of a lovely turquoise box in our family kitchen as you were growing up and then stopped working because the batteries refused to work. But you have to put on the radio because TV could never do it justice. It's on in the background and always there should you need it. Thankyou Guglielmo Marconi. You're a scholar and a gentleman.        

West Ham finally banish their opening day blues.

West Ham finally banish their opening day blues. 

The opening day of any new Premier League football season is normally a time for clean slates, new beginnings, pitches that resemble baize green snooker tables and players whose heads have been completely turned by mouth watering wages at other clubs. Jack Grealish became the first £100 million player and even in hindsight it still seems criminally insane. Harry Kane, who grew up with Tottenham in his blood vessels, has allegedly expressed his desire to win trophies and Manchester City seem the logical choice. 

But come August time and the start of the season is reminiscent of a village fete. The balmy heat of late summer is still drifting languidly through the terraces and stands of most Premier League grounds and there are local jars of jam to be gratefully acquired. If you hit the coconut then you might be fortunate to win the goldfish and then there's the incentive of claiming first prize for the largest marrow on display. Football though means so much more than local rivalries and the capture of big trophies remains the ultimate objective. 

Always though there is an air of sedateness and serenity about those opening fixtures that suggest nothing matters as such as long as your team aren't thrashed or heavily beaten. In the first games  of the season over the weekend there were liberal sprinklings of threes, fours and fives but none seemed unduly concerned. Leeds were ripped apart by Manchester United where United's 5-1 victory against their Pennine neighbours probably sent a brief shock wave through Marcello Bielsa's team but nothing more.

Spurs, for their part, are under new management in Nuno Esperito Santo and have finally rid themselves of the nightmare who was Jose Mourinho. Yesterday at the Tottenham Hotspur stadium, Nuno's new charges frightened the living daylights out of Premier League champions Manchester City. Son Heung Min shifted and cut inside his defender with some conviction before cracking a rocket of a shot that soared past the City keeper for Spurs winner and only goal.

At Stamford Bridge meanwhile Tomas Tuchel, now idolised by the Chelsea faithful, opened his team's account with a conclusively impressive 3-0 victory over Patrick Viera's Crystal Palace. The European Champions are feeling pretty chipper at the moment and there was a well varnished polish in the way they demolished Palace. In some quarters there are some who believe that Chelsea have the necessary resources to win the Premier League but then there is a long way to go and anything can happen. 

Meanwhile, your claret and blue flawed geniuses West Ham United must have thought all their birthdays had come at once. Normally those of a happy Hammers allegiance would normally be dreading the prospect of early August days. In recent seasons there have been five goal thrashings by Manchester City, defeat at Chelsea, four conceded at Manchester United and little of any substance to make the team from the London Stadium feel any better about themselves.

But yesterday marked a radical departure from the norm. Maybe it had been something in the air at Newcastle but West Ham reaped a bumper harvest of goals ensuring a 4-2 victory against Newcastle United. Now the chances are that this could have been a one off, an unexpected surprise or perhaps West Ham have been lulled into a false sense of security. Besides you have supported this unpredictable team for longer as you care to remember and, as such have been hardened to setbacks and inherent traumas. 

Still, beggars can't be choosers and since West Ham always seem to have come a cropper against Newcastle in recent seasons, this was a welcome break in the sequence. Yesterday West Ham produced by far their best performance away from home for ages. In the old days West Ham would have crumbled against the roaring cheers and vociferous voices at the Gallowgate End of St James Park. But there are no Wor Jackie Milburns, Len Shackletons or more recently Alan Shearer for the likes of West Ham to be terrified of. 

These days St James Park can be both intimidating and overwhelmingly noisy. But then you mention owner Mike Ashley's name and as if on cue, the whole of the North East begin to boil over with righteous indignation, furious at Ashley's air of misplaced contentment, a sense that there can be no reason to panic and all will be well. Frequently the Newcastle fans have stormed the barricades and privately wondered whether they'll ever win anything again. The coal mines and collieries that once flourished are no longer thriving  and Newcastle are desperate for success on the football pitch. 

Yesterday if only briefly, it all looked very rosy complexioned and heading in the right direction. Newcastle did take the lead after only a few minutes but that was merely a mirage. Newcastle's wizard-cum magician Alan Saint Maximim, another French ball playing artist, teased and tormented West Ham's Declan Rice, turning one way and then another before clipping the ball back into the West Ham six yard area, where Callum Wilson, West Ham's bad omen and nemesis, headed firmly past Lukasz Fabianksi the West Ham keeper. 

With Jacob Murphy, Emil Krafth and Ciaran Clark all prepared to break forward at pace for Newcastle, the home side seemed to have turned a corner. Newcastle had the bit between the teeth, a sense of menace in their nostrils and an acute awareness of just how important a role their devoted fans, now back for the first time since March 2020, would have on their team's fortunes. But then it all became slightly laboured and awkward, the ball travelling very slowly and stuck in treacle at times. Still,as Newcastle kept pushing and pressing, hemming the visitors back into their own half but not really impressing as such. 

West Ham, for their part, were in the mood to upset the apple cart, flicking the ball nonchalantly between themselves, passing with immaculate precision. After another strikingly attractive build up just outside the Newcastle penalty area, the ball was moved swiftly. A combination of Michal Antonio's marvellous shielding of the ball allowed Said Benrahma to indulge in yet another game of Pass the Parcel and when the ball found Aaron Cresswell, the defender hit the ball low past Newcastle keeper Freddie Woodman. VAR might have shown that Jarrod Bowen had been offside when he slid the ball into the net but the West Ham equaliser was confirmed. 

Newcastle though were undeterred and responded admirably even though there was an evident bluntness about their football. When the brilliant Miguel Almiron found space out on the flank, the mercurial Paraguayan turned on a six pence, laying off the ball perceptively to the equally as ambitious Matt Ritchie.The cross fell perfectly to Jacob Murphy who headed home almost apologetically, the ball looping over Fabianski in the West Ham net for Newcastle's second goal. 

All appeared well and tickety boo at the start of the second half. Newcastle were fired up, pumped up and revving up their engines. As an attacking force it looked as if the second half for West Ham would be the most thankless of assignments. They were up against it and they knew what was in store. But the onslaught never came for the home side and West Ham snatched the ball back and never seemingly let go of it.

When Vladimir Coufal, the West Ham full back. galloped towards the by line, Newcastle seemed to freeze almost immediately. Coufal's chip across goal found Antonio again and his header seemed to bounce back off the post and straight to Fornals who was now apparently bumped over by a Newcastle defender. The Newcastle team en masse protested their innocence but a penalty had been awarded and Antonio's penalty was easily saved by Newcastle keeper Woodman. Tomas Soucek, almost anticipating the miss, came charging in to tuck the ball home for West Ham's second equaliser. 

After a brief claret and blue flourish where the ball seemed to be jealously guarded and neatly distributed at all times, West Ham now took the lead for the first time in the match. Another quickfire exchange of passes found Michal Antonio out on the wing again. The now reinvented West Ham striker flighted the ball beautifully across to Said Benhrama, who, in acres of space, headed the ball downwards into the net.

On the hour point, Newcastle collapsed like seaside sandcastles. The impetus they had generated before, had now fizzled out and West Ham devoured the home side, hungry for three points and a measure of revenge for last season's two defeats by Newcastle. By now Jarred Bowen, the superbly authoritative Tomas Soucek and the equally as measured Pablo Fornals were picking up loose Newcastle possession and hunting in packs. There was a renewed clarity about West Ham's attacking philosophy. Their passing game had now assumed a life of its own and the counter attacking approach left Newcastle in no man's land. 

With the game now psychologically lost, Newcastle back pedalled in an cowardly and craven retreat into their shells. Breaking out of defence, West Ham spooned the ball forward to Benrahma and the new favourite among the West Ham faithful, spotting Antonio with almost the entire pitch left vacant by Newcastle, fed a glorious diagonal pass into Antonio's path. West Ham's now prolific goal scorer manoeuvred into position, thumped the ball home emphatically into the net and West Ham were home and dry.

There are times as a West Ham loyalist when you might have been tempted to simply give up and somehow despair of your chosen football team. But now West Ham have several distractions on their mind and the rot has now been stopped on the opening day of a new football season. Maybe just maybe this could be West Ham's season of seasons to discuss until the small hours of a Sunday morning. But this is only one game  and the cynical among us have been here before. Next Monday, West Ham face FA Cup winners Leicester City and it may be a case of closing your eyes and hoping for yet another victory. Some of us are almost resigned to the fate of the club because it's somehow become a habit.  

      

Has anybody seen Donald Trump?

 Has anybody seen Donald Trump?

So here we are in the middle of August and nobody can tell us what happened to Donald Trump. It almost feels as America's most flawed, heavily criticised and fiercely attacked President of the United States of America has just fallen off the radar, disappeared without trace, lost in some obscure netherworld and, dare we say it, completely forgotten. It is probably safe to assume that nobody misses Trump since nobody has mentioned his name in any kind of context since Joe Biden took over as President.

Maybe he is around somewhere and would prefer some degree of anonymity which seems highly unlikely given his almost incessant exposure to the public limelight. Then there was the publicity he seemed to almost inordinately crave on a constant basis. The egotistical, conceited one has now though faded into the woodwork and the man who couldn't get enough of the crass sound bite and the muddled platitude has presumably retreated to some distant corner of America where nobody can find him.

You remember Donald Trump. We could hardly forget him. He was perhaps the most controversial, contentious, racist, sexist and serial misogynist ever to take office at the White House. But suddenly it's all gone rather quiet, don't you think so? It could be that he's now been successfully airbrushed from the history books never to appear on any TV chat show ever again. We have to be grateful because had he been allowed to continue leading the Free world in such a rash, brash, carelessly irresponsible fashion for any longer than he did then that world may well have been threatened with complete extinction. 

Anyway let us make our own suppositions and reach logical conclusions. When Trump finally conceded defeat at the beginning of the year albeit with the heaviest heart and a spiteful, childish temper, most of us must have assumed that he hadn't really left the White House's back doors. Some of us believed that he'd locked himself in a dark, wood panelled study and was simply sulking. You'll never move him and he's just adamant that he is still President of the United States. What bloody minded stubbornness.

The riots and demonstrations that followed Trump's demotion in Washington were truly disgraceful and shamefully reprehensible. It was almost as if America's sense of democracy was being brazenly carried around its shoulders. Let the people speak and let's reverse the final result. The Trump camp followers were raging and bellowing at the top of their voices, seething resentment pouring out of their mouths. But the undeniable fact was that Trump had suffered a bloodied nose, beaten comprehensively so it seemed a good time to tell him that he wasn't wanted again, surplus to requirements. 

Now of course Trump must be licking his wounds, convinced that a travesty of justice was played out to his American public. Perhaps he's wandering up and down the fairways of an American golf course searching for answers he may never find. Quite disturbingly he may still be considering world domination which you may think he's capable of but realistically it wouldn't be his best idea. 

Reports emerged shortly after Biden became President that Trump was planning to open up his very own TV station which does sound hilarious. It isn't hard to imagine pro hard line Trump news readers staring earnestly into the camera and doing their level best to convince America that Trump was robbed, the blatant victim of vote counting misfits who had clearly misled the people into thinking that Trump had lost the election and were sticking by their words. Trump was the winner or maybe not.  

Trump never really came to terms with propaganda and what might have seemed exaggerated, even false information. Everything in the apparently fairy tale world of Trump had to be coated with a sweet, sugary taste rather than plain acceptance of defeat. Of course Trump had won but only in his imagination. There must have come a point then when he simply surrendered, came out with his hands in the air and swallowed his pride. It didn't really happen though.

It is possible that Trump has gone back into the cut throat and ruthlessly competitive world of big business and million dollar deals with dubious characters who just want to humiliate him. The Trump hotel stands as a lasting monument to the Trump mindset. If you can accumulate enough money over the years and spend it on something of concrete value then everybody will pat you on the back. Everybody  though will admire his persistence, his powers of endurance when the flak was flying and everybody just hates you. 

May we suggest that we resurrect some of the more embarrassing moments in the years leading up to the Trump presidency. Many decades ago Trump once featured in an American comedy show dressed up as a chicken and promptly extolled the virtues of a certain brand of chicken that could be bought straight from your local supermarket. Donald Trump then launched into what can only be described as some of the most ludicrous chicken impersonations ever seen on any TV channel. 

Some of us are inclined to think that Trump would make an excellent chat show host if only because he'd probably decide to monopolise the whole programme with wickedly sarcastic jokes about those who had never supported him and always doubted him. He may be faced with an irresistible temptation to pretend that he was Clark Kent and Superman delusions would obviously follow. At the moment though Trump has still gone missing and if he does feel the urge to look for the Daily Planet then he may be fighting a lost cause.

The point is though that Trump is no longer the President of the United States and that in itself sounds a very comfortable sentence to a vast majority of Americans. But the legacy he left behind him may cast him in a less than flattering light. There were the explosive confrontations with the assembled Press at conferences that often descended into the realms of the stupid and bizarre. There were the inflammatory comments about certain American TV networks, the spiky and sparky statements that left most of his adversaries speechless and then the biting attacks on those who just couldn't believe what they were watching. 

Addressing Covid 19 Trump came up with the most ingenious suggestions which should perhaps be left in the hands of talented comedians and satirists. What possesses anybody to come up with the wheeze that copious amounts of bleach would guarantee instant elimination of the Covid 19 virus? Why were we subjected to those unintelligible, nonsensical speeches that defied any coherent translation. Of course Trump knew the best words but then again so did Dickens but you didn't hear him ranting about the incompetence of Fox news or CNN.

The truth is of course that Trump has gone to the ground and will probably stay there until such time as he thinks the coast is clear. Perhaps he's become a monk and is cowering away in a monastery until Fox news suddenly spot him reading his own autobiography. He could have become a jazz musician and was allegedly spotted floating effortlessly up and down the Mississippi on a paddle steamer or heading towards some mystical land where everybody simply worships him. Then again he may have become a priest and could be currently sermonising to all and sundry in some remote church down South. 

Suffice it to say we must hope that dear Donald Trump is still making sense of life because the memories are not the ones any of us would care to reflect on with any great affection. He was a positive, supportive voice for Israel and there were even some who believed that he did build or finish some imaginary wall to protect himself from Mexico. The mind is just working overtime and you can only guess. But finally the American nation has to console itself with the knowledge that things can hardly get any worse. Now what happened to that golf ball Mr Trump. We think this is the par three on the 18th and you're destined to win. Then again he invariably wins or so he believes.    

Jack Grealish- a £100 million player. Has football lost its senses?

 Jack Grealish- a £100 million player. Has football lost its senses?

Of course we've been here before and we still can't believe it. Football has always gone through evolutionary cycles and has to move with the times. Progress made is always to be highly commended but when society and the free market economy dictate exactly which way it wants football to go there can be no room for any kind of argument. So it was that another landmark was reached last week. Football was seduced by money and literally lost its moral bearings. Where on earth is the game we've so loyally followed throughout the years going? Football has now become consumed by rampant greed and nobody has so much as batted an eye-lid. This is almost the accepted norm. 

When Trevor Francis became the first £1 million player way back in the early 1980s, we thought football was simply going through a silly phase and Francis would become the exception rather than rule. The sight of Brian Clough standing proudly next to his latest acquisition at Nottingham Forest now seems just a minor financial aberration that could have been avoided. But it did take place and then the game spiralled out of control. 

Last week, Jack Grealish, a vastly gifted midfield playmaker, catalyst, starting motor, footballing architect and general, signed for Pep Guardiola's Premier League champions Manchester City for the eyeball rolling figure of £100 million. For a moment most of us were just stunned, even traumatised by what we had seen with the evidence of our own eyes. But then we recognised the absurdity of it all, the mindless materialism that had once again infected football. We shut our eyes for a while, looked at the sky and just sighed our exasperation, the numbed shock you always feel when you can barely understand why. 

Back in the 1960s Johnny Haynes, Fulham and England's classiest of players, became one of the first footballers to bring home a £100 a week wage packet  to his family. At the time most football supporters thought the game had lost its mind. Football would go to hell in a handcart, the road to ruination and damnation that would lead to the complete disintegration of the game as a force for good, no longer considered as the working men's sport where players and managers could ever live with their social conscience. 

Besides, the world around football was surrounded by abject poverty and starvation, hunger and deprivation in the heart of Africa. There is a sense that football was losing its identifiable focus with the supporters on the terraces who could only see their heroes getting wealthier by the day. The firemen, milkmen, shop workers and office workers were earning peanuts and here were those muddied oafs pocketing a fortune.  But Haynes was just the tip of the iceberg, an example of what could happen if a considerable sum of money was offered to a player who had known only financial hardship and nothing but struggle. 

So here we are back at the same old drawing board. A mind boggling £100 million sum has been brokered between Aston Villa and Manchester City. City of course have got so many millions in their bank account that the figures now seem like chicken feed to its multi billion pound Arab owners. Grealish of course is not to blame since he was the pawn in the middle of all this money grabbing acquisitiveness, this pursuit of the fast buck, this blind ignorance of reality. But this latest football transfer can only be regarded as another obscenity, another heinous outrage, an arrogant disregard for the game's fundamental grass roots. 

And this is the crux of the issue. While the Premier League season will resume again this weekend, football's brethren, its lower division uncles and cousins will be wrestling with its poor attendances, the trickle down of the pandemic's furloughing problems and will have no idea how it'll ever make up the lost revenues from a lost season. Oh for the Rochdales and Grimsby's of the world, the Plymouth Argyles and Prestons that have so often languished in the provinces and margins of the game, outsiders looking in with anguish and hurt in their hearts. Survival is painful and nobody cares about them. 

But Jack Grealish will certainly be alright of that can no be doubt. During the summer Grealish could have been the vital difference between England quite possibly winning Euro 2020. Gareth Southgate, England's very respectable manager, may be kicking himself for not starting with Grealish in the Euro 2020 Final at Wembley. He will probably wonder if he could have done anything different, privately acknowledging that Grealish could have opened doors and broken through the Italian defence. 

After that game, few people would have noticed that Grealish did more than most to justify such an extortionate transfer fee. Spotting a youngster on the terraces with his family, Grealish climbed over a railing on the Wembley terraces, took the young man under his wing and agreed to a selfie photo. Grealish then handed over a brand new pair of green boots to the child, wrapped his arm around the kid's shoulder and smiled for the camera. It was a selfless, humble and unassuming gesture and we then offered nothing but whole hearted appreciation. 

However, when Manchester City forked up £100 million our perceptions of the nation's favourite game were still unshaken. Those footballers are all the same, feeding at the trough, obsessed with all of those Bank of England millions of pounds, the wages of sin, the root of all evil. But it does indeed make the world go around. It's the stuff that pays off the bills, big, old mortgages, all of that essential food and drink and all of those frightening obligations that have to be met. It's there and has to be and may always be the case. 

And so it is that the Premier League will set out on its nine month journey with all of those customary expectations, the modest ambitions in some cases and just a backward glance at Jack Grealish. Are City guaranteed another Premier League trophy with Grealish in their ranks or is Pep Guardiola hoping, possibly assuming, that the former Aston Villa man will tip toe, tread very delicately through tangles of opponents legs, dribbling at breath taking speed, stepping over and dragging back just for fun? Or will Grealish find himself exposed to the oppressive environment of a team who are somehow expected to win trophies every season. £100 million still sounds like a mad extravagance, the kind of money which comes with intolerable pressures. But we must hope that Jack Grealish is worth every single penny.    

Isle of Wight memories.

 Isle of Wight memories.

It was our last night on the Isle of Wight. The nostalgic, disco glitter ball was still swirling around a dance floor the size of a matchbox but for most of us it was time to pack up our early August summer holiday suitcase and head for home. The reflections on days gone past were still snugly preserved in our memories for many a year and we were determined to enjoy every single moment of our brief but welcome break on this most idyllic island.

My wife and yours truly had booked this Isle of Wight voyage of discovery at the start of the first lockdown in late February 2020 little knowing that it would have to be cancelled until further notice. Covid 19 had begun to establish itself in our consciousness, the world was shutting down for the foreseeable future and some of us were cursing under our collective breaths at the time, regretting what might have been but not at all sure how long would it take before we'd ever be able to contemplate any kind of holiday. 

But last Thursday we were once again allowed to venture into the wide open spaces of the English countryside and  hook up with humanity. We wedged our groaning suitcases into the back of the car, set off onto those long, winding motorways and finally ended up at Portsmouth. Here we embarked on the ferry, the one method of transport which seemed to be eternally forbidden until a couple of months ago.

After a whirlwind 45 minute boat trip we made our way to our hotel and abandoned ourselves to a quiet, peaceful holiday location on this most historic of English islands. The hospitality was flawless, the people even nicer and friendlier but then we knew they would be. Most of the guests were predominantly retired and elderly, charming to the hilt and just delighted to see people again. The hotels were open again, the local shops were up and running for business, the cafes, restaurants and charity shops simply bristling with activity and lucrative profit margins. 

From the moment we dropped our bags at reception we knew that every member of staff would be bending over backwards to smile, help us and welcome us with warm cordiality. We unloaded our clothes into our capacious wardrobes, settled down for the night and just got on with having a good time. There are times when you know that things are somehow destined to go well for you and that was a premonition that had to be a self fulfilling prophecy. Of course the Isle of Wight was always likely to be right. 

Our first day was accompanied by heavy rains, not quite in the monsoon league but we were not to be deterred. We had at our disposal our pullovers, mackintoshes and umbrellas just in case the heavens opened again and again throughout the day. Isn't it funny how the English weather and climate can have so many varieties and variations on a theme and yet the rain always feels like a constant and the inevitable accompaniment to the best laid plans? Still, not to matter. Who cares what the weatherman says you'll never hear us complaining?

On day one we drove up to Osbourne House, the palatial home of Queen Victoria and it chucked it down. In fact by the time we arrived inside this stately royal home some of us were tempted to do a feeble impersonation of Gene Kelly, he of the umbrella and the enduringly hummable 'Singin in the Rain', an apposite choice of song given the surroundings but nonetheless ironic.

Osbourne House, it has to be said, is one of those breathtakingly historic buildings that still ticks all of the boxes and meets all of those lofty expectations. It is, undoubtedly a stunning edifice, a remarkable legacy of not only the Victorian age but one that Queen Victoria must have just loved living in. In fact it was perhaps the one outstanding piece of royal property and land that rooted her firmly to her place in a world she had been so privileged to be a part of.

To say that Osbourne House was the eptiome of wealth, opulence, style and class would be a gross understatement. We were both left with the overriding impression Queen Victoria did like her paintings and wherever you went this was the recurring theme. There were portraits and landscapes in every room that you went into and the kind of furniture that you would have expected to see. There were expansive acres of mirrors that seemed to take up the whole of the walls, chests of drawers that were dripping with perhaps hidden secrets or just fond reminiscences in diaries and valuable documents. 

There were magnificent banqueting tables, long tables with expensive glasses, candlesticks, crockery and cutlery while not forgetting the bowls of fruits, soup plates and bowls. Queen Victoria certainly didn't do things by half and did like a royal knees up when the occasion merited it. But then her adoring husband Albert, who Queen Victoria was simply besotted with, suddenly died and the monarch would never really recover. She fell into the gravest state of mourning for the rest of her life, was alleged not to have been amused and then passed away in January 1901. It would be the end of Victoriana. 

The next day we were up, bright and early for a trip on the Isle of Wight steam railway. Now this was a day out that would have lit up the face of a young child who can only identify with those big, electric miracles of engineering that purr and hum into a railway station overhead or get stuck on the Northern Line tracks on the London Tube network. The steam railway seemed like another affectionate reminder of Dickens final years and chimney sweeps with dirty faces. 

The steam railway was the way it used to be, a golden throwback to an age when those self same youngsters would stand by their platforms, open up their notebooks, eagerly anticipate the arrival of the 2-15 from Chester and then take down the number of the said train. This steam railway train amounted to what seemed like the shortest train trip my wife and yours truly had ever made. It has to be said that there were no hanging baskets of flowers to greet us but the carriages adverts were both memorable and evocative. Everything somehow seemed so ridiculously cheap and the seats so comfortable that you could easily imagine whole hordes of City based bank clerks in pin striped suits and bowler hats. 

Wherever you looked there were enticing souvenir shops and bric a brac, much loved pencils, fridge magnets, postcards and glorious ornaments. There was a strong naval flavour about some of the products on sale and the Isle of Wight did boast a handsome collection of yachts, speedboats and luxurious cruisers. But then we retired for frequent lunch and tea breaks by way of conserving our energy for the next tourist attraction.

We then proceeded to a Garlic farm and this was the one place that would have quite literally lifted your heart and kept it healthy for the rest of your life. There were cloves of garlic, garlic jam, garlic seeds and everything garlicky. My wife just couldn't be pulled away. The health giving properties that garlic has been traditionally renowned for were now in our shopping bags. And of course there was garlic bread. 

Our next rewarding port of call was the Owl and Monkey Haven. Now this was the perfect opportunity to catch up with our animal friends. For well over a year and half, millions of children and families have been deprived of the chance of giggling at leaping monkeys, admiring the giant giraffes, elephants and bisons galore. Then there were those ferocious lions who wouldn't really hurt a fly but would chance their luck with humans if we ever came even remotely close to them. 

But here we had enclosure after enclosure of owls. There were shy owls who would just sit on their perches with an air of complete indifference to the outside world. Those wide, saucer like eyes would glare at you with immense curiosity or would simply close and squint their eyes totally disinterested. You couldn't read their body language as such but there was a contentment with their own company that none could ever question. 

Then there were the hilarious monkeys. How can any of this visit to any zoo throughout the world be complete without a temporary appointment with the monkeys? These wonderful primates are so irresistibly funny and full of the joys of spring that most of us can't get enough. There were the capuchins with their endlessly feathery tails and then just a theatrical family of chimps and monkeys who just wanted to show off. There were feuding brothers, an old mum just curled up on her own and one who melted your heart when you saw one of them wrapping a maternal shoulder around her offspring. Every so often they would swing athletically and energetically from one tree branch to another at lightning speed. 

On one afternoon we retreated to one of those chocolate box tea shops that the English take unashamed pride in boasting about. After a brief wander around, we alighted on one tea shop that Lewis Carroll must have written about at some point. It was deliciously small, intimate and quaint, the staff  simply rushed off their feet. We had to wait patiently for our turn. We were ushered to our seats and then hid away in the corner. The Mad Hatter failed to jump out of the kitchen but two delightful ladies served us kindly and courteously. Yours truly tucked into scones, jam and cream with the obligatory triangular sandwiches. Life indeed was profusely sweet. 

The Isle of Wight has always been synonymous for its impossibly joyous coastline that stretches from Dorset, the famous Needles and a landscape that swoops and dips almost incessantly. Our last day was spent casually taking in the delights of yet more fragrant villages that would have been quite happy to snore away the afternoon. 

Our evening meals were quite naturally sumptuous and tasty and the breakfasts were superb examples of haute cuisine. The evening entertainment was devoted to the usual sessions of bingo from an eminently agreeable manager, various singers, keyboard artists and the singalong karaoke sessions that just got better with every night. And then after five days of  happy wandering and nuggets of tourists gold we got back in our car, replete with holiday satisfaction. Yes the Isle of Wight was the perfect antidote to lockdown, the loveliest of breaks. Book now to avoid any disappointment.        

Dina-Asher Smith misses out on Olympic glory.

 Dina-Asher Smith misses out on Olympic glory. 

The girl from Orpington in Kent cried bitterly and tried to imagine that this wasn't happening to her. For Dina- Asher Smith the Olympic Games had administered the ultimate in painful blows. Yesterday Asher Smith was hurting, sobbing like a baby, the sense of loss and bewilderment dripping from her eyes, still feeling utter rejection from the biggest stage of her life. There was an air of grievous desolation about her that can never be replaced by any other emotion.

Team GB's Olympic women's 100 metres superstar Dina- Asher Smith was denied a place in the women's 100 metres final because quite obviously this wasn't her time nor year. How she must have trained rigorously and strenuously for this one moment of magic in the sporting spotlight, a chance to add her name to an illustrious list of Olympic champions before her. It was bad enough hanging around for the Olympics proper to actually start but a year after the scheduled Olympics, Asher-Smith was on the floor, inconsolable, grief stricken and mortified. It just didn't seem fair and nobody could offer her a sympathetic shoulder to let it all out. And yet her preparations couldn't have gone any better. 

There were all of those early morning runs on misty, murky, cold, dark, wintry mornings when the Olympics seemed about as far away as it was possible to be from her mind. If only she could have turned all that punishing, gruelling foot slogging along endless country lanes into something far more tangible than just a semi final place rather than an Olympic 100 metres final. How she must have cursed those muddy fields, the treacherous pavements with only ice and slushy snow for company and then the back breaking climbs up arduous hills, buckets of rain slanting across her eyes, snow flakes teasingly dancing on her hair. 

The Olympics can often be the cruellest of all disappointments particularly when the whole country is supporting you all the way and you feel the most terrible obligation to win a gold medal. But Dina stalled at the final hurdle and for some football fans that must have been a familiar blow to the solar plexus. It does get you right there and there is nothing you can do to cushion the blow. Still nobody was seriously injured and she'll return back to Britain with head held high and ready to go for the Olympics in Paris in 2024.

But, for the rest of the ladies field who did make the final parade, this was their day and somebody had to lose. In one of the strongest 100 metres women's final for many a year, three Jamaican ladies stepped forward, eyes glowing, energy in their hearts and the fizzing exuberance that just kept bubbling over. So it was that Shelley Ann Fraser of Jamaica, Elaine Thompson Herah of Jamaica and Sherika Jackson of Jamaica lined up in anticipation of the greatest sprint of their lives. 

Bending down onto their starting blocks, feet kicking aimlessly into the air, all three Jamaicans crouched down into their positions, powerful knees, legs and ankles all poised to explode. So they bowed their heads, thrust back their legs once again and then just waited patiently for the gun. There is something about Olympic athletic races that grips your attention and refuses to let go until the winner is declared. All of the ladies were seemingly catapulted into action as if some supernatural force had propelled them. 

Powering down their lanes, arms and hands pumping furiously, it was the Jamaicans who instantly caught the eye. Wearing the yellow and black of their country, Fraser, Herah and Jackson were neck and neck coming up to the final, crucial seconds of the race. Despite though the best intentions of their fellow sprinters, this had a Jamaica one, two, three written all over it. It was one of those magically irresistible moments in an Olympic Final when you know that the record books are just desperate for sporting immortality. 

And so it was that the yellow and orange hair of Fraser took to the front. She now began motoring into the lead, fingers tightly squeezed together, arms and shoulders rocking up and down frenetically, a look of almost driven obsession on her face. Firstly, Fraser looked as though those orange and yellow streaks would dazzle her opponents into submission. Then all three runners briefly exchanged glances at each other before accepting their fate. There was nothing between all three women. They had given everything and any result would have been perfectly acceptable. 

From the pack though suddenly emerged Elaine Thompson Herah, a magnificent name for a sportswoman. Bursting through with an even more electrifying surge of acceleration, Herah cranked up several gears, took the brake off and just went for the line as if her life depended on it. In the end Herah just about took the laurels, the spoils of victory, that very Olympic garland that takes you to the top of the podium and just waits for the medal to be draped around your neck. Herah claimed gold, Fraser grabbed the silver and Jackson ended with an honourable bronze. 

Earlier on in the afternoon your mind was taken back to the 1980 Olympics in Russia when the muscular, lithe and virile Alan Wells flew out of the blocks and just left the rest of the field somewhere in Kiev. Wells had a very complete masculinity about him that wouldn't have been out of place in the weightlifting hall. But the 100 metres was Wells forte and he won gold with something to spare. How we acclaimed him then and always would. 

And yet today the 100 metres Final looked rather forlorn without the wonderfully recognisable face of Usain Bolt, the man for whom this race seemed to be over in the blink of an eye. Bolt was just a force of nature, a man built like a skyscraper with the kind of lightning pace that totally justified his nickname. But now Bolt had left the building, retiring gracefully because you had to let somebody else win for a change.

Today the field of Andre De Grasse, Ronnie Baker, Fred Kerley and Enoch Olaoluna Adegoke were swept aside by an Italian blizzard by the name of Lamont Marcel Jacobs. Jacobs was representing Italy and, given the kind of sporting year the Italians have had so far, a gold medal for Italy may not have been a shock.  Fred Kerley of the USA and the Canadian Andre De Grasse pushed Jacobs all the way to the line but the decisive speed and kick came from Jacobs. 

So it is that the Olympic Games of Tokyo 2020 now reaches its final, second week. The cynics are probably confident of another drugs and doping scandal to tarnish everything that's been achieved. But when they look back at what might seem the very unusual spectacle of skateboarding and BMX bike riding at these Games we may be inclined to think that sport has never lost its sense of humour. Let the Olympic flame burn brightly.