Halloween.

 Halloween.

So here we are right at the end of October and that can only mean one thing. In case you hadn't noticed today is Halloween and tonight most of us will be celebrating that charming, religious ritual that always seems to come around at this time of the year. You know everything there is to know about Halloween. It's been around for long enough. It normally precedes the equally as agreeable Guy Fawkes Night or Firework night when families and children across the land will gather around and the kids will be let loose on a million front doors of homes across the country. 

Door bells will be rung almost ad infinitum until an expectant public twitch their curtains, resign themselves to another visit from both toddlers and young schoolchildren and just giggle quite discreetly. This has now become the standard reaction to youngsters who simply want to Trick or Treat and then politely ask for a couple of pennies in the new currency rather than the tanners and sixpences of old. 

For most of us Halloween has always been regarded as something of a quirky addition to the calendar, that night of the year when the kids have a good time and the loving parents button up their thick coats, telling them implicitly not to bother the elderly folk for money or anybody for that matter. Then the said children run up the roads of a multitude of neighbourhoods, shout out Trick or Treat as they push the gates of the house back and then gleefully look at their bounty for the evening. 

We all know that Halloween is all about orange pumpkins, ghosts, mysterious things that go bump in the night and pumpkins with hollowed out gargoyle like faces. It's about those cackling witches that fly over whole communities roofs with familiar broomsticks. For centuries now Halloween has become enshrined in the cultural history of our lives, a good excuse for kids to frighten the lives out of adults in a very jokey, humorous fashion. 

Last year Halloween was postponed since Covid 19 had spoilt everybody's party. There was no tricking or treating, nor pumpkin soup or sinister looking witches dressed up in rags. Instead we drank several urns of tea and coffee, gobbled down a biscuit or two and pretended that Halloween was alive and well in our hearts. But now we have permission to go out into the darkness of night and try to imagine what it was like in medieval times when the whole festival probably meant something entirely different. 

But now Halloween joins forces with a news agenda equally as mystical and unfathomable. In Scotland the eminent ministers and politicians of the world are trying to make sense of a severely damaged environment. Insulate Britain, a vocally active protest group, are doing a wonderful impersonation of stubborn defiance, angry militancy and red blooded fury. They're blocking motorways, shouting the odds and generally behaving like stroppy nursery schoolchildren who won't stop moaning. 

Back in London the protestors, the eco warriors and the energy-cum- electricity campaigners and crusaders are on the warpath. They sit in front of whole stretches of traffic lights, crossing their legs, folding their arms and making their feelings abundantly clear. In front of them large contingents of police officers stand over them, quietly reprimanding them but achieving nothing into the bargain. They leave them warnings, kindly asking them to move on, threatening them with arrests and a draughty police cell. Occasionally they seem to get a constructive response but then it all fizzles out.

They reluctantly shuffle into the back of a van, cuffs stifling their wrists but nonetheless aware that they're just making confounded fools of themselves. They profess to care passionately about their children's future but fail to realise that a nation of motorists going nowhere are just cluttering up the roads of Britain. So we sigh with exasperation and curse Insulate Britain because they're just sanctimonious do- gooders who just want their families to grow up in a clean, healthy country where the roses can be smelt in summer and there are no ghastly chimneys coughing up all manner of poison and smoke. 

And so it is that Prime Minister Boris Johnson will leave his holiday painting well alone and get down to some serious business. Johnson's spokesman of course is the admirable Sir David Attenborough who tells us with a huge intellectual mind that always seems to know everything there is to know that the world is going to hell and a handcart if we don't clean up the planet now rather than later. Attenborough has been among most gorillas in jungles to know that we have to act now because if we don't, the human race may be for the compost heap. Humans though just want to live their everyday lives and be together without worrying about lethal chemicals in the air. 

Still it's Halloween so you can be sure that Johnson may be obliged to carry out a spot of trickery himself. Covid 19 has led him through so many confusing mazes that the least Britain can do is to cut him some slack and give him credit where it's due. Johnson's ghosts from the past may still be stalking him at times and the skeletons in the cupboard have been rattling away for some time. 

However, Halloween is about to get all spooky, weird and wonderful. The world may be wrestling with any number of problems at the moment but for tonight we can allow our children to be children because that should never be stopped. Anybody for pumpkin soup or one of those Shakespearean witches from days of yore when Banquo was a lad in shorts and Macbeth was and will remain a literary legend.    

The Budget

 The Budget.

The Budget used to be a springtime event for the good people of Britain. It was the herald of brighter days, the clocks going forward, the first tulips and daffodils to make their perennial presence felt. In Holland the canals were choc a bloc with touristy barges and the cyclists looked as though they were warming up for the Tour De France later on in the year. 

But back in Britain the Budget was probably the one day we all privately dreaded. Some of us though were not hardened boozers or drinkers nor would we have dreamt of smoking cigarettes since the smell was a repulsive one and you had to just grin and bear it all, as the said fag smoke kept pouring out of a thousand noses, mouths and lips. The smell was horrendously detestable. You could hardly bare to be in the same room as the smoker and winced with disgust when somebody decided to light up.

And yet this is no high minded, impassioned rant against all smokers around the world because smokers love to be in the same company of other smokers and besides they're not hurting anybody. So well done smokers and continue to smoke to your hearts content. You're at perfect liberty to smoke wherever and whenever you like. It's simply the sight of a thousand nicotine fuelled cigarettes has never appealed to you at any point during your life. 

During your childhood and then adolescence you remember with some affection that endearing timber framed shop in High Holborn, London where a rich variety of cigarettes, cigars, lighters, pipes, acres of tobacco would be on display and a whole host of friendly members of staff would tend to your every need. There were the distinctive Havana cigars and every conceivable smoking indulgence you could wish for. For years this smokers goldmine served the great British public but is no longer in business which does seem quite a shame. We do love our London landmarks even though none of us would ever considered going into the shop. 

Anyway back to the all important subject of the Budget for which most of us have now carefully digested the good and bad points, the disappointments and those tolerable decisions that the Chancellor of the Exchequer made yesterday. Smokers and drinkers were always directly affected even if the hike in prices of both would have aroused nothing more than a sigh of despair. It could be that this has always been the way and maybe we should be conditioned to the inevitable. Still, another Budget has passed and there's no changing of anybody's mind.

And yet when Rushi Sunak, the current incumbent of the Chancellor of the Exchequer, got to his feet against a backdrop of a full to capacity House of Commons we held our breaths and wondered whether he'd become the pantomime villain again. Boo, Hiss, opprobrium. Dear Rushi we don't approve of your announcements and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Chancellors do get on your nerves, utterly abhorrent individuals who can barely do multiplication and long division let alone preside over Britain's economy. Or maybe they're just friendly souls just doing their job under duress. 

So Sunak smiled his sarcastic smile at the opposition Labour bench and you can almost see the mischievous glint as he tried quite successfully to undermine and humiliate the Labour party. He kept taunting them and tormenting them knowing fully well that Labour may never ever form a United Kingdom government at any point in our lifetime although things can still pan out differently. Sunak seemed to be pointing at certain members of the Labour cabinet and back benches with an almost sadistic pleasure and schadenfreude. Who are the Labour party to pass judgment against the impregnable, unbeatable Tories. The Conservative party rule OK! So there and take that. 

The Chancellor of the Exchequer then attempted to make his salient points heard throughout the Chamber of Noise and at times Comedy. Amid a cacophonous bellowing and yelling that could almost be heard at Westminster Tube train station, Sunak then gave us the detailed bullet points that different parts of the population and demographics could hardly bring themselves to listen to. It all became decidedly too technical and complex for those uninitiated in the whole process of percentages and number crunching. 

There was for instance the return to Foreign Aid to 0.7% of Gross Domestic Product. This was followed by the news that the National Living Wage would be bumped up to £9.50 an hour which sounded promising or totally unacceptable depending on your point of view. There was the 50% business rates discount, as well as the now very topical gas and electricity rate. There was the two billion pound funding for schools and colleges which doesn't really sound bad at all although this may be open to debate within the powers that be.  

Of course we should not forget those vitally significant measures such as wages. Now you need no reminding that wages constitute your loaf of bread for the week, the essential shopping and sustenance. With the gradual return to shops, warehouses and high tech offices, wages have now grown by 3.4% so that'll be very satisfactory for the working man and woman again. Still, there are bound to be a barrage of complaints and grumbles about how wages have now been frozen since the Crimean War and Britain will simply sink into poverty. 

But now we go to the original point about the Budget that either rubs you up the wrong way, leaves you seething and shaking with rage. How on earth are you going to afford a round of drinks in your local pub tonight? Now what did we tell you about those unnecessary vodkas, cocktails, scotches and whiskies? Is it any wonder that this is the most expensive round you'll ever buy? Now why on earth did you have to order the most extortionately dear pints of lager and beer. Stick to the Cokes and orange juices please. 

Cigarettes of course will always be regarded as an accessory to the crime of the scene. When the former Chancellor of Exchequer Kenneth Clarke, a Tory of the highest rank and widely acclaimed by his own party, rose to his feet to deliver a Budget you could almost hear the respect and then hostility from the Labour benches. This was the time to sit down and listen to a man who commanded the attention of the House. 

Clarke, with whisky and cigarette by his hand, would announce his Budget speech with that posh and impeccably presented delivery that almost sounded as the man had just stepped out of an Anthony Trollope political novel. Every so often the hands would move easily to the glass of whisky and then a gentle puff on the Benson and Hedges ciggies. Clarke had no time for doubters and cynics and responded to any criticism with that icy disdain in his voice that would silence everybody immediately. 

Still, Rishi Sunak emerged from 11 Downing Street with red suitcase in both hands and the most contented of smiles. Many years ago it used to be the black suitcase that looked rather weather beaten but the message was very much the same. The news always had a bleak and depressing feel about it. The man and woman on the street was always considerably poorer as a result of the Budget and it always felt there was nothing concrete or positive to take from it. 

So today Britain will resume its Post Covid 19 stance which still feels as if it's still in our subconscious even though everything is open for business. You can check your pockets today or at any time of your own choosing and the pennies will always seem like pounds. The economy is now out of any immediate danger and we can all go back to watching Strictly Come Dancing on the TV without worrying about the price of the TV licence. Oh the sparkle, the glitter and glamour. Bring it on.   

International Artist Day.

 International Artist Day. 

Today is the day to wax lyrical about some of the greatest artists of all time, the contemporary ones and the ones who adorn our art galleries. There are those who are content to flaunt their masterpieces in local studios, exhibition centres and those who just love to stare at the stunning landscapes, portraits and quirky Art Nouveau which somehow defy categorisation.

We know what may constitute art to some and may not in the eyes of others. It's the oldest topic of discussion of all time. Art is simply subjective, whatever your interpretation of art may be. There are so many different schools of thought on art that it would probably take for ever to find common ground on what the true definition of art may be. But today is a day for deliberation and contemplation on this most fascinating of subjects. 

Throughout the ages the master practitioners such as Constable, Turner, Degas and Mattise have provided beautiful and memorable backdrops to our modern day lives. The National Portrait Gallery for some of us, is perhaps one of the finest art galleries in London. Portraits of Sir Francis Drake, Lord Nelson, an astonishingly detailed selection ranging from Sir Walter Raleigh and the imposing kings and queens, who have ruled over this fair land, continue to hold us spellbound. 

But then we wander through our galleries and displays of art and artistry and we stare for a while. For as long as you can remember there have always been a whole variety of art movements. Impressionism, Surrealism and Pointillism have imprinted themselves on our consciousness and remain at the cutting edge, on the periphery of our senses.

In many ways sculpture is widely considered as one of the most impressive works of art. When Henry Moore and Rodin were at their peak, sculpture was something to be celebrated and still is. It is painstakingly but lovingly carved to stand out for its enduring quality and texture. Art crosses so many spectrums. It can enthral us when least expected and then let us down dreadfully because our expectations may have been far loftier than was at first thought. 

And then there are hard working painters in their private attics who devote hour upon hour of their time with precise attention to detail, dabbing primary colours into the right position and are then relentless in their obsessive search for perfection. They put on their artists smock, lay out their palette of colours and oils, carefully building layer upon layer of refined technique onto every element of house, field, meadow, waterfall, tree or human character onto a broadening, expansive canvas. 

But we know what we like when it comes to art. We can all remember Andy Warhol's iconic tin of Campbell's soup, the unforgettable 15 minutes of fame, a statement that may resonate with those who seek it. Artists are protective about their work, guarded about their fame and celebrity while always striving to be the centre of attention when the spotlight falls on them. 

There was the Frans Hals Laughing Cavalier, Leonardo Da Vinci's epic and colossal Mona Lisa, labours of love but spectacular on the eye. A gentleman wearing the most precious silk and lace ruff, with rakish looking hat give the Laughing Cavalier the most lordly appearance. With quaint, twirled moustache and a mischievous smile on his lips the Laughing Cavalier remains one of Hals most charming of creations. 

In more recent times art invited us into the shocking world of Tracey Emin, a woman who dared to push back the boundaries and then break them down most forcefully. When Emin presented us with her now infamous unmade bed, she was giving us a revealing insight of art at its most unorthodox and disturbing to the more pure and puritanical. The experts continue to argue the point but it was art that was certainly provocative and, quite obviously, suggestive. 

And then there is Damian Hurst with his unique take on formaldehyde. Hurst is almost as edgy, cutting edge and anarchic, experimenting with everyday objects we take for granted. Hurst is one of the more creative types who loves to be unconventional and different. It is easy to see him as one of those avant garde, arty bohemians who love nothing better than a glass of wine at his latest exhibition while exchanging witticisms with the great and good of Mayfair, Belgravia and Kensington. 

Finally of course lest it be forget there is very topical Banksy, a mysterious graffiti artist whose vast illustrations and decorative swirls of paint, dominate the walls of every city, town and village around the world. Banksy comes from Bristol and for a considerable number of years, warmed the hearts of those who prefer their art to be lettered and numbered, huge flourishes of  controversial modernism. Banksy seems to be getting something off his chest, angry protests or just whimsical social commentaries. 

So there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. Today is International Artists Day, designed for those who may feel inclined to take their easel out to a local riverbank or stream just to reflect their passion for all things that have to be saved for posterity and possibly sold off to the highest bidder. You remember your parents taking you to Piccadilly as a child and being shown the most magnificent display of paintings that were neatly placed next to each other as if ready for instant critique and assessment. It's a day to cherish your brushes and pencils. oils and watercolours. Your canvas awaits you. Enjoy.

The death of a politician- another tragic day.

 The death of a politician- another tragic day

Just when you thought things couldn't get any worse than they have. You'd have thought that after all the suffering and sorrow endured over the last year and half that maybe, just maybe we'd wake up one morning and find that everything was good in the world, that the misfortunes and ailments of the world would be swept away into the distance and just for once something nice would happen, that the news agenda would be unremittingly optimistic and something would go right for a change. Not a hope, though.

Over the weekend the Right Honourable member for Leigh on Sea in Southend Sir David Amess, a noble, sensitive, understanding, caring and sharing politician, was stabbed to death outside his local surgery. He was a decent bloke, honourable, upstanding, kind and thoughtful. He was just listening to the good people of Southend, inquiring about their welfare, kindly suggesting proposals for the future, in tune with the popular consensus, shaking the hands of those who just wanted to say thankyou. He was recognising their understandable concerns because that's who he was. In some ways he was a man of the people. 

And yet because he was a politician he paid the penalty for being a high profile public figure who may not have been to everybody's taste. Politicians love to be controversial and divisive, utterly objectionable at times, unbearably selfish at others. They love to stand on a platform and speak their minds, expressing opinions that could be interpreted as ill thought out and ill conceived. Then they expose themselves to fearsome ridicule and humiliation around the country since they may appear to be silly and deliberately contentious. Never to try to argue with a politician because they know best. 

For many years the wonderfully charismatic Dennis Skinner has been the butt of so many jokes at his own expense that you may have been forgiven for thinking that Skinner would have been far more suited to a comedy club rather than the House of Commons. But then you give this whole subject of politics some consideration and wonder why on earth you'd  want to spend the best part of a working week being booed, heckled, yelled at and relentlessly harangued. It can't be pleasant and besides they must have known what they were getting into when they entered the Palace of Westminster. 

So it is that this morning Britain awoke once again, sore, shocked and outraged, looking at the mirror and wondering whether this was just a figment of their imagination. Several years Jo Cox, a very competent and highly respected Labour politician, was also murdered in a senseless attack that still leaves you numb and dumbfounded whenever you think about it. Both Cox and Amess were innocently going about their business trying desperately to do the right thing for their communities but then realised that it was their duty to serve the very people who had elected them in the first place.

It is easy to despair of humanity at times. You cherish family and close friends but then you widen your focus and look at the outside world and convince yourself that this latest horror was symptomatic of a much deeper sickness and malaise within society. How many more times are we going to watch weeping families bury their children or simply respectable members of our world who just wanted to leave a mark on it?

In the world of politics the right decisions and the correct choices can often seem physically impossible. You stand up in the House of Commons at Prime Minister's Question Time and subject yourself to a horrific and harrowing examination. If you pass the test you may think you've cracked it. You'll rise to your feet with papers in hand and reputation on the line, either defending your innocence, presenting very convincing arguments and then finally sitting down as the boisterous jeers threaten to deafen the assembled throng. 

Sir David Amess had served his constituency for 40 years which is indeed a long time. Not a week but 40 years and the man had a commendably impressive CV. But last Friday, after carrying out his daily tasks in his surgery he left the building and was then knifed to death in an act of mindless brutality. This may not have been what Amess signed up for when he first became an MP but this is the 21st century and some things never change. Vicious and unforgivable violence on the streets of Britain has almost become like a broken record. We express our revulsion but then it happens again.

At some point in the history of humankind we will actually refrain from war and aggression, hatred and intolerance, believing in our heart of hearts that it achieves nothing of any significance and only makes things more complicated than they may seem at the time. Of course most of us, if not all of us, conduct ourselves in a civilised fashion without resorting to the knife, gun, rifle or bomb. Sadly, though a small ignorant minority would rather spread the gospel of wickedness and genocide and in a world already stunned by a major pandemic, hoping that one day, in some Utopian society we can get on with each other.

But the fact remains that there was a  highly esteemed gentleman whose only wish was to be a benevolent humanitarian, pay his taxes, smile for the TV cameras and then settle down to watch BBC's Question Time, trusting the word of the great British public. Admittedly Amess was wrong and fallible at  times but you can hardly imagine why this despicable atrocity has been allowed to happen in a Britain that just wants to keep its nose clean and make a continued recovery from a global virus. Surely it can't be too much to ask for.     

National Department Store Day

 National Department Store Day.

After a year of often terrifying stillness it's nice to know that we can pay a visit to our local or, in the case of London, the metropolitan department stores. Now though, there is an altogether rosier complexion to Britain's high streets, a vibrancy born perhaps of relief. So we'll dig out our shopping bags, rummage around for our credit cards or simply produce hefty wads of cash for a day of blatant retail therapy. What could be more relaxing on a Saturday afternoon. 

Yes folks today is National Department Store Day. Now that must have come as a surprise to you. You really hadn't been expecting that one. It is a day that proudly celebrates commercialism, the seasonal sales and vast quantities of merchandise, all desirable looking products beautifully displayed before our eyes. But off you go. It's time to buy, buy and buy as if it was going out of fashion. You know what you want and you'll grab it while it's still available 

Catch a Tube train to the West End of London where you'll now find a now thriving and lucrative assortment of essential home necessities. Don't forget the cut price decanters, crockery and cutlery by the lorryload, massive racks of shirts, jackets, ties, shoes, appealing furniture, chaise longue from Harrods or Dickens and Jones, food sections, electronic and electrical appliances and a bewildering array of souvenirs and ornaments, a world of constant transactions and pretty shop windows with a whole variety of everything.

But the very presence of a high street department store conjures up immediate memories of Christmas from years and years gone by. During the yearly festive stampede towards the shops, London suddenly comes to colourful life. Across the whole of the West End conurbation, there is something magical and exciting about those final few weeks leading up to Christmas that truly illustrates the importance of the department store.

You recently stumbled on an online photo of either Regent or Oxford Street decorated with mock chandeliers strung across the entirety of the street, a scene dripping with sentimentality and glamour. In the following years the Christmas decorations took on an altogether more traditional look. There were lanterns, mini Christmas trees, cute lighting bulbs and angels quite possibly playing harps. The department store comes into its own. 

The likes of John Lewis, Selfridges, Marks and Spencer have firmly secured their place in the hearts of millions and millions of tourists, wandering window shoppers and people who take enormous pleasure in browsing, searching, rummaging again and shuffling through rails of clothes for what probably seems an interminable length of time. There is something about a department store customer that leads you to believe that the public are determined to find that elusive bargain and will stop at nothing to snap it up. 

West End shoppers are very selective and discerning in their choices of products and by Christmas Eve, they'll know exactly what they want and will not be disappointed. But will everything be priced at an astronomically high price remaining well out of our reach or will they simply splash the cash because they can't wait anymore? Shortly the musical cash tills will be singing and enormous brand bags will be lugging out 84 inch Plasma TVs that invariably stretch out  across an entire wall rather like a cinema screen. 

Perhaps the saddest casualty of the coronavirus lockdown was the demise of |Debenhams. For decades Debenhams represented quality, value for money and a rewarding day spent in a palatial looking shop that somehow seemed a permanent fixture. Then the global virus intervened and everything hit the buffers. Debenhams spent one agonising year as an empty shell, closed for goodness knows how long and privately fearing the worst eventually. By the beginning of the year Debenhams were struggling desperately before the ceiling caved in and Debenhams had to close its doors with little in the way of any revenue and nobody to bail them out of a hole. The shutters went up and that was it. 

So overnight the new kids on the block such as Primark, Next, Wilko's, Sports Direct and a whole host of small fashion shops were sprouting up everywhere. The cheap goods made for excellent investments and on July 19 this year, those ailing department stores shouted it from the highest rooftops. Hooray! It was time to welcome back their loyal customers back into their shopping aisles.

Now would be the time for the girls on the ground floor to stand expectantly by their perfume counters with hundreds of fragrant smells to dab delicately onto the wrists of countless women. Then there were escalators on at least two more heaving floors of shirts, skirts, trousers, scarves, garden chairs, kitchen fittings, bathroom accoutrements and an abundance of paraphernalia and bric a bracs, ephemera, children's toys and games, carpets and laminate flooring. 

And then there's the New Year's Eve camping site outside all of those blue riband department stores as millions of shoppers huddle together outside their targeted shops. Suitably equipped with Thermos flask, thick gloves to protect them from the freezing cold and blankets galore, the great British public await permission to storm the barricades, barging each other hilariously out of the way and showing no mercy whatsoever. At moments it looks absolutely terrifying because you can hardly believe that anybody would bust a gut just to ensure their place at the head of the queue. 

So Ladies and Gentlemen it's time to exercise  your purses and just spend the money you'd been longing to do so for ages. At the moment your impression is that the whole of the global population may not be as keen as they might have been to indulge in impressive spending sprees. But things will return to where they were before of that there can be no doubt. A Britain that will now find themselves in wholesale recovery will re-discover a voracious appetite to spend and spend and spend. 

Across the Atlantic, the instantly recognisable Macey's and Walmart will be competing against each other to tempt back their regular customers. New York at Christmas is often the perfect opportunity for children and families to race into Bloomingdales, drink their mulled wine and carry boxes and boxes of yet more festive stuff. They'll turn up in Santa's grotto dressed in appropriate red or traipse through thick acres of snow because New York always seem to be engulfed in it at Christmas.

So today is National Department Store day. Nobody knows why but it just is. You'd have to ask the inventor of this concept. Perhaps they felt that with the imminent arrival of Christmas  the middle of October seemed to be as good a time as any to make the announcement. Besides Halloween is a fortnight away and that's followed by Guy Fawkes firework night. Another year has flown by so rapidly that you half expect to see the prominent sales of Easter eggs in the middle of November. The department store, such an integral feature of the high street, is the social meeting place where we all feel united in our quest for that vital acquisition, that striking piece of ceramic for the mantelpiece, that shovel or hoe for the shed or just something for the hallway. Oh how we cherish our department stores.   

England held to score draw against Hungary in World Cup qualifier.

 England held to score draw against Hungary in World Cup qualifier.

This might have come as a minor shock to the system. It had all been going so well up until now. England were on course for a pleasant winter break in the deserts of Saudi Arabia. At the end of next year, England would be cruising comfortably towards the World Cup Finals in Qatar. If you discount the likes of San Marino, Andorra and Albania then the only obstacle that might have been in their way was psychological. The fact is that Gareth Southgate's men have now regained their composure after defeat in this year's Euro 2020 Final against Italy and a clean bill of health has been confirmed. Surely nothing could them stop them now. 

And yet last night at Wembley England seemed to have run out of steam and the procession has come to a brief standstill. But before we go any further this could be the time to tell you that there is no cause for alarm. The engine seems to be faltering and defective while the motor isn't purring as efficiently as it had been recently. This was bound to happen sooner or later since it would be foolish to assume that England would have their own way throughout these World Cup qualifiers. 

Last night England had clearly run out of attacking ideas despite an impressive looking, attack minded team, a side in fact that came so agonisingly close to winning the Euros. But in their 1-1 draw against Hungary, there was something missing, a nut or bolt perhaps, a loose connection, something not quite right and it was hard to put a finger on it. Maybe England have just peaked in a World Cup qualifying group that always seemed a formality anyway, a piece of cake. 

In the corresponding fixture in Budapest recently, England had gone about their business quite ruthlessly and positively. Hungary were eventually humiliated, exposed, put to the sword and suffered at the hands of an England team who were in no mood to show any leniency. Goals have come quite easily to England but when you have Andorra and Albania on your menu, there can be no sense of foreboding. You just tuck into your feast, open up the heart of your opposition's defence in the way you would unlock a door and then help yourself to as many as goals as you want. Hungary were not in the mood though for public embarrassment. 

Their approach to last night's game had been in marked contrast to their feeble and naive performance at home to England. Hungry attacked England with a ferocity and intensity that hadn't been noticed in the Puskas Arena. Instead the Hungarians carried the game to their hosts with a verve and vitality that was quite clearly missing in Budapest. At times Gareth Southgate's men looked suitably taken aback by a Hungarian assault that was often destructive but lacking in the killer touch that might have unsettled England.

What we had last night was an England side who must have taken their feet off the pedals, pulled into a motorway service station, filled up with petrol and then discovered a leaky carburettor. Sometimes watching England in recent times has been like listening to some calming meditation music where the sea gently laps against the shore, the wind chimes tinkle merrily and you then relax. You're then lulled into a false sense of security. 

Last night didn't quite go according to plan. There were pieces of paper missing, lines seemed to be crossed and the picture wasn't quite as clear as it should have been. Their football was smooth, effortless, almost laid back and perhaps a little on the lethargic side if truth to be told. There was a dangerous presumptuousness to their approach to this game that may have to be altered drastically before Albania think there is something even more amusing than Norman Wisdom. 

There was no arrogance about England's performance last night. It was just that Hungary looked as if they meant business. Of course they were never likely to showboat their way to a stunning 6-3 victory in the way they had done  in 1953. Besides, England had other things on their mind such as Sir Gordon Richards galloping to victory in the Derby and Her Majesty the Queen on Coronation Day to look forward to. And lest we forget Mount Everest had also been conquered as well. 

By the time the game had reached the half hour mark Hungary were going about the task in hand with fluent, pleasing  movements that shocked the hosts. They were breaking through the English lines with a tenderness of touch and feeling for the ball that must have upset the best laid plans of mice and men. England were being bundled off the ball, shrugged aside and, for the first time in what must have seemed ages, outplayed and seriously challenged. Their passing game was reminiscent of the way England had dominated matches against Germany, Ukraine and then Croatia in Euro 2020.

Hungary were now playing like a team possessed, winning the first and second ball decisively and linking together as if they'd known each other since birth. There were kindred spirits in Hungarian red as opposed to the team who looked genuinely frightened in the first game against England. Hungary had signed an entente cordiale and their display last night proved that they were well organised. as well.  They were credible opposition, determined to show a more sociable side to their character. 

England, for their part, looked spooked and unsure of themselves, a side who have effectively reached the World Cup Finals in Qatar but maybe in need of confirmation. They are now only three points ahead of Poland and Hungary and that does sound quite disconcerting if Albania's victory against Hungary on Saturday is taken into consideration. This is not to suggest that Albania will suddenly turn into either Poland or Hungary overnight but football can often point the fickle finger of fate when your guard is down. 

Then half way through the first half, a sustained spell of Hungarian possession was promptly rewarded. After moving the ball with a much greater intent and precision than had hitherto been the case, Hungary unexpectedly took the lead with the game's opening goal. Luke Shaw, who had been the hero of the hour when he scored England's opening goal in the Euro 2020, now had a rush of blood to the head. With the ball bouncing in the England's penalty area, Shaw wildly lunged for the ball and almost decapitated the head of a red Hungarian defender. He didn't quite knock out his opponent but Shaw's leg was sufficiently and dangerously high. Roland Sallai, Hungary's man of the moment, struck the penalty, missed but followed up with the rebound to score. 

At this point the usual customary nervelessness that Shaw, Kyle Walker, Tyrone Mings and John Stones had normally demonstrated at the back, seemed to be reduced to a quivering wreck. There was a tentative jitteriness in their distribution, a reluctance to play the simple ball. Declan Rice continues to provide his colleagues with a most formidable shield, a defensive tower of strength. Rice seems to act as a marvellously protective screen, assigned to act as the man to do the simple things without any fuss. 

This time Rice had his comrade in arms Mason Mount for company. Mount is a technically adroit player who can keep the ball on the move quite thoughtfully, a cultured and assured figure. But Mount, by his own admission last night, was not the Mount of Euro 2020. Of course Mount looks both poised and controlled but against Hungary, the Chelsea midfield player had none of the majesty of the late Ray Wilkins in his Chelsea heyday.

Then there was Phil Foden, Manchester City's most educated midfielder since perhaps Colin Bell. There was something about Foden that brought Bell to mind. Foden is forever hunting out the impeccable pass, the ball that floats towards its recipient with supreme accuracy. Foden's passing was faultless, a player with an engaging presence, highly influential, a man on a mission. His consistent use of the diagonal, long ball to his responsive colleague in a white shirt, always gave England a focal point. 

Meanwhile Harry Kane, England's captain once again, looked like a man who had lost his way. Kane is without a goal for Spurs at the beginning of the new Premier League season and was a lumbering parody of the striker who had illuminated the World Cup in Russia so brightly three years ago. The Spurs striker still looks sluggish, heavy legged, threatening to score occasionally but then, dare we say it. lackadaisical at others. 

Raheem Sterling, Manchester City's sleek and streamlined winger who can still be deadly and electrifying when the mood takes him, wasn't quite up to speed against Hungary. Sterling can terrorise defences with sinewy, sinuous dribbling that can strip defences to shreds. But the Sterling feet were not quite as lithe and sharp as we've come to expect of him. That low centre of gravity has often left defenders gasping for oxygen, a twisting, twirling, swirling, swerving and swaying attacking force but last night Sterling seemed to lacking any kind of currency or value. 

And as the match progressed England seemed to be constantly searching for the right verbs, pronouns and metaphors that would have made their game so much easier to understand. The ball, that had once come to be regarded as their closest ally, had now become their worst enemy. Rather than the friendliest of liaisons, England were now not on speaking terms with the ball. At moments there were satisfactory echoes of their 5-0 hammering of Andorra but then we were never likely to witness lightning striking again. 

Then with half time looming, England were back on level terms. A splendidly flighted free kick from the here, there and everywhere Phil Foden was swung high into Hungary's overcrowded penalty area. A huddle of England defenders were queuing up at the far post. The ball sailed on and on towards John Stones, Manchester City's dependable defender and Stones, from a flick on from another England head, lunged at the ball and passed the ball into the net for England's deserved equaliser. 

The rest of the second half almost fizzled out like a firework on Guy Fawkes night. England almost seemed to vanish into a foggy obscurity. Their intentions had now become worthy but the bite was missing, the appetite had been dulled and there was a sad acknowledgement that they had gone as far as they could. There were occasional shafts of light and encouragement but by now Hungary had shut up the gates and used as much anaesthetic as they could to deny England anymore involvement in the game. Sorry Gareth Southgate. This was not the night for showcasing new waistcoats. England are almost there but not quite. In Gareth we have faith.         

England beat Andorra 5-0 in World Cup qualifier.

 England beat Andorra 5-0 in World Cup qualifier.

Oh well, it's almost done and dusted. England strolled, then swaggered, then executed a couple of Viennese waltzes, whipped themselves into a tango frenzy, marched confidently to a military two step and then polished off little Andorra as if they were just poles on one of the nearby skiing slopes. This was clearly not a football match. In fact it reminded you of one of your office five-a-sides in a Power League setting. By the time our Ukranian lady referee had blown the whistle for full time some of us had just woken up such was the lopsided nature of this World Cup qualifier. 

True, England beat Andorra 5-0 but this match was about as gripping as wallpaper or a tedious exercise in sheer futility. From the very first whistle the air of predictability was so palpable that some of us must have known that this was just a case of damage limitation. There came a point during the match when you could actually hear some of the windows being shut in what looked like very modern, art deco apartment blocks or they may have been office buildings.

It is hard to imagine what England were doing in a tiny country that should have been preparing itself for the tobogganing season or slaloming around the slopes in the depths of winter. Maybe they were watching from their chalets or just enraptured on their cable cars via their Tablets. Or perhaps they were drinking from their first glass of Schnapps of the season, a tantalising refreshment or two to lift sagging spirits. 

Still, England are in the business of picking up valuable points in their quest to reach the World Cup Finals in Qatar at the end of next year. So this was vitally important. Once again you find yourself questioning the logic behind England's inclusion in a World Cup qualifying group that even a Hackney Marshes 11 would have been capable of handling and succeeding in. England are in a group comprising of Andorra, Albania and San Marino. Can we safely book the plane to Saudi Arabia now?

There can be no room for patronising comments but Andorra are highly unlikely to upset any established order and last night the evidence were there for all to see. For the whole 90 minutes of last night's no-contest  if Andorra touched the ball once it would have been a lot. They looked like nervous first day nursery kids trembling under their parents coats overwhelmed and obviously intimidated by an England side 153 places above them in the world rankings. 

Of course there was Stuart Pearce's horrendous back pass which gave San Marino the lead in a World Cup qualifier at the beginning of the 1990s. But then England proceeded to rip open and dismember San Marino with a seven goal fusillade that left San Marino rueing their audacity. Then there was the Iceland comedy show in the 2016 Euros. Andorra though were just submissive, compliant, hopeless and wishing they'd stayed in to watch the TV rather than play England. 

This was clearly a complete mismatch and how soon did it take England to immediately impose their control on the match? Andorra looked like the part time amateurs, a rag tag collection of players, a hotch potch gathering of the bad, the awful and the embarrassing. At times they looked as though they'd never met each other and needed to be introduced. Surely FIFA will in, their infinite wisdom, recognise the wisdom of a complete re-think of the whole structure of these World Cup qualifying groups.

When a 41 year old player from Andorra is awarded a medal for services to his country you have to wonder at the utter silliness and disparity between two nations who were vast country miles apart from each other. England were technically outstanding. professional to their fingertips and gave the kind of passing exhibition that must have left the home side seeing stars which indeed they metaphorically were. 

From the start then England set up camp almost indefinitely in the Andorra half and never looked like retreating from it. Their passing was at its usual tempo: crisp, precise, short, sharp, staccato with all manner of mathematical shapes and frequent references to trigonometry. There were the customary triangles, close, collaborative movements, beautifully weighted diagonal passes that stretched the whole of the Andorra back four and then delightful angles that, sadly, would never have been tolerated by England managers from way back when. 

Sir Alf Ramsey may have approved of the collective team ethic, but Don Revie would never have seen the necessity of over passing just for the sake of it. Revie liked his teams to pass and move but the pragmatic side of Revie would have been horrified at the over elaboration. His Leeds teams were of course naturally attack minded but Revie knew that there had to be an end product. 

Kevin Keegan and Glen Hoddle were fierce advocates of the simple passing game but Keegan just couldn't face the setbacks and defeats. Hoddle summoned spiritual guidance and we all know what happened to Hoddle. In more recent times Terry Venables just charmed his way through Euro 96 and almost won it while the more exotic likes of Sven Goran Erikssen and Fabio Capello couldn't quite come to terms with the England mindset. 

Still, here we are in October 2021 and your friend and our friend Gareth Southgate is diplomacy itself, a man with a deeply thoughtful and analytical mind, almost a footballing scientist. Southgate's England were regrettably beaten in the Euro 2020 final by an Italian side who suddenly stirred in the second half and just caught England napping. But Southgate always does his research and homework thoroughly and knew from his data that Andorra were never likely to give him any sleepless nights. 

Once again an almost second eleven England prospered despite the tightness of the pitch and its artificial turf. Ben Chilwell and Conor Coady looked lonely and unemployed. Chilwell though was forward thinking and instinctively anticipated those long, diagonal passes into his path from the superb Phil Foden. Chilwell joined the England attack without any prompting and almost scored before scoring properly himself. Coady himself is improving by the game and could be regarded as a useful asset for Gareth Southgate. 

England's midfield of course was neatly designed and ready to manoeuvre the home team out of position at every opportunity. The Southampton schemer James Ward Prowse had a profound influence in the middle of the pitch, clipping and tapping the ball accurately and then forward into open spaces. Jadon Sancho once again demonstrated all of those exquisite touches, tricks and a dazzling virtuosity in possession that has to be engraved in Gareth Southgate's mind when England teams are picked.

Then there was Jesse Lingard, a hitherto neglected figure at Manchester United, who is still wanted by his hometown club. Lingard had an astonishing spell out on loan at West Ham but Southgate knows a good player when he sees one. Although an outsider and a peripheral figure for long periods of this game, Lingard can still run at and dribble past defenders as if they were ghosts but only sporadically did Lingard find the time and space to make things happen for England. 

Back again in England's completely untroubled defence. John Stones is still a class act but quite disturbingly does find himself partial to the odd blunder and lapse of concentration. Stones and Kieran Tripper both looked impressive and confident on the ball but the feeling has to be that any of us would have felt the same way if Andorra were the opposition. Trippier must still feel a warm glow whenever his mind turns back to the goal scoring free kick which opened the scoring for England against Croatia in the World Cup of Russia three years ago. 

As for the England goals last night they came in almost logical fashion. Finally Ben Chilwell, racing into space in the opposition penalty area, timed his run to perfection. A glorious, diagonal, long ball was floated over the Andorra defence quite correctly and the Chelsea defender scored  with both coolness and aplomb. Sancho held up the ball, turned swiftly and laid off the ball to Chilwell who just stroked the ball into the net from close range. VAR were briefly consulted but the goal was given. 

Then just before half time England extended their lead and ensured complete domination. After another sweet and melodious concerto of passes Phil Foden, always available for the diagonal connection, drifted another beauty towards the Arsenal forward Bukayo Saka who drove the ball firmly into the net for England's second goal of the night. 

In the second half with the game now out of Andorra's reach the pattern was almost identical. Tammy Abraham, AC Milan's new signing from Chelsea, looked busy, sharp, alert and lively for most of the evening. Once again the stunning Jadon Sancho, who looks like the most exciting discovery English football will make for some years, curled a teasing, taunting cross deep into the path of Abraham. The former Chelsea striker bounded into space before stretching out his leg to prod the ball home for England's inevitable third goal. 

With the game reduced to the status of some pre- season friendly, England just took their feet off the pedal, accelerated when they had to and then almost found themselves in reverse gear. The ball became like a toy to them, picking it up playfully and then whimsically going through the motions. England then wrapped up another present with a fourth goal.

James Ward Prowse, who looks the genuine article for England, made it four for England after his initial penalty had been saved. Ward Prowse may find himself to be the unfortunate victim of circumstances in the months ahead. England are almost spoilt for choice in midfield and with Jude Bellingham also pressing for a starting place in England's first team, Ward Prowse looks an attractive option should things go wrong for Gareth Southgate's men. 

In the closing stages England were almost catching up with their training exercises, monopolising possession, protecting the ball, nursing the ball, caring for the ball, almost compassionate in their dealings with Andorra. The ball seemed to assume a mind of its own, sliding effortlessly across the pitch from one white England shirt to another and then parking itself in the most perfect position. England were home and dry. 

England now brought on Jack Grealish and Ollie Watkins from Aston Villa, Grealish notably making the most visible difference. AC Milan's Canadian born Fikayo Tomori also came as a sub. Tomoroi also qualifies for a place in the England side and simply came in to add to England's party pieces. Grealish, as we privately expected, decorated the game with those slippery and deceptive feet. The new Manchester City playmaker did exactly what he was required to do and scored England's fifth. Streaking through on his own with a marvellous solo run, Grealish checked back, flirted with his defender and smoothly steered the ball home for England's final goal of the night.

And so Gareth Southgate's men disappeared into an Andorra night none the wiser for their experience. It felt like an ideal night for football and nobody was injured into the bargain. But the truth is that this match seemed to more clearly resemble a holograph rather than a competitive international. England now face Hungary and the fixture always has distant throwbacks to that now humiliating 1953 defeat by the Magic Magyars, Ferenc Puskas et al. This will not be played on a misty November afternoon and there are no magicians in the Hungarian side. So take a deep breath everybody. Qatar here we come. You would have thought so.     

Saudis take over Newcastle United and England- Andorra tonight.

 Saudis take over Newcastle United and England- Andorra tonight. 

The lunatics have taken over the asylum. Modern day football has been taken over by the London Stock Exchange. The money grabbing mercenaries have stuck their heads in the trough and we are no further forward than we were before. The age of plutocracy is well and truly with us and there's no turning back. The mega, obscenely wealthy bourgeoisie are lapping it up. They're in  seventh heaven. This is their day once again and the Premier League is at the mercy of greed yet again. There used to be the grubby former owner who had very little interest in the game apart from the last set of millions on his bank balance sheet. Thank goodness Mike Ashley has gone, the Newcastle fans may cry in unison.  

Yesterday Newcastle United, the club that once gloried in the legendary, goal scoring deeds of Len Shackleton, Jackie Milburn, Malcolm Macdonald, Bobby Mitchell and Alan Shearer are now in the hands of a Saudi Arabian investment firm who have now ploughed the princely sum of £300 million into this famous, big club. How on earth will Newcastle ever be able to pay off their substantial debts, electricity, rent and crippling debts? What will they tell their nagging landlords when they can't stump up the money for their housekeeping? They may have to survive on baked beans on toast.

This may be a facetious jibe on the grand name and reputation of Newcastle but the facts are out there in the public domain. Newcastle United, who have now adopted the same mantle of the Manchester City of old, are the envy of the rest of the Premier League if you don't include City in that equation. City have got their own multi millionaire Arab sheikhs to look after their best interests. In a sense though Newcastle may still be regarded as something of a laughing stock themselves given the nature of the club itself. 

Besides it was Mike Ashley, that celebrated owner of the Sports Direct chain and the House of Fraser company, who has been the incessant butt of every hilarious music hall joke since the formation of the Premier League. He sits there every week at St James Park, smug, hugely contented and fiercely ambitious. The fact is though that Ashley was ridiculed, lampooned and criticised so severely by the Newcastle fans that he may have been tempted to tell the club that he no longer needed all of the accompanying hassle and aggravation that until yesterday he'd been constantly subjected to. 

Now Ashley has left the club by the back door. He can take his portfolio and material belongings with him because, according to the Newcastle fans, he was just bad news, a selfish, mean and parsimonious man who just refused to spend the right amount of money on the right players. For ages now Newcastle have been treading water, buoyant in the Premier League but barely credible as a force for good. For a while they seemed to yo-yo precariously up and down from the lower Leagues and back to the Premier League. 

But the club have made another wishy washy and poor start to this current Premier League campaign and as we enter another international break, hover over the relegation trap door like characters in a Whitehall farce.  During the last 24 hours Newcastle have attracted the most extraordinary publicity. Fans have been celebrating, ecstatically brandishing the Saudi Arabian flag and cheering loudly for the first time perhaps since 1955, the last time the club won anything of any substance, the FA Cup.

There can be no explanation for the current developments at Newcastle. Now the fact is that nobody would have said anything about yesterday's activities had we not read between the lines. In today's world, money and colossal sums of money dictate everything from Sky TV and BT Sport rights to the brazen sponsors on the players shirts. It ensures that every young child can still demand the latest merchandise from the club such as the club's shirts, computer games, mugs, T-shirts, scarves and everything associated with the club. 

So here are the outrageous details. The Saudi owners, who have now restored the club to its rightful prominence on the big stage, stand accused of horribly nefarious dealings. Suddenly, human rights violations have been levelled at those in the background. These are nasty figures who just want to spend millions on players just to dig them out of their present predicament. 

Now some of us may not have a problem with those admirable thought processes. Wouldn't you be grateful if some rich sugar daddy bailed out your football club if they were struggling in the bottom half of League 1? You bet you would. You'd shake their hand politely and tell them that you're with them you all the way. You'd take your regular seat in your club's ground, sit back and relax as your team hammer Manchester City for the sake of argument. 

But Newcastle are a completely different kettle of fish. Their supporters have been starved of success for so long that even the most distinguished of football historians may have trouble in leafing through the pages to find something that makes them a team to be reckoned with. Of course the fans are fanatical, almost obsessed with the club, pleading with their team to lift any trophy of significance but it just hasn't happened.

Now though another bunch of Arab sheikhs have come out of the desert and bought the team breathing space, a decent sustenance, water after the famine. To the impartial outsider you're inclined to think that no club has a divine right to win anything, least of all Newcastle. Besides, every team in the Premier League started on the same level playing field on the opening day of the football season. So why should Newcastle be in any way different. 

At the moment their manager Steve Bruce looks like a man who doesn't quite know which way to turn, a man still haunted and maybe a tad persecuted because everybody seems to be blaming him for the club's misfortunes So the hometown boy from the North East folds his arms defiantly, grins stoically, and pretends its Christmas because you've got to look forward to something and Santa Claus can't be guaranteed to give Bruce the festive present he may want. 

And so domestic football takes another brief rest to make way for what should be another thrilling England epic against those world beaters Andorra. Now without wishing to denigrate the likes of Andorra, World Cup qualifiers may not come any easier for Gareth Southgate's England. Andorra have already been beaten by England and there are some who may be wishing that the England football team do what they have to do and just qualify for another World Cup without breaking any sweat. You can never discount Poland though and how painful are the memories of another World Cup qualifier 48 years ago? 

Newcastle, for their part, might be pinching themselves since it's not every day that an Arab prince comes to your rescue. You flick back through history and wonder what the po-faced, dispassionate likes of former managers such as Joe Harvey or Bill McGarry would have thought of the Newcastle of today.  Both Harvey and McGarry were men who insisted on strict discipline and nothing but complete commitment to the cause. Neither of their teams were pleasant on the eye as such but yesterday Saudi Arabian financial affluence arrived on the Tyne and that's nothing to sneeze at. Away the lads, indeed. 

    

National Poetry Day.

 National Poetry Day. 

You have a vested interest in this day. Today, as you may or may not know, is National Poetry Day. Now up until quite recently I hadn't really contemplated re-discovering my interest in poetry or thought provoking verse. But a chance creative writing session on Zoom a couple of months ago re-ignited that fascination with everything poetic or lyrical. 

So grasping the nettle, I ventured forward into the unknown and tried to paint word pictures and images with a poetic connotation to it. It was time to reveal my love of the English language, its grammar and vocabulary, illustrating images with descriptive expressions. And so it began. For the next couple of weeks and months I found the whole experience both exceptionally cathartic and very satisfying to me personally. 

Now let me give you the chance to find out more about my poetry or verse. If you go to either the Royal Society of Literature Facebook page and scroll down the thread that says only two days left to today's competition end date you'll find most of my poems. My name is Joe Morris. Alternatively you could also go to the Jewish Poetry Society on Facebook  with 84 members, I think. But they're definitely all there as well. 

Or you could also go to the Poetry Archive page on Facebook. Either of the above Facebook pages will give you a perfect insight into my very specific take on poetry. You may think scratch your heads or you could indulge in a giggle or chuckle. It is profound, quite abstract and thoughtful. But if you like the play of words and emotions then you may stop to think for a moment. 

Please feel free to add any comments about my poetry because it would be nice to get some feedback on my poetry. At the moment this is my burgeoning interest in poetry and I'd love to put these in a book, my personal contributions to the world of poetry. Sadly, poetry hasn't really got the favourable publicity it may have deserved over the years but poetry societies, clubs and organisations continue to be flourishing concerns and deservedly so. 

So if you've got a tea or coffee break at work or school, a lunch hour to spare at school or university you may like to read some of my poetic outpourings at your leisure. We all need reflective moments to take our mind away from an often chaotic world and I've tried to be as amusing and imaginative as I possibly can. 

But yes. It's National Poetry Day, a day devoted to celebrating the often misunderstood world of rhyme, stanzas, verse, metres and iambic pentameters. You should find 30 to 40 poems to date but I'll keep thinking of more. It's hard to know what the likes of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, William Butler Yeats, John Keats, William Wordsworth or Oscar Wilde would have thought of today's contemporary poetry.

Then again there was William Shakespeare, the pioneering spirit whose wondrously purple prose made him one of the foremost authorities on poetry from the Middle Ages, a medieval maestro of the written word, a class act and somebody whose influence throughout the world continues to attract a vast audience. His plays are of course legendary and his poetry also highly eulogised in every corner of the globe- including the Globe Theatre in London. 

There you have it Ladies and Gentlemen. It's National Poetry Day and let's wax lyrical about life, the past, present and the future. We can all call on poetic licence or move to the infectious beat or rhythm of life. My poetry can be found in all of the above suggested sites on Facebook. Poetry in Motion to quote that famous song. Thanks everybody.     

Space- the final frontier.

 Space- the final frontier. 

It hardly seems like 52 years ago but the truth is time does indeed fly when you're enjoying  life. When Neil Armstrong became the first man to step onto the surface of the Moon for the first time in space history it was widely felt that no man or woman would ever think about doing it over and over again. True, Yuri Gagarin did break the glass ceiling years beforehand by becoming the first Russian cosmonaut to find out exactly what was going on in other galaxies far away from our planet. But he did and 52 years later the Russians have done it again. They're exploring outer space and the one notable difference this time is that there is an element of showbusiness about this one extraordinary moment of our lives. 

Today a Russian actress, a Russian film producer and a vastly experienced Russian astronaut or cosmonaut to give him a more modern title, launched their rocket from the International Space Station and none of us could believe what we were being told. In the old days your conventional astronaut had an immense store of knowledge about this intriguing phenomena. They pulled on their heavy space suits, waved fondly to their kith and kin, smiled for the cameras and found themselves to be the centre of global attention.

But this time the whole operation is taking place against a backdrop of producers, directors with clapperboards and Hollywood enthusiastically revelling in an eye catching cinematic project. In 2021 they do things rather differently and somewhat surrealistically. 52 years ago it all seemed fairly new to us and you found yourself wondering what was happening to the world in an environment that seemed about as far removed as it was possible to be. 

Some of us were children at the time and when we awoke to all of the Apollo missions, you were almost attending your first class on the subject of astronomy, a subject that couldn't possibly be explained to us in extensive detail at so tender an age. So you settled down in front of the TV, gazed incredulously at the astonishing events that were about to unfold before us and just gasped with stunned amazement. 

The late and monocled Sir Patrick Moore, a man with an encyclopaedic understanding of Space and the planets spinning around us, went into chapter and verse with poetic descriptions of craters, modules, dust, the lights reflecting onto the surface of the Moon and the different manifestations of everything space related. Then something pretty special and epically significant took place. 

Neil Armstrong, accompanied by Buzz Aldrin and Michael Collins, set out to explore life on the Moon, docking on a wondrously ground breaking mission that would propel them into the stratosphere, the first three astronauts to jump and bounce about on the Moon because it seemed like a good idea at the time. In 1969 nobody knew you could go that far because all of the scientific developments that had taken place thus far hadn't quite bargained on man landing on the Moon.

So we sat there fascinated, wholly absorbed, immersed in this earth shattering revelation. We listened intently to the latest news, the long vapour of smoke that had trailed that first Apollo 11 rocket and then turned our sights to something that seemed so utterly inexplicable and indescribable. We looked wide eyed at the rocket soaring into a distant place where there were no cars, buses, lorries, vans, trains and supermarkets.

And then you closed your eyes because you thought you were imagining it all. But it was for real. Here were three highly intelligent and qualified men  embarking on the kind of journey that some of us felt was a figment of our imagination. Then we rubbed our retinas, moved closer to the TV and, in a moment of fantasy, tried to envisage ourselves as part of the same experience. Some of us hadn't a clue what was going on because ignorance was indeed bliss. But come on, this is no joke. Man had landed on the Moon. 

Nevertheless in a remote corner of Kazakhstan, the Rassovet module shot into the sky as if it was just another day at the office. In no particular order there is Russian actress Yulia Pereslid, a little known actress who, when she isn't treading the boards in local Russian theatres, just felt she needed another challenge. She was keen, eager, inquisitive and determined to have a good time. Besides, extra terrestrial voyages into outer space are surely good for the soul. Or are they?

Then there was Anton Shkaplerov, formerly a Commander of the Space Station so he must have known what he was doing. He's a veteran of these momentous space missions, thoroughly well informed on all the finer points of space travel. Our Anton is hugely knowledgeable on the big, wide world out there and he's got the T-shirt, mug and all of those stories about Cape Canaveral from long ago when the world was much younger. 

Finally there is Kilin Shipenko, a film producer who can only see the movie potential in all of these shenanigans. Shipenko wants to bring this latest space exploration to the small screen. Of course we've seen films about space on innumerable occasions but this could just blow you away. This one has got an actress in space, a concept that seemed so unbelievable that if somebody had told you about it, you'd have probably laughed out loudly.

However here we are on Planet Earth in a pleasant state of recovery from the most devastating virus ever known and the chances are that you may have to adjust your hold on reality yet again. So this is the time to dig the telescope out of your attic tonight, gaze at the millions of stars in the sky and then look out for Expedition crew 65 crew on the Soyuz M5- 19 rocket destined to position itself nicely into its very cosy niche in history. 

So we wish our hugely ambitious cosmonauts well as they go on their way. This is more than one giant step for mankind or perhaps womankind. Helen Sharman became the first woman to don a space suit in modern times and we can only hope that if they do find anything unusual up there in outer space they make sure they give us something else to talk about for the foreseeable future. It's Space, but not as we know it. Or maybe we do.     

 

London Marathon- better late than never.

 London Marathon- better late than never. 

How good must it have felt to be a Londoner yesterday. The winter nights may be drawing in very gradually and the coronavirus is still at large in some parts of Britain but we were not about to let a pandemic get in the way of our happiness and sense of relief. The fact is that the London Marathon, originally scheduled for last April, had hit the streets of London at the beginning of October and, quite frankly, who cares? There will always be a time and place for anything no matter which month it might have been pencilled in for. 

Yesterday London welcomed the most democratic, all inclusive, all encompassing, international collection of athletes, fun runners and people who lined the streets just to express their approval and cheer them on hoarsely. And they came from far and wide, members of the public, wild enthusiasts from ever corner of the world and demographic, young and old, short and tall, fit or just content to finish the Marathon. London smiled at the rest of the world, a human reaction that may have been impossible to find in the last 18 months or so. 

And yet 40 years ago, a wonderful visionary by the name of Chris Brasher, the man who once ran shoulder to shoulder with the good doctor Sir Roger Bannister in the first sub four minute mile race in Oxford on a windy afternoon in the early 1950s, brilliantly masterminded the first London Marathon. Brasher must have known even then that here was a germ of a novel idea that, quite literally, had legs and potential. He would prove to be absolutely right and must have felt like some kind of vindication when it all started. 

So on a wet and rainy morning at Greenwich in 1981, Brasher lifted the flag, beamed triumphantly and the first London Marathon was under way. History would be made. The fact that a waiter with a drinks tray accompanied by another professional runner were there to cross the finishing line somehow seemed irrelevant. Marathon running had made an indelible mark on the sporting landscape and in Britain running or jogging the streets and country lanes of this noble land, became the new fashion statement. 

Who though could have ever imagined that the London Marathon would ever become the cultural yearly institution that it has now become? In those days we may have been ever so sceptical about the advisability of a long distance race that left you absolutely shattered and exhausted. Having crossed the finishing line, you would slump over the tape, bend down to catch your breath only to have a huge medal hung around your neck by way of appreciation for your gallant exertions. Then somebody would give you a chocolate bar or a tub of margarine perhaps since both Mars and Flora have been steadfast sponsors of the event.

But it's a tribute to the London Marathon's longevity that every year hundreds and thousands of runners from every background, class, race or age, stroll up to the starting line at Greenwich, shaking their arms and legs to keep the blood circulation going and generally embracing the occasion like an old friend or a member of your family you hadn't seen for years and years. Then London comes into its own. A vast multitude of vests, fancy dress costumes and the most bizarre outfits set out for 26 miles of sheer enthusiasm, bravery, heroism and painful purgatory. But nobody minds because you were there to negotiate those foot sore moments when somebody keeps telling you about hitting the Wall. You keep going though.

In a sense accusations of madness and insanity have somehow become part of the territory for the seasoned runners and fun runners. They've heard it all before. What possesses anybody to run for 26 miles, pounding the pavements, laughing at the people who are laughing at you and driving you forward to carve out your own record and stunning achievement. Is it a come what may willingness and desire to just be with other people, enjoying the community spirit, the delightful camaraderie, the special rapport between the crowd and the runners. 

So it was that the runners and athletes all gathered at the starting point of Greenwich, London and then set off into the autumnal winds, with hope in their hearts and a feeling of immense personal satisfaction when you get to the end of the race. The club runners, built for stamina and endurance, think nothing of sprinting away into the distance, arms and shoulders pumping furiously, going flat out, disdainfully dismissing tiredness and fatigue, focused on the job at hand and determined to finish the race in under two hours while checking their watches constantly in case they happen to miss their last bus home. 

But for the fun runners the London Marathon is all about taking in the uplifting sights of the East End, Poplar followed by the magical Docklands and the outskirts of Canary Wharf. Then they wend their way through the London suburbs, jogging, slowing down from time to time, then plodding their way around the course laboriously but seriously. For the last 10 or so miles of the London Marathon,  they giggle, guffaw, pull faces before staggering to a halt to talk to the BBC or just indulge in some witty joking and badinage with the crowd. 

The London Marathon is undoubtedly one of the finest sporting occasions Britain has ever seen. It is London at her best, a London with inhibitions lost, a London flaunting herself like the plumage of a peacock. But above all, after 18 months of loss, sadness and suffering, it is London whose powers of recovery and resilience should always be celebrated. It is about London looking at you in the face and congratulating each other profusely because we've got there or almost if you were to believe in the doom and gloom merchants. 

We all know now that the London Marathon is normally dominated by the likes of Kenya or Somalia, countries renowned for the production of gifted athletes. Yesterday Sisay Lema won the London Marathon and bringing up the runners spot was Vincent Kipchumba. Then Mosinet Geremen finished third while Evans Chebet was fourth and Birhanu Legese a commendable fifth.  

In the women's race Joyciline Jeprosgei won the Marathon and in second place was Degitu Azimeraw while third was Ashete Berere. Fourth was Brigid Kosgei and fifth Lonah Chemati Salpeter.  In the women's wheelchair race Manuel Schar won her race and Merle Menje was runner up. In third was Tatyana Mcfadden. The men's wheelchair race was won by Marcel Hue, second was Daniel Roman Chuk and third was Scotsman David Weir, one of Britain's greatest of all wheelchair racers. 

Everybody who witnessed their first London Marathon must have been mesmerised by the vastness and immensity of the event since it continues to hold us all in thrall. From Greenwich through  London's back streets to the Embankment, the majestic bridges of London, Blackfriars, along to the final straight of the lovely Mall and then Buckingham Palace, the London Marathon recognises its excellence, the meticulous preparation that must have gone into organising such a huge occasion and then laughs out loud again and again. 

It should not be forgotten that the fun runners were also an integral part of yesterday's race. From all over the world they came in, displaying all manner of happy go lucky outfits. There were women in pyjamas who finished in three hours and 46 minutes, batteries that hadn't quite conked out, a man in a telephone box, an Elvis Presley impersonator and, incongruously, a man in a Statue of Liberty costume. Quite how Elvis and New York came to be representing their country in a London Marathon may defy explanation. Still, nobody minded and why should they have done? This was the 40th London marathon and this was just the most breath taking spectacle we could ever have wished for. Well done London. We're proud of you.    

Bond is back but for Daniel Craig it's the last one.

 Bond is back but for Daniel Craig it's the last one.

Everybody has heard of James Bond. In fact if you haven't heard of Bond you must have missed the 1960s. Bond has spanned the generations, lasted the pace, an enduring, all action hero who's so miraculously survived countless attempts on his life that if he'd been a cat he'd have emerged completely unscathed without a scratch on him. 

Yesterday the latest instalment in the Bond canon No Time to Die exploded onto our cinema screens and, as usual, the itinerary was much the same as it's always been.  There was blood, guts, not quite as many as explosions but enough to blow up buildings, humans, and inanimate objects just minding their own business. There were gadgets that were simply designed to last five seconds before one huge conflagration that went bang immediately on impact. There were huge rocket attacks, fire and smoke and spellbinding punch ups that some of us could almost feel and we were just watching it on the silver screen. 

Now for those who remember the daredevil exploits of the now sadly late Roger Moore and Sean Connery in previous Bond incarnations, this was perhaps predictable fare. No Time to Die was never  likely to be any departure from the tried and tested Bond formula and format. Bond falls deeply in love with any girl he meets, throwing his arms passionately into her arms, making love to them wherever and whenever the mood takes him and then leaving them as if they were just notches on his bedpost. Bond does conquests in the way that the Normans became celebrated for. 

James Bond of course is the archetypal secret service agent, an impeccably suited and booted, glamorous killing machine, a bold, adventurous, no nonsense, ruthless, uncompromising warrior, an ageless, timeless saviour of the universe where evil threatens to get the better of good. Essentially Bond is fearless, outrageously intrepid, taking his life in his hands and then battering the nasty villains to a pulp and death. 

In the days of Connery and Moore, Bond was very much the swashbuckling stud, aggressive, brave, asking questions later. Miss Moneypenny was the woman who sanctioned those bloodthirsty assignments, pleading with Bond to be careful and not to break anything that couldn't be fixed. Then there were the gambling casinos, the shaken but not stirred Martini or perhaps a scotch or two for good measure. Moore was always available for the humorous quip, the funny one liner that always had us in stitches. Connery was all dour, business like pragmatism, there to finish off the baddies.

But No Time to Die will be Daniel Craig's last Bond film and the reception for the film is bound to be favourable. Regrettably though battle fatigue feels as though it may be setting in for the Bond character. There are only so many bust ups, explosions, murders and cliff hanging scenes that simply leave you transfixed. There can only be so many times when Bond just throws his body into vast metallic objects, crashing and smashing into walls with remarkable persistence and then being peppered with bullets and bombs while desperately hanging on for dear life.

Here Safin, a vengeful and evil character, is Bond's sworn enemy, a vile, vicious, pernicious man, Bond's nemesis and hostile adversary. When Safin becomes the central target for the boo boys, Bond hurls himself into conflict. Having captured the girl who had pulled on Bond's heart strings, the woman and her toddler daughter are captured by Safin. For the rest of the film Bond does his utmost to seek revenge on the old Blofeld for past misdemeanours. 

There were some eye catching and beguilingly thrilling performances from Rory Kinnear, son of the late comedy actor Roy Kinnear as the modest and upper crust Bill Tanner, Rami Malek, whose sensational Freddie Mercury in Bohemian Rhapsody sent him soaring to star status. Malek was the sneering, sinister, oddly pockmarked face of Safin, not the kind of man you'd want to meet on a dark night in any particular location. 

No Time to Die went through the customary motions of whispered discussions and pompous lecturing from Ralph Fiennes as the prim and puritanical M who just tells Bond what to do it and then make sure that he doesn't foul up into the bargain. There follows another sequence of never ending gunfire shots that seemed to wipe out whole masses of humanity. More and more of the good guys are murdered while Safin appears to be indestructible.

It is at this point that you may have to conclude this film critique since any further descriptions of the rest of the film may ruin your enjoyment of No Time to Die. To be perfectly honest although No Time to Die was both gripping and enthralling in the right places and at the right time, the whole Ian Fleming back catalogue of Bond novels may be past their sell by date. This was rather like playing your favourite piece of vinyl record over and over again only to find that the stylus is full of dust.

Now most of us know by now that No Time to Die was scheduled to be released in the cinemas at roughly that moment when the coronavirus lockdown scuppered any plans. Sadly though that long 18 month wait for the dashing new Bond film may have fizzled out into a flat anti-climax. But Bond will always be James Bond and the age of masculinity is well and truly alive.