St Andrews Day- not long until the festive fiesta.

 St Andrews Day- not long until the festive fiesta.

In the glens and highlands of Scotland they'll be wearing their tam o'shanter to all those magnificent parties that the Scots seem to carry off so well. Today of course is St. Andrews Day in Scotland, a day for recognising the Patron Saint of Andrew, a significant date on the calendar for everybody who loves to wear the tartan kilt and enjoying the festivities that will almost certainly accompany the day. They'll be dancing around their swords, swigging back the whisky in abundant quantities and reminding the English that 54 years ago the Scots reclaimed the World Cup at Wembley a year after England had won it the year before. 

This may have been regarded as a moral victory for the Scots back in 1967 but it was just a Home International end of season friendly tournament and that probably won't be remembered for too long. Still here we are on St Andrews Day, a day when the battles of Culloden and Bannockburn are marked again, a day when Nicola Sturgeon, the First Minister of Scotland, will rightly declare that Scotland's claim to independence still has a ring of truth to it. 

In recent years Scotland have yearned insistently for greater freedoms, greater autonomy from the English stranglehold and a desire for a personal identity that some in the Scottish parliament has made patently clear. But there can be no denying the sheer beauty of the Scottish mountains, the wondrous scenery, the breathtaking crofters, the enduring thistle and shortly the imminent arrival of Hogmany at the beginning of the New Year. The Scots have always been our friendly rivals at a time when nationalism threatened to swallow up both the English and Scottish. 

Of course Hadrian's Wall remains that traditional dividing line that continues to antagonise both sets of football supporters when the English meet the Scots. During the summer England metaphorically ran into a brick wall when the Scots stood tall and immovable in the face of a slovenly England side who simply ran out of both ideas and ideologies in their attacking armoury. The 0-0 Euro 2020 group stage draw was neither here nor there and by the time the referee blew the final whistle, England had exhausted themselves in a terribly under cooked performance. 

But tonight they'll be jigging between the ancient swords, devouring plates of haggis by the hundreds and thousands, a nation united by its admirable desire to retain its stubborn individuality, its historical adherence to its folksy ballads and that delicious skirl of the bagpipes. Scotland may think that the English hate them and the feeling of course may be mutual but any country that gives us the comic genius of Billy Connolly, a former Prime Minister in Gordon Brown who once declared his allegiance to Raith Rovers and who once produced the inimitable figure of James Bond as depicted by Sean Connery must have something to commend it.

So Ladies and Gentlemen. Today is St Andrews Day and the Scots will be in appropriately alcoholic mood. Here is a nation whose favourite son gave us the life changing TV. When John Logie Baird connected some loose wires to a very primitive transmitter the age of the cathode ray gave way to a technological revolution that would change our lives for ever. Baird told us that the future would be the humble TV or television, the revolutionary medium that now spews up record breaking numbers of channels from all over the world. Now Sky compete frantically against the likes of BT Sport, MTV, CBS, Eurosport and thousands of other alternatives. It is the franchise that keeps giving. So if you've a spare kilt at your disposal think of our Scottish friends and three cheers for the Sassenachs. 

Storm Arwen is on its way.

 Storm Arwen is on its way. 

Oh no! The alphabetical storms are on their way. Now way back when, storms or any meteorological phenomena were just regarded as periodical weather events that simply blew over our rooftops, knocked over a couple of tiles, shook several telegraph poles and trees before just stopping. They'd probably play havoc with our plans for the day because, let's face it, you can't play croquet or tennis while wild winds and gusts of rain are sweeping through your local park. 

But Ladies and Gentlemen. Storm Arwen is preparing itself on some unsuspecting British coastline and you may wake up tomorrow with branches and twigs scattered all over your driveway. Storms have now become a common occurrence during the calendar year and Storm Arwen won't be entirely unprecedented because we've all seen storms in their different manifestations and now know what to expect. Of course storms can be powerful and tempestuous but that comes with the territory. 

In recent years we've seen all kinds of storms. There were the dramatic hurricanes that increasingly made their presence felt. We'll never forget the storms that were never predicted but then suddenly materialised the following morning. There were the storms that should have amounted to nothing more than several bucket loads of rain but then had a change of heart. There are the storms that you found to be utterly terrifying as a child as you pulled the blankets over your head and hid under the bed sheets. After several claps of thunder and lightning you dropped off to sleep, nervous, apprehensive and hoping for no more. 

Of course in October 1987 Britain was given the ultimate re-assurance by BBC weatherman Michael Fish that any forecasts of a major storm would be no more than a rumour. By the following morning we all woke up to find damage, carnage, debris, trees lying across roads and cars in an imminent state of complete disintegration, a world now horrified and perhaps traumatised by the evidence before them. For quite some time Britain must have thought the world had indeed come to an end. And yet this was not a disaster maybe a mini disaster where somehow we could pick up the pieces. 

In recent years there was a storm that became a tsunami, a vast mountainous spray of water that surged horrifically towards the mainland of an exotic island and tore down everything in its path. Suddenly, shops and houses became floating pieces of twisted steel, wood and glass that had left the people helpless and despairing. There were drifting restaurant signs, cars and buses now merely swimming for their lives. It was devastation on a massive scale and for those whose lives were turned upside down from that point onwards, it would leave them homeless, distraught and, in some cases, inconsolable.

Storm Arwen though is on its way and 100mph winds are expected to blast their way through the North East of England and then poor Scotland who always seem to get the brunt of bad weather. But we love the weather anyway. Who cares if it rains because you'll never hear any of us complaining? Storms though leave us conflicted with the whole gamut of emotions. Why do they have to wake us up during the night and why do they have to make such a raucous noise when they arrive. Could they perhaps not keep up that incessant howling, whistling, rattling and roaring refrain? Could they turn down the volume and the intensity, the crashing, sweeping, shrieking cacophony?

There are some who may take some quiet pleasure in a major storm or a succession of storms. Perhaps they remind us of CS Forrester's Hornblower stories or Joseph Conrad's lyrical descriptions of ship wrecks. Then there are the thick sheets of rain sweeping across the yardarm followed by yet more ferocious gusts of wind that leave Conrad's boats battered and in splinters. Storm Arwen though is poised to leave us high and dry, quivering and quaking at the sheer immensity of it all. 

It could be that by the time Storm Arwen blows itself out and heads for another country or continent, we'll all turn to each other and wonder what all the fuss was about. For the time being it is time to batten down the hatches, lock your doors, cover the ears of your pets and cower under a kitchen table. There's no need to panic, no thoughts of an emergency because by this time next week a sweltering heatwave could catch us out altogether and that passing storm was ancient history. So folks don't beware of yet more storms that have now been immortalised by alphabetical sequences and everyday names. They are merely storms that look nothing like teacups.   

More Boris Karloff than Boris Johnson.

 More Boris Karloff than Boris Johnson. 

This is beginning to resemble a classic episode of Yes Minister where Paul Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne exchange light hearted pleasantries about government legislation and government red tape. Then the conversation becomes completely lost in any translation and before you know it both are talking a load of nonsense about nothing in particular. For Eddington and Nigel Hawthorne read Boris Johnson. You really couldn't make this one up. Poor old Boris is suffering from what is commonly known as foolhardiness. And that's putting it very mildly. 

On Monday he spoke before the leading businessmen and women about the crucial issue of social care caps and the continuing importance of the NHS. Halfway through his speech Boris crashed into a metaphorical wall, shot himself in the proverbial foot and fell headlong into the prickliest of bushes. Here was the ultimate catastrophe. In fact it couldn't have got any worse had he tried. For a moment Boris looked as if he simply wanted the ground to open up such was the severity of the blunder that had just claimed him. 

For several cringeworthy, deeply embarrassing and barely believable moments Boris Johnson was in danger of being laughed off stage and treated like the end of the pier comedian whose jokes had reduced his audience to a lengthy silence. The Prime Minister really didn't know which way to look. He was both ridiculously apologetic and did nothing but plead for forgiveness. What else could he have done under the circumstances? He'd lost his place, had failed miserably to make himself abundantly clear on anything connected to said speech and it all fizzled out miserably into some peculiar, rumbling undertone. 

So this is how things panned out on Monday afternoon. Johnson outlines all of the major Tory policies on social care and suddenly his voice goes off on some weird tangent that none of us could understand. Then he looks down on his pile of papers and before we knew it the whole performance turned into a Whitehall farce. There was a horribly muddled incoherence about his words and sentences that sounded as if the rest of the speech had been written in a Latin that even he could make neither head nor tail of. 

Almost immediately things went downhill. There was the by now familiar bumbling, fumbling, mumbling and shuffling of papers. Then Johnson just shamefacedly lost his way, rather like a man who was reading last week's shopping list. Suddenly Page One was now Page Five and on Page Three were references to jars of jam, cereal, bread, cleaning fluid and cheese flans. No, that can't be right Boris. He could have sworn that everything had been prepared and was in the right order. And finally  Johnson was reduced to a comical whisper and a desperate plea for understanding. 

Now the latest episode of Yes Minister started imitating reality. Johnson must have felt pathetically isolated, the spotlight burning down on him intently and at this point even improvisation couldn't come to Johnson's rescue. He could have taken a deep breath for a couple of moments and just bluffed his way through an ever increasing sense of crisis. But he didn't because this was damage limitation and besides he was well and truly stuck. So what could he do? The fact is he went off on some hilarious account of his weekend. You know the kind of thing. 

On Sunday Boris and his wife Carrie had taken their children to Peppa Pig World, a theme park for very young toddlers barely out of Farley's rusk, bottles of milk and dummies. He then explained the delights of wandering around a location where all you could hear was the uplifting sound of crying babies and our little darlings throwing tantrums. So it was that Johnson began the painstaking process of back tracking, humouring his audience as best he could and then pretending that nothing untoward had happened. 

For several open mouthed minutes Boris's stunned audience thought their Prime Minister had drunk too many glasses of wine the previous night or that their man had reached a mental roadblock. The blond hair by now was in a state of complete rebellion, the face white and creased with anguish, nay less total confusion and hidden under the Johnson persona was a private longing for the trapdoor. This was Johnson doing what only he can do when faced with adversity only funnier. It was time to blag and make it up on the hoof. Not a chance. 

He then had the audacity to ask his captivated listeners whether they'd heard of Peppa Pig and whether they knew anything about the characters in the book. Some of us are, to be honest, extremely concerned about the Prime Minister's welfare since quoting a children's book in the middle of a gathering for some of the most high profile businessmen and women in the country falls horribly short of what many of us would consider rational behaviour. 

At the end of the meeting everybody left the building none the wiser. Maybe the Prime Minister had finally lost the plot, a man estranged from the real world and staggering around in the dark looking for a light switch. What on earth are you talking about Prime Minister? Can we do anything to help you? The fact is none of us knew where exactly where he was going. If this was meant as a cheap publicity stunt to remind everybody that he was only human and flawed then this was not the way to go about such matters. So his words just vanished into some surreal world of complete incomprehension. 

Today the news topic will probably move onto something entirely different. But you can't help but feel that, for Boris Johnson this has been the week from hell. And we're still on Wednesday. The appeals for forgiveness and clemency were that of a condemned man who had gone down for pinching sweets. So Boris slouched away from the scene of a crime, emotions scattered all over the place and quite possibly giggling because only Boris could get away with treating the serious issues with all the frivolity of clown falling off their cycle. You chuckle for a few seconds before sticking a custard pie in the face of the master of ceremonies. Oh Boris. For how much longer are you going to subject your public to so many acts of buffoonish tomfoolery? It may be time to e-mail 10 Downing Street.   

Ole Gunnar Solskjaer- next for the sack.

 Ole Gunnar Solksjaer- next for the managerial sack. 

Something had to give at Manchester United and it did. This wasn't entirely unexpected and, on reflection, perhaps only a matter of time. Poor Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, the now previous manager of Old Trafford, departed the club via the exit door at Old Trafford. The natives, once restless, have now been rewarded for their patience. After all how many crushingly heavy defeats could United take in recent games without looking like broken pieces of machinery.

But the axe has now fallen at Manchester United and the man who once scored the decisive goal that completed United's treble season with a last gasp Champions League Final victory against Bayern Munich in 1999 is now no more than some evil pantomime villain who should never darken the club's corridors again. How fickle can the finger of fate be when, after United's poorest run of form for ages, the baby faced assassin from Norway has now become nothing more than some distant, historical figure, a careless mistake on United's part, a rash judgment that should never have seen the light of day. 

So it was that Solksjaer packed his belongings, left his office at Manchester United and became the latest victim of the back stabbing brigade who love to see the back of managers who simply can't hack it at the highest level. Of course Solksjaer is an honest, law abiding, respectable and perfectly capable coach. But the truth is that managing a club of Manchester United's size, status and globally famous magnitude was never likely to be a suitable match. 

When Sir Alex Ferguson left United for the last time, after those colossal Premier League title winning achievements which now stand at some remarkable, record breaking high. United were left with a huge, gaping gap that has to be yet to be adequately filled. The  years following the Ferguson golden years would always be both traumatic, transitional, uncertain and almost anti climactic. But Solkskjaer was perhaps too kind, diplomatic and philosophical to be as ruthless as his predecessor. Besides the Norwegian never did find a packet of chewing gum to his liking. Fergie was never without his. 

Now United have worked their way painstakingly through the likes of Louis Van Gaal, a Dutch market researcher with clipboard permanently in his hands. Tactical formations were never Van Gaal's forte. Then there was the current West Ham manager David Moyes who Ferguson personally recommended to United but then realised that Moyes simply wasn't up to such an onerous, almost thankless task. Then United turned to the demanding perfectionist who was Jose Mourinho. When all was said and done Mourinho gave a convincing impersonation of a man who simply found himself with a hand grenade in his hand that suddenly went off. 

Today United are manager less once again, looking around and beyond at another what they hope will be a higher profile appointment. The name of Zinedine  Zidane has been mentioned and although a world class talent for the French national team, will always be remembered for that shocking head butt of an Italian defender Marco Matterazi in a World Cup Final. At the time the global game could hardly contain its outrage and condemnation at such a violent attack and some United fans may have their reservations.

So now United are simply back to square one. You remember those awkward years after the departure of the memorable Sir Matt Busby, a footballing giant, a man of immense knowledge about the game and a man of intelligent erudition. Once Busby had gone, United thought they'd turn to Frank O' Farrell and Wilf Mcguiness as messiahs and salvations. Sadly there would never be any hint of a trophy to adorn the Old Trafford trophy cabinet and neither man truly covered himself in glory. 

By the time Dave Sexton and Tommy Docherty had warmed the manager's bench at United, the once holders of the European Cup in 1968 were just treading water and going nowhere. When United were relegated to the old Second Division for the first time in recent history in 1974, this was no temporary setback. United came straight back up to the old First Division and cheerful Docherty planted the lid of the FA Cup on his head when United outwitted and beat Liverpool in the 1977 FA Cup Final. 

Then there was the larger than life Ron Atkinson who looked more like a suave businessman than a football manager. Atkinson won the FA Cup for United in 1983 and 1985 but the old League Championship proved beyond them and utterly elusive. Atkinson finally waved the white flag of surrender and Alex Ferguson, a hard piece of granite from Aberdeen, was recruited for the United job. It took Ferguson ages to get his feet properly under the table but still United stumbled, staggered and toppled over like drunken sailors at chucking out time. 

The famous Mark Robins goal for United in a vital FA Cup third round tie against Brian Clough's Nottingham Forest at the City Ground proved absolutely crucial. United never really looked back and by the time David Beckham, Nicky Butt, Paul Scholes and Ryan Giggs transformed the club from top to bottom, the change in fortunes was almost immediate. It was a renaissance with a touch of baroque thrown in for good measure. Now the club's culture and infrastructure had been given a thorough cleaning. United would win umpteen Premier League titles, the FA and League Cup on several occasions and the Champions League twice. Oh and we mustn't forget the Treble. Sir Alex would be most incensed at such a glaring oversight. 

But now United face another period of head scratching, deep introspection and worrying morbidity. It almost feels as though the club have run out of plausible options and are afraid to experiment again. Zidane sounds as though it could be the right appointment but the occasionally hot headed Frenchman could find himself imitating his fellow Frenchman and United legend Eric Cantona. Cantona wasn't normally partial to martial arts but the kung fu high kick on a Crystal Palace supporter wasn't a good look.

Today United were considering the possibility of bringing Mauricio Pochettino out of cold storage. The former Spurs and Southampton boss does look tailor made for the United managerial vacancy. After all Pochettino did take Spurs to a Champions League Final which they promptly lost to Liverpool. But Pochettino must be longing to find another Premier League club. Of course he is fiercely ambitious but United want success now rather than later on which, given the predicament they find themselves in, does sound distinctly unreasonable. 

And so the managerial merry go round takes another rotation. Managing a football club of any standing does require a health warning. In the old days managers such as Bill Nicholson, Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Brian Clough were all given a settling in period. Then all four proceeded to build attractive, well designed teams and within a short period of time, eventually took their clubs in the right direction.

But Manchester United will always be Manchester United and Premier League titles must seem like an old silent, black and white film where the leading characters always seem to end up on the losing side. The next week at Old Trafford is bound to be eventful and United must be hoping that in some corner of the country Sir Alex Ferguson will have one or two ingenious suggestions up his sleeve. Watch this space.     

David Lacey - chief football writer of the Guardian dies at 83.

 David Lacey- chief football writer dies at 83.

David Lacey, who died yesterday at the age of 83, was one of the foremost authorities on British football. He covered an era when football boots had proper studs, the ball was a hard, medicine type that some of us can still feel today and football supporters would huddle together on the terraces in their 60,000 and 70,000 throngs. He came from a time when Charlton Athletic's old Valley ground once held the best part of 70,000 and fathers passed their sons over the shoulders of fans below them. Lacey though was the most stylish of writers, a man with a sardonic sense of humour and a natural gift for the opening paragraph.

In an age when sports writers were almost revered for who they were rather than the purple prose they were so capable of turning out, Lacey was renowned for the sharp turn of phrase, the breathless analogy, the witty metaphor and a liberal sprinkling of quotes from the history books. The truth is that although a hard working, jobbing journalist for the Guardian newspaper, Lacey was never afraid to express his own set of forthright views about a manager who'd wound him up or a player who looked as though they'd just got out of bed. 

For Lacey the greatest footballer he'd ever seen was the incomparable Pele and for that he was absolutely right. He could have chosen the liquid artistry of a Johan Cruyff or Johan Neeskens. He may have opted for the now sadly missed Maradona but Lacey knew instinctive genius when he saw it and wasn't about to change his mind. Pele, according to Lacey, was the personification of footballing brilliance, a sculptor of goals rather than a workmanlike player who downed his tools at 5.00 on a Saturday afternoon and went for a pint with his colleagues. 

After completing National Service, Lacey, a loyal Brighton fan, came to London in search of work. He had plied his trade on the local newspapers of Sussex and then discovered that the Guardian were looking for a replacement for Albert Barham who had so successfully written for the paper. Then Lacey met the glorious Frank Keating, a word wizard, a man with very much the poetic licence to write as descriptively as he wished. There were no barriers here and Keating wrote like a dream. Lacey, in complete contrast, just wanted to write about football and did so with much distinction, wit and flair. 

The Monday match reports in the Guardian were Lacey's natural domain. His opening paragraphs were deceptively simple and yet immensely clever. They were neat, compact and very much to the point. Sometimes fairly long but all the same very detailed and often amusing, Lacey would string his words together like pearls. Then towards the end of one of his memorable commentaries he would spice up the piece with wonderful references to John Wayne or James Stewart, Harold Pinter or General Custer. 

Lacey loved the old time Hollywood stars, historical battles, the people who made him laugh both in book and film form. There was a humorous, conversational slant in all of his post match analyses. The one example that comes to mind is Lacey's reference to Everton's Henry Newton after Everton had played Arsenal at Highbury from many decades back. Lacey described Newton's performance as Newton's theory of relativity. It was apt, succinct and accurately summed up the Lacey mindset. 

But it was in the 1970 World Cup in Mexico where Lacey truly came into his own. He'd always admired the Brazilians as most of us had at the time. When Lacey set eyes on Pele he couldn't take them away from him. Here was a player who had everything; world class skills, a natural aptitude for making the impossible look so easy and the kind of delicious ball control that had most of us besotted and infatuated. 

According to Lacey Pele's football reminded him of the great Australian batsman Sir Donald Bradman. Pele could destroy the opposition with a flick of the foot, a mesmeric drop of the shoulder that would take out at least three defenders, an outrageous repertoire of shots from the half way line and dummies that left most defenders tied in knots. Here was a constantly creative brain that was always functioning minutes ahead of everybody else. Lacey knew this and conveyed that joy it brought to him before his attentive readers.

Lacey covered umpteen FA Cup Finals, League Cup Finals, European Championship and World Cups for the Guardian and never strayed from the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. There was an honesty and sincerity about him which accompanied all of those clear thinking and intelligently written articles.

David Lacey retired in 2002 but he leaves a valuable volume of work which goes right back to that fabled day in 1966 when England won the World Cup and Britain danced in Trafalgar Square fountains. Lacey was in the press box that unforgettable day and although just a spellbound observer that late July afternoon, knew that Geoff Hurst had won the Alamo, Bobby Moore was a Roman emperor and Alan Ball was that happy go lucky kid in the playground who always wanted to play up front in the school team. Of course Ball was the mature and adolescent player who just wanted to play until it was dark and his parents were still calling him in for dinner. Lacey may have mistaken him for Just William or maybe not.   

Ronnie Scott's

 Ronnie Scott's

When Ronnie Scott was wandering around the West End streets of  London back in 1959 he must have thought his world was about to change dramatically. He may well have stopped for a minute, paused for breath and gazed at the huge potentialities around him. Scott was already establishing himself as one of the most accomplished jazz musicians Britain had produced up until that point. The hugely respected jazz community would come to hold Scott in the highest esteem throughout the early 1960s, late 1960s, the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s and up to the moment he sadly passed away a couple of years ago. 

But back in the late 1950s when Soho was already jumping, jiving, rocking and rolling to the vibrantly productive years that would provide a fertile breeding ground for the likes of both Scott and his contemporaries, Scott would launch one of the most richly relaxing, laid back jazz clubs that London would ever know and see. It would also give a rock solid platform for the legendary greats of Miles Davis, Dizzy Gillespie, Oscar Peterson, John Coltrane, Johnny Dankworth, Cleo Laine and the late Tubby Hayes, who on Sunday the Simon Spillett quartet paid tribute to with some of the sweetest jazz in London town. 

My wife, daughter and yours truly were enormously privileged to be a part of and witness to the stunningly  evocative sounds of the late, great Hayes. Some of us had never heard of Tubby Hayes but by the end of a polished two hour set which began at lunchtime we were all hooked. We were tapping our fingers on the table in front of us and nodding our heads deferentially to a master blaster of the saxophone. It was late night music, early evening twilight music, the kind of music you normally listen to when the kids are in bed, everything is quiet, the moments are deeply reflective and the coffee pot is on.

In America jazz has been the dominant sound for as long as anybody can remember. There were the blown cheeks of Louis Armstrong and the aforementioned Dizzy Gillespie, trumpeters and trombonists of the highest calibre. Gillespie had been one of the greatest of all jazz musicians and when Stevie Wonder asked him to play the trumpet on one of his albums, the world of jazz reached Olympian heights of excellence. But we were there on Sunday to acknowledge this sultry, soulful saxophonist. Hayes was, as Simon Spillett pointed out in his introductions, a larger than life, extrovert and colourful figure with a wicked sense of humour and just a hint of irreverence thrown in for good measure. 

Most of the songs performed on Sunday were completely unknown to any of us but we were given a detailed and amusing account of Hayes career. Hayes had been recording albums at a fair lick during the 1960s without being prolific as such. Of course he travelled to New York, Tennessee, the jazz capital with its overtones of Dixieland and all points of the global compass. There were the periods of eccentricity when he revelled in playful compositions and titles of songs that were both bawdy and raunchy. 

But some of us were of course delighted to be back in the world of live music and so was Simon Spillett and his quartet. Ronnie Scott's was jam packed with the connoisseurs and aficionados. huge rows of seats and tables and an photographic gallery of the great and good. You couldn't help but notice the great Ella Fitzgerald and all of the other jazz singers and stylists who had passed through the hallowed doors of Ronnie Scott's.

Finally Ronnie Scott's came out of Covid 19 hibernation in July and yesterday it felt good to be back again among the people who have always loved and hung on every note, quaver, crotchet, reedy blast on the sax. It has to be said that the Simon Spillett quarter were magnificent and lived up to all your expectations. This was jazz at its most languidly elegant, a soothing antidote to all of the troubles that may have been left behind during the coronavirus. It was jazz that had smoothness, a vintage sophistication, and contrasting moods that left you feeling as though Sunday lunchtimes would always be that appropriate moment to just chill out and become absorbed in the beauty of the piano and the saxophone. 

On drums was the brilliant Pete Cater, a spectacular exponent of his craft, all fast and frenetic stick work that was a pleasure to watch. And then there was the breathtaking Rob Barron, a pianist whose fingers glided nonchalantly and balletically across the keyboard as if he'd been doing it for all of his life.  On the double bass the son of the great and late |Jonny Dankworth Alec was plucking his double bass for all its worth. There was a moment when you felt Dankworth was totally immersed in the moment, face wreathed in intense concentration. 

So we finished off our drinks, looking back all the while at those old fashioned orange glowing lamps on the tables, the people tucking into their Sunday roasts, the contemplative ones who were probably thinking back to the golden age of jazz if such a period ever existed. The truth is of course that jazz will never die, a musical genre that will always be celebrated grandly wherever pianos, saxophones and double basses are played. Wherever you are Ronnie Scott we salute you sir. Frith Street, the home of Ronnie Scott's, Greek and Dean Street can still hear you.  

England thrash Albania in World Cup qualifier- almost there.

 England thrash Albania in World Cup qualifier- almost there

Within hours of losing its most important England player from yesteryear, England walked purposefully onto the Wembley pitch. We are now heading for the home straight and England's journey is still a straightforward one with no traffic jams, no complications, no tailbacks and little in the way of any anxiety. World Cup qualifiers are normally stress free, too simple for words and almost as logical as basic mathematics. England love World Cup qualifiers since the teams they are normally confronted with have brittle, delicate chins and are easy targets for a lethal, knock out punch.  

Last night England just overwhelmed an Albanian side who may have privately harboured hopes of some kind of a football miracle when suddenly they discovered that it was just a mirage, a desert without water and left Wembley gasping for air and dizzy with vertigo. Half way through last night England's demolition of Albania the match had ceased to become a contest and more of a five-a side training exercise. England have been going through the motions in most of their World Cup assignments and the sense of anti climax was almost laughable. 

Before last night's match, tributes were paid to the legendary defender Ron Flowers who had died at the age of 87. Flowers had admirably served the cause for his club for Wolves. He had also been an integral part of Sir Alf Ramsey's England squad in 1966. He may have been a fringe member of Sir Alf's class but was nonetheless highly regarded by the rest of the victorious World Cup winning side. 

It is hard to know what Flowers would have thought of his modern day successors John Stones and Harry Maguire but last night's display against a bunch of no hopers and punch drunk nonentities was not the criteria by which any international team should be measured. Stones and Maguire were rather like those mums and dads standing on wintry touchlines shouting encouragement at their young children. This was not so much a football match as a painful exposure of bleeding wounds. Albania looked like rabbits caught in the headlights, shocked, stunned, downtrodden, bewildered and wishing they hadn't bothered.

After some brief struggles against Hungary and Poland in recent matches, England looked completely untroubled, unflustered and ready to hit the ground running. By half time Albania were flat on their backs, lying on the canvas and out for the count. England were five goals to the good, coasting, cruising and any sea going analogy you care to mention. This must have been the worst kind of hellish purgatory any team could have endured but this was an England performance to warm the heart and uplift the soul. 

The demoralising Euro 2020 Final defeat by Italy may still be subconsciously on the minds but you would never have known it. England are inching inexorably closer to the Qatar World Cup Finals at roughly this time next year and it felt good. England though, under Gareth Southgate, bear the template of their manager; shrewd, measured, restrained and controlled. England are a side of art deco patterns and thrilling passing movements who wove their way in and out of the Albanian defence. England are no longer those heavy footed, labour intensive footballers who treat the ball as if it was a hot potato. 

On Monday they face yet another set of bowling skittles in the shape of San Marino. Of course England are haunted by Stuart Pearce's rush of blood in a match where San Marino scored after seven seconds. But the San Marino of today are an altogether different proposition. By all accounts they are there to be smashed to smithereens, a ragged collection of part time players who still can't figure out what to do with a ball when it's given to them. The fact is that England will qualify on Monday because a defeat is almost ludicrously unthinkable and besides how demanding can a game be against a side with no international pedigree and who rank hundreds of places below England. 

So it was that England began last night rather like commuters on a train who have to catch the last train on time and are simply in a hurry. They swept aside the challenge of Albania quite dismissively and clinically as if they just wanted to think ahead to a warm winter break in the desert. 

Once again the defensive back four of John Stones, Harry Maguire, Kyle Walker and the brilliant Reece James of Chelsea excelled themselves without ever breaking sweat. They held their lines magnificently and reminded you of deckchair attendants tidying away after a busy day at the seaside. Of course this was Albania and some of us could probably have beaten such pliant opposition with our eyes closed. It was game over before the match had properly started. 

In the midfield engine room Leeds United's busybody and industrious Kalvin Phillips roved and roamed around the central areas, supporting his back four with huge intelligence and passing of the most economical kind. Then there was the evergreen Jordan Henderson, Liverpool's calming and steadying influence, a player of mild mannered composure and equanimity, still prompting, looking for the right pass and making the game look remarkably easy even in his thirties now. Raheem Sterling, of course, has been a model of consistency, his sharp bursts of pace and close ball control  still a revelation. 

Both Sterling and Phil Foden, who are almost inseparable at Manchester City such is their dynamic effect on City, were once again at the heart of everything that was inventive for England. Foden does look like an England regular but even he must realise that he too has fierce competition for places in Gareth Southgate's firing England attack.

Then up front Harry Kane, England's lion hearted captain did what all England skippers should be under obligation to do. He led by example and scored the umpteenth England hat-trick of his career against Albania. If the new Spurs boss Antonio Conte can coax the very best out of Kane in the forthcoming months then Kane should also provide England with the kind of service we know he's capable of. Kane was here, there and everywhere, dropping deep elusively, shielding the ball at his feet and always instinctively aware of his colleagues. And yesterday evening he remembered how to score with a vengeance. 

And so for the goals. With barely 10 or 15 minutes on the clock. A Reece James free kick from way out was floated gorgeously into the Albanian penalty area and nobody had followed Harry Maguire,  the Manchester United jumping almost unchallenged to plant the ball into the net with the meatiest of headers. The goal bore an uncanny similarity to the one Maguire scored against Ukraine in the 2018 World Cup in Russia.

England were now in complete command of both the ball and the game itself. There were none of the troubles that may have dragged them down in World Cup qualifiers of old. Graham Taylor never really forgave the referee for his lack of vision and alleged myopia against Holland in Rotterdam and sadly it did cost him his job. But England were both comfortable in possession and perceptive in their range of passing. Once again at close quarters England had all the right threads and stitches to disentangle the Albanians. 

Minutes later England increased what would now become an unassailable lead. Another glorious set of passing combinations began with Kane, before James cut inside incisively and fed Jordan Henderson. Henderson ran on to the one two before calmly striding to the edge of the box. Henderson's chipped cross to the far post found Kane who leapt bravely to nod the ball home for England's second. It was easy rather like the child who devours jar after jar of sweets without feeling guilty. 

When Raheem Sterling picked up a criminally loose ball for England in the middle of the pitch, we knew that we were sensing a rout. Sterling drove forward masterfully and after the cutest of reverse passes, found that man Harry Kane. Kane, who looks as though he might have found a goal scoring gold rush, hurried away from a now rapidly disintegrating Albanian defence and slammed the ball firmly into the back of the net from an acute angle. 

And just to add the icing to the proverbial cake England scored their almost inevitable fifth. Another in swinging corner arrowed its way to the far post. The heads went up, the ball came down from a posse of heads and Harry Kane, twisting his body almost acrobatically, executed his overhead bicycle kick with the utmost precision. England were now out of sight, the match as a spectacle had been over for ages and England find themselves within touching distance of Saudi Arabia at the end of next year. 

So it was that an 80,000 England crowd shuffled away into the late night darkness happy go lucky, buoyant and confident that nothing can stand in their way. There is a sense here that Gareth Southgate, the studious and conscientious England boss, may never wear those natty waistcoats again. The beard is still tidy and trim while the suit is a menswear's dream. You look immaculate Gareth. 

 The ever fashionable Southgate is never one to miss a trick but the former Crystal Palace defender may want to take a leaf out of Sir Alf Ramsey's book. Ramsey knew England would win the World Cup years before  the event. Maybe Southgate is thinking along the same lines. Oh what England would give for a crystal ball.      

Tory rule breakers are back again.

 Tory rule breakers are back again.

Don't you just love politicians? They simply think they can get away with murder. Perhaps they believe that nobody will notice if we all blink and just ignore them. The nasty smell of corruption, duplicity, double dealing, sneaky, covert behaviour, underhand tactics, deceiving, scheming and conniving behind our backs is back on the discussion table again. How did they do it? They must have an inherent flair for trying to pull the wool over our eyes. So why are we so shocked and appalled at this deplorable greed, this insatiable lust for more and more publicity and notoriety?

Today the Right Honourable or perhaps not so Honourable Geoffrey Cox stands accused of supplementing his already well endowed fortune with £900,000 earnings and trips to the Caribbean. Now money and wealth have always gone hand in hand with the Tories. The titled grandees, the Tory backbenchers with vested interests in big multi million  pound conglomerates and the ones who just want to feather their nest, are now under the fiercest scrutiny of a  public who can only dream of aspiring to their privileged position in society. 

Now the Tories have found themselves boxed into a corner they may have difficulty in wriggling out of. The Conservative party, whatever moral high ground they adopt when they move into 10 Downing Street have once again have fallen into a trap of their own making. Sleaze, sex scandals and outrageous deception continue to be their enduring enemy whichever way they look. It may, one day, lead to their downfall since only the Tories could deny any culpability in the dodgy dealings of financial jiggery-pokery. 

So tonight in Glasgow where the leaders of the world are still wrestling with climate change issues that somehow seem beyond any kind of resolution or clarification, Boris Johnson, Britain's embattled Prime Minister really doesn't know which way to turn. In one ear are the viciously critical snipers who think that he just wants Britain to end up in a filthy, potentially poisonous gutter. Then there are the people who simply want an explanation on the subject of its grasping money grabbers, the untouchable mercenaries who love to earn a million more here and there in the hope that the public will still be their friends. 

But when Owen Patterson became the latest individual to declare that he too indeed had lined his pockets with exotic trips to the Caribbean, we knew what kind of reception he'd get. Patterson's case for the defence is that he was working as a consultant and just trying to add a couple of thousand quid to his already swollen bank account. No harm in that surely or is there? But this is surely unacceptable behaviour for there is still a vast majority of Britain who haven't been on holiday since goodness knows when. 

The truth is that the Conservative party may have left their moral compass behind them without giving a single thought for the damaging consequences. We can now back in time to the 1980s when the so called literary genius of one Jeffrey Archer once blatantly falsified his CV with information about a degree he'd allegedly gained at an American university. There were the sexual dalliances of Cecil Parkinson and the arrogant declarations of  Norman Tebbitt, a man convinced that the three million who were unemployed at the time were just bone idle, couldn't be bothered to work and were a drain on the nation. 

Then there were the unfortunate business dealings of Michael Heseltine who got his fingers terribly burnt in a helicopter company while still in Margaret Thatcher's Cabinet. Memorably the whole of Mrs Thatcher's Cabinet were delightfully caricatured by TV's Spitting Image, a British satirical masterpiece that had most of us in stitches. For the Tory loyalists this is not a good time to be seen behaving in such a cavalier and irresponsible fashion. But then again this could be hard wired into the Tories philosophy-cum manifesto. Maybe this has always been the way and we should have known things would turn out in the way they have. 

The fact is that the dubious figures who comprise the Tory mischief makers are desperately trying to keep the lowest of profiles. We have a planet to become extremely concerned about and there have to be overriding priorities. When Boris Johnson emerges from his Scottish climate change summit this week he would be well advised to remember that next Sunday is Remembrance Sunday, a time for red poppies, and that sombre reflection on the sacrifices millions of our soldiers made during both World Wars. It is time for the British government to keep their heads out of the money trough, consider the plight of both the homeless and disadvantaged while always thinking of others rather than themselves. It shouldn't be a lot to ask for.  

FA Cup first round day.

 FA Cup first round day.

For those who may be unfamiliar with  FA Cup history and its status you may like to read on. The FA Cup is one of football's most beloved, dearly cherished and fondly recalled Cup competitions. It is Cup football on a level playing ground, very little in the way of discrimination or prejudice and it does love its giant killers. 

These are the part timers and amateurs who happily ply their trade as bricklayers, fitters, plasterers, lorry drivers, postmen and milkmen, engineers, supermarket shelf stackers and people who generally go about their business, unsung, probably grossly underpaid and keeping their noses clean. They are the humble ones, the modest ones, the self deprecating ones who just want to earn a living and look after their families. 

Today marks the first round of the FA Cup and a vast array of talent from all of those lower division likely lads and non League sides will step onto the bandwagon, visualise Wembley Stadium in May and then chuckle innocently at the sheer preposterousness of their ambitions. You see the trouble with the FA Cup is that somebody has to lose at some point but when your ground is nestled charmingly between a couple of park roundabouts or an industrial estate you have to believe that anything may be possible. 

Then there are teams whose ground lies right next to an idyllic river in the countryside or a field of sheep in the Lake District. But this is not a day for worrying about the state of the farming industry or whether your team are just happy to be in the FA Cup's first round. Now they know and you know that the likes of Chelsea, Manchester City, Manchester United, Liverpool and Arsenal may not be trembling in their boots at the prospect of meeting these lovely minnows. But it's still one day and one opportunity, their chance to shine, grab the headlines and monopolise the Sunday back pages. 

When the likes of Buxton FC and Sudbury make their way onto their respective pitches their thoughts may turn to Yeovil who, as a non League team in 1948, toppled mighty First Division Sunderland and even Alec Stock, Yeovil's very grounded boss, had to rub his eyes with incredulity. Then there was Sutton, newcomers to the League Two and the League, who once played out of their skins to beat Coventry City, then a thriving top flight team. It was the FA Cup third round then but that's for January and later. 

But today is the genesis of their season, all of those little clubs who sit discreetly tucked into the folds of  the non League. Here they are just blissfully content to earn a couple more bob than they may be used to. For those whose main day job consists of repairing cars or driving trains the FA Cup represents a day off, indulging fantasies, forgetting about the outside world and just concentrating on the ultimate objective of walking out at Wembley and shaking the hands of royalty on FA Cup Final day. 

Several seasons ago you remember little Canvey Island, quite the oddest and most improbable participants at any stage of any FA Cup rounds. How they must have pinched themselves when the BBC cameras came calling. For just 90 minutes, this tiny Essex suburb made a household name of themselves. They were the most welcoming and hospitable of non League teams since although Canvey lost there was a sense here that this was the very essence of the Cup. 

Suddenly, Match of the Day cameras panned across the whole of Canvey Island and its immediate surrounds. For a while you could actually see the traffic outside on the roads, cars, buses, vans and lorries trundling towards their destination. Then you noticed the serried rows of neat, terraced houses back to back, whole neighbourhoods watching the game out of their windows. And right at the end of one road a fire engine stood patiently, oblivious to the FA Cup perhaps but nonetheless present. 

Then there were the likes of Morecambe and Accrington Stanley, who used to be non League battlers but are now League Two stalwarts. Of course Burnley, not a million miles away from both Morecambe and Accrington Stanley, could provide a backdrop of Lowry's smoking factories and humming mills but they were the ones who may have felt left out on FA Cup third round day. They used to be in the first round of the FA Cup but nobody really gave them any credit whatsoever.

But this weekend it's all about baby steps, those eternal dreamers and idealists, full of wishful thinking but determined to give it a crack. They'll be sitting in their quaint grandstands which are roughly the size of a matchbox. They'll be patting themselves vigorously because it's November and we're bound to put on the central heating when Match of the Day cameras are on them tonight. They'll be eagerly twisting off the lids of a hundred Thermos flasks and then lifting their ageless scarves. Step forward St Albans and Forest Green Rovers. This is the FA Cup in a nutshell, the most perfect contest. 

By the end of the weekend those magnificent chairmen, women and directors on the board will be pouring out their gratitude to those loyal supporters who have stuck with them through thick and thin. They'll thank the fans for clicking enthusiastically through rusting turnstiles and just being there. Their involvement in the FA Cup may just be a yellowing page in the history books but they've played in the FA Cup and that's all that counts. 

On Monday morning those same fans might be huddling by their I Phones, Tablets or the radio, hoping that among others, Exeter, Grimsby, Portsmouth, Rochdale and Plymouth Argyle will be sweeping their terraces, cleaning their seats and readying themselves for the non League challengers, those plucky troopers from outside the Football League pyramid but fired up, pumped up and galvanised at the thrilling immensity of their task. 

The FA Cup first round is more or less that point in the season when the Premier League, Championship, League Ones and Two become very self conscious. They may be more interested in the weekly chores of scrapping for League points but subconsciously they may give a fleeting thought to Thurrock, Buxton FC or even Accrington Stanley. Today is that notable stage in the season when the bourgeoisie, the monied classes and the wealthy elite stop for a while perhaps and cast their minds towards January and the beginning of the FA Cup third round. But first things first.      

Pretty Woman at London's Savoy.

 Pretty Woman at London's Savoy.

It's hard to believe that it's been 31 years since Pretty Woman last entered our consciousness. Then we were ushering in the 1990s and Margaret Thatcher must have felt like the most reviled woman in Britain. As Prime Minister she'd polarised, alienated and then rallied the country together when the Falklands war was at its most belligerent. Then she presented Britain with the poll tax, quite clearly the worst decision she could ever have made as Prime Minister. Shop windows were unceremoniously smashed and there were the kind of street riots that had rarely been seen at that point in the UK. In the end though it all blew over. 

But from nowhere the cinema provided us with a refuge, a lovely haven of escapism from the ferocious battles in the towns and cities of Britain. It was a film that took us away from the worries and woes of the world, a saucy, sassy, cheeky and sometimes outrageous film which perfectly captured the soul and topical zeitgeist of the new decade. It showed an America at its wealthiest and funniest. It reflected an America that was proud of its materialism, its soaring skyscrapers and  the investment firms that were making dollars by the million. 

The name of the film was Pretty Woman, starring Julia Roberts and Richard Gere. Gere was the smooth talking, suave, debonair, fiercely ambitious businessman with fingers in different pies such as shipping companies that were making substantial profits by the hour, week, minute and month. Gere played Edward Lewis, an immaculately suited and booted go getter, wheeler and dealer, entrepreneurial to his fingertips, a chancer and opportunist, a sealer of deals in five minutes flat and dynamic into the bargain. 

Pretty Woman is though now a spectacular West End musical playing at the Savoy Theatre in London's West End. If there's any justice it'll sell out for the next 10 years and already the reviews are rave ones guaranteed to put a smile on directors and producers faces for the first time in ages. Pretty Woman, it has to be said, was pretty cool and sensational, living up to the metaphors and adjectives that you probably see on London's Underground Tube train service. 

But personally it felt such a wondrous relief to be among the packed hordes of people thronging the West End for the first time in ages. In fact you could finally feel the pulse of London, the heartbeat of the capital city powerfully throbbing away and this was exactly what the West End needed after 18 months of pain, monumental death tolls, suffering on a quite unprecedented scale and Covid 19 oppression. 

Admittedly, the pavements weren't exactly alive with the pounding of thousands of feet but we'll get there of that there can be no doubt. The cafes and restaurants were doing a lively lunchtime trade, the half price ticket theatre booths were probably doing brisk business and that big cinema in Leicester Square, which you can remember so fondly from your youth, still looks in good nick.

But then we settled down in the Savoy Theatre in our plush seats and my wife turned around and smiled at both me and the rest of the audience. We embraced the magical aura of a West End musical and it was my lovely wife's birthday so we had to paint the town red. Pretty Woman exceeded our expectations because everything about it was recognisable and identifiable. The singing was terrific, the dancing exceptional and the characters on stage were just having a ball. It could hardly fail.

So the story is that Aimie Atkinson as Vivian Ward, Julia Roberts in the film, is the hooker, sexy, brazen, feisty, unapologetic, ruthless, wild, feral and independent. Vivian Ward, as you may well know by now, is a hooker, a prostitute, proud of her rampant femininity. Aimie Atkinson plays the role to perfection, crawling across towards Edward Lewis and wrapping her legs around him with lustful and licentious intent. Vivian, initially at least, is looking for only financial gain but then finds herself embroiled in conflicting emotions. Does she fall in love with Lewis or just leave her man?

We see the gradual unfolding of a passionate relationship that seems to get lost in the translation. Vivian is just a hooker who wants to pay her rent and surround herself in glamorous clothes. Vivian wants enough money to buy diamonds and then hunt down a man who will love her for who she wants to be. Vivian wants to settle down as a wife and bring up children without ever resorting to short skirts and high heels ever again. 

Aimie Atkinson is just an all smiling, all dancing, loose talking, free spirited girl who just wants to be loved and there can be nothing wrong with that. Edward Lewis, who became deeply and emotionally involved, simply wants to turn Vivian Ward into a lady of taste and breeding, a woman who can mix freely within high society, say the right things, eat from crockery and cutlery in the right way, remaining perfectly sweet and tactful without ever swearing because that'll never do. But she did and all hell breaks loose. 

Lewis, bathing in the role of man about town with bulging wallets of dollars in his pockets, promptly introduces Vivian into the world of high society but then gets his fingers burnt. The big party invitations are readily accepted by Ward but then she breaks every rule in the etiquette book. She sneers at convention, embarrasses Lewis and then thinks she may have got away with it. 

The story itself eventually turns into a full blooded musical, songs flooding the Savoy like an old Victorian nickelodeon. The choreography of course is just stunning and there was just an old fashioned elegance about the production that most of us have missed terribly. This was a story about man and woman relationships, their dynamics, lots of slushy romance and then dollops of fun. Pretty Woman is funny, cute, very humane, warm and what happens when money gets in the way of what begins as a sleazy alliance between man and woman but then flourishes into something that could work. 

So put on your West End musical clothes, get down to the box office at the Savoy Theatre and just enjoy the capital city. It's missed all of us and we've missed it. Pretty Woman is a big, bolshy, carefree, wanton and spellbinding musical. It doesn't care and nor do we. You could always make an evening of it since Christmas and Chanukah are just around the corner and Leicester Square is ready and waiting. Go for it.

The Premier League managerial sacking game is up and running.

 The Premier League managerial sacking game is up and running. 

So here we go again. We're at the beginning of November and fireworks night has come far too early. In fact to be precise three days early. The rockets are screaming into the air, the sparklers are fizzing with some effervescence and the Catherine Wheels have burst into the night sky with the most deafening crescendo. At Tottenham Hotspur the air is thick with cordite, dynamite and the kind of incendiary material that could explode in their collective faces if they're not careful. 

Today Spurs appointed yet another manager after the Portuguese Nuno Esperito Santo sheepishly sneaked out of the back door at Tottenham, the victim of that now customary sacking ordeal that has now become an almost frequent occurrence. The wealthy owners of football clubs have decided that enough is enough. Admittedly it wasn't as if we couldn't see it coming since poor Nuno didn't stand a chance or did he? Spurs are now in the middle of the most depressing sequence of defeats in recent games and the season isn't that old. 

On Saturday Spurs were beaten by a Manchester United side who, the week before, had been on the wrong end of a 5-1 thrashing by Liverpool at Old Trafford. But then Manchester United remembered the gravity of their own predicament and carried out the most traumatic execution since the last time Spurs lost their manager. These are deeply troubling times for everybody within the Spurs hierarchy but today Spurs replaced Santo with the former Chelsea manager Antonio Conte. 

The whole business of hiring and firing Premier League managers reminds you of the baggage carousel at an airport where huge suitcases slowly lumber around in circles and then go through the same rotation until somebody grabs hold of their bag or holdall and finds that it's almost midnight. From the outside it simply looks as though some managers are doing a whistle stop tour of Europe because Jose Mourinho almost ripped out the proud fabric and heritage of Spurs in no time at all. For Portugal read Italy. It's quite the most scenic route if you happen to be a football manager. 

Antonio Conte, Spurs new manager, has been this way before and has certainly got the handbook. At Chelsea things seemed to be ticking over quite nicely and efficiently until things went wrong. Chelsea started losing important matches and Roman Abramovich, their ridiculously rich Russian oligarch, almost notorious for his impatience, rolled the dice again, weighed up the permutations, saw that Conte was struggling and pulled the trigger. Conte had to go and there were no excuses or apologies. It's that way Antonio and there's your P45. 

Your mind travelled back to the beginning of the 21st century when a Swiss gentleman by the name of Christian Gross was shown with a Central Line Tube railway ticket on his way to Tottenham's old training ground in Chigwell, Essex. Gross, sadly, was about as useless as a chocolate tea pot  and the sense of squirming embarrassment was palpable. Sometimes being a football manager at any level can be as precarious as walking a tightrope in the circus or gambling thousands on the roulette wheel. 

Then there was Andre Villas Boas, another highly acclaimed boss at French Ligue 1 club Marseille who was lured to Tottenham because his reputation had been established and he looked the right fit. But Boas seemed to go nowhere, a man entrusted with leading Spurs out of the doldrums and then discovered that somebody had given him a bomb. Spurs last major trophy was a League Cup Final victory against Chelsea in 2008 and Boas was just another experiment that just shattered a test tube. 

At times the older Spurs supporters indulge in wistful recollections of the legendary Bill Nicholson. Bill Nick was Tottenham through and through and he was the one man who guided Spurs to the Double of FA Cup and old First Division League Championship in 1961. 60 years have now passed since those days of Olympian achievement at the old White Hart Lane and the natives are restless.

 Nicholson was a revolutionary, a new broom, inventive, always thinking ahead, progressive, an almost academic student of the Beautiful Game, moving counters around a board that represented his players positions, a tactical and technical genius. He was  a manager of brand new ideas, rich innovation, clever judgements and an avuncular figure who cared for his players and just wanted them to be the best. He even had a road named after him and famously lived next to the ground so devoted was he to the club. 

What on earth would Bill Nicholson have made of Spurs latest pickle. He'd have probably covered his eyes in shame and horror and wondered if the club had just lost its way. When Keith Burkenshaw took over Spurs in the late 1970s everything seemed to hang in the balance. But then in one incredible summer, Burkenshaw went out to Argentina and invested in two glistening gems. One was called Osvaldo Ardilles or Ossie and the other was Ricardo Villa or Ricky. Both Ardilles and Villa injected Spurs with a new lease of life and overnight Spurs became a formidable force, feared throughout the land. 

Tottenham will always have a soft spot for their celebrated young graduates such as Glen Hoddle, Steve Perryman, Terry Gibson and countless others who have squeezed through the revolving door at Spurs. Hoddle's talent was so sublime and natural that by the time he left the club, he was already an England player of some distinction and deservedly so. Perryman, for his part, came straight to the club from school and glided around at the back of Spurs defence like an emperor surveying his empire. 

Now though Spurs are quite literally back at the same drawing board. They came flying out of the blocks at the start of the season with a landmark 1-0 victory at home to Premier League champions Manchester City. They'd also tied down their own prized asset Harry Kane for another season and everything seemed to be going well. Spurs though imploded and unravelled like a threadbare piece of cotton. It was not a pleasant watch.

But more recently both West Ham and Arsenal beat Spurs and the last straw was what looked to be a humiliating and degrading 3-0 defeat at home to a struggling Manchester United side who are also juggling with too many plates. Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, the striker who scored one of the winning goals that won the Champions League Final for United against Bayern Munich in 1999.

And yet football managers are still easily dispensable characters who seem to be only one game away from the bullet, the sack and ta ta for now. When Arsenal lost their first three games of the season to Brentford, Chelsea and Manchester City, most of us assumed that their likeable manager Mikel Arteta was about to be shown the exit door at Arsenal. But the club have sensibly persevered, not panicked and just retained their faith in a man who was, after all assistant, to Pep Guardiola at Manchester City. Such credentials could not be questioned. 

Then there was West Ham manager David Moyes, who was initially appointed as a firefighter at the club to stave off near certain relegation. But Moyes didn't seem a reputable enough name for a demanding club who were looking for a much higher profile man in charge. West Ham turned to the man who'd won the Premier League with Manchester City Manuel Pellegrini. Horribly, after a promising start Pellegrini plunged into the darkest hole with the East London club and by Christmas 2018, Pelligrini was about to face the firing squad and then promptly sacked. It was untenable and had to be done. 

From the depths of yet greater mediocrity and mid table buoyancy, Moyes got hold of West Ham, shook them to their senses and last season enjoyed taking West Ham to the rarefied heights of sixth in the Premier League and a place in the Europa League. The critics who wrote off West Ham dismissively as a side with little ambition, would now eat their words. No longer were they just treading water but a side to be reckoned with, a free flowing, quick passing, quick breaking attacking side released from fear and inhibition. 

Meanwhile Antonio Conte is back in London with Tottenham. Still, Conte wears those mournful dark suits and trousers, still animated and excitable at times on the touchline. Conte is still at war with referees, the length of the grass on the pitch and generally grumpy, irascible and fed up. It's hard to tell whether he's mellowed or not and if Spurs do respond to his angry gestures then we could be in for some fun. We'll look forward to those wild exhortations in the technical area and try to imagine how he'll react if Tottenham do win a trophy one day. Who on earth would be a football manager? It's a good question. Answers on a postcard please.