Pele passes away.

 Pele passes away.

We woke up this morning and found he was no longer here. For 82 years he had established himself as one of the greatest, most pre-eminent footballers of all time. There could never be any exaggeration whatsoever because he was arguably the finest, purest and most exemplary of sporting ambassadors. He achieved so much within the game itself that if somebody had told him as a child that he would be the most masterful across so may decades then he'd have probably laughed at you and with every justification.

Yesterday Pele died at the age of 82 and the world of football deeply mourned a heaven sent talent, a player of prodigious gifts and a man who never stopped delivering magical moments at both club and international level. And of course there was Santos, where loyalty and fidelity of the most extraordinary kind would become his leitmotif. There was Brazil, inevitably and at the age of 17, as has been deservedly well documented, he won the World Cup for his country in an embarrassingly one sided Final in Sweden 73 years ago.

But amid the fulsome tributes and glorious homages, Pele was much more than the exceptional player. He became the benevolent humanitarian, a wholesome, charitable man, undoubtedly generous, always prepared to encourage, coax and cajole youngsters who felt that fame, fortune and celebrity were somehow beyond them. Pele though was the complete striker, a man of huge sporting accomplishments, a model of versatility, elegance and courtliness, a charmer, a hugely respected orator and commentator on the game.

From his very first game for his only club Santos, we could tell that he was head and shoulders above his contemporaries. Pele was always progressive, forward thinking, years ahead of the rest in his radical thinking on the game, a player always prepared to experiment with bold, new ideas, pushing back the frontiers, innovative, somebody who treated a football as if it was his dearest friend. Football was never a vanity project for Pele because the man was above conceitedness rather that he was genuine and well grounded.

By the time of the 1970 World Cup Finals, Pele had already won two World Cup Finals, a world champion in excelsis. In 1958 Pele, alongside a golden generation of Brazilians such as Garrincha, Va Va and Di Di, beautifully trapped the ball on his chest for one of the goals in the comprehensive 5-2 victory over Sweden. Then in Chile,1962, Brazil's prodigal son did it again when the South American sorcerers swept aside Czechoslavakia dismissively and disdainfully in the World Cup Final.

And yet it would be Pele's third World Cup triumph that would elevate him to the rarefied heights of footballing excellence, the finished article, the master craftsman, a celebrated nobleman, a player of male intuition, painter of pictures, immense foresight and remarkable footballing intelligence. In the sweltering heat of Mexico in 1970, Pele, a strikingly proportioned athlete with muscular shoulders and thighs, executed perhaps one of the cheekiest and most audacious of goal scoring attempts ever witnessed on the global football stage.

Half way through a match against Uruguay, with the match boiling to a fascinating climax, Pele, picking up possession of the ball, ran joyously at the Uruguay before entering the penalty area. Spotting on an onrushing goalkeeper, he daringly dummied the keeper, rounded his man and only narrowly missed the target. But this was an amazing exhibition of sheer footballing genius. Pele had already pre-empted the thought processes of his opponent and had, in a matter of seconds, blissfully anticipated where the Uruguay goal stopper would be going. A lingering image of a helpless keeper stretching out at thin air, would fondly linger in the mind. 

In the 1970 World Cup, the ambitions of a brilliant mind would come to fruition. Brazil toyed, taunted, teased, flirted, nagged and then completely fooled a rapidly retreating Italian side in a World Cup Final that remains the most emotional and profound World Cup Final of all time. Pele had for exalted company Gerson, Tostao, Rivelino, Jairzinho, Carlos Alberto so the half job had already been completed. Brazil just held onto the ball for almost the entirety of the match with proprietorial rights on possession. A monopoly on the game turned into world domination.

Memorably though one of the Brazilian goals is still highly regarded as one of the most exquisite team goals ever produced. Even in retrospect, the goal itself, in isolation, was the most outstanding collective efforts you'd ever  witnessed. As a child, you were awe struck and mesmerised by its technical ingenuity, a goal so fabulous in its simplicity that even now you look back at it with considerable fondness.

Receiving the ball on the half way line a possee of yellow and green shirts, stole the ball back from the Italians and then slowly caressed the ball as if it were theirs for keeps, a permanent souvenir of the game itself. A lovely sequence of short passes were exchanged before the ball reached the flank from where a gorgeously weighted ball was directed down the touchline. A sudden burst of lightning acceleration down the line ended up with the ball being passed across the edge of the Italy penalty area before Pele himself stunned the ball before gently feeding it across to Carlos Alberto. It must have looked like arrogance but Pele knew exactly what he was doing. Alberto thrashed the ball into the corner of the net. Game over. 4-1 to Brazil and a hat-trick of Jules Rimet World Cups for Pele.

In the twilight of his career Pele, lured by the prospect of a financially lucrative pay day, succumbed to temptation. New York Cosmos, now dedicated to wholesome promotion and marketing of the game in America, were building something pretty special. The USA of course were responsible for one of the most sensational World Cup victories in 1950 when Walter Winterbottom 's England were humiliatingly beaten by the United States of America 1-0.

Now the 1970s had brought the pioneering spirit out of the Americans. Suddenly and almost overnight the birth of an American soccer League gave us the Tampa Bay Rowdies and the the Cosmos. With the esteemed likes of George Best, Franz Beckenbauer, Rodney Marsh in situ, Pele jumped onto the bandwagon himself and revolutionised the game in the States where others had failed miserably.

By the time retirement had beckoned and age finally withered him Pele began to revel in veteran status. He had already scored well over 1,200 goals for both club and country and the keys to the Hall of Fame had been delightedly handed over to him. Football was now a distant spot on his horizon. The 1980s and 90s were decades of winding down, relaxing, and bathing in the reflected light of an honourable and vastly rewarding career at the very pinnacle of the game.

Pele had now become a benevolent humanitarian, an altruistic soul, giving back to a game that had so richly decoratedm his career with so many trophies and silverware. He raised immense amounts of money for those who were poor, disadvantaged, hungry and then cruelly marginalised by society. He travelled the world bringing cheer and comfort to those who were suffering and communicated a natural love for football that had been nurtured in himself so lovingly and unstintingly for most of his life.

In the last couple of days the nostalgic footballing community have been doing some serious overtime on Pele. You can still remember the now fuzzy TV images flickering across your consciousness, the balloons floating into the Mexican air, the thousands and millions of football fans across the globe, observing with breathless and fascinated eyes. There were the analytical and studious minds who just wanted the Brazilians to dominate the global game because none could possibly match their style of football.

And finally there was that iconic image of England and West Ham skipper Bobby Moore, all blond hair of ice cool composure, facing Pele after the Brazilians had just beaten England in baking Mexican heat. The two met up with each other, broad smiles wreathing each other's faces, acknowledging their personal contribution.  and accepting that this moment would be framed forever in footballing history.

With both of their shirts now taken off, both men grinned with pleasure at each other and respectfully swapped yellow and green and white vice versa. Moore just stood there awe stricken and deferential, worshipping the ground his Brazilian counterpart had walked. Pele, for his part, was still rationalising the miraculously acrobatic save that England goal-keeper Gordon Banks that had prevented Brazil from taking the lead much earlier on in the game.

So it is that we bid a fond farewell to the legendary Pele. He was the Brazilian striker we could never dream of aspiring to be. We will always remember the silky ball control, the exceptional passing range, the permanently creative projects racing through a mind that never stopped believing and hoping would reach even giddier heights of achievement. But above all we will never forget the most spectacular footballer ever to grace a football pitch. Pele. Football will always owe you a debt of enormous gratitude. It was always richer for your presence. Goodbye Edson Arantes Do Nascimento. It was a privilege indeed.

Boxing Day- nowhere to go.

 Boxing Day- nowhere to go.

It's early afternoon here in North London and, generally speaking, there's little in the way of any activity or movement on the streets and roads. For reasons that baffle some there were small rivers of traffic flowing past the local traffic lights and for some of us, this made little sense. Christmas Day on the roads of Great Britain were traditionally deserted and only the birds that perch on rooftops before flying off in orderly formation, were stirring. Yesterday was no different.

On Boxing Day the West End of London normally bursts into a paradise of capitalism, a richly uplifting sight of hustling and bustling folk on both Oxford and Regent Street. Today marks the beginning of the sales season, as is normally the case. It is hard to gauge either the prosperity or poverty among the good people of the world. We are now told that Britain is well and truly skint and destitute, not a penny to its name and the struggle to pay off those essential bills has never been more painful. In fact, if you were to believe some, we have to yet to encounter darkness, power cuts, fuel and electricity at its most premium.

The truth of the matter is that, to quote, a former Prime Minister, we've never had it so good. The big, influential department shops are heaving with affluent, middle class families who have at least four Jaguars in their gravelled drive ways, at least 17 bathrooms with gold taps, 14 dining rooms with the finest bone china, crockery and cutlery, mahogany cabinets in every room in the house and a butler for every meal. But this is surely nonsense although such close knit communities probably do exist.

It has been a year tinged horribly with sadness and sorrow. In early September Britain lost its most deeply loved and revered monarch when Her Majesty the Queen died, a nation falling into sombre reflection and mourning for the best part of a fortnight. At that moment the tourist industry in Britain went into a deep state of shock. What on earth would they do with all those mugs, tea towels, plates, bowls, postcards and every conceivable ornament with Her Majesty's face adorning these much cherished ornaments?

And yet we are still here, fighting fit, optimistic that the future has to be filled with brightness and better days since they could hardly get any worse. We're alive and that's a blessing. It's a privilege to be here and nobody could deny that we should be grateful for everything that we have. That now lengthy period since Covid 19 restrictions fell by the wayside permanently, seems like an age ago. Of course normal service has been restored and how good that feels. But the sense of recovery and revival of spirits may have had caveats and cautionary warnings at the back of our minds.

Every so often we're reminded of the precautions we should take if we find ourselves cramped together in tight, claustrophobic groups. The trains and buses are more or less free of masks both fashionable and unfashionable but the underlying nerves, paranoias, anxieties are still bubbling away under the surface. Hospitals have every right to be careful, vigilant and responsible but there is a sense now that we can still go about our every day business without being followed by park ranger vans telling us to finish our walk and go home as quickly as possible. The ghost of George Orwell seemed to reside in all of us.

But come on everybody today is Boxing Day and that could only mean one thing. Yes folks, it's Boxing Day and its pantomime season. Oh yes it is. Oh no it isn't. It's time for Dick Whittington, Jack and the Beanstalk, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs or Aladdin. Now it's been many a decade ago since my wife and yours truly took our little darlings to their first pantomime at the Hackney Empire but the magic, mystique, tradition, the harmless innuendos, the hilarious behind you comments still echo powerfully around the many theatres dotted around the country.

The whole concept of pantomime used to be as relevant as Victorian garden parties and cabriolets taking their passengers to the latest edition of the good, old fashioned pantomime. But here we are at the end of 2022 and the things we used to take for granted are no longer regarded as such. The cynics will insist that the trains that used to run on time on Christmas Day are just faded, sepia tinted memories. And whatever happened to the gallons of snow that would fall elatedly to the ground on Christmas Day. Why do our kids still complain about their presents and why is Christmas Day on TV simply an empty wasteland of dull mediocrity?

For some of us Christmas Day used to be synonymous with the geniuses who were the Two Ronnies and Morecambe and Wise preceded wonderfully by Bruce Forsyth's Generation Game. Sadly, the days of music hall that were once a breeding ground for these fabulous entertainers have now vanished into thin air. True, the BBC did give us a Strictly Come Dancing Christmas special but even that must have felt like the curling leftovers of the family turkey to some. But then again nostalgia ain't what it used to be.

You can be sure though that extended families with their usual mix of uncles, aunties, cousins, nieces and old pals from way back when, are still predominant figures in our lives. Admittedly you never see their likes from one year to the next but come Christmas back they come again. They still snore contentedly on their sofas while all around them disorganised chaos reigns. The kids will keep scurrying around in states of constant excitement and whole rooms will resemble battlegrounds of sleep, exhaustion, inertia, yawning and general bloatedness. Why on earth did we eat and drink so much when quite clearly we'll all be told to wake up, do the washing in  the kitchen and tidy up.

But Boxing Day is upon us yet again and somehow it still feels like New Years Day 2022. You can still hear the bagpipes in our hotel in the glorious surrounds of Dumfries and Scotland. Oh yes and they were allowed to dance on the dancing floor on New Year's Eve. Even the last days of Covid couldn't stop the enthusiastic guests from putting their best foot forward. Come on everybody it is Christmas or to be precise Boxing Day. It happens at the end of every year. We could hardly resist a jolly old party. Mine's an orange juice. 

 

Days away from Christmas

 Days away from Christmas

In days and years gone past Christmas used to be the gleaming highlight of the year, the perfect conclusion to a year of hard industry, businesslike commitment to the cause, toil and drudgery suitably rewarded by the perfect family feast, a time of much merriment and mirth, fun and frivolity, children's smiles, much excitement, the tree in the far corner of the living room and all of those familiar accoutrements that make Christmas so special.

For those of a literary nature Charles Dickens invented Christmas. He did you know. It's probably an urban myth though since there can be no conclusive proof that Dickens had anything to do with Jesus Christ, Joseph or Mary and the only evidence we can find is Dickens Christmas Carol which may be just incidental anyway. Still, Christmas looms on the horizon and Santa's sleigh bells are rushing over the chimney tops of millions of homes across the globe. Then he'll squeeze his body down the said chimney with a huge grin on his face, mulled wine stains on his beard and happiness being his ultimate objective.

Anyway the fact remains that in a couple of days time we'll all be abandoning ourselves to the perennial knees up. It now occurs to you that the years are indeed flying past and now that you've reached 60 and have been gleefully informed of grandfather status next year, the time is now rolling relentlessly. You are thrilled and delighted for your lovely son Sam and equally as lovely daughter in law Lucy and still floating down from your bubble of holiday euphoria in glorious Brazil.

But out there in the supermarkets of the world, there is a wild ferment of activity, humanity sprinting around frantic aisles, swerving, dodging and weaving their way past each other. It does seem that every year that timeless ritual of panic, emergency and mini crisis seems to spiral out of control. How many bags of brussel sprouts can you physically pack into one trolley? How many boxes of chocolates can feasibly fit into a huge metal basket? 

Where on earth do the veritable farmyard of turkeys go amid the mountain of Christmas mulled wine, the frightening amount of booze we just keep knocking back and then the potatoes that become roast potatoes in rich abundance. And don't forget the blue flamed Christmas pudding. You'll never be forgiven for forgetting the pud, full of raisins, sugar, currants and loads of cholesterol. And that's when the all consuming guilt and regret suddenly kick in. What possessed us to indulge in such copious quantities of the very food and drink we were implicitly told not to eat and drink throughout the rest of the year. 

And yet the concessions have to be made. Christmas only happens but once a year. Go on let yourself go. It's Christmas. It's time to be silly, frivolous, carefree, wanton, happy go lucky, getting completely and unashamedly drunk and renewing acquaintance with family and friends you haven't seen for ages. This may be time to don those ridiculous crepe hats, drape lanterns and tinsel over grandma, grandpa, uncle, auntie and cousin and then slump back deliriously on the sofa, refusing to get up until New Year's Day.

But hold on. Let's slow down and reflect on the harsh realities around us. This should be the most harmonious time of the year, re-uniting again, catching up again, chatting small talk, watching the kids wrap open presents which last for precisely for five minutes before the batteries go and you find yourself scanning the pages of an Argos brochure for an adequate replacement. It's all very hectic and perhaps unnecessary but then it's always been this way, no different from Christmases of yesteryear.

This Christmas though, according to some, could be the most traumatic of all time. Amid all the cheer, the sentimentality, the tradition and vivid illumination, Britain is suffering a major industrial meltdown. In fact it's all gone rather pear shaped and misshapen. No, let's be frank here. It's a nightmare. The professions that used to serve the country so admirably are now going out on strike, protesting vehemently about pay and living conditions. Before you know it, the electricity will be switched off, power cuts will plunge us into insufferable darkness and all hell will break loose.

Yesterday the entire nursing profession hit the streets of London and the rest of the country was incensed about the pathetic wages they have now been forced to accept whether they like it or not. The nurses are now rubbing their hands next to warm braziers with placards in their hands and boiling resentment in their hearts. Outside the hospitals of Britain there is raw anger, animosity, fury, militancy on an unprecedented level. Christmas Day on the wards of Britain could be the gloomiest of all time. This is not a good time to be Rishi Sunak and being a Prime Minister. It was always thus.

Then there are the post offices of Great Britain, the fuel bills that have to be paid, the increasing poverty, the unutterable misery and desperation. The council estates and neat, comfortable terraced homes and bungalows are growing restive, impatient and downright disgusted. The bright and shiny Christmas trees and flashing lights may be redeeming factors but how do you explain to your children that Santa won't be arriving by your fireplace because, to be honest, mum and dad, just can't afford to bombard you with all manner of electronic games, I Pads, Smart phones and high tech gadgetry.

This could be the most disappointing Christmas since goodness knows when. The chances are that Christmas could be very bleak, spartan, cheerless and forgettable because nobody has got any money and besides you're surrounded by luxury and affluence anyway so stop moaning and be grateful. Get real. But greed and rampant commercialism demands that we all be happy, pampered and contented. It does seem that a huge helpful of perspective may be required anyway.

We'll all get up on Christmas Day limbs moving, eyes wide open, normality restored, communication resumed and we can deal with the drawbacks, the slight inconveniences, the perceived shortages since our neighbours have got far more than us. Then you realise that we can all be good to each other and still continue with our lifestyles without any worries about starvation, want or chronic deprivation.  

And then we'll remember those famous pop music anthems that have so enlivened and uplifted us over the years. Slade's Noddy Holder, one of the many noblemen of glam rock during the 1970s, is still counting those substantial royalties every time Merry Christmas Everybody is played on the radio. Then your personal favourite Chris Rea's Driving Home for Christmas will be wiping the windscreens of his car from the falling snow as a car meanders its way along slushy motorways and winking headlights. You Tube will remind you of this now 34 year old festive ditty. Chris, you're a superstar.

The list will continue for posterity. Jona Lewie still smiles broadly whenever somebody plays his celebrated anti War single Stop the Cavalry. Stop the Cavalry is a charming melody, detailing the horrors and ravages of the First World War and then Lewie's longing for home and his wife. Paul McCartney of course could never be overlooked in this festive homage to reindeers, sleighs and men in red coats. Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas time is a warm, heartfelt and enriching tune, showing McCartney and his late wife Linda revelling with friends in a local pub and then doing the Hokey Cokey around snow caked streets.

The former legendary Beatle also gave us the beautifully moving and poignant Pipes of Peace, a song so bitter and sweet that some may find themselves on the verge of tears. Pipes of Peace is another anti War song depicting a military tunic dressed McCartney pleading for reconciliation.. Against a terrifying sequence of exploding bombs and gun fire, he then treads awkwardly across a minefield before stopping in the middle of a muddy battlefield, smiling at his German enemy and asking whether they can be the best of buddies again. But then Christmas arrives and he then tenderly clutches a love letter to his wife.

So there you are folks. You have several alternatives and choices to make this Christmas. You can either wallow in the general misfortune around you or just be very appreciative of your faculties. The year 2022 has of course witnessed the most tragic of all deaths. On a bright morning in early September Her Majesty the Queen died at the age of 96. Some of us were heartbroken and bereft since Her Majesty had been one of the most dominant of constants in our lives for as long as we can remember. She was indeed the personification of majesty, a wonderfully unifying and stabilising influence over both Britain, the Commonwealth and the rest of the world. All of the eulogies and words have been said. Thankyou Your Majesty. We shall never ever forget you.

Now though we find ourselves at the dawn of a new era, another generation, a future that none of us can predict but would rather take one day at a time. For everyday is a gift, sweet as honey and richly gratifying. We could rise from our beds in the morning with dark, nihilistic pessimism, a firm conviction that once again the world will simply end at some point and we'll all end up as cynical, grumpy curmudgeons who can never see the bright side of life. Still, three sleeps to go before we all engage in frenetic unwrapping of festive presents, complaints about the latest pair of socks and jumpers we've already got from last year and then watch the first King's Speech on Christmas Day for over 75 years. It could be a Christmas to remember.

Argentina are World Champions

 Argentina are World Champions.

Your mind was whisked back to 1978 when, amid a turbulent backdrop of the military junta and a shower of ticker tape in the venerable footballing cities of Buenos Aires, Cordoba, Rosario and River Plate, Argentina won their World Cup in their country, their backyard and none of us had seen anything like this. Ticker tape streamers were showered upon a grateful and ecstatic nation, their celebrations running deep into the night and early morning.

That was the World Cup Final when Argentina's opponents 44 years ago Holland were beaten cruelly when it looked as if they may have been the better and technically superior side. But, as was the case last night Holland got tangled up in foliage of their own making and were simply outclassed by the highly respected likes of Mario Kempes, Leopoldo Luque, Ossie Ardilles and Ricky Villa, a side of enormous gifts and somehow destined to win a World Cup.

Last night revisited their past yet again. In 1986 a certain Diego Maradona, now sadly missed, went through a series of tangos and bossa novas while Bobby Robson's English defence just disintegrated as Peter Reid, Terry Fenwick and a whole succession of flailing English legs failed miserably to stop Maradona in his tracks. We all know about the disgraceful hand that allegedly had given Argentina the lead from the stocky but well muscled Maradona, but this is now ancient history and hardly worthy of any mention.

Once again another Argentina icon and surely enshrined in Football's Hall of Fame, finally received his just desserts. Lionel Messi has been consistently recognised as the greatest and finest world-class player of his generation. For years the World Cup has eluded Messi and yesterday evening in Qatar, in what will certainly be his curtain call and moment of departure from the world stage, the former Barcelona heart throb, lifted aloft the Jules Rimet World Cup and an adoring footballing community raised a glass.

For what must have seemed a lifetime now, Messi has ventured through the forests of football's prettiest landscapes and wondered why he simply couldn't get his hands on that much coveted World Cup. But on a late Sunday evening we settled back to watch the embodiment of genius, a master of his craft, the stunning, multi faceted talents, the extraordinary phenomenon, the man who elevated football to its highest level and always made the game look effortless.

Now for those of us who would be tempted to make dubious comparisons with football's legendary world names, this may be the time not to engage in such futile exercises. Pele, for many us the most complete of all remarkable players, had everything you could wish for in a player. During the 1970 World Cup, he had attempted an outrageously spectacular goal from the centre circle that only narrowly missed the target. Then there was that breathtaking dummy which simply left a Uruguay goalkeeper stretching out his arm. Pele missed but the sheer audacity of its execution will always be recalled affectionately.

There was the extravagant style and brilliance of Johan Cruyff, a Dutch master. Cruyff would become the chief exponent and pioneer of the stepover and drag back, an act of such impudence and impertinence that none of us would have dared to try and emulate it. But Cruyff would be robbed of his World Cup glory in 1974 when West Germany cancelled out his dazzling run and goal with a well deserved victory. Holland had won their penalty from the kick off when Cruyff simply shrugged off the German tackles as if they weren't there. And then there was Diego Maradona. Football took a sharp intake of breath. Genius is such a rare commodity that maybe we should bottle it up for ever.

But last night was all about the appointment of Argentina as World Champions. On their way to this year's World Cup Argentina summarily dismissed Holland in a repeat of the 1978 World Cup Final. Now Argentina looked at themselves in the mirror longingly and gave the Dutch another dose of its own medicine. This time France were on the receiving end of their decades long World Cup frustrations. Les Bleus though were not though in any mood for entente cordiale. The Gallic swagger and free flowing attacking fluency had gone horribly missing for large periods of this World Cup Final.

You cast your mind back to the footloose and fancy free French of yesteryear, the likes of Raymond Kopa and the prolific goal scoring prowess of the astonishingly talented Just Fontaine from many moons ago. In recent times there was the eternally elegant Michel Platini, Jean Tigana, Didier Six, Alain Giresse who wafted the ball almost naturally amongst themselves as if the ball had a mind of its own. Then in 1998 the World Cup swashbucklers of Zinedine Zidane, Didier Deschamps and Emmanuel Petit gave us an authentic reproduction of the football their ancestors had passed down their generations.

For France though this was not to be their night. Four years ago in Russia, Kylian M'Bappe had single- handedly conducted the French orchestra that accompanied France to World Cup victory against Croatia. From the moment the match kicked off France looked like a group of men stumbling around a dark room searching for a light switch. They looked off the pace, sluggish, leaden footed and neither nor there. Their passing had little in the way of co-ordination, their movement reminded you of those marathon dancers in America who would think nothing of tripping the light fantastic for hour upon hour. By the end of extra time last night, France were out on their feet and with nowhere to go.

Argentina knew this would be their night of tango, dramatic pauses, sumptuously intricate passing that seemed to be gather in momentum as the match wore on. There were the familiar triangles, isosceles at its finest, thick clusters of passes that blossomed into almost wondrous floral creations. It was a display of football at its most natural, football of delightful spontaneity and fluidity. Messi was always at the heart of it all, acting quite frequently as a shield in the middle of the park, gathering the ball with his back to opponents and then gliding forward with purpose and logical progression.

For Alex MacAlister, now the only Brighton player ever to play in a World Cup, fused the Argentina attack intelligently and stylishly with glorious close ball control. Both Julien Alvarez, Christian Romero, Nahuel Molina, Paulo Dybala, Nicolas Otomendi, Gonzalo Montiel, Enzo Fernandez and Angel Di Maria, formerly of the Manchester United parish, were highly qualified engineers and architects, one touch passing maestros, weaving webs in and around the French defence as if they'd been going back through the same, familiar routine a million times.

When Di Maria had been upended in the French penalty area and Messi had confidently struck home his penalty for Argentina, the South American team moved in perfect unison for a very special exhibition. From another magnificent cat's cradle of passes that simply opened up France like Pandora's Box, Argentina spreadeagled the French defence with counter attacking at its most polished. Breaking forward with speed and exquisite fleet footed dexterity, the ball swapped feet in a blizzard of neat passes. MacAlister, Messi and several other blue and white striped men flooded forward before the ball was laid back across goal for Di Maria to sweep the ball home for a nonchalant second goal.

Then shortly before half time France rallied as we always knew they would eventually. Kingsley Coman came much more forward with a sharpness of mind and footballing intelligence some of us were convinced he still had. Eduardo Camavinga , Ibrahim Varane, Youssof Fofana and Antoine Griesman, still capable playing the simple game, were now revitalised, refreshed, much more committed to the cause. Their football was still stuck in a treacly quagmire but at least they were far more alive and alert now. M'Bappe was finally flourishing, tucking home a penalty and then volleying the equaliser home quite staggeringly. 

As the game reached its final stages, both Argentina and France were locked together in battle like marauding armies ready to deliver the lethal blow. For all the world it all looked like Argentina had blown up at least psychologically. Suddenly though Argentina found a second wind. There were though hints and suggestions that the Latin candle had yet to be extinguished. Lionel Scaloni, the Argentina manager, must have been repeating the mantra of Sir Alf Ramsey. In 1966 Sir Alf had implored his team to win the World Cup for England again in extra time and they promptly obliged.

In one last sustained assault Argentina threw the cliched kitchen sink at France. A lobbed ball into the French penalty area, bobbled around dizzyingly and Messi was there to prod the ball home - but only just. For a moment none of us could tell whether the ball had crossed the line but after brief deliberation, Messi's goal was given and the World Cup had to be in Argentina's hands. But oh no there was yet another underlying pulsating narrative. France were far from finished.

A ball that landed in the Argentina penalty area seemed to bounce up against the back of a blue and white striped elbow and the Polish referee had no hesitation in pointing to the penalty spot. M'Bappe, the French matinee idol, completed his hat-trick and Argentina were shocked into submission. Now the most unforgettable World Cup Final had given as much as it could. Some of us would have been quite happy to see the match go on for an indefinite period of time. It was 3-3 and by the time the match had reached extra time without any resolution, we knew there had to be a winner. But the inevitable and farcical penalty shoot out loomed and so it was.  

France now looked drained of colour although Argentina were hardly any sprightlier. France seemed to freeze at the most vital moment. Penalties were converted for a while but finally France lost both their concentration and focus. Their final and crucial penalty was horrifically sliced wide of Emi Martinez and Argentina had won their third World Cup. Their fiercely patriotic supporters went berserk, exploding with delight and grinning with irrepressible happiness.

In the moments after this stupendous spectacle, your thoughts went back to 1978 and Buenos Aires while at the same time pondering on the magical exploits of Diego Maradona during the World Cup of 1986 in Mexico. There are parallels with today's Argentina's golden generation. In a country that still simmers with political tension, this was all the escapism that Argentina needed. Argentina, Argentina they cried as one in Qatar. You couldn't possibly disagree. This one is for you Lionel Messi. It's time to wander into the honeyed sunset and accept all the bouquets of praise. None surely deserve this moment so much.

  

Brazil and the high seas

 Brazil and the high seas

A Brazilian taxi driver drove through a tunnel for the last time and our memorable holiday was over. Sadly and reluctantly we bid farewell to one of the most beautiful countries on the planet. We were passing through the busy, bustling streets and roads of Rio on the last leg of our dream cruise which culminated in a visit to Rio De Janeiro. My lovely wife Bev and I were overwhelmed with gratitude. It had been the most joyous voyage of discovery.

As we emerged from the said tunnel we witnessed the truly remarkable sight of street hawkers selling their wares in the middle of a typical rush hour, dodging the kind of heavy traffic that you'd  normally see in any city as dusk and darkness falls on a happy go lucky capital city. We thought it had been a dream come true and indeed it was. But now it was time to leave Rio, departing quite the friendliest and most extraordinary country in the world. South America had done its best to be as enchanting as it possibly could and it ticked all the right boxes. 

We had now left behind us special memories, vividly stunning images, a thousand mountain ranges of classical beauty and the locals were pretty cool as well. We saw, admired, sighed with disbelief and wonder, pondered on a compilation of sights and sounds and concluded that it could hardly have gone any better. Brazil had been magnificent, fabulous and breathtaking. You found yourself struggling with innumerable superlatives because maybe you'd run out of using any more. Recommendations have to be made since Brazil so richly deserves them.

But then this hadn't been all about Brazil exclusively. Over 18 days ago, we had set out on our first port of call from a Lisbon airport that had been wrapped up in chaotic red tape. We had now seen a shameful display of ridiculous incompetence on the part of stern looking officials who seemed to be wandering around a hall populated largely by yet more security staff who were just as bemused as we were. So we held our breath and just got on with yet another endless round of queuing seemingly indefinitely and going nowhere fast. We asked questions, tore our hair out with increasing irritation and then grudgingly smiled since that was all we could do.

Eventually bureaucratic form filling over roughly three hours later, we boarded the Norwegian Star boat, ship or, as a captain on one of our previous cruise captains had insisted, should be called a vessel. The vessel sat sail to our first port of call in Cadiz, our first connection with Spain. A lovely afternoon spent in a local market square was spent drinking a coffee and munching a chocolate doughnut. In the distance, a languid looking guitarist plucked his strings with a series of splendidly relaxing old standards deservedly rewarded with ripples of applause from alfresco diners outside a cafe. 

Visits to Lanzarote, Tenerife and the Canary Islands were familiar sights to us on other cruises. To say that we had now become blase, seasoned travellers and globetrotters may be regarded as just gross exaggeration but then we all have this innate desire to see as many countries in the world as we possibly can. To some this could be seen as perhaps physically impossible but when you do get the chance grab it with open arms.

So we took in the terracotta tiled rooftops of countless restuarants, houses, cafes and restaurants that the whole of the Canaries seemed to consist of, gazed longingly at the sun kissed landscapes and then just drooled with admiration. Our visit to all three of the aforesaid felt very much like the same set of volcanic islands  as we'd seen before in recent years. Still, there was a fundamentally spiritual feel to both Lanzarote, Tenerife and the Canary Islands.

After several days out at sea we walked the richly carpeted floors which led us into jazz infused cocktail bars, one of which was called Gatsby's, an obvious reference to the F. Scott Fitzgerald masterpiece the Great Gatsby. We then made the acquaintance of a delightful group of devout church goers from Bournemouth who just wanted to have fun, play cards and then just share cheerful badinage and laughter. Every so often we would accidentally bump into them and they were still finishing off a card game of Kalooki or just giggling with some merriment.

And then there were balmy, blissful hours spent sun bathing on the main deck of the Norwegian Star boat, thrusting our faces towards the cobalt blue skies and slapping on another jar of brown varnish on hitherto lily white cheeks and foreheads that had now been left behind in Britain. It now occurred to yours truly that the football World Cup in Qatar had also been left behind. For a moment a slightly unnerving sense of regret and desertion would now be coursing through your veins. It passed.

Before leaving Blighty we had seen Gareth Southgate's battle hardened England struggling desperately yet again to beat a USA team who had now become a thorn in their side. The 2010 World Cup in South Africa had also seen England held to a wonderfully respectable 1-1 draw. Once again Qatar would see yet another frustrating draw between England and the States.

Half way into our cruise, you resigned yourself to the fact that both the venue and location of this year's World Cup had proved truly decisive factors in any kind of interest in the World Cup. Besides, you simply wanted to abandon yourself to the incessant heat, the constant warmth, quotidian sunshine, on the hour, by the hour, every single day, week after week, non stop. We were simply spoilt.

So you made your decision and just topped up those vital vitamins of sunshine, chatting to passengers from Canada, the United States and Israel. There were of course the stupendously colourful yellow and green shirts of Brazilian families cruising back home to Rio. The memory of a huddle of Brazilians yelling with jubilation and then crying out their grief when the vital penalty was missed against Croatia would linger warmly in your mind. You felt horribly sorry for Brazil since they were the international team who had introduced you to the Beautiful Game when you were a knee high to a grasshopper kid.

But back you returned to the considerable quantities of Pina Colada and something called a Mango Meltdown. Now there was a proper name for a cocktail, arguably as good as a Pina Colada. In between there was the Rum and Coke with a tantalising tinkle of ice, an IPA pale ale, a Brazilian beer just for good measure and then gallons of Capuccinos, yet more coffee and alcohol quite literally on tap.

And finally there was Brazil four days in all in a country you'd heard about in every World Cup and TV coffee advert back in England. It was the land of samba and sensuality, easy living, seductive and suggestive music and dance that simply didn't stop. It was the land of carnival, the Copacabana beach, flags that stretched for miles on a beach that seem to go on forever, beach volleyball nets liberally scattered across well heated sands and a sprinkling of small goal posts and cross bars. Usually those posts and bars would have been heaving with outrageous displays of keepie uppies, trapping the ball on both shoulders for hours on end before doing convincing impersonations of performing seals.

Now the peacock feathers would have to be permanently hidden and football in Brazil would just have get on with the business of watching their fellow South American neighbours Argentina squaring up to current World champions France in this year's World Cup Final on Sunday. You knew where their allegiances would lie. 

Personally you would reflect on your pilgrimage to the Maracana stadium, Brazil's national stadium, a ground that in another incarnation many moons ago once held over 200,000. The gladiatorial amphitheatre that had once witnessed the magisterial genius of Pele, Garrincha, Va Va, Di Di, Socrates, Gerson, Tostao and Jairzinho to name but a few would now acclaim Neymar Junior in a new Maracana. Neymar will have to wait for his World Cup Final stage but time is quite definitely on his side. Our guide for the Maracana must have done a course on charm and courtesy because he simply breathed enthusiasm. 

As we left Brazil equipped with our grandson's new present, the customary souvenirs and an art gallery of emotions, murals of the football greats could be seen gracefully adorning the walls of Rio. Then there was Sugar Loaf Mountain, and the wondrous Christ the Redeemer, who even for the least religious, must have touched a chord. It towered over Rio in much the way that Lord Nelson does over Trafalgar Square in London. It seems a weak comparison but then again historical figures always seem to hold a spell over you. Thank you, Brazil, Cadiz, Lanzarote, Tenerife and Brazil again. We'll never ever forget you. 

England and USA in goal-less stalemate but Brazil in rudest health.

 England and USA in goal-less stalemate but Brazil in rudest health

Football has an almost innate capacity for catching us unawares where the most extraordinary shocks and surprises may seem almost inevitable. In the first week of the men's World Cup in Qatar 2022 we have already seen the downfall of multiple World champions Germany by Japan and even Peter O'Toole would have been entitled to a private giggle had he known about the defeat by Argentina at the hands of Saudi Arabia. Oh for the thoughts of Lawrence of Arabia on such pressing issues.

 A couple of days before that epic tale of the unexpected, Argentina, also prolific winners of the World Cup were summarily toppled from their perch by a Saudi Arabia side who hadn't travelled that far to peel away the layers of an Argentina team who themselves had once been beaten by Cameroon in Italia 1990 on day one. Now the law of the averages always insist that at least one or two global footballing giants will fall from grace. But two in one week does seem to be pushing it. There is a sense that the conventional is about to be replaced by the unorthodox at this World Cup since none of us can see where this World Cup is heading.

You could have been forgiven for thinking that England were just sleep walking into a place in the knock out round of this tournament. Yesterday England were so wretchedly bad and awful against the USA that you were almost relieved to find that little long term damage had been done. It could have been a whole lot worse but not much so. By the final whistle of this stultifyingly boring game, England manager Gareth Southgate must have looked to the heavens and blown out his cheeks. Qualification to the knock out round may be a formality given that a 4-0 win for Wales against England in the final group tie, seems highly unlikely. Still, stranger things have been known.

In their 6-2 thumping of Iran, England had revealed all of their peacock plumage, a team thoroughly well organised, oozing electrifying athleticism, imaginative ideals, a commendable ideology, lithe and supple movement, feline flexibility and classical finishing. After a brief period of feeling their way into the game with sharp, staccato passing between the lines, England sent all of the Iranian skittles tumbling. A lovely brace from Bukayo Saka, the second a shot of exquisite placement and power, a Raheem Sterling guided missile into the net, simple goals from the ever alert and ingenious Marcus Rashford accompanied by an even more straightforward tap in from Jack Grealish completed a royal command England display.

But last night ITV viewers were subjected to a teeth pulling, mind numbing England that looked as if it had recalled South Africa 2010. Then Algeria stifled Fabio Capello's England with the type of football that should have been locked in a cupboard and never released into the open. At the end of that game Wayne Rooney, wild eyed with righteous indignation, declared that he had never been so ashamed of the England supporters. True England had been distinctly underwhelming and just tedious in the extreme but this was the final straw. 72 years ago of course Billy Wright's England fell appallingly to a sensational 1-0 defeat against USA in Belo Horizonte.

In theory, the defensive pillars and columns erected by the stern and unforgiving Harry Macguire, the resolute and rugged John Stones, the capable and competent Kieran Trippier and the always forward thinking and venturesome Luke Shaw seemed to have things under control for England. But Gareth Southgate's battle hardened English troops were then startled rabbits in the headlights. The Americans, now seemingly buoyed by a knowledge that anything could happen, flooded forward impressively, pinning back England back into their own half where that territory should have been encroached upon at frequent intervals by an England side still licking their lips after the Iran goal fest.

When Chelsea's Christian Pulisic thundered his shot against the bar midway through the first half, the Americans must have thought pleasantly back to Larry Gaetjens who had scored the only goal to beat England in Brazil 1950. Then the selection committee including Walter Winterbottom were clearly too arrogant and presumptuous for their own liking and the American dream became a shining reality.

But this was no stroll in Central Park for England, more like General Custer's last stand, a meeting of great minds thinking alike and much more so for the Americans.The country that had given us vast  condominiums, soaring skyscrapers and corporate, high tech companies worth billions of dollars, had now reduced the England football team to a subdued whisper. The blue shirts were more than adept in keeping possession of the ball and were not nearly as naive as some might have thought. Now their football had shape, symmetry, fluent patterns, gentle and audacious flicks and tricks. Unfortunately the USA of yesterday hadn't quite the decisive cutting edge but it wasn't for the want of trying.

 Declan Rice was still a hugely influential shield in front of England's back four, tidying efficiently and passing the ball with consummate ease. But then Rice discovered that the likes of Raheem Sterling, Bukayo Saka, Mason Mount and Harry Kane were singularly failing to respond to the always vocal encouragement of the England fans. The ball was quite awkwardly sticking, losing its way, bogged down in treacly feet, all very painfully pedestrian and just not going anywhere. The footballing satnav had now told Gareth Southgate's team they were heading for hard shoulders rather than smooth freeways.

At times it looked as if Arsenal's Saka was about to lead the Americans a merry dance, creating havoc , tricking his way past defenders as if they simply weren't there. Then Saka tried to find Kane and Kane tried to look for Mount and before you knew it, the ball was in some desolate wasteland. Just before half time England almost opened the scoring when Luke Shaw smuggled his way past an American defender and slipped the ball excitingly into the path of the Arsenal youngster but Saka met head on with the ball and couldn't really find any direction or accuracy in the snap shot.

For the entire second half England reminded you of labourers on a building site, hod carriers with tons of cement and bricks. It was very much toil and drudgery, sweat and hard graft, the application of some kind of science but little in the way of real invention. By the half hour England looked leggy and quite possibly exhausted, rather like a group of tourists searching for the right museum, cinema or restaurant. It was all very anodyne, huff and puff, laborious and shapeless, valid descriptions on the night but not nearly good enough if England are to make concrete progress in the Qatar World Cup of 2022.

By now England were leaden footed, neither here or there, yearning for the final whistle and perhaps dwelling on their own obvious shortcomings. This had not been the night we'd anticipated. For a moment our minds wandered back to England's second group match of Euro 2020 when Scotland had barricaded themselves firmly in their own half and refused to come out of their shell. The goal-less draw that followed could have been foreseen at the beginning of the second half. But now of course  circumstances, although markedly different, still had the same aura about them. True there were no cones with sand bags draped over them, but there was a huge tailback and the road was jam solid with traffic.

Meanwhile back in the Brazilian camp, the five team winners of the Jules Rimet World Cup and majestic standard bearers of the Beautiful Game were re-enacting the Mexico World Cup of 1970. Indeed, the progenitors of the game that we've always come to appreciate and embrace re-discovered their former identity, the game they'd given to the world, pure and unblemished, always breathtaking, beyond classification and still holding the flame of creativity wherever they go.

Their 2-0 opening victory against Serbia was quintessential Brazilian, fundamentally Brazilian, stereotypically Brazil, a side of wily whimsicality, ingenuity, an abundance of flair, lorry loads of the stuff, improvising at will, extemporising on the spot, off the cuff at any given moment. When Brazil won the World Cup in Mexico 52 years ago some of us thought we'd never see its like again. The Brazil of Gerson, Tostao, Pele and Rivelino belonged on another footballing planet.  One of the four goals in a one sided victory in the World Cup Final will probably never matched for its completeness, its sumptuousness, its effortless stamp of class. Six, seven or eight passes into its construction, Carlos Roberto came steaming up from defence and lashed an unstoppable shot past the Italian goalkeeper.

None of us are crystal ball gazers but the bookies would be well advised to hold onto Brazil as overwhelming favourites for another yet World Cup trophy for what would be their sixth. England of course have their own psychological obstacles to negotiate and look as far from the finished article as ever before. The wishful thinkers in the heart of England are probably dreaming of a Christmas they may come to fantasise about.

Oh, for an open top bus parade along Oxford Street to welcome home England as world champions. It may well happen but the probability is that it won't. And yet the sight of Gareth Southgate and Harry Kane celebrating as white bearded gentlemen called Santa Claus is so very appealing. Maybe the stars are aligned this year so hold onto your festive fare. It could yet be a Christmas and Chanukah to remember. We can but hope.

England carry out World Cup demolition job against Iran

 England carry out World Cup demolition job against Iran.

In the end England knew they could and they did, something of a self- fulfilling prophecy. The nation was convinced and so were their gloriously loyal supporters for without them this would not have been the same convincing England victory that many of us were hoping for. Or maybe it might have been and we were just completely lacking any confidence in Gareth Southgate's England. So we settled down and swept all the filthy stains under the carpet and forgot about the potentially destructive politics that had threatened to overshadow England's opening group match against Iran.

In the background there were dissenting voices, deeply offended by the dreadfully extenuating circumstances that were unfolding before them. This was not an idyllic setting for any sporting contest let alone a World Cup, one hosted in a country that nobody had approved and some had found detestable and abhorrent. How it came to pass is quite beyond anybody's belief but Qatar it is and will be for the next month or so.

In the middle of a monumental homage to chrome, steel and glass, the Qatar skyline is dominated by towering minarets where wailing chants echo around the Middle East with astonishing reverence and idolatry. There are the mosques and temples where the people daily come to pray and worship, a vast mass congregating in religious droves to acknowledge once and for all that the game of football is much more than some cheap propaganda exercise.

We were probably dreading this World Cup because this World Cup should have been banned and banished to the sidelines long before it had ever been contemplated in the first place. But former UEFA head honcho Sepp Blatter has now meekly apologised for the ridiculous choice of country when, quite clearly, the consensus was that Qatar and everything it represented to the rest of the world had now become a world pariah. This decision, in retrospect, should never been made but regrettably we are now faced with damage limitation. There's no turning back from this point.

Somehow it almost feels football has gone back to some distant Biblical hinterland where the muezzin slowly wander around their home country on languid camels and then the Old Testament turns into the New Testament. Qatar and everything in the Middle East and football, you always felt, would never have figured prominently on their daily itinerary and there is an air of novelty which spreads across Saudi Arabia.

For most of us though the political baggage, the bitter taste in collective mouths, the violent opposition to this World Cup and the moral high ground is very much a painful reality. We are now all too familiar with the well documented issues that consistently rear their ugly head. The Qataris appallingly shameful human rights record has now been so frequently analysed and discussed that you must have heard and read about it. The outrageous ban on alcohol in Qatar was something we were warned about months and years ago. Qatar is though teetotal, preaches complete abstinence and doesn't encourage shows of affection.

But most of us back in Britain were watching from the privileged position of pubs, wine bars, schools, offices, village halls and community centres. Some of us were at home while others were simply travelling through and stopping off at some convenient Plasma 64 inch TV set. The right minded amongst us are hoping that the sooner this World Cup is over the better. The impressions are still unfavourable, the messages still shrouded in negativity and nihilism. And yet the show must go on.

England manager Gareth Southgate is still in pole position although privately licking the wounds of defeat to in the Euro 2020 Final at Wembley last year. During the summer though the rehabilitation was far from complete. An embarrassing 4-0 defeat at home to Hungary was the tip of the iceberg for England since it still felt that England were experiencing vertigo and desperately unsure of their bearings.

Before last night's 6-2 demolition of Iran fevered brows were quite hearteningly soothed. England are no longer punch-drunk impostors at World Cup Finals tournaments and are now accustomed to a game designed to get the job done efficiently, skilfully and professionally. There was a feeling that England were still brooding and introspective after the heartache of last year's Euro disappointment. During this summer though England manager Southgate was still wearing sackcloth and ashes. At some point the burden of responsibility will lift for him but the doubters are still wearing worried frowns.

You are reminded of that critical point when England managers were examined from every angle before suddenly the inevitability of bad form and results can lead to prophets of doom. You knew when Don Revie's time was up when ironically the Saudis came calling with substantial wads of cash.When Kevin Keegan walked off the pitch having lost to a single goal to Germany in the old,last Wembley hurrah, we realised that Keegan was not a happy bunny and the legendary England and Liverpool legend was now history. Keegan impulsively quit the England job.

It is now 56 years since England had won the World Cup and when Sir Alf Ramsey suffered hurt and rejection when he dragged off Martin Peters and Bobby Charlton in the 1970 World Cup of Mexico when the West Germans took one look at Peter Bonetti in the England goal and thought it was their birthday. Two years the West Germans exacted sweet revenge when Ramsey's England were humiliatingly outclassed by the West Germans in a grisly 3-1 European Championship defeat to the West Germans at the old Wembley.

Last night though England's blossoming generation of hyper-active, energetic, well balanced and well adjusted players stepped over the white line and proved conclusively that they are no longer pushovers or mugs. Tournament football has always been a punishing assault course for England and although psychological obstacles still exist for Gareth Southgate's men, the way ahead is much clearer than might have been the case in years gone past.

England have now shaken off those opening World Cup blues. The goal-less draw against Morocco in the 1986 World Cup when poor Ray Wilkins was sent off for chucking the ball at a referee, may be lodged deep in the country's subconscious. Then there was the pathetic charade and farce of England's miserable goal-less draw against Algeria in the 2010 World Cup, a forgettable match highlighted by Wayne Rooney's now famous rant at England supporters.

Last night England executed their game plan in devastating fashion. For the first half an hour against Iran, England wove intricate, almost over-elaborate short passing movements in and around the Iranians, works of high culture and art that must have given most England's supporters back in England purring with pleasure. This was an England of high sophistication, a premeditated plan and project, knitting and sewing passes together before linking everything together with cat's cradles of mesmeric passing over and over again.

After the Iranian keeper had to be stretchered off with concussion almost reluctantly, England promptly filled the boots.  Harry Maguire has now been restored to the fold in international circles after private difficulties, calmness and dependability. Alongside Maguire there was the equally as reliable John Stones, with the ever enterprising Luke Shaw always showing initiative. England were positive, progressive and reaching for the stars. They had now developed an excellent relationship with the ball, almost as if the ball had become a kindred spirit, compatible with their very specific thinking.

When Mason Mount of Chelsea, the remarkable Jude Bellingham, Raheem Sterling began to indulge their whimsical flights of fantasy with the ball at their feet, you always felt that Iran would remain permanently on the back foot. Now England's football oozed from every pore rather like one of those fashionable chocolate fountains at big, lavish parties. There was a real connection here, a palpable smoothness and sleekness about their passing and movement that left us pleasantly surprised.

After Luke Shaw had whipped in a perfect cross following some neat interplay, the wonderfully young Jude Bellingham, too gifted for words, sent a glancing header over the Iran keeper and England were in front. Then the Arsenal sensation Bukayo Saka received the ball on the edge of the Iranian penalty area and drove the ball sweetly low past the keeper for England's second goal. By now England had established an unbreakable grip on the game. 

Now Jude Bellingham was fully living up to his teenage prodigy status. Breaking forward at every opportunity, Bellingham dashed and darted past players, performing all kinds of trickery and chicanery with the ball. The Borussia Dortmund striker could become a permanent fixture in any side that Gareth Southgate may choose. Charging into acres of space, Bellingham surged forward towards the opposition's penalty area before releasing the ball to Raheem Sterling who steered England's third goal deftly into the net. The game was well and truly over for Iran.

In the second half England simply picked and mixed up their passes with an even greater taste and a studied consideration. The match was going nowhere for Iran and the final 45 minutes must have felt like a lifetime which indeed it was. At the end of the first half almost 10 minutes were added on for injury time and the second half followed suit. England kept pouring goals into the Iranian net and the match had now become one of sedateness rather than one of emergency or, dare we say, disaster.

Shortly into the second half, Arsenal's precocious wonder kid Bukayo Saka once again emerged as a central figure in England's richly endowed attack. Saka, sensing blood, jinking, dancing, shimmying, cutting the ball back smartly inside his opponent before ramming the ball home for England's fourth goal. This was followed almost immediately by yet another goal for England. Manchester United's Marcus Rashford and Jack Grealish had come on as subs to bring yet more vivacity and vibrancy to England's attack. It was Rashford who, picking the ball up from England captain Harry Kane, ran superbly at his defender leaving defenders flat footed and then almost passing the ball into the net for England's fifth.

In between Iran had scored nothing but consolation goals, the last a penalty when the match had become declared as job done for England. Callum Wilson, Newcastle's muscular striker, gleefully bounded forward into acres of space before racing into a perfect spot and then laying the ball back to Jack Grealish who scored with almost absurd simplicity in a straightforward tap in for the sixth goal. England and Gareth Southgate are up and running. We'll see how far they've come in the forthcoming days and weeks. The United States of America are up next for England. We must hope that the World Cups of 2010 and 1950 are no more than minor catastrophes. For Gareth Southgate this is the business end. We wish him well. 

The day they stole the World Cup in England

 The day they stole the World Cup in England.

It hardly seems believable now, but the football World Cup was once stolen in England because, quite clearly, we would never have won the 1966 World Cup without it. Suddenly in March 1966, one of the most highly coveted footballing trophies in the world the World Cup went missing. We knew how consumed with envy other supposedly lesser nations than England would have been at the time and, perhaps mischievously, Scotland were just delighted, nay less thrilled since their old Hadrian's wall rivals were about to conquer the world in the July of that year.

Last night in Channel 5's excellent documentary on the day they stole the World Cup, the whole bizarre story of how they nicked the Jules Rimet Cup was superbly highlighted in extensive detail. The black and white images and extraordinary mysteries that surrounded the great heist emphasised the often amusing nature of what exactly happened. None of us could have script written the initial shock of discovering why the trophy had been pilfered in the first place. In retrospect, it now seems both hilarious and farcical but at the time the whole of England must have been desperately worried about the World Cup's disappearance.

Here was a trophy that England boss Sir Alf Ramsey had promised his nation would win quite easily if truth be told. Besides, England had invented the Beautiful Game and it was about time that England won it for a change. England had been reluctant participants in 1950, the first World Cup after Second World War hostilities and of course we could string a couple of passes together and we could score goals so what was the problem? So the time was right and a nation held its bated breath. What could go wrong? Well, it did for a while but then the fault was rectified eventually.

One day in early March 1966 at a Stanley Gibbons stamp exhibition in London, a beautifully polished World Cup, proudly standing on a shelf, was there one minute and gone the next. During the night, in a carefully rehearsed, hush, hush and clandestine operation, the trophy was sneakily smuggled out of the hall during the night and by the following morning we were aghast. It was gone, lost. Somebody would have to be summoned to find the World Cup and that became one of the most drawn out, lengthy and protracted episodes of police work and almost indefinite investigation in the force's history. Perhaps England feared they'd never win anything ever again.

But the focal point of everybody's attention and the basic premise for last night's programme was the identity of the troublemaker, the hoodlum, the hardened criminal. It is at this point that we should introduce one Dave Corbett into the story. Our friendly Mr Corbett just happened to be taking his dog Pickles for a walk one day and, quite innocently minding his business. Perhaps he was checking on the first tulips of the spring or just whistling the latest Beatles masterpiece. But then it all happened. 

In the heart of deepest South London suburbia, Pickles started dragging our Dave over to a tangle of bushes desperately scrambling, scuffling, furiously pawing away at some mysterious shiny object. So Mr Corbett, ever ready to satisfy everybody's curiosity, bent down and helped his canine friend. After unwrapping the bag in which the World Cup had been hidden away in, Corbett confirmed that indeed it was the most famous sporting trophy in the world.

For the next couple of months leading up to the 1966 World Cup, the police pursued every angle, every avenue of possibility, every suspicious suspect who had now sent the police into a frantic search for the evil perpetrators. In deepest Camberwell, South London, the streets were alive with gang warfare, gangsterism and armed bank robberies masterminded by inveterate criminals. Huge council estates were broken into, questions were asked on a monumental scale and we just wanted to get to the bottom of why and who would have the audacity to rob the country of a trophy we thought we might just win?

And then poor Dave Corbett was drawn into this moment of madness. Now it was that accusing fingers were horribly pointed at Corbett and his trusty dog Pickles. How could a dog possibly steal anything let alone a silver trophy that was so valuable as to be positively priceless? And then the swinging prison cell bulb had now metaphorically led us to believe that it could only be Corbett because, after all he and his dog had found the World Cup so we'd like to detain you Mr Corbett for our enquiries.  

Finally after intensive foraging and secretive break ins to flats and residences in South London, the police found their men and cuffed them immediately. One Sidney Cugullere and brother Reg, notorious 1960s gangsters, thought it would be a jolly good idea to unlock the keys into the hall where the World Cup was hidden and then quietly remove it before taking it home like naughty schoolchildren pinching jars of sweets. At first we were never quite sure why the two shifty brothers had committed this dastardly deed. But fifteen minutes of fame and front- page celebrity had to be a necessity since a World Cup concealed in a family living room would never be considered as the first line of thinking.

But everything turned out to be happily ever after although as last night's programme revealed, the silver World Cup trophy was quickly swopped once again for a replica. At the end we were told that the Jules Rimet Cup as held aloft by goalkeeper Gordon Banks at the Kensington Garden Hotel balcony was not the real thing although by now most of us were just baffled at the lightning fast turn of events. 

This weekend the current generation of England's World Cup protagonists will step onto the stage of a World Cup that has now been stained by sinister allegations and dark rumours. Qatar was not the country we were hoping for when the candidates were announced for hosting the tournament. The country is riddled with funny money, deviousness and duplicity, the kind of egregious publicity that no country would have wanted had they been chosen as a potential venue. You can smell the poisonous fumes even now.

But on a far distant day at the end of March 1966, England panicked, wiping the sweat from apprehensive foreheads and so concerned about its immediate future as World Cup hosts that maybe they'd have to scrap the whole idea. Fortunately though it all turned out for Sir Alf Ramsey and his courageous, doughty warriors. Bobby Moore, Jack and Bobby Charlton and Nobby Stiles all ventured out from their Hendon Hall hotel headquarters for a morning's window shopping in Golders Green, Nobby Stiles paid a visit to a local church for a very private confessional and the World Cup had been returned to its rightful owners. England would indeed become World Champions. And it was their trophy. Nobody could take that one away.

The World Cup none of us wanted.

 The World Cup none of us wanted.

In a couple of weeks time the men's football World Cup will, quite preposterously, get under way and the world will close its eyes, bow its head in disgust and then just shiver with horror, trepidation and dread. This is not the time to get all hot and bothered about a World Cup that few right thinking people would have wanted in the first place. But the painstaking preparations have been made, the construction workers have risked life and limb and most of us will try to pretend that this isn't really happening.

Amid an ugly backdrop of corruption, venality, crooked deception, horrendous immorality, a vast tidal wave of anger and vicious opprobrium, football will heave an uncomfortable sigh of despair. What on earth, the experts and pundits tell us, possessed the powers that be at FIFA to award the greatest football tournament on Earth to a nation of money obsessed, materialistic and obscenely wealthy sheikhs and sultans, the kind of people who normally do their everyday business in shady corners and back street alleyways.

In just over a weeks time Qatar will host the World Cup for the first time in that country's history and the objections are getting louder, the criticisms more vehement by the day and those who passionately care about the integrity of this blue riband football tournament are privately grieving and don't know why. We know why though and so do those within in the highest hierarchy of FIFA. The simple fact of matter is that nobody wants this whole grotesque spectacle to start at all. The problem is that there can be no turning back and this could turn into an unbearably painful experience for football followers all around the world.

In the old days football had decency, purity, high standards, exemplary sportsmanship, national anthems proudly sung, glorious patriotism, a feeling of harmony, unity, commonsense, rationality and fair play. Of course there were the fixed matches, the underlying suspicion that cheating had won the day again and some matches were blatantly rigged but most of us knew what we were getting and it was legally acceptable.

But in the sweltering heat and deserts of the Middle East football will come under the fiercest scrutiny, monitored like a hawk, analysed and then deconstructed. We'll rub our bewildered eyes with the shock of it all and then resign ourselves to fate. This was destined to happen and we fully understood the implications and consequences of FIFA's potty actions. And yet this still stinks, leaving a trail of controversy and bad feeling behind it. The poisonous stench is almost unbearable but world class football has to go on regardless.

There are traditionalists of course who can't get their head around the deplorable timing of this World Cup. World Cups are always open to new gimmicks, forward thinking innovation and expansion. But this has one has to beggar belief. You suspect that certain boundaries have been unforgivably crossed and the choice of a Qatar as hosts of this current World Cup had not been thought through properly.

There were no doubts, qualms or misgivings, no sudden reservations about Qatar and its suitability for a World Cup stage. The country's despicable human rights record, disgraceful stance on the rights of gays and lesbians to enter Qatar and no alcohol laws have now been widely discussed. Suddenly the World Cup, once joyously accessible to all nations and cultures, now finds itself at the behest of Arab rulers who would rather this whole circus simply go away.

Some of us though love the Beautiful Game, its whole-hearted passions, its infectious enthusiasms, its delightful eccentricities at times and the positive message it always sets out to support and advocate. But now we appear to have hit a brick wall and this may not have been the way it was supposed to be. Football cherishes its clean living, puritanical image both in Europe and the global community. Now though it all looks horribly unsightly and feels unsavoury.

Sadly, the events about to unfold in Qatar shortly, defy description and explanation. Who, for instance could have imagined a World Cup that would be air conditioned, still sweating in record breaking temperatures even at the end of November and just seeking cooling breezes as well as the shade? At the back of our minds there are lingering concerns about the welfare of both players and managers. Once again the World Cup finds itself in alien territory and terribly concerned about its image and, dare we say it, threatened identity.

We all know that in South Africa 12 years ago the good people of South Africa enthusiastically embraced the competition with a loving tenderness. There was a sense then that life had changed radically for the best in a once apartheid- stained country. The bitterness, hatred and division had all but vanished and generally speaking South Africa had got it absolutely right. Football and the vuvuzela had succeeded in its task of altering perceptions and correcting prejudices.

Then in 2022 South Korea and Japan stunned the world with its Far East mysticism, its warm acceptance of everything associated with the game and its commendable knowledge of the game's finer points. The World Cup was back in the hands of an admittedly novice footballing country but everybody kept smiling and nobody refused the hands of co-operation and agreement.

And as the World Cup approaches we still look at the game's governing bodies and privately question the sanity of those who made it possible in the first place. FIFA has never been the most charming of organisations even when things were going reasonably well for football. There were always the secretive spivs, the grubby characters who skulked menacingly in shady corners. They were the game's nasty, nefarious figures with vast sums of filthy, squalid money in their back pockets. They were the people who have no interest in the game whatsoever and just want to ruin the spectacle once and for all.

But then we remember the bad old days of former FIFA president Sepp Blatter so consumed with his own ego that most of us can hardly believe what football had done to deserve such a faceless bureaucrat. Here was a man with very few principles, little in the way of any honour and a man who seemingly held an enduring grudge against England's repeated bids for a World Cup. So we shook our heads and just allowed Blatter to get away with it.

In retrospect of course the decision to give Russia the World Cup four years ago now seems shamefully misguided. After the catastrophic conflict in Ukraine and the war that still rages on, we all look back at 2018 with a feeling that even then things would spiral out of control. We were right. Russia 2018 was, in its way, hugely successful and England almost won the World Cup for what would have been only the second time in its history. The truth though is Putin was still grumbling and sneering rather like somebody who privately believes that wretched gatecrashers would wreck his party.

Still, as they say nowadays, it is what it is. This weekend's Premier League fixtures will be the last to be played until Boxing Day and managers will be worried, players perhaps enormously frustrated and some just deeply disoriented. We have never travelled this highway before and the sense of disruption although not palpably felt, is still ever present. These are, quite literally, unprecedented times for football and the suspension of reality could become a genuine cause for anxiety.

Premier League leaders Arsenal will play their last game before the World Cup knowing full well that a two point lead over Manchester City could be obliterated quite quickly by New Year's Eve. But Arsenal are a strikingly attractive footballing side under manager Mikel Arteta and a World Cup could have a beneficial effect on the side who play at the Emirates Stadium. But it is impossible to know what may lie ahead for the Gunners although we do know that the Premier League surely has one or two unexpected tricks up its sleeve.

But the Qatar World Cup is almost upon us. That sentence itself has a chilling finality about, a doomed, worst-case scenario. Of course, England boss Gareth Southgate has done his meticulous planning and extensive research on all of his opponents. As well he should perhaps. He will though take a sharp intake of breath, bite his fingernails and gaze critically over proceedings rather like a father applauding their child on a Sunday morning at Hackney Marshes.

Regrettably this will not be a pleasurable experience for all concerned in the Middle East. We will cheer ourselves from the rafters of the stadiums themselves to the privacy of our living rooms. We will make our feelings abundantly clear. We won't be happy with the realisation that a World Cup Final will assuredly take place a week before Christmas Day. Some of us will be gritting our teeth hoping against hope that Santa Claus will not be required to hand over the World Cup to the triumphant country. Still, stranger things have been known to happen. Strike up the band and let the fun begin.

Oh woe West Ham

 Oh woe West Ham.

So here we are on a dark, wintry evening in early November and your wretchedly unpredictable football team are back in the doldrums. Something tells you that deep inside there is actually an entertaining, engrossing, free flowing football team waiting to get out but sadly today was no such day. In fact West Ham, it has to be said, were, by all accounts awful, dreadful, intolerable, unbearable and excruciatingly painful to watch. It could have been far worse but defeat at home always gets you right there in the pit of your stomach.

Having grinned and bore over 40 years of abject misery, utter despondency, triumphant victory, pulsating drama, grim melodrama, deeply emotional investment, experiences of the supernatural when everything looked beyond belief and a good helping of crazy anti-climax, you find yourself wondering why. Why the tears and tantrums, the trials and tribulations, the agonising mediocrity and then the inevitable defeat after dominating a game that should have been won quite emphatically at half time?

At lunchtime West Ham transported their supporters to one of those places that were wearisomely familiar by now and almost unavoidable. In recent away visits to Liverpool and Manchester United, West Ham did give a fairly convincing impersonation of a team who might have thought the impossible could have been possible if only they'd played the game at three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon. But then again when was the last time that happened? Was it before the Neolithic Age, the Ice Age or were cavemen scrawling hieroglyphics on a wall just to pass the hours away and shortly before the advent of the BBC Test Card?

But earlier on today the team who play their matches at the London Stadium Olympic Park looked anything but Olympians or Greek Adonises. West Ham were beaten 2-1 by a Crystal Palace side under Patrick Viera who themselves have struggled to find any kind of consistency. So this was a contest between glaring inconsistencies. Palace have now sailed serenely into the calm waters of mid table Premier League safety while West Ham looked as though they'd seen a terrifying ghost and were almost beaten before they'd even started.

True, these are still comparatively early days in the Premier League season although November now seems fairly well advanced by anybody's reckoning. West Ham were thankful of course that the bottom three isn't quite as close as it could have been for them. But here is a side stuck in a rut and the sense of morbid malaise in East London could suck them down towards a destination that may not to be their liking. This is too close for comfort for a West Ham side who are now experiencing the kind of form that dogged them horribly several years ago. The 3-0 home defeat to Burnley was more or less the lowest point and the sight of a corner flag being stuck in the centre circle by disgruntled fans, may haunt some supporters for quite a while.

And yet it is still hard to reconcile yourself to the fact that over the last two seasons West Ham have qualified for Europe by finishing sixth and seventh respectively. Sometimes the laws of gravity can defeat all of us but a home fixture against an eminently beatable Crystal Palace team, left some of us speechless and mystified. Palace are not seasoned commercial travellers away from home and this afternoon's last gasp victory over West Ham must have been the most welcome antidote.

Not for the first time this season, West Ham took the lead and then squandered it only this time right at the end of the match. Nobody said any season would ever be that easy for the Hammers since every season is rather like a gruelling assault course for the team in claret and blue. The acquisition of 40 points for West Ham has now become a regular challenge since most teams who reach that exalted level always need smelling salts once they get to that point.

For West Ham laborious struggle has become almost common for a club of West Ham's status. On sober reflection the remarkable feats of the last two seasons, almost feel like some Hollywood fantasy film where all that glisters glistens. There was of course the horrendous Sam Allardyce period which even now leaves most of West Ham's hardened loyalists reaching for excessive quantities of alcohol whenever they think about it. Poor Allardyce is a friendly and likeable man but his footballing philosophies left a lot be desired. 

West Ham of course may have cause to be grateful that the Manuel Pellegrini ordeal is now well and truly behind them. The Chilean of course had led to Manchester City to the Premier League title but after a severely traumatic time at the London Stadium, was sacked when defeat after defeat became too much to bear for West Ham's owners David Gold and Sullivan. The final straw for Pellegrini was the Hammers humiliating FA Cup exit to AFC Wimbledon.

Now of course the midfield engine room of Tomas Soucek, Declan Rice supplemented by the willing and conscientious running of Jarrod Bowen, seemed to just dissolve before their fans eyes. West Ham's football does have the potential to take the breath away but then you realise that there are occasions when the pistons and pulleys are in dire need of oiling. None are panicking in East London but for those who have seen it all before, the machinery that used to serve West Ham so well now seems to be misfiring.

Completely against the run of play West Ham opened the scoring when after some intricate manoeuvres between the Brazilian Lucas Pacqueta and Said Benrahma, still a stunning talent when the mood takes him, left Benrahma on his own and the Algerian cracked home a special goal. By now Palace must have been cursing themselves since they were the only side who looked as though they could score a hatful of goals.

Under Patrick Viera, a player honed perfectly in the arts and crafts of the game by former Arsenal manager Arsene Wenger, Palace treat a football like a fondly cherished uncle, passing the ball around in ever increasing circles, commanding possession, guarding the ball jealously and then going through the geometric motions, angling the ball around as if it were some isosceles triangle. Viera has finally found the right chemistry and Palace looked the real deal, cohesive, clear in their thinking and gambling on the right cards.

On a day when even skipper Declan Rice wasn't quite the potent attacking force manager David Moyes might have been expecting and even the Brazilian Pacqueta looked as if he was far more preoccupied with thoughts of World Cups and Qatar, West Ham were appallingly off the pace. It is hard to find an adequate explanation for this lacklustre, desperately poor display for West Ham but sooner or later they may have to find something in reserve just to pacify restless fans.

In a couple of weeks time, the World Cup in Qatar does indeed begin and there is a school of thought that it can't come quickly enough for West Ham and Moyes. West Ham have yet to release the handbrake and you get the impression that they may be relishing the temporary break in the Premier League season.  

During next week West Ham play their Carabao Cup match against Blackburn Rovers before wrapping up the first half of the season with a home game against Leicester City who themselves look both morose and stagnant. Then the shutters go up on the Premier League season and some of us must be hoping that by the time they resume their campaign with a match against Premier League leaders Arsenal on Boxing Day the dust will have settled.

But these are worrying times for David Moyes and West Ham may be forced into finding something that will help them to escape the sticky treacle they now found themselves in. But Boxing Day and ironically Blackburn Rovers does have an unfortunate resonance for West Ham. An 8-2 victory for Rovers at Upton Park in 1963, still leaves West Ham cold. Oh for the simple joys of following the happy Hammers. Anybody for turkey sandwiches.

My new book called Football's Poetic Licence.

 My new book

Oh well it's book promotion time for yours truly. Yes folks yours truly has gone into print again with the publication of my fifth book called Football's Poetic Licence. Now for those of you who simply can't stand football and believe that it's nothing more than a sport for muddied oafs then you might want to stop for a minute and re-consider your options. Football is now commonly and historically regarded as the Beautiful Game, a game of vivid ball skills, close control, passing, shooting, tackling, beating the offside trap, defensive discipline and attacking brilliance. 

When the first public schools and universities first took football to the newest levels of prominence and publicity all those centuries ago, none of us knew that the game would achieve such a dramatic popularity seemingly overnight. Now it remains the global game, the game we used to acknowledge on a Saturday afternoon at three o'clock in the afternoon but now accept as a different phenomenon. Football is now played, or seemingly so, at any time of the day, month or week. It does seem to have morphed into the weekend sport that just finds random places in our gruelling work/play schedule. 

Football is the Premier League, the Championship, League One and League Two. It is all about VAR, modern technology, white sprays, referees who seem to change the colours of their clothing each and every week, the players, the coaches, the dug outs, the tears and tantrums and managers performing all manner of theatrical histrionics. There's Jurgen Klopp, the Liverpool manager, who seems to be at permanent war with not only the officials but everybody who doesn't agree with him. There's Pep Guardiola, the Manchester City manager, who has now produced the most ravishingly beautiful Manchester City team. And yet although City have now won a whole clutch of Premier League titles, Guardiola always looks as though he's lost his wallet and blown everything on the gambling casinos.

But I wonder if I could kindly turn your attention back to my new book called Football's Poetic Licence currently available at Amazon but will be distributed to yet more retail online book shops such as Waterstones, Foyles and Barnes and Noble online in due course. Football's Poetic Licence is football as poetry in motion. It is a book about vividly lyrical description, thought provoking imagery, rhyming in some cases but, above all, it's a book that will bring a smile or chuckle while you're sitting on a train, bus, drinking tea or coffee in a cafe, waiting at a railway platform or just looking for an entertaining read. 

I've always loved writing and have always written for as long as I can remember and have now taken that love to its logical progression. Throughout Football's Poetic Licence you'll find everything from poems about my football team West Ham United but also a whole variety of different themes ranging from the men's Euro 2020 squad, nostalgic poems about the World Cup, the FA Cup in all its splendour, one about my local team growing up Ilford Football Club, Premier League reviews in poetic homage form, my wonderful and lovely grandpa and dad. So before Christmas if you feel like dipping into or becoming deeply immersed into a book that is original, I think amusing and football as poetry in motion then this is definitely the book for you. Football's Poetic Licence is now at Amazon by Joe Morris. Thanks everybody.

Not long until the World Cup

 Not long until the World Cup

The world of football is approaching this World Cup with a good deal of well-founded fear and trepidation. Quite apart from the minor concerns surrounding its location, its choice of country and its wildly unseasonal timing, there are so many outside considerations that have to be taken into account. It could prove to be one of the most successful World Cups in recent history but the pall of controversy that has now fallen quite disturbingly over a World Cup in Qatar just doesn't sit right for some of us.

The traditionalists would have you believe that one of the most prestigious and glamorous of international tournaments should have been resolved at the beginning of July rather than a week before Christmas. This just feels barely credible since most of us have come to regard the World Cup as a hugely enjoyable extension to the regular domestic club season all over the world. But here we are on the final day of October, the clocks have just gone back an hour in Britain and the rest of the football world is still wrestling with its conscience. 

But it's not as if we hadn't prepared for the forthcoming football banquets in the Middle East. UEFA, in its infinite ignorance according to some, have experimented too far. We have now seen a whole host of exotic locations for football's global top table and perhaps we should be conditioned to the eccentricities of those who make these strangely surreal decisions on football's future. In theory, there is nothing inherently wrong with Qatar as the host of this winter's World Cup but then you hear the complaints, the madness of it all, the deeply questionable morality issues that have underpinned all the preparations for this World Cup.

In 2002 South Korea and Japan brought an endearing charm to the World Cup with their quaint Oriental traditions and customs, the pagodas and temples and, of course, their football. South Korea progressed sensationally in that year's tournament and almost reached the Final. Eight years later in South Africa, the horrific evil of apartheid and racial hatred paled into insignificance as South Africa, patriotically backed by the effervescent Nelson Mandela, made us all feel very good about each other. The nation of the beautiful veldts and the Springboks made the memorable noise of the vuvuzelas and the country revelled in the reflected glory.

Four years ago Kylian M'Bappe became the most dangerous, gifted and natural goal scorer France had produced since the likes of Thierry Henry, Just Fontaine and Raymond Kopa. France will be in Qatar as World Cup holders and hoping that their footballing heritage will stand them in good stead for this edition of the World Cup. The French have always given us gastronomic feasts of attacking football. You'd hardly expect anything else. But whether the seasoning and garnish will be present to complete their sumptuous approach work remains to be seen.

And of course England will be in Qatar because England always qualify for both Euros and World Cup tournaments. For a number of years now England seem to be thrown into qualifying groups that would make a majority of park footballers salivate with joy and lick their lips. But we then all laugh at the predictability of it all, England sailing serenely into a major tournament and then lulled into a false sense of security. In Qatar, England will be in familiar territory but in circumstances that may be alien. They may have been in French vineyards and Italian piazzas and among Spanish siestas but the deserts of Qatar could find them flummoxed, perhaps out of their comfort zone and longing for British tomato ketchup.

But England will always have their Gareth Southgate, a man so polished and progressive in his thinking that you'd think butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. There is something of the erudite student about Southgate that always reminds you of a university don swotting up for a history exam. The beard is still an integral part of his persona and the air of the barrack room lawyer is still as palpable as ever. Southgate is no court room inquisitor although there is nothing judgmental about him. He does though conduct himself at Press conferences with all the diplomatic restraint of a man who just wants the best for his national team.

On November 21st England open their group qualifying World Cup match with the kind of game against the USA that still sends awkward shivers down England fans spines. In the 2010 World Cup group game in South Africa, England manager Fabio Capello looked like a man who had just discovered that somebody had stolen his bottle of Chianti. When England striker Wayne Rooney started mouthing unpleasant sounding accusations against his England supporters you almost sympathised with him. A side held to a goal-less draw by Algeria still sounds like a minor grim apocalypse. Disaster struck.

It hardly seems like it of course but older England supporters may still be haunted by Billy Wright's England 72 years ago. Back then of course English football thought it was somehow brazenly superior to every footballing nation across the globe. There was a snobbish insularity about England's football, a stubborn refusal to recognise the rest of the world. But in 1950 the USA, who were barely on nodding terms with a football let alone play the game, pulled off the most astonishing win in World Cup history. Even now the sight of billions of Americans tuning into their radios for what seemed the impossible dream can only be imagined and much to their stunned amazement that the USA had beaten England 1-0 in Belo Horizonte, Brazil.

England then play Iran, who are at the moment a country once again in military turmoil, a country tormented by the memory of tin pot dictators and nothing even remotely redemptive. The Ayatollah still casts a pernicious shadow over Iran and war is something the people have become tragically accustomed to. Still, football does have an innate capacity for bringing nations together, for harmonising the dissenting voices, pacifying the violent thugs and the murderous minds. England should beat Iran quite comfortably but then we are talking about England here.

And finally England play their last group game against Wales. It's hard to believe that the last time Wales reached a World Cup, Bill Hayley and the Comets were still rocking around the clock. Then gentleman John Charles towered over the World Cup of 1958 in Sweden and the valleys were melodious again. Wales almost stopped everybody in our tracks when a stunning Gareth Bale free kick gave them the lead in Euro 2016 against England. England ran out as winners though the hearts were beating like trip hammers.

We've all heard about Qatar's disgraceful human rights record, its aversion to alcohol, its criminal stance on homophobia and its general sense of what can only be described as perhaps naivete. This is their first time as hosts of a World Cup and it's hard to know what to make of a country that still thinks of football as some kind of expedient political tool to make its voice heard around the world. The smell of corruption seems almost repulsive at times and the chances are that judgments of their World Cup suitability may have to go on hold. But we'll all be there on all social media platforms, heated phone ins, TV, radio, Smartphone and any device that just happens to be at our disposal. 

World Cups don't get any more contentious or polarising as this one in Qatar. Your thoughts turn back to Manchester City's owners and those who control the purse strings at Newcastle United. Arab sheikhs and the vulgar rich of both clubs are almost a dominant sight in the Premier League. We await the arrival of now the vastly populated men's World Cup in Qatar. If you're ready, then we shall begin.