What- no football today?

 What - no football today. 

You've got to be kidding. Surely not. Did we hear you correctly or is it just an unsubstantiated rumour? There's no Premier League football this weekend as is the case across the whole of Britain. Now usually there are valid reasons for its absence but then it occurred to you that football has come to its senses. The overabundance of football since Christmas has finally pricked the conscience of the FA and the game's authorities. Those poor, pampered footballers have finally been ordered to put their feet up today and just watch the rest of the world go by. It's sensible and has to be the right decision.

Within the last two weeks or so the Premier League has been bombarded with all manner of problems, complaints and criticisms. The truth is football needs a break, a time to recuperate, rub down those torn ligaments, cruciates, dodgy - looking bruises and awkward sprains. When all is said and done football is beginning to resemble an Accident and Emergency waiting room. Football is crying out for somebody to feel sorry for it, victims of circumstances perhaps but nonetheless worn out and groggy. 

There's the accumulation of Covid 19 related ailments and hundreds of players still either self isolating or just down in the dumps. Come on, we all feel that way from time to time but we don't start taking off weeks here and there just because we feel like it. And yet football needs to get away from it all and the persistent clamours for a mid winter break seem to have been heeded and not before time. Admittedly it's only a week but it's a week that football is in desperate need of. 

Throughout the rest of Europe, most of the weekly fixture list is normally given a couple of months off to re-charge its batteries, taking stock of its resources and recovering from the taxing exertions that have obviously taken their toll on them. But in Britain, we do things rather differently. We expect our players to run themselves into the ground, busting guts and playing until they drop. Eventually they reach the point of complete burn-out and exhaustion and then we wonder we simply can't win those big international tournaments such as the World Cup or the Euros.

Of course, this is the common faultline within the game and no matter how hard the impartial observer insists that the game be brought to a natural halt. those who think they know best just turn a blind eye. For years football has been walking into a thousand revolving doors blundering into its self- inflicted troubles as if they just didn't exist. Sometimes footballers, as cossetted as they are, still need a lie down in a quiet room if only for reflection on the season thus far and time to re-connect with the outside world. 

But surely this has to be a short period of  re-appraisal, looking back at the things that may have gone right or wrong so far. So today is the day for just laying back on the sofa indulging in a spot of transcendental meditation and searching for karma. This is the perfect opportunity to wind down and smell the coffee. Footballers, admittedly, are beginning to learn the art of moderation and whereas years ago they would think nothing of spending a great deal of their time in the bookmakers or a local tavern, now players drink the finest wines and then read a selection of sports psychology books. 

The fact is though that this weekend footballers have been given some gentle respite from the rigours of the Premier League. A couple of weeks ago Spurs had a treatment table that any doctor or surgeon would probably have been horrified to look at. Several of Tottenham's games had to be postponed owing to Covid 19 and the rest of the Leagues began to briefly panic. 

Now those near the top of the Premier League are also appealing for some quality time in the hope that the walking wounded can finally get some much needed help. Manchester City, currently top of the Premier League and heading inexorably towards back to back Premier League titles, will probably take themselves off to their owners Saudi idyll. Chelsea and Liverpool, for their part, will gather together for some leisurely warm weather training on some Mediterranean  sun-kissed island. 

So here we are the end of January and football has now taking a brief break from the pressures and expectations that have always made life extremely uncomfortable for them at times. But not for long. Next week the fourth round of the FA Cup makes its welcome return to football's already overcrowded schedule. 

The season is now in its second half and this is where everything becomes vital, crucial and critical. The teams at the top of their Leagues will be launching their armies into action hoping to be successful in their concerted bid for trophies and the adulation of their loyal fanbase. Relegation and promotion issues will be rapidly resolved and by Easter we should know who's been doomed and who's been crowned.

 Norwich and Newcastle are now rallying at the bottom of the Premier League while Manchester City should be handed the Premier League trophy sometime in early Spring. Chelsea and Liverpool will be battling it out for Champions League places while your claret and blue West Ham heroes would like to think that this could be the year of years for another European expedition. You would love to reserve your optimism for a glorious day in May.but then something tells you that this is simply wishful thinking. Of course the Hammers will blow their bubbles but this may have to be tempered with reality. Here's hoping for a grandstand finish at the London Stadium.    

Derby County- a great club in trouble, Clough and Taylor

Derby County - a great club in trouble. 

Sometimes football has the capacity to leave you shocked and dumbfounded. You then find yourself looking for explanations, possible reasons and still you're none the wiser. The horrific plight that faces Derby County sends a shiver down the spine. It hardly seems possible because once Derby won the old First Division championship twice within three years- or as it's now known- the Premier League. So this is how it goes. Derby are in big trouble, huge financial trouble and the likelihood is that if they don't sort out their mounting debts, then this could be the end of the road for them. Great clubs are never exempt from the dreaded day and shortly but hopefully not, this will not be that day. 

The fact is that Derby County are on the verge of bankruptcy and could shortly be issued up winding- up orders and never allowed to play again. This is not without precedent since football has also been there. A couple of years Bury went out of business because Covid 19 had played havoc with their existence as a football club. Simply put, the club were haemorrhaging losses rather like a seriously sick hospital patient without a life-support machine. This is not the most pleasing analogy you could make but for Derby it must feel this way. 

Fifty years ago of course it was all so different. Brian Clough and Peter Taylor rocked up at the old Baseball Ground with a mission to transform Derby County into one of the biggest football clubs in Britain. By then of course Clough had become so convinced that Derby would win trophies sooner or later that few questioned his air of misplaced confidence, some would have said arrogance, that bumptious presumption that Derby would conquer all, winning trophies regularly and conquering Europe. It almost happened but then the fleeeting moments passed and now Derby, without entirely falling from grace, could lose their League status.

It all seems a far cry from those days when Clough and Taylor had proudly sat at the top of a coach, showing off the old First Divsion championship. The trophy was paraded around the streets of Derby and the crowds were adoring, besides themselves with elation and barely believing what had just happened to their club. It would only be another three years before Derby hit the jackpot with another pot of gold. The League Championship was brought back to the Baseball Ground and Derby began to rub their eyes. 

Your mind went back to those 1970s days when Derby were highly regarded, respected and revered by football's cognoscenti. They were the bees knees, the flavour of every month, a side of stature, status and a club who were going places. Clough insisted in playing the game properly, a fastidious task master, a perfectionist, critical of his players, the chairmen, the directors and, quite possbily the tea lady if she hadn't made Clough a cup immediately. 

Clough once said at Brighton that after a lengthy discussion with the chairman Mike Bamber, that they would get together and at the end of the lengthy chat, decide that, as usual, he was the only one who was always right and everybody should be accountable to him. Once Brighton were heavily beaten by Bristol Rovers 8-2 and even then the opinion was much the same. 

We all remember of course Clough's legendary days at Nottingham Forest when two successive First Division championships and two consecutive European Cups were won. By contrast there were the grim and catastrophic days at Leeds United when Clough was given only 44 days to revive Leeds and then found he didn't meet with Leeds approval. So Clough warned Leeds if they hadn't bucked up their ideas and listened to them carefully, he would walk out of the door quite swiftly and abruptly. He did and the rest is history. 

So Clough and Taylor just got up and stormed out of Elland Road because when he told Billy Bremner, Peter Lorimer and Johnny Giles that they could chuck their medals into the bin, some thought this was a kidology, a quite hilarious joke. But Clough meant it. Yes quite forcefully. So much so that they made a film about it called the Damned United. 

Now though the club are managed by one Wayne Rooney. The former England forward with a much publicised private life, stepped up out of nowhere and took over a Derby side not only struggling for respectability but slowly bleeding. They are now in the Championship( the old Second Division in the old currency). Covid 19 punched a damaging hole in the club's profit margins and the fans could only sit at home and wait patiently. Derby are now clinging onto the edge of a metaphorical cliff and the club are on the verge of disappearing altogether. 

Football's financial infrastructure is so complicated these days that you'd need to be a mathematician or distinguished economist to figure out the minutiae of a club's accounts books. Derby would be well advised not to look at either Manchester City or Newcastle since a horrific inferiority complex may just invade their space. The appointment of Arab trillionaires at both the Etihad and St James Park is all very well but what do you do when somebody tells you that you haven't paid your electricity bills for ages? You may be entitled to think that the world is conspiring against you. 

Derby, of course are still alive or just about. They're floating on the surface and buoyant but sooner or later the bills will have to be paid, players paid for that month and the wolf kept from the door. Derby, from an entirely impartial view, deserve rather better. They are one of football's nice guys, capable of so much more and a side with potential written straight through it. But underneath the turbulent surface, things are spiralling completely out of control. 

This is the club who once witnessed the good, old fashioned days, days when football grounds resembled allotment sites, mudheaps and cabbage patches that were never remotely suited to football. On one Saturday afternoon Derby were playing Manchester City at the old Baseball Ground. The season was well into its spring equinox and the pitch was now almost completely devoid of grass. Derby were given a penalty and the world stopped on its axis. Here's the question. What do you do when the penalty spot is no longer visible and something has to be done. You look to the groundsman who just happens to have a pot of white-wash at his disposal. Penalty spot restored. Problem solved. 

Derby's roll call of the great and good are stitched into the club's Rams crest. Dave Mckay had enjoyed a wonderful career at Spurs before joining Derby County. Mckay was a giant of a defender, an impenetrable obstacle in the face of hungry opponents. He was a rock, ruthless, remorseless, as hard as they come, blocking everybody and physically overwhelming, a bruiser of a centre half who stood for no-nonsense. There was Kevin Hector, Roy Mcfarland in the early 1970s, Bruce Rioch and Archie Gemmell in later years. Derby once went head to head with Real Madrid and almost triumphed. It seems an age ago.

So there you are Ladies and Gentlemen. Derby County are fighting for their lives and football can barely believe it. Pride Park is their new home and the pastures should be greener than ever. Sadly though Derby are teetering on the brink. It must be hoped that by the time the FA Cup Fourth Round has been and gone this weekend, the Rams are battering something rather more meaningful. Talk of the FA Cup may take some of their older supporters back to 1947 when the Rams brought home the FA Cup. We wish them well.          

Fury and Joshua- the big showdown this year.

 Fury and Joshua - the big showdown this year.

Boxing loves its big occasions, those spectacular bouts of blood and sweat, head-to- head encounters where thick, muscular boxers with washboard flat stomachs go hell for leather in a determined effort to regain heavyweight belts and then spit poison at their opponent before the ring bells. You must have seen it by now. They square up to each other with fists brandished and violent hatred in their eyes. Of course it's showmanship and excellent publicity for both promoters and the thousands of media outlets watching their every move. 

Once again the names of Anthony Joshua and Tyson Fury will always drop into pre-fight conversations. For as long as any of us can remember boxers have known exactly how to talk a good fight. They'll eye ball each other for seemingly ages, threaten to murder each other on the spot while privately knowing that such bravado is bound to backfire on both. But TV can't get enough of the cocky rhetoric, the small talk, the boastful statements and the verbal grandstanding from both camps as they seek destruction, the ultimate knock out and lights going out. It remains one of the most compelling reasons for watching boxing. 

Of course we are familiar with the old flannel, the provoking and goading, the nastiness and the bloodthirsty brutality. When Cassius Clay became Muhammad Ali, Ali would conduct most of his interviews in the ring, sparring and dancing, jumping and skipping, floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. He would bite his teeth together, grin fixed firmly, sneering theatrically, snarling ferociously and then breaking into the kind of routine that would have packed a thousand comedy clubs. 

When Ali was busy engaging the likes of Joe Frazier and George Foreman, it was rather like following a travelling circus. We would all watch in stunned amazement as a blizzard of fists from Ali would almost invariably become the precursor to savage maulings. Ali would wave his arms around like windmills, hurling insults at his closest rivals, calling their bluff, psyching them out, amusingly humiliating them and then dismissing them with a bold announcement about the number of the round the fight would stop. 

And once again Joshua and Fury find themselves within easy target range. Joshua is the clever manipulator, the man who will simply let his boxing speak on his behalf. Joshua, you feel sure, will have nothing but praise and flattery for whoever he fights. He will avoid though the posturing and the preening, the oaths and gestures, the potty predictions and the dishonourable intentions on the night. There is a very real air of shrewdness about Joshua, a man of understatement who clearly won't be drawn into making comments he may learn to regret. 

Fury, for his part, is infinitely more controversial. a man used to the spotlight and embracing it fully. Fury is already notorious for his thoughts on women, homosexuality and religion. You may not like what you hear from his mouth but it's uncompromisingly Fury. He means it quite categorically. And yet Ali was the one who avoided being drafted into service to be ready for Vietnam so the life of a boxer is clearly not as straightforward as some would have us believe. 

During the 1950s and 1960s, Britain's Henry Cooper became such a well-established household name that when the boxing career had to be halted the advertising agencies would have a field day. During the 1970 a famous after- shave lotion would heighten awareness of Cooper's commercial value. Cooper would splash it all over and the world of boxing could only watch in admiration as Our 'Enry' would capture the imagination of the after-dinner circuit and a thousand chat shows. 

And so it is that Anthony Joshua and Tyson Fury will now be preparing for a year that they hope will culminate in handsome victory. Of course we have been here before. Frank Bruno, who became one of the most endearing figures in world boxing, once tried desperately to outwit Mike Tyson and then found he was fighting a lost cause. Lennox Lewis, both Canadian and British, was well intentioned, brave and heroic for a while at least while the rest of the courageous bruisers almost grabbed heavyweight belts but were never quite up to the onerous task. Watch this space for further developments in the Joshua and Fury series of mind games.  Be ready for yet more exaggerated hype.     

Check out my new football poetry.

 I've just ventured into the world of football poetry so if you go to the Football Poets website you'll find all of my recent poems including the latest called 1966 and all that. 

Thanks everybody

Joe Morris

It's Friday at 10 Downing Street.

 It's Friday at 10 Downing Street

It's Friday evening at 10 Downing Street. Larry the Cat is still wandering the streets of Westminster with a very circumspect air as if privately suspicious that nobody will understand the frustration he may be feeling at the moment. His owner Boris Johnson and his family are trying to keep a very low profile because the knives are out for Johnson, his erstwhile friends are turning on him and nobody seems to have a great deal of time for him. 

A couple of days ago David Davis, who used to back Johnson to the hilt on most issues of note, stood up and savagely attacked Johnson without resorting to four-letter expletives but vile invective that was designed to hurt his former colleague in the Cabinet. Davis more or less told Johnson to go now before somebody pushes him over the precipice. Johnson may think he's survived the worst of the flak but the bullets are still flying and those slanderous snipes can still be heard in the House of Lords. 

Was this what life was like when the Victorian Whigs met all political opposition with much louder heckling and some pretty blisteringly cutting comments. But this is all-out warfare. Fridays have never seemed so appealing to Boris Johnson if only because the weekend is here and he's safe for the time being at least. His reputation is still intact but for how too long? The persecution complex could be forgiven but then Prime Ministers ought to be conditioned to such character assassination. 

At the beginning of this week Johnson's job was hanging so precariously in the balance that any impartial observer would have come to the conclusion that there would be no point in just hanging around for dear Boris because he's running out of supporters and the damage has been done. But amazingly Johnson is clinging onto his life raft if only because there are no logical replacements and the gig is just a poisoned chalice. Who on earth would want to undertake the harrowing responsibilities of leading your country when everybody wants you out now immediately before the hole gets deeper and deeper? 

So here you are Boris Johnson. You can take it easy since the working week is now over and besides who's going to bother you when the rest of the public are probably embarking on some of the very uproarious, roisterous partying that the Prime Minister was accused of in the first place. This is surely a case of what goes around comes around and, besides, cliches are pointless. Johnson will probably try to wind down with a bottle of red but then he may be haunted by the last time he spilt wine over somebody or something. 

There was the embarrassing episode when Johnson accidentally tipped some red wine over his partner and now wife Carrie's laptop. Since then of course, everything that could have gone so disastrously wrong for the Prime Minister did so. Admittedly, a comprehensive vaccine rollout for Britain may save Johnson both from voluntary resignation or facing himself in the mirror with any pride. Covid 19 remains Johnson's only means of salvation and the sooner Sue Gray's damning report is announced is out of the way the better. Maybe he'll get off with a gentle reprimand and a slap over the knuckles. He'll be warned but then told that under no circumstances should this ever happen again. 

Friday evening then has come to Boris Johnson's rescue and the soul searching has now begun. There will be head burying, anxious ruffling of that famous thatch of blond hair and a good deal of even more introspection. He will probably pace up and down the living room, pulling out his book on Churchill in the hope that it might serve as obvious inspiration. Then he'll stroll over to a desk or table, shuffling through sheaves of paper, sorting through documents and then sighing despairingly because what else he can do?

He'll smile longingly at Carrie, lovingly stroke his dogs and then wonder if it's worth all the hassle and aggravation. He could cut his losses and just quit as soon as possible or he could go to a rugby union match tomorrow in the hope that anonymity will be found in some remote corner of a stand. You feel sure that even a feeble attempt at just getting on with the business in hand will become impossible. What else do you do when the nation wants you to just quit and leave the crazy world of politics once and for all? The penny may drop for Johnson but he may not get the hint. 

Now accusations of blackmail and intimidation have been levelled at Johnson. Some of his reliable comrades are now his traitors. Yesterday Johnson found himself surrounded by gang warfare, bloodthirsty betrayals from his own party and all manner of sneaky skulduggery. Shakespeare would probably have enough material for a mini adaptation of any of his great works on the BBC. This is now beyond satire or mickey taking, the kind of scatological irreverence the Bard would have relished. 

It is at times like this that your mind goes back to the last days of Margaret Thatcher when there was blood, quite literally, all over the 10 Downing Street carpet. Thatcher staggered across a private room, reaching out for the comfort of husband Denis's arms. She then left Downing Street, ducking into the back of a car for the last time, tears flooding her cheeks, ruined forevermore. 

A couple of years ago Theresa May, the second female Prime Minister, who had now inherited the mess left behind her political predecessors, seemingly blundered horrifically. After huffing and puffing, indecision and all manner of delaying tactics over the resolution of Brexit. May, rather like Thatcher, sobbed uncontrollably when she thought the country had lost faith in her as well. She insisted that she loved Britain but that was never going to be good enough. 

But tonight Boris Johnson is at the heart of a monumental crisis. He must have known that a full- blooded rave inside Downing Street the night before Prince Philip's death would never have been greeted with widespread glee. Then there was the small matter of those other boozefests, vigorous jiving and jumping by the filing cabinets and general hip shaking bonhomie. So tactless Boris shamefacedly and bitterly apologised for any inconvenience he may have caused.

Yesterday he was grilled once again for the benefit of the early evening news bulletins and he may just as well have been auditioning for an episode of Emergency Ward 10. Masked completely, Johnson came out with some muffled, half-baked apology and then denied any knowledge about anything nasty or nefarious at all. He then pleaded for more time since the number of Covid 19 fatalities were falling and, by this time next week, those masks will become museum exhibits.

In mitigation, Johnson has been at the helm for quite a long time now and it isn't all gloom and doom. Of course the coronavirus will have to be dealt with for perhaps the rest of our lives. But dear Mr Johnson has negotiated all the pitfalls that he must have known would come his way. We are into the third year of this global pandemic and Johnson does seem to have taken us through all the misery, death and suffering, the estrangement from loved ones and the recovery is more or less complete. So well done Boris Johnson. We won't have a drink on your behalf. We know it's Friday but caution may be the watchword. Enjoy your weekend Prime Minister.   

Novak Djokovic- send him home immediately.

 Novak Djokovic- send him home immediately.

Above all the fuss and furore it's come to this. Surely one of the greatest tennis players of all time has been sent packing and told to go home. Novak Djokovic, the Serbian magician with the seemingly Midas touch has now outraged the whole of the sporting world with the kind of appalling behaviour that some of us can hardly believe. Sometimes sportsmen and women love to court controversy. It keeps them in the public's mind, reminding them that they're still there and still adored by their fans. But this one takes the biscuit. This time Djokovic has pushed too many buttons and there can be no forgiveness. 

So what did he do to incur this disgust, this shocked opprobrium and general resentment from the global sporting community? Surely he hasn't been accused of fraud or embezzlement because we'd have certainly have known by now. No, this smacks of arrogance, a real sense of entitlement, and snobbish, hoity-toity superciliousness. Djokovic though is now a figure of vilification, the bad boy who will have to sit on the naughty step. His crime has been widely documented in the last couple of days. 

Last week he packed his bags in readiness for a flight to Australia in the hope of capturing yet another Grand Slam to add to his phenomenal collection so far. He was due to take part in the Australian Open and none of us knew at the time quite how vile a stink this would ultimately cause. But then came the news that dear Novak had yet to take what should have been the compulsory Covid 19 vaccine. But oh no. How degrading. How dare they force him to do something that he clearly had no intention of carrying out.

For Djokovic though the show had to go on. The superiority complex had begun to filter down to the game's highest authorities. No one tells a champion to subject himself to a perfectly harmless jab in the arm even if the rest of the world.- or a vast majority of the globe- has already done so. So what happened next? The Serbian bides his time, checks into an Australian airport confident in the knowledge that very few objections would be heard. Stop there. Maybe you've underestimated our intelligence, Grand Slam champion and tennis maestro. 

After much deliberation and careful consideration, Australia told him to go home, sling his hook, get lost, go back to Serbia and you're not welcome in our country. So sheepishly he puts his mask back on and before you know it, the tennis genius gets his marching orders. He was told to pack his belongings, go through customs, have his passport rigorously checked and off you go sir. You'd be well advised never to darken our corridors again. Who do you think you are? A serial Wimbledon winner. 

The truth is that there is now a genuine air of toxicity and hostility. This is not what tennis was waiting for after a lengthy absence from our observation point. Once Djokovic warmed the hearts of his idolatrous following, thinking he was the best thing since sliced bread. He was the finest tennis player on Earth, an immaculate fusion of wondrous technique, a man whose delicacy of touch on the volley and half volley at the net, was sweetness itself.

Here was a tennis player who had it all: there was the booming finality of his first service, a lethal weapon in every sense of the word. There were the miraculous forehand returns down the tramlines, the cut and slice of shot that had deception all over it. There were the vigorous rallies that lasted for the best part of who knows how long, the chipping and charging towards the net, the alertness, the incredible anticipation, the remarkable reflexes and then the returns of serve that whistled past his opponents. 

But now Djokovic has blotted his copybook. He's upset the Establishment, lost the respect of those who thought he had a moral compass and he's probably let himself down into the bargain. We all know that sportspeople are paid extortionate sums of money running into millions, their wealth obscene and totally disproportionate to the rest of the public who so loyally follow them everywhere. But there must come a point when attitudes have to be examined and mindsets are closely monitored. 

So the world begins to wonder whether there will ever any show of repentance from the Serbian who, in theory, still belongs in the highest pantheon of world sport. We can only hope that one day he'll wake up and discover that maybe he isn't the exception to the rule. The world awaits future developments in the Djokovic camp. This summer, you suspect, we may well find out exactly what kind of reception he'll get from those at SW19. At the moment the jury is out. 

Oh Boris- what on earth are you doing?

 Oh Boris- what on earth are you doing?

What on earth were you thinking of, Boris? You've pushed the moral parameters so far back that we may have trouble in ever trusting you ever again. Sometimes you get the feeling that all politicians are completely lacking in any conscience or sense of compassion. Then again this one has got  Boris's DNA fingerprints all over it. We shouldn't be surprised but we are simply amazed. When a convicted criminal is brought up before a jury for the umpteenth time there has to be a point when the prison cell keys have to be rattled. 

Amid all the outrage and incredulity, one man and one man only stands before the nation as the ultimate law-breaker committing the same crime over and over again. It need hardly be said that Boris Johnson, the British prime minister, has broken so many of his self imposed rules and regulations that only the most highly esteemed judge would have little compunction in passing the final sentence. In fact why on earth has Sue Gray, the adjudicator on these matters of state, been required to make her legal contribution when we all know that Boris is guilty as sin?

So where were you on the night of May 20 2020 Mr Johnson? It has been brought to our attention that while the rest of Britain was scared witless, petrified of going anywhere and dreading the coronavirus you Mr Johnson were violating your own set of newly implemented laws. You, quite blatantly, went out of your way to organise any number of boozy garden parties with as much alcohol as you could pour down your throats. You invited what probably amounts to half of your Cabinet to said parties, brought down several ghetto blasters for some loud rave music, got thoroughly blotto and then just danced the night away without a single thought for your own misdeeds. 

But then to add insult to injury on the day before the sad death of His Royal Highness the Duke of Edinburgh you thought it was a jolly good idea to have the wildest and noisiest party of all time. You assumed, in your fatuous ignorance, that a good, old-fashioned knees up and celebration would provide the country with a welcome antidote to its ills and medical struggles. Now forgive me if we're wrong Mr Johnson but the Her Majesty the Queen's husband had only died 24 hours before your party. Didn't it occur to you Mr Johnson that this was neither the time or place for any enjoyment of any sort.

And so we're left with all of the old stereotypes. Former Old Etonian does his utmost to have a good time regardless of the solemnity that had fallen across his Britain. Old Etonian probably gets blusteringly drunk, sticks up two disdainful fingers at the Establishment and tells them exactly what he thinks about the Royal Family and before you know it a full blown scandal has just swept through Westminster.

Now to refer to this latest episode in the life and times of Boris Johnson as disgraceful and utterly reprehensible would be another understatement. Not content with either being there or not, the fact remains that our Old Etonian party animal has let down not only the country but, seemingly everybody around him. Even your own colleagues are thinking of jumping ship, quite rightly abandoning you and deserting you in their droves.This is outrageously unacceptable behaviour and any number of feeble apologies will not cut it. This will never do and you know it won't.

What we have here is a music hall joke and pastiche for Prime Minister. For far too long now the blond one from Uxbridge has shambled around the country like a dishevelled kid who refuses to comb their hair at the  end-of -year classroom photo. Now we could make allowances for your total ineptitude by just glossing over this blunder and hoping that you'll learn by your mistakes. But somehow Mr Johnson we don't think you will. You do the same thing time after time and to be perfectly frank, it doesn't look good for you.

How many more times are you going to trip over your own banana skin and just make the same mistake over and over again? We think and the jury must consider this. We think that you're behaving like this because you're an attention seeker, always insisting that the spotlight should only be on you. We should not call you narcissistic because if that had been the case you'd spend most of your time trying desperately to comb that devastated mop of blond hair. We think you'd just stare at yourself in the mirror just in case your ego decides to go on a long sabbatical. No chance of that happening, we suspect. 

And so the drama continues unabated. Our other Right Honourable friend, one Jacob Rees Mogg, one of Boris's closest buddies, has obviously given his friend the benefit of the doubt. Rees Mogg, a man lost in his own time warp, gives the most excessively patronising speech you'll ever hear in the House of Comedy or should that be Commons. Of course Rees Mogg knows how hard the last two years have been for everybody in Britain and the rest of the world. His heart goes out to all the families who have lost loved ones and why wouldn't he? But then he lowers the tone in a simpering voice and tries to convince all of his Cabinet colleagues that he's deeply sorry for any inconvenience which may have been caused. 

Today Boris Johnson stands accused and condemned as the villain of the piece. You'd have thought by now that somehow the penny had dropped for Johnson. You did break the law several times over apparently. You did have your hand in the cookie jar and these are transgressions that may never be forgiven. You've betrayed your country when you thought nobody was looking and you've alienated most of the British population. We don't hate you Mr Johnson but we think your latest indiscretions should be punished accordingly. 

We are now in dangerous political territory. We have a Prime Minister who lied through his teeth not once but repeatedly so. He said he was full of remorse and he didn't mean to do what he did but hope you'll understand that every so often humans make rash judgements. Yes of course humanity is flawed and vulnerable but perhaps the Prime Minister thought this one through, that the very concept of holding any party on the night before the passing of a much loved member of the Royal Family is simply an insult to their memory. Sorry Boris but this time you've run out of excuses. Could the nation please have your resignation? It's for the best.    

Oh what a luxury- lunch at the Savoy with my lovely wife.

 Oh what luxury- lunch at the Savoy with my lovely wife. 

The day could hardly have been better. My lovely wife and yours truly were being dined and wined at the Savoy Grill, Gordon Ramsey's restaurant. We were surrounded by towering grandeur, eye-popping opulence and truly astonishing service from our waiter for the afternoon. This had been a treat from my wonderful son and his lovely daughter-in-law and was due to take place last November but had been left until yesterday. Both my wife and yours truly are both November babies but here we were almost halfway through January and, boy, this was pretty special.

You can never truly appreciate the magnitude of such magnificence, gracious living, and overwhelming luxury. All of London's five-star hotels are of course renowned for their style, class and their obvious state of impeccable perfection. The Savoy Hotel in the Strand in London's relatively quiet West End streets, was, of course a sight to behold. But we were enormously privileged to be among such architectural grandiosity, such glittering, thick pillars and columns. Oh we shouldn't forget those lovely revolving doors. 

Throughout the ages London's magnificent hotels are the one reason why so many tourists converge from all over the world just to experience their unparalleled beauty. Famously, the late Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher died in the Ritz with a book on her bed and Elaine Stritch, the American actress, lived in the Savoy for years or so you're led to believe. There is something about a London hotel that lends the capital city a world-class status and stature. Hotels are steeped in history and heritage, celebrity and lavish pampering. It almost seemed too good to be true. 

From the moment my wife and yours truly walked into the Savoy we knew we'd stepped into an entirely new world, a world as far removed from the poverty of Britain's council estates as it was possible to be. The reception area is replete with a draught board patterned floor which could quite as easily pass for a game of chess as well. Around us were scurrying footmen, suitcases and the kind of furniture you'd probably see at Harrods. We knew that our breaths would be taken away at such courtesy, such splendid hospitality, a setting that could never be bettered or improved on. We were not to be disappointed. 

On arrival, we were ushered over towards our table and made to feel like royalty. A gentleman in grey waistcoat and suit gently guided us in the direction of our table. Chairs were regally pulled out from under the table and we both sat down. Then in what looked like a meticulously planned ceremony, the wine waiter emerged from nowhere. Would we like red or white wine? My wife went for the white wine and husband joined in.

Wherever you looked around the Savoy Grill you were surrounded by all the hotel paraphernalia that you might have been expecting. There were marble columns, plush seats and, quite possibly, chaise longue. There were couples, families, businessmen and women all engaged in seemingly whispered conversations both confidential and, it has to be said, intriguing. Were they deeply engaged in discussion about the merits of all the London hotels and were they making in-depth comparisons with each of the other hotels? It was hard to tell. 

So our orders were taken and we promptly tucked into our lunchtime meal, hungry of course but honoured to be in such exalted company. Yours truly was suitably attired in smart black suit and tie plus a lanyard around my neck which was my way of proving that you couldn't wear a mask. The food of course was excellent and thoroughly nutritious but you couldn't help but sigh at your surroundings. You felt sure that among the plushness and sumptuousness of the Savoy, were a million stories about princes and princesses, film stars, queens and kings, showbiz celebrities, fashionistas, prime ministers and presidents from innumerable countries. 

And so we took our leave of the Savoy Grill relieved perhaps that Gordon Ramsey hadn't been there to pass judgement on the quality of his food. Now of course Mr Ramsey has our undying respect and his reputation as one of our best chefs in the world goes without saying. But then you thought about the honesty of the man, the directness of the man, some would say rudeness of the man but some of us have nothing but admiration for the former Rangers footballer. But some of us would like to go on record as insisting that Gordon Ramsey's food is simply outstanding. Well done sir. 

Everton beat Hull in FA Cup third round thriller.

 Everton beat Hull in FA Cup third round. 

In the year that the FA Cup celebrates its 150th anniversary, Everton blew out all the birthday cake candles and reminded everybody that it's still going strong and will never lose the magic that it may have lost in recent years. Admittedly, the likes of Royal Engineers and the Old Etonians are now nothing more than museum pieces in the history of the game but the FA Cup's modern-day counterparts are no less enthusiastic or willing to play their part in the healthy functioning of the Beautiful Game. 

Yesterday Everton, once referred to as the Bank of England, such was their financial standing in the game, got the better of Championship side Hull in a thrilling, utterly absorbing FA Cup third-round tie. Football and the FA Cup are almost inseparably wedded to each other rather like married couples who will always remain devoted despite the trials and tribulations. But this was an enduring relationship that has to survive setbacks and occasional indifference. 

For Everton though the FA Cup is now a temporary means of escapism from the highly charged and fiercely competitive environment that is the Premier League. Despite the arrival of Rafa Benitez Everton are still struggling and scrambling, gasping for breath, desperately clinging onto life rafts while at the same time reaching out for any kind of consistency. It seems inevitable that they will bob up and down in the turbulent seas of mid-table security in the Premier League for the moment but for one evening at least they were spared any more humiliating ordeals. 

Hull City for their part, may still have a soft spot for those golden days in the Premier League, a period of time that seems so long ago that it may have been just a passing phase in the club's otherwise undistinguished history. The likes of Brian Horton, a rock of dependability for Hull from many decades ago, now feels like some ancient folk song. Ken Wagstaff and Stuart Pearson were also instrumental in the development of the club in the depths of the old Third and Second Divison but little else. 

But Boothferry Park, for so long, the comfortable home where Hull once played their football, is no more than some fond relic from the past. They are now handily placed in League One which is more or less where they were over 50 years ago. There hasn't been a great deal to cheer about in Humberside and even the rugby league side haven't exactly scaled the dizzy heights. Hull did chance their arm at the Premier League side and did make waves for some time. But then reality set in and after being beaten by Arsenal in the 2014 FA Cup Final, they were never the same. It's hard to believe that they flattened Arsenal with two quickfire goals in the game but an Aaron Ramsey-inspired Arsenal scrubbed out that advantage. 

And yet for at least the best part of the first 20 minutes of this enchanting FA Cup third round tie, Hull had Everton exactly where they wanted them to be. This was no giant-killing contest though and no more romantic than a mouldy box of chocolates. But there was an earthy authenticity to the match that still felt as if it was a liaison made for two. Hull were dogged, determined, well-intentioned, sporadically threatening in attack but no more dangerous than a Humberside dockyard fishing trawler in calm waters. 

In their previous League One match Hull had blasted four goals past Northampton and manager Grant McCann, formerly a player with West Ham many moons ago, must have thought the FA Cup would provide him with the ultimate dreamscape. But the FA Cup does rehearse its lines and it tends to stick to the script. Everton did beat their Championship opponents albeit narrowly in extra time. This had indeed been a gripping, intoxicating, full-blooded, end to end Cup tie and none us were remotely surprised by the end result.  

After a barely believable start to the game, Hull had Everton on the metaphorical ropes, pinning their Premier League opponents back into the corner with wild, swinging punches to the midriff that must have been painful for Everton.  The wondrous and often delightful Keane Lewis Potter, full of fire and brimstone, a ball of energy and dynamism, combined devastatingly to break into the Everton penalty area with George Honeyman, a yellow and black force of nature. Then the irrepressible Tyler Smith, full of youthful get up and go, worked forcefully and industriously with Tom Eaves up front for Hull. 

When Tyler Smith rose powerfully for a free kick and sent a brilliant flying header that arrowed its way downwards past helpless Everton keeper Asmiir Begovic, it looked as though David was ready to slay Goliath. Sadly though Hull faded from view as an attacking force and it wasn't long before Everton capitalised on their hosts deficiencies whenever they had possession. Hull began to run out of the proverbial steam and the electricity had been pulled from the home side's plug socket.

Everton now had Demarai Gray in sparkling form and the team began to pick out passes from both the flanks and the central areas of the pitch. Everton were now quicker, prettier and spritelier on both the attack and counter attack. Gray in particular, regularly tormented with neat, sweet feet that shuffled, flicked and then bemused Hull. It was Gray who, cutting quickly inside his defender, turned full circle on the edge of the Hull penalty area before taunting again. He then concocted an intricate one-two with Anthony Gordon whose final pass saw Gray firing into the net for the Toffees equaliser. 

Minutes later Everton had gone in front. The visitors were now stripping open the home side's defence rather like wallpaper and it all looked so easy for the visitors. There was a measured poise and quiet authority to their football that maybe they thought they'd left behind at Goodison Park. Jon Joe Kenny, Michael Keane and Seamus Coleman were organised and settled at the back, never really troubled or flustered at any point. Viitalili Mykolenko looked progressive and forward thinking, Allan, the Brazilian was always delicate and inventive while Andre Gomes once again excelled with some marvellous ball control, magical running with the ball and a technical ability that shone through. 

After a scintillating chain of smart and intelligent passes across the front of the Hull penalty area with Kenny and Gordon at the heart of it all, Gomes leapt and thundered home a downward header for Everton's second. It looked like game, set and match even then since Hull were being sucked into a deep hole from which they simply could not re-surface again. 

By the hour Everton were just rotating the ball in ever- increasing circles, the ball moving skilfully and effectively around a yellow and black defensive honeypot. When Andros Townsend who does have a penchant for the spectacular shot from distance after yet more nifty shifting of passes, latched onto the ball, the former Spurs and Crystal Palace winger cracked a curling, dipping and swerving shot that flew past Hull goalkeeper Nathan Butler. Now the contest was no longer. Even extra time couldn't come to Hull's rescue. 

Hull, to their credit, kept battling away spiritedly and when the impressively cultured Tom Huddlestone came on from the subs bench, Hull began to sputter into life but not for long. Huddlestone, spotting Ryan Longman running into space on the blindside, clipped the ball into Longman's path and the Hull rookie blasted the ball into the Everton net for a deserved consolation goal. But that was as good as it got for Hull. 

Everton eked out the final stages of the ball with patient keep ball and admirable game management. Hull had run out of petrol and extra time produced only occasional flashes of movement from the home team. Premiership status and stature had told on the night and Hull can now prioritise their attentions on promotion back to the Premier League which still looks a work in progress.

   

National Take A Poet out for Lunch Day.

 National Take A Poet out For Lunch Day. 

Now there was a time when the whole concept of  National Celebrations of the Day was fairly commonplace and something we could all identify with. But then along comes National Take Out A Poet for a Lunch Day and we're all completely flummoxed. How to explain the significance of a day that really doesn't seem to scan on any level. Still, let's go with the flow and just build up a picture of poets having lunch. Besides the Bard William Shakespeare always did insist that music should always be the food of love. But the Stratford Upon Avon playwright and poet never did live to see a Pret A Manger or a Chinese restaurant in London's West End so maybe we should just use our imagination. 

Still, it is worth pondering on the whole scenario of poets sitting down to a four course meal in an Italian restuarant complete with loads of pasta, spaghetti or just a huge plate of lasagne. You call over the waiter or waitress, scribble down some poetic ideas on the back of a serviette and then just wait for inspiration. You'll then order the Caesar Salad or grab a Pannini with chicken and salad before tucking in a liberal helping of a cheese and pickle sandwich accompanied with the much loved packet of crisps. 

It should be pointed out that this piece was written yesterday so this is my brief synopsis on the world of Poets and Lunches. 

New Year, new slate, new hopes.

 New Year, new slate, new hopes. 

Happy and Healthy New Year everybody. Yes here we are at the beginning of another chapter of our lives, a new year, new hopes and new wishes. We can ask no more. Under normal circumstances the start of January would have been the time and place to get cracking on signing up for full membership of your local gym, losing weight by substantial stones, keeping fit and generally building up a portfolio for personal targets, getting promotion at work and then ensuring that everything runs smoothly. 

But then our well intentioned New Year's resolutions are blown out of the water because somebody forgot to check the Lottery numbers and you might have won £250 million. Then you discover the cat has got completely lost and you've no idea where it might have gone. And then not for the first time the dish washer stops working for no apparent reason and the cooker looks as though it might be showing signs of rebellion. You've turned on the stove and nothing seems to be working so you call out an engineer and they're still in Barbados looking for a cafe where nobody wears a Covid 19 mask. It's enough to drive you around the bend. 

Still, here we are in the first month of 2022 and all the signs are mildly encouraging if not entirely so. Last year the whole globe began to see small, green shoots of recovery from the ravages of Covid 19. Mind you we had to wait a pretty long time for something concrete to happen. Patience was though a virtue and we were rewarded for our forbearance. We could breathe again, smile, laugh, cackle, giggle, yawn and sneeze without feeling guilty in case some of the remnants of the virus were still in the air. 

On July 19 we struggled out of bed, opened up the blinds and curtains only to find a couple of robins had camped out overnight on our window ledge and were trying to tell us something. It's gone they might have been privately muttering under their breaths. The coronavirus had all but gone. Surely not. After all this time it's finally resolved to disappear over the horizon and never come back again. For a while it looked like the perfect state of Nirvana. Those pounding, throbbing nightclubs could blast out cacophonous music for as long as they liked and none of us would ever complain again. 

Throughout London, the West End, East End, the shires, counties, outskirts, regions, cities, towns, villages and those remote corners of Britain where everybody would have been welcome again it was business as usual. The seaside hotels, once shuttered up like prisons for over a year and half, were now humming with tourists, businessmen and women and a jubilant population. It was a sight we could hardly believe we'd ever see again although we knew we would again at some point. 

So here we are in 2022 and we'd all resigned ourselves to the worst case scenario because some nasty intruder had broken into our living room and tried to spoil the party. We were all gearing ourselves up for a good, steadily improving, healthy New Year when Omicron poked its face through the front door with an evil glare on its face. As events seem to be panning out at the moment though nobody need to panic. Omicron is just some yobbish roughneck who just likes to make a nuisance of themselves.

This year my wife and yours truly decided to do something completely different. Well, not exactly different but the decision was to just get out of London and head for Scotland. The Scots love Hogmany and everything associated with dancing, music and bagpipes. Our destination was Dumfries, a lovely little Scottish gem tucked away amid the thistle, heather and rugged landscape of Scotland. If this had been a chocolate box of a Scottish town then this would have been the orange cream. 

We'd booked into the beautiful Cairndale Hotel in Dumfries, a hotel that warmly accommodates golfers during the summer and contented visitors during the winter. It was a three day break with bed and breakfast thrown in for good measure. The Christmas tree, still the dominant theme of the moment, stood respectably like some upright sentry outside Buckingham Palace. The thickly carpeted staircases were steeped in history and Victorian gentility. We lugged our one suitcase up to the first floor and got ready to rock and roll. 

Our itinerary consisted of one very short trip to a small house once lived in by the legendary Rabbie Jones, gentleman of letters, poetry and a very sentimental heart. Inside the glass cases there were the legacies of long ago, a private, snug study where Burns wrote his slushy prose and verse. Our guide stood quietly away from us regrettably wary of visitors since the virus was still at bay. In fact wherever we went in Dumfries we were simply surrounded by people wearing what now looked very much like surgical masks although there were some faces we could barely see if only because the mask seemed to cover both their mouth, eyes and foreheads. 

And so we came to New Year's Eve and the imminent Hogmany celebrations. After spending some relaxing quality time in the indoor pool and then sampling the excellent food and cuisine, we  began to admire the festive scenery. At the front of the stage for the evening were balloons depicting the year 2022 and then the entertainers for this special evening. A gentleman with a stirringly deep baritone voice belted out a whole string of Scottish folk songs and then there was the highlight. 

Now this is something personal. It had been many decades ago since you'd heard a Scotsman wearing the traditional tartan kilt and embracing the world famous bagpipes. During the early 1970s you remembered that almost heroic Scotsman Andy Stewart in all of the above regalia, blowing the pipes with all the conviction you'd expect from the land of haggis and whisky. Here was a performance to make the hair stand up on the back of your neck. 

Walking past our table, he held together the bagpipes firmly, cradling the instrument as if it were his first born. He then headed for the stage before breaking into a tribute to everything. Then with feathers on his head gear neatly arranged the accordion broke out with a vengeance. Suddenly you were that kid sitting far too near the TV, transfixed by the sound of Scotland. It was an evening to treasure, a moving and deeply nostalgic evening that took you right back to 1970.

Now though Scotland had taken down its guard and began to enjoy itself. Nicola Sturgeon, the Scottish First Minister had given a cautionary warning about the need for modest celebrations at home. But she had yet to take on a small gathering of happy-go-lucky people in a Dumfries hotel. They were adamant. Nobody would ever jeopardise their New Year's Eve jolly.

Suddenly the tables around us were a hive of activity. New Year's Eve would be a hotbed for small clusters of dancing. Oh, what defiance, what a show of militancy. You'll never break the indomitable spirit of the Scots. So they twirled their partners, shook their hips quite daringly at times and then abandoned themselves to mass groups of dancers who came perilously close to the main stage. None of us knew whether anybody had actually broken the Covid 19 laws but we weren't about to find out whether they had or not. New Year's Eve had given away to New Year's Day. Hooray! Hooray!

By the time New Year's Day had got its act together most of us were in a complete state of ecstasy. The evening entertainment had excelled itself. Now on New Year's Day we were treated to the stupendously talented repertoire of the one and only Neil Diamond. Now sadly the real Neil Diamond couldn't make it on the night although that would have been a show and a half had it been the man himself. But we did get somebody who did bear a vague resemblance to the maestro himself and the songs were melodious blasts from the past. 

The now immediately hummable and finest of them all 'Sweet Caroline' gave English hotel guests a painful reminder of Euro 2020. 'Crackling Rosie' is now tucked away in a vintage corner of the Diamond songbook and then our singer for the night regaled us with his interpretation of songs from the film The Jazz Singer. It was all very happy, clappy, joyful and triumphant. Now that 2020 and 2021 have now gone it was time to look forward to a year that some of us will hope will blossom with good, mental and physical health. The last two years may well fit into some very definitive category but let's hope 2022 is positive, buoyant, happy, healthy and without any sorrow. Have a brilliant New Year everybody.