President Putin and Roman Abramovich, Roman leaves the hot seat at Chelsea

 President Putin and Roman Abramovich leaves the hot seat at Chelsea.

We all know where we are in the world. So this is how it goes. We've had two years of the most disastrous, medical virus since perhaps the beginning of the 20th century and now we've been lumbered with yet another war. It all seemed to be going swimmingly well until March 2020 and that was the fatal tipping point for civilisation. Almost two years down the line a national rehabilitation is well under way and the public here in Britain are feeling much better and far more optimistic than they must have been at this time last year. Everything is opening up again, the masks have all but gone and then another obstacle has confronted us again.

The now distressingly escalating conflict in the Ukraine is slowly spiralling out of control. Russia, that grizzly, irascible bear who keeps complaining about a headache and can never, seemingly, crack into a smile are becoming more and more objectionable. This could be because nothing has been the same since Communism was a young child and party politics was all about the tyrannical rule of Lenin and Stalin. Now things have got progressively worse and in the last week or so, hellishly intolerable. 

The current President of Russia is one Vladimir Putin, widely regarded as a playground bully who just wants to beat up the gang who may have been giving him too much trouble and grief and has now lost it. Putin's CV doesn't make for pleasant reading nor is it particularly edifying. He doesn't like homosexuals, disapproves of anybody who refuses to listen to him and then savagely kills them in their hundreds and, quite possibly, thousands. He is a murderer, a violent and aggressive individual who just does what he pleases without apologising for his actions at any time.

For the last week poor Ukraine have been target practice for Putin's ruthless killing machine. Here is a man possessed, a man quite obviously hell bent on world domination. Ring any bells for you. Adolf Hitler of course was far more cunning and viciously premeditated in 1933. He seemed to give the whole world advance warning of his ghastly and despicable intentions and then invaded before flattening Poland at the start of the Second World War. The rest of course is well documented history. 

Now the bombs are raining down on Kyiv in Ukraine and families are running for their lives, squeezing as many of their children onto packed trains that they hope will take them to the land of safety and security. It has to be the most horrific sight any of us have ever seen. Mothers scream at the top of their voices, petrified and fearing for their own lives. Meanwhile Putin continues to regard the scene with much amusement and hilarity. As far as he's concerned Ukraine should have been wiped off the face of the globe ages ago. 

Now here we are at a critical point. Putin has moved his tanks and fighting ammunition deep into Ukranian territory while a rumbling, thunderous cacophony of Russian soldiers with thudding boots on the ground inch ever closer. It is all ugly, grotesquely unacceptable and the kind of abomination we thought we'd seen the back of 77 years ago. But then the plot thickens and attention turns back to West London where a certain Roman Abramovich, the now former owner of Chelsea, once ruled with a rod of iron.

The truth, as we know, is that both Putin and Abramovich, were best pals with each other, constantly on the phone, always talking, probably sharing Abramovich's yacht with a powerful glass of vodka or two. And this is where the suspicions lie. Russia have already been dropped from the Eurovision Song Contest, the Russian motor racing Grand Prix later on this year has been cancelled and, quite obviously, lost any connection with the football World Cup at the end of this year. The chances are that they may still be allowed to take part in the World Cup but only as long as they call themselves anything but Russia. The sins have been committed and there's no damage limitation. Russia has now crossed every moral line.

So after much heart wrenching deliberation, Abramovich, with the heaviest of hearts, has now handed over the keys of power to Chelsea's commendable charitable foundation. Chelsea, for their part, are probably shell shocked and psychologically dumbfounded  by the alarming speed of events in Ukraine. As a club they will move on and have always done so. During the 1980s Chelsea had to ride out the threat of bankruptcy and insolvency. Then Ken Bates, their former chairman, bailed them out of trouble with a quid that would change the course of the club's history for ever more. We all know what happened next. Chelsea hit the big time and big money.

Yesterday Chelsea were beaten by Liverpool on penalties in the Carabao Cup Final at Wembley Stadium. In many ways this could be considered as one of the worst weeks of Chelsea's season. Their Russian chairman decides to take a hike and  hands over ownership into the capable hands of charity. The trouble here is that Abramovich still holds the purse strings with millions and billions in his bank account. This isn't the end of the world but for Chelsea this isn't the news they were waiting for. There can be no reason for panic attacks yet but for the more dedicated Chelsea fans who have been through thick and thin, the next multi million transfer may not be as straightforward as they might have thought.

In the big, wide world, Abramovich and Putin may come to be seen as hardened convicts and partners in the most unsavoury crime. Both could be accused of being guilty as sin. Money is of course the road to ruination and the root of all evil and here we find both men playing with fire. Abramovich, because of his friendship with Putin, is very much a co-conspirator, in cahoots, singing from the same hymn sheet. Putin is a tin pot dictator and Abramovich is just the rich kid who doesn't quite know how to handle his boundless wealth. It's unseemly, frighteningly reprehensible and almost without precedent.

Chelsea will see out the rest of the Premier League season but are realistically out of contention for the Premier League title. Jurgen Klopp's hugely impressive Liverpool have now moved into the box seat near the top of the Premier League chasing after Manchester City like a greyhound at the old White City stadium. In all likelihood they will clinch a place in the Champions League next season sooner rather than later but this is not the way they would have liked things to pan out for them.

So here we have Abramovich and Putin, Russia's dynamic duo. The country that gave us vodka, Cossack dancers, onion shaped buildings in Moscow, elegant chandeliers in the Underground Tube train system and people with almost permanently solemn faces, is now in the dock. The eyes of the world are now firmly on Russia, a military nation on May Day and quite clearly figures of hate. We must hope that Putin will get his comeuppance in a draughty prison cell for the rest of his life and Abramovich will just keep counting his obscene millions. It's not the ideal scenario but we'll be keeping tabs on this story. It could run for quite a while.

Happy Carpe Diem Day.

 Happy Carpe Diem Day

You must remember the film Dead Poets Society starring the late and great Robin Williams. So he turns to address his wonderfully attentive class and tells them that they should simply Carpe Diem, which translates from the Latin as Seize the Day. Williams, apart from being the funniest comedian of all time, becomes very wise and philosophical but the meaning of the phrase has far reaching consequences. 

Yes folks. Carpe Diem Day doesn't really mean a lot to anybody in particular. Of course it implies that we should express our eternal gratitude for everything in life, grateful for small mercies. It also suggests that we should do our upmost to take advantage of the good things in life such as good physical and mental health but generally it'll probably be the kind of day where everybody pauses for just five minutes and stops to admire the multi layered landscape of our lives, the naked branches on the trees desperate for some green foliage, the glorious countryside, the winding, twisting country lanes and  the vast acres of parkland.

But we know all about that anyway so perhaps we should just move on and be thankful for our daily bread. And yet for the last two years it's hard to imagine how any of us could have seized any day because every day kept slipping from our grasp just when we thought we'd grabbed hold of it with some relish. Still, better than later. Now is the time is to regard the things that were beautiful and still are. Now could be the time to finish off that novel you kept hiding at the back of your chest of drawers but didn't think was worth completing.

Carpe Diem is the perfect time for the realisation of some long term project at home, striving to achieve the unattainable and just feeling good about yourself whoever you are. None of us can really begin to understand the moods and nuances of the day but we do know that every day should be treated with as much affection as possible. Of course every day is different and utterly precious. We all look for recognition and approval from both our family and friends but there can be moments in our lives when we forget about the fundamental goodness that lies deep within our soul.

But there are others when we'll spend all of our days regretting lost opportunities, squandered mornings, afternoons and evenings, forgetting about what we fear might have led to progress, advancement, personal satisfaction and the ultimate fulfilment of being there when it mattered most. We look back on our lives pondering over those annoying probabilities and then are shocked to discover that, as human beings, that we knew it and blew it and then felt pretty awful afterwards.

How many times over the last two years have you felt as if you were capable of doing so much more and then perhaps let ourselves down because the whole world had shut down and what was the point anyway? So we dithered and dallied over where to go next, all the time wishing that we could have done better if only we'd persevered and didn't stop to think why.

There seemed a point during the first lockdown in Britain when most of us would have prayed for just one day when the timing of vital decisions could have done with room for improvement. Then the day just disappeared into the ether never to be retrieved. Boris Johnson's fiercest critics still maintain that the announcement of lockdown times were a shoddily appalling business. If Britain had followed the lead of the rest of the world perhaps we wouldn't have been in this terrible mess. But now the days have fallen by the wayside and here we are almost two years since the first lockdown and March 2020 still sounds like some painful and historic date when everything went dramatically wrong for us.

On the first Saturday since the alleged lifting of all Covid 19 restrictions which means that today should be the day in theory when we run out into our streets and roads and sing with some conviction Kool and the Gang's timeless Celebration. But the feeling around us is that although the wearing of masks is no longer compulsory, some people are still treading water. And yet none of us know how to react to such fabulous news. Is this a delayed reaction or hasn't Carpe Diem kicked in yet? Maybe we've lost that familiar sensation you get when somebody tells you that you've won a prize in a competition or, dare we say, trousered huge quantities of life changing money. Because we know what that does to us.

The fact is Carpe Diem feels very special because that's the way it should always feel and yet we seemed to allow it to blithely wash over us. Is it possible to take some genuine significance from any day? But today is the day for stopping whatever you're doing and taking pleasure from whatever you happen to be doing. You could be sitting quite contentedly by a river bank and dangling a fishing rod for hours on end and catching as many trout as you possibly can. Of course you may just simply throw the said fish straight back into the river but if it's something that makes you happy and feeling great then why ever not.

You could be sitting by the same riverbank and then decide that you simply want to take out your artist's easel and paint the kingfishers and robins on the surface of a languid lake, the first buds on the petals of trees and the gentle lapping of the water. There is something about that whole concept of seizing of the day that ever present emotion that does have a definite shape of its own but can very rarely be felt. Life of course is beautiful and stunning, our work of our art, something to be cherished and held onto. We must today look around and take what we can from the day and then just appreciate its importance. Happy Carpe Diem Day, everyday. Oh and if you're a Bill Withers fan have a Lovely Day. Keep smiling folks.

Tomorrow is the day.

 Tomorrow is the day. 

It could be said that tomorrow is the day when Covid 19 finally becomes history or whatever your interpretation of that word may be. It should mark the end of the most horrific, traumatic, harrowing, disturbing, distressing and unnerving period of our lives. Maybe now we can live again or just get on with the business of living for the day, week, month and year without looking over our shoulders and trying to analyse the global calamity, the immensity of death, the fatalities, casualties or those ailing rapidly. 

For the last two years the hellish uncertainty of it all, the dithering and scientific graphs and datas, the regrettable decisions made in the heat of the moment and then yet more lockdowns, began to haunt and daunt us, throwing us into a state of utter turmoil and mentally challenging us all the way. Then there were the gloom and doom merchants who seemed to make no sense at any time, the naysayers and the cynics who were convinced the world was coming to an end. 

There were the visits to Trafalgar Square when you were suddenly surrounded by a concrete world of silence, subdued whispers and the pigeons who used to be the centre of attention, now wondering exactly why humanity had deserted them. It was the middle of the first lockdown and you were brave enough to venture into the West End of London. It was a heart wrenching moment, significant in as much that you would never have imagined that things could ever come to this pass. So you wandered around Charing Cross, the heart of the musical instrument and old books industry. It felt, quite frankly, soul destroying. 

But tomorrow all the medical data and science, the combined forces of Boris Johnson and his UK government will kick in properly, declaring outright freedom, no more masks anymore, no more procrastination, feet dragging and the confirmation of your liberties. Now, since we live in a democracy most of us must have assumed that was always the case anyway. It goes like this. Tomorrow you can run up to Piccadilly Circus, run around Eros a million times, leaping up and down with joy and announcing that happy days are here again, the skies above are clear again. Happy days are here again. 

Now though as from tomorrow, you can exercise your judgment and your responsibility, allowing discretion to become the better part of valour. And yet we are now we are told, quite patronisingly, that we should live with Covid 19. This is where you begin to think that stating the obvious is not the message we should be listening to now. It almost feels as though the Government have just been  sleepwalking through this disaster, content to address the nation with heartfelt pronouncements without quite grasping the full extent of what was going on around them. 

So what can we expect from tomorrow's latest set of Covid developments? Maybe we'll get another series of warm words of sympathy from Mr Johnson, a softly spoken and comforting speech and a general sense of wild optimism. Alternatively you could still feel as though that the prison warden has partially opened up your cell but you're still on remand. Now you'll have forgive to me but this is the road we thought we'd travelled down and found our destination. 

Back on July 19th last year Britain re-opened up its commercial powerhouses: overnight the cafes, restaurants, shops, fashion shops, shoe shops, organic cafes, Pret A Mangers, Costas, Marks and Spencer, John Lewis, Prime Marks, fruit and vegetable stalls, theatres and cinemas threw open their doors. In short Britain came back to life, resuscitated and revitalised, breathing, living, integrated back into a world that we must have thought had gone for ever.  

But then came new variants such as Delta, Kent and latterly Omicron, genuine obstacles, complications, nightmares, another crisis, a nasty blot on the landscape. Roughly a year ago we were still trapped at the bottom of a metaphorical well, crying out for help and just counting the thousands of fatalities every day. Things had to reach a turning point and they did. The definitive vaccines had arrived and, quite dramatically, this was the remedy, the ultimate antidote, the life saver. 

A charming, elderly Irish woman sat down in a hospital and became the first person to receive the very first vaccine. It was all systems go. Nothing could stand in our way. A vast, comprehensive vaccination programme was revealed and rolled out to a disbelieving and yet relieved British population. For the rest of last year every person within the British isles was required to undergo the first part of this operation. Your first jab was just the beginning and several months you'd have to do it all over again. 

By now we were on cloud nine, barely able to take in the sheer magnitude of this stunning breakthrough. Then towards the end of the year we were told just how proud we should feel about themselves. You had now developed sufficient protection against the outbreak of another Covid 19 episode. So well done everybody. Even Boris thinks you're a credit to you and your family. So here we are almost two years down the line and surely there can be no room for caution, obstacles or changing of minds. 

Tomorrow should be very much the finishing line of this particularly gruelling marathon. At times we probably thought we'd never get there. But we have and the medals should be awarded immediately and don't forget that huge bottle of champagne. Tomorrow masks will no longer be considered compulsory but advisable which does sound pretty ominous, neither here nor there. Thankfully we won't have to wait outside chemists for ages just to pick up a prescription and when we board a train or bus nobody will look as though they've just returned from a hospital operating theatre. 

Of course the moral obligations and imperatives will remain but there are those who simply can't wait to be liberated from their masks once and for all. Boris Johnson, of course, the British Prime Minister, has muddled and looked befuddled from the very first day of lockdown. Recently his life, if you were to believe some, has been one big party, raving into the small hours of the morning. Sadly, Johnson did conveniently forget about the laws and regulations he had just implemented. Of course he didn't tell the truth because he did quite openly apologise for any inconvenience his birthday and other jolly beanos that were clearly in breach of his own laws. 

Still, life goes on at 10 Downing Street and although Johnson still stands accused and guilty of misdemeanours. It is safe to assume that the blond one from Uxbridge and educated at Eton will just get away with these sorry tales of woe. In mitigation Mr Johnson will insist that he had no idea that the said parties had been organised without his permission. So he strolled into a Downing Street garden and just joined in with the cheese and wine festivities while not forgetting the substantial crates of beer also consumed. It's a very good excuse but you get the impression that it just doesn't hold any water. 

And this could be the last and most crucial point in the Prime Minister's defence. Nobody but nobody died as a result of Boris's involvement in these pub lock ins. Everybody though was still smirking including the woman who just kept giggling her head off when the flak came flying at her. Then there was the Tory backbencher who, jumping to the defence of Boris Johnson, came out with the ridiculous claim that even a Prime Minister was allowed to eat cake on the day of his birth. It goes way beyond laughable and risible. 

But here we are on the eve of the big day, counting down the hours and eagerly anticipating the day of the proper release from the wearing of masks of any description, no more weeks of self isolation even if you've got a stinking cold and find yourselves surrounded by handkerchiefs. Covid 19 will officially be condemned to history, null and void tomorrow or will it?  All of these special moments in our lives are beginning to get lost in any kind of translation. Still, it's as good a time as any to live with Covid 19 because it doesn't seem to be going away for quite a while. Keep well folks. 

Stevie Wonder- a child prodigy and complete genius.

 Stevie Wonder- a child prodigy and complete genius. 

Every so often the BBC get it exactly right with their scheduling. It was Saturday evening, Storm Eunice was still howling and whistling outside, the wintry rains and winds were still at their peak and all you wanted was a comfortable spot on your sofa and the musical magician who is Stevie Wonder. BBC Two and BBC Four are very much the easy going and accessible channels to feast your eyes on when a nostalgic helping is required and all you want to do is remember the greatest singer and musician ever to walk our lovely planet.

Last night BBC2 excelled itself with an effusively glowing homage to Stevie Wonder, the legendary song writer, singer and multi instrumentalist who can probably make a comb and a piece of paper sound sexy and seductive. Of course we've heard of Stevie Wonder. We once became aware of his extraordinary talent as a youngster on a family holiday in Spain during the 1970s when you discovered a very slim biography of the  man's astonishing achievements.

You were told that when little Stevie was given a harmonica for one of his childhood birthdays he'd more or less mastered it almost immediately. He blew the said mouth organ and the music that emerged from so young and tender an age would be the foundation stone for a career that blossomed into superstardom from his late teens. The lyrics would come much later of course but the voice was sufficiently powerful, the phrasing of his songs would become the finished article and the delivery on stage became flawless. 

It is hard to understand the profound impact that his songs had on us, the  range, the sheer lyrical content of his songs because none of us were aware of the sheer magnitude of his vast back catalogue of love songs, reggae, cool soul, the funky electronic synth beat and tempo and the amazing stature of the man. From the earliest days of Ma Cherie Amour, Signed, Sealed, Delivered, Uptight, followed by the record breaking Innervisions album which was released during the early 1970s, Wonder seemed to accomplish so much within such a short space of time and Motown records could not have been happier. 

The BBC of course did their utmost to make the most flattering of presentations in recognition of who Stevie was, is and always will be. Stevie Wonder at the BBC showed Wonder at his most relaxed, laid back and nonchalant, a chatty, tongue in cheek, friendly, enormously engaging personality who would tinkle the ivories of his piano in a very modest, self effacing fashion. 

The hits flowed from his studios like placid water on a lake, a meandering river that just keeps going on and on. Superstition and Higher Ground were definitive masterpieces, full of energy, confidence, charisma, polished funk and the most magical aura about them. Stevie at a piano was rather like a landscape artist at his easel, tweaking sounds, experimenting with radical variations on a theme and then just throwing himself  wholeheartedly into the movement and direction of the song without ever seemingly trying.

The kaleidscopic impact of his dreadlocks and kaftans became his personal fashion statement. Master Blaster, Stevie's heartfelt homage to the great Bob Marley, sounded as if  he'd just immersed himself in the whole era of Marley's finest years. He was jamming with all the consummate flair of those who find themselves on a Caribbean beach with several glasses of rum, tequilla and jerk chicken just to add spice to the occasion. 

But there was the breadth and mind blowing originality of Stevie's compositions that made the hairs at the back of your head stand up in admiration. Songs in the Key of Life is undoubtedly your personal favourite album and it remains an incomparable work of art. I Wish, Sir Duke, As, Higher Ground, Isn't She Lovely and a whole host of others just washed over you like a cooling breeze from a Mediterranean beach. They were the products of an artistic mind that simply kept delivering gems and diamonds that would always be remembered in much the way that Charles Dickens can still be recalled over 150 years after his death. 

Then the equally as celebrated album In Square Circle was given a deserved mention. Overjoyed is just the most beautiful love song, a moving and tender love letter, a declaration of love for ever and ever and quite the most adorable piece of music in Stevie's long and wondrous career. Then there were the traditional party songs such as I Just Called to Say I Love You, Happy Birthday, Wonder's lingering nod to Nelson Mandela and the wonderful You Are the Sunshine of My Life, just the most perfectly crafted song.

And so we were left breathless at the end of an evening of concerts, interviews, snapshot images of the great man himself and the music. We saw Stevie accompanied by his loyal and faithful guitarists and drummers, yet more funky beats, the warmth of Wonder's smile and so much more that was good about him.

 You count yourself enormously privileged to have seen Stevie Wonder, the man in concert, twice but realise that his devoted fans can never get enough of his prodigious output. He is now 70 and, quite possibly semi retired but you will never forget where you were when you first heard his name and his music. It was just the most incredible day of your adolescence and that was all that mattered.   

The Drifters - Girl.

 The Drifters - Girl

A young girl walks onto the stage of the Garrick Theatre in London's West End, drops a dime or cent into a jukebox and spins a record by the now legendary American group the Drifters. It is the starting point for a musical masterpiece, the kind of show that the West End of London may have forgotten about but always knew would one day appear.

For almost two years the West End has craved a comforting arm around its shoulder, gave it its rightful recognition and then basked in one of the most satisfying evenings the Garrick has seen for a while. The subject matter here was one of the original boy bands, black, smooth as silk, cool and handsomely dressed. They were the flavour of many decades of accomplished song lyrics, classy licks and riffs, finger clicks and the demeanour of a soul group whom your daughter could quite easily take home to your parents without a hint of embarrassment. 

Originally known as the Coasters and the Ravens, they then morphed into the Drifters, a name formerly attached to the British combo Hank Marvin and the Shadows who once called themselves the Drifters but then considerately changed their name to the Shadows because naming rights were precious in those days. Besides, Hank Marvin and the Drifters wouldn't have quite resonated with the British public in the way the Shadows would have done.

The story of the Drifters Girl was, as you might have expected, turbulent, a roaring success, dark, dramatic, outstandingly popular and the centre of showbiz attention. The Drifters became a phenomenal hit making factory who just kept producing platinum vinyl records by the millions across the world. They were loved and worshipped by hysterical girls but always seemingly in control of their destiny. They would establish themselves in the Hall of Fame and their music would span the decades like a stunning bridge. 

During the 1970s you would fondly remember their gorgeous repertoire of gleaming gems ranging from Saturday Night at the Movies, Kissing in the Back Row of the Movies and There Goes My First Love and then regard with an almost spiritual reverence the classic 45s that captured our imagination. When Adam J. Bernard, Tarim Callender, Matt Henry and Tosh Wanoglo who took the roles of the four boys on stage twirled their feet, spinning around on their shoes and dancing themselves into a frenzy of joy, you knew you were in good company. 

But few of us were perhaps familiar with their back story and this show did come as something of an astonishing revelation. Beverley Knight, surely one of Britain's finest singers, was Faye Treadwell, a feisty, no nonsense, no holds barred character who becomes the Drifters manager and promptly points the guys in the right direction. She confronts them accusingly, a demanding perfectionist, perhaps a control freak at times but always with their best interests at heart. 

Then she becomes manipulative, controlling, deceiving and domineering, reading the riot act to the boys. It is at this point that the story gets very serious, exposing the difficulties that the group had to experience before they could move forward. There was the call up for Vietnam as one of the Drifters is handed a rifle. There are the legal machinations that saw the group fighting vigorously to defend themselves in the face of adversity. 

And yet for all their trials and tribulations, we are then taken back to a rain swept England during the 1960s where the Drifters were transported through the delightful provinces of Nottingham, Plymouth, Leeds, Manchester, Chester and Durham. The show's Drifters brilliantly switch from City gents with umbrellas to hotel and taxi signs while promoting their work. Come Over to My Place and Stand By Me are given the showboating treatment. 

You were also reminded about Ben E. King's involvement in the formation of the group. King went onto enjoy a marvellous solo career with hit singles of his own. The final word was left to the wonderful Beverley Knight, who joined the rest of the Drifters in a toe tapping, unforgettable sequence of the Drifters sensational back catalogue of songs. The audience around us were just in seventh heaven and how grateful we were to see them again.    

Wales narrowly beat Scotland in rugby union Six Nations

 Wales narrowly beat Scotland in rugby union Six Nations

You could actually see the Welsh dragon breathing fire at their Scottish opponents. The Millennium Stadium has rarely seen anything like this. Two evenly balanced rugby union teams going at it hammer and tongs, fighting for territory, kicking strategically, weighing up the options and sticking to the game plan rigidly. This was the kind of Six Nations match which used to be five many moons ago but is now ingrained in the psyche of rugby union followers everywhere because this is the way it should be. 

During the 1970s Welsh rugby union was a thing of beauty, a wondrous fusion of the sublime and the not so ridiculous as it might have seemed. Wales were flamboyant, theatrical, a side of body swerves, irresistible passing and the most heavenly of touches. They were a collective, a body of men united in mind, thought and deed. Wales had class written right through the team and the names were almost as familiar as Land of My Fathers, the celebrated Welsh anthem.

The props, hookers, fly halves, back row and wingers are now the stuff of legends. There was Barry John, drop goal specialist, organised, comfortable with the ball in his hands, dashing here and there and positive from the first whistle. There was Phil Bennett, muscular, virile, macho, shoulders and hips twisting, ducking and weaving, a force of nature who ran at his opponents as if they were invisible

JPR Williams was the good doctor who always administered the finest medicine, a strapping, long haired player of bustling belligerence and daredevil running. Mervyn Davies was the engine, the carburettor, the motor who sparked life and vitality into the heart of the class of the 1970s and burrowed his way through forests of legs undaunted, brave and courageous as they came. And then there was Gareth Edwards who, in the minds eye, can still be seen flying through a blur of black and white Barbarian shirts in that memorable length of the pitch, glorious try against the New Zealand All Blacks in 1973.

Rugby union used to be one of the last bastions of masculinity, male machismo and rumbustious, no holds barred  aggression where no ear was left intact and players were flipped into the air like pancakes. It was game played by men with little in the way of malicious intent but still committed to the cause, driving, mauling, rucking, locking bodies in brutal scrums that moved like tanks slowly edging towards the try line. 

Today though the stakes were just as high. Wales for their part, have blown hot and cold since those far off salad days when tries came almost naturally and their game was a simple work of art. JPR, Barry John, Phil Bennett and company were models of telepathic thinking, role models of stylish co-ordination, always thinking one step ahead of the rest. It was joyous, restless, tirelessly magnificent rugby

But the class of 2022, without being unknown quantities, did give tantalising glimpses of their 1970s heyday. When the likes of Liam Williams at full back and wing charged forward with unbridled force and intensity, Scotland seemed to come to a juddering halt. Then both Alex Cuthbert, Nick Tompkins and Louis Rees Zammitt powered into attack, Rees Zammitt constantly drilling holes in the Scottish defence as the most effective winger of international rugby union in modern world rugby union.  

With Dan Biggar kicking his penalties stupendously and precisely, Tomas Francis scoring the only and most brilliant try of the match , Will Rowlands conducting his team in the second row like an engineer fixing the nuts and bolts of a machine and Wyn Jones effervescent at prop, Scotland had no answer to the sheer relentlessness and inevitability of the Welsh attack.

And yet in the game's opening stages Scotland threatened to win most of the strategic ball from loose rucks, navy blue shirts picking their way through the Welsh and the home said looked briefly worried. They needn't have done so. Wales embrace rugby union in the way that fathers were hugged on return from the Second World War. They are unmistakably passionate, always progressive, always on the front foot and even when the moon is in the wrong position they can still lift themselves for the big occasion and treat an oval ball as if it were theirs by divine right. 

When Dan Biggar kicked the first of the game's defining penalties, Scotland looked as though the afternoon would last for much longer than they must have thought. But there is a doggedness and stubbornness about the Scots that is somehow genetically programmed into them. Now they drove back the Welsh like a navy combine harvester, bumping, boring, scrapping, bouncing off  bodies, darting and jostling for possession as if their lives depended on it.

Then in perhaps the game's most spectacular phases, Scotland planted their imprint on the game. Following some tenacious and legal shoving and pushing, the Scots caught the ball and began to work incisive openings. Now a lightning quick sequence of passes across the pitch, full of invention and innovation, landed in the influential hands of Finn Russell who flung the ball athletically into the far corner. Darcy Graham, brilliantly anticipating the pass, danced towards the try line and chalked up the game's first try. 

But then Wales took an impressive stranglehold on the game. Their movement in an and out of possession was a sight to behold and the hand to hand game in the tightest of positions was an education to those who may not be acquainted with the game's finer points. They looked the most likely to team to score again and again. After some sloppy and lethargic moments in the Scottish rearguard, knock ons and loose handling became a recurrent theme in the Scottish game plan. They paid for it. 

When Dan Biggar scored a multiple of penalties in quick succession the writing was on the wall for the Scots. Biggar seems the penalty specialist for Wales and today his kicking was flawless. Tomas Francis did score another beautifully constructed try for the Scots but by now the game was flowing in the home side's direction. Biggar scored another vital set of penalties and the game was marginally over for Scotland. 

For a moment you thought back to that remarkable game between the Barbarians and the All Blacks and convinced yourself that sport simply couldn't get any better. It was sport at its most expressive, sport at its most cultured, sport baring its soul, sport unburdening itself from whatever troubles it may have been facing at the time. It was sport with unique technique, outrageous skill and fulsome flair. Wales can only be immensely proud of itself. Somehow the sport of rugby union always knew it would.  

Bamber Gascoigne dies.

 Bamber Gascoigne dies

For some of us the name of Bamber Gascoigne will always be remembered as the intellectual face of British TV during the late 1960s and 1970s. In later years he would be regarded as one of our most respected and eminent historians of modern times. Gascoigne was one of the gentle giants of TV broadcasting at a time when TV was still learning the ropes and becoming acquainted with the natural rhythms of a Sunday afternoon. 

Sadly, Gascoigne died yesterday at the age of 87 and there are those who will mourn the passing of a TV quiz show that was both learned, informative and enlightening. Gascoigne presented  University Challenge, a thrillingly educational quiz show designed specifically perhaps for undergraduates, dons, professors and those with an extensive knowledge on classical music and most of the science related subjects that left us all totally flummoxed. 

Gascoigne was somehow the face of respectability, a conservative dresser with a very modest taste in jackets, a man with frizzy hair and the neatest of appearances. Reading questions on a whole handful of cards, he would deliver most of the probing and teasing questions at quite the most lightning speed. And then there were the universities, highly academic minds with an encyclopaedias in their brains and amusingly esoteric responses to questions on famous scientists from the 15th century, industrial chemists from the early 19th century and medieval kings and queens. 

When Gascoigne declared that the said universities had a starter for 10 or needed fingers on their buzzers you knew you were in the comforting hands of a man who knew he had everything under his control. Then the London Weekend Television cameras would pan to the two seats of learning. Both universities appeared to be divided on the screen. But this was no gimmick since University Challenge was essentially a show about discovering entirely new facts about the world and nature around us. 

In many ways though University Challenge would be the forerunner of programmes such as Mastermind, another general knowledge-cum- specialist interest quiz show that put the most intense spotlight on contestants who had to answer with both speed and accuracy. There would be no time for hesitation, deviation or lengthy thinking time. You had to be ready to reply immediately and if you didn't you would be subjected to a sigh of impatience and Gascoigne frantically imploring the contestant to hurry up before he went home for tea. 

As a child of the times you somehow knew that this was TV that was beyond your comprehension. But there was something compelling about the programme that couldn't be explained. You found yourself engrossed in University Challenge, a show for the intelligentsia, the swots, the ones who were studying medicine and quantum physics. They were the students with natty scarves, quaint mascots on their desks, cute teddy bears and a wondrous array of superstitious trinkets. 

And then there were the universities from both Cambridge and Oxford on innumerable occasions while the rest of Britain's regional colleges would also pit their wits against those who had immense wit and impressive erudition. There was something very intriguing about a programme that looked as though it was aimed predominantly at the middle and upper classes but was still strangely relatable. Of course we didn't know which composer wrote this sonata or overture because we had a different kind of education. And yet we didn't feel as though we were being recklessly excluded because University Challenge was very much a challenge, a severe examination on facts, characters and places that none of us had heard ever heard of. 

However, we watched with ever increasing fascination and there were questions we could answer with some confidence. Maybe there were more but, from memory, we weren't quite sure which. We took great delight in the way both universities would keep buzzing just for the sake of it. Gascoigne would now become that stern and chastising headmaster who kept the whole show ticking over because he was the calming influence, the emollient one, the controller in chief. So the students sat there like former sixth formers who had just emerged from the library with a million answers at their fingertips. 

As far as you could rightly remember University Challenge would always be shown at Sunday lunchtime just before the football highlights show The Big Match. Sundays were never quite the same when the show had to be tucked away into the archives never to be seen again. Still, it has made a comeback and the former Newsnight presenter Jeremy Paxman is the latest inquisitor. Paxman is an altogether more ruthless type, intolerant of any pregnant pauses and no nonsense in his approach. 

So you settled down in the family kitchen for Sunday lunch and keep an ever vigilant eye on a programme that was completely over your head. Our Bamber would sit there week after week, shuffling through the cards like a casino croupier flicking through the kings, queens, jacks and clubs. University Challenge became like a permanent fixture in every household that craved to find out something might have been suitable subjects for earnest dinner parties.

And so it was that Bamber Gascoigne moved seamlessly into other areas and would carve a niche as historian, social commentator and rectors of universities. He would produce wonderful documentaries on the classics, music and art. Gascoigne was of course an accomplished broadcaster, never flustered and always ready with a bitingly funny quip or a humorous moment of subtle comedy. He wrote books, wrote scholarly papers, travelled the world and generally conducted himself with the most understated style and poise. You shall miss Bamber Gascoigne because you know for a fact that you could never hope to aspire to be who he was.  Here was a man of vast intelligence with an immense understanding of the big, wide world. It may be quite some time before we see his like again.   

Middlesbrough beat Manchester United on penalties in FA Cup fourth round tie.

 Middlesbrough beat Manchester United on penalties in FA Cup fourth round tie. 

It all unravelled quite horrifically for Manchester United. The FA Cup has been very good to United over the years and their relationship with the most famous competition in the world has never been anything less than harmonious. But after almost two hours of heart thumping, gripping and nerve racking football Manchester United went out of this year's competition quite remarkably and limply in the end. 

The Old Trafford faithful of course- over 70,000 of them on a Friday night- were in sombre mood for the evening's entertainment. This is the 64th anniversary of the dreadful Munich air crash where the very life force was taken from the Busby Babes after they had tragically lost their lives on a snow bound Munich runway. But the memories of Sir Matt Busby's legendary young team could still be recalled on an evening when the FA Cup once again held the attention of the nation again. 

In 1958 Nat Lofthouse's Bolton Wanderers eventually went on to beat United in one of the most emotional FA Cup Finals for many years. To the neutral it may have been the one year when most of us would have been willing United onto victory. 64 years on and the current United generation were overwhelming favourites against a Middlesbrough side now in the Championship. But the FA Cup is a playful, capricious child, unpredictable at the best of times and never reliable when you want it to be. Manchester United were beaten on penalties after extra time when Anthony Elegana had blasted the ball over the bar for United.

And yet how on earth had United allowed themselves to be sucked into a war of attrition with Middlesbrough. In the game's opening stages United swarmed all over their North East opponents like bees around a honeypot. In fact had they taken advantage of their early lead over Boro, then the game could have become a simple formality. United were, as usual, adventurous, quick thinking, impulsive and full of sparkling passing movements that left Boro lost and helpless. 

When Ole Gunnar Solksjaer was sacked, United were left without any steering wheels, a broken engine and were completely at a loose end. The Norwegian had delivered decent service to United but he couldn't stop United sliding into quicksand. United were losing games, dropping points here, there and everywhere and going nowhere rapidly. Then Solksjaer was given the old heave ho but left the club with dignity intact. United fell apart and never really recovered their poise until Ralph Rangnick, their temporary boss, pulled the club back from the brink.

Last night Rangnick looked as though he was being soaked by a mini monsoon, the rain pouring from wintry Manchester skies in biblical fashion. For a while Rangnick appeared reasonably happy with proceedings since United were knotting their passes together with impeccable precision and then gathering around each other in tight circles, geometric angles on their minds and neatly shifting the ball to each other in the closest proximity. The ball flickered across the pitch as if it were attached to a permanent piece of string. 

When Jadon Sancho gave United the lead after Cristiano Ronaldo had missed a penalty for the home side, it looked as if the red shirts would form an orderly procession around Boro. Then we half expected United to move their bishop to an attacking position near the queen before knocking over Boro's castle and king. The ball was like a magnet for United, their passes lovingly crafted, their instincts always correct and all that was missing was the end product and a score-line that should have been far more embarrassing but for wasteful United finishing. 

United though under the astute leadership of Harry Maguire, the always energetic Luke Shaw, the always imperious Paul Pogba and the composed Raphael Varane, were like a well manufactured product made at the most high tech of factories. Then the ball would click and snap between red shirts with Scott McTominay drifting and loitering with menacing intent, Bruno Fernandes full of cleverness and ingenuity in midfield while Jadon Sancho and Cristiano Ronaldo were tormenting Boro for the fun of it.

But although Sancho had turned his defender inside out and fired United into a well deserved lead, Ronaldo had unthinkably missed a penalty. And yet United were simply in cruise control of the game and brimming with imagination. Their attacks were built with clay and marble, all of the smooth surfaces polished to perfection. Everything was going swimmingly well and Boro were reduced to token breakaways that were about as ineffectual as it was possible to be. 

In the second half United seemed to lose their attacking momentum, slower in their approach play and jittery in possession. The advantage was still there and then suddenly Boro began to catch United napping on the ball. Boro's counter attacking policy became fully formed with Jonny Howson, Neil Taylor, Andres Sporar, Folarin Balonga and Marcus Tavernier springing forward into the United half  threateningly and surprisingly. 

Mid way through the second half United were once again caught off their guard. Boro were now flooding into attack, sharper and revitalised. A neatly floated ball into the path of DuncanWatmore led to a moment of fierce controversy. Watmore had controlled the ball and then it seemed to hit his hand in the heat of the moment. Surely this was blatant handball but when VAR came out of the cupboard, the laws of the game were turned on their head. According to the current interpretation the handball was accidental and all hell broke loose for a minute or two. United though had to grin and bear it. From Watmore's easy pass Matt Crooks lunged in to equalise for Boro. 

Now the match went into extra time and United were still piling on the pressure remorselessly. Fernandes had hit the post when the goal was inviting him to tap the ball into the net and United's goal-scoring opportunities were multiplying. But Boro had already put up the steel shutters. They were determined to keep United at arm's length and succeeded admirably in their ultimate objective. 

And so the match went to those agonising penalties, the lottery of lotteries. United have rarely visited this territory so none of us knew what to expect. There was a part of us that sensed that Boro had played themselves to a standstill and would probably buckle from six yards. But this was no ordinary game and after a tennis style tie break Anthony Elenga stepped up for United and fired his shot wildly over the bar. Middlesbrough were into the fifth round of the FA Cup. Football, hey! It keeps baffling you and then before you can blink it does so again.

The Winter Olympics in Beijing

 The Winter Olympics in Bejing.

It hardly seems like 33 years ago since, in a faraway land in the Far East, a gentleman stood purposefully next to three tanks in Tiananmen Square, Beijing. It was an act of military defiance, an image of a lone figure of intransigence that immediately went viral across the whole world. It was political militancy on a most aggressive scale. It captured the imagination of every photographer hoping to snatch that iconic moment in our lives. 

Today, Beijing hosts the Winter Olympics, a capital city riven by constant internal struggles, political bickering and a cruel, oppressive dictatorship where only the air would seem to be pure at times. At least this is the only observation the outside world can make since none of us would ever condone the actions of those whose only objective is to bring hurt, shame and, even destruction if given half the chance. 

And so it is that Beijing is the unlikely setting for a Winter Olympics. In the old days the Winter Olympics would be awarded to countries that were renowned for thick, snowy landscapes. We presumed that Switzerland, the Nordic countries, Italy, Austria and France were obvious locations for this festival of winter sport. We sat enthralled as intrepid skiers slalomed their way down the picturesque slopes of the Alps and where the idyllic backdrop of a stunning mountain range would provide a perfect illustration of what the Winter Olympics were all about. 

Then we would remain permanently fascinated by the stomach-churning tobogganing, the luge and the curling in which Scotland would always emerge as the most appealing participants, shuffling their brooms along the ice and then running after it, gently coaxing it and persuading it to reach a winning spot. Then there were the acrobatic skiers, flipping through the sky a hundred times, and then flying through the air like a glider on a summer's day. Olympic sport has now entered a radically new dimension, achieving a level of sophistication that seems to go way beyond our understanding. Or maybe you can count the number of tucks and spins. 

But back in 1984 a charming couple from Nottingham won our hearts with perhaps the most captivating performance a Winter Olympics has ever seen. In downtown Sarajevo, Jayne Torvill and Christopher Dean slid onto an ice rink and forced us all to sit up until well after midnight. There have been moments in sporting history when you just have to gasp in astonishment, suspend your belief and wonder if you're imagining if you've seen what you've just seen. 

They held hands, posed romantically for what seemed like ages and then revealed perhaps the most enchanting dance routine ever to find its way onto an ice rink. And then we fell in love with their technical brilliance, their superlative virtuosity, their undoubted excellence, that telepathy, that elegant synchronicity, the perfect meeting of two minds and bodies, the kind of artistry and spontaneity that most of us could only dream of achieving. 

They danced to Bolero, a classical piece of music that almost seemed tailor made for Torvill and Dean. For goodness knows how long now they glided, swayed, spinning in ever increasing circles, Jayne Torvill, almost balletic in her serenity, thrown dramatically to the floor by Christopher Dean and then gracefully picked up. They would hold hands again before launching into another session of cunning calisthenics; twirling, whirling, making eyes for each other, swishing across the ice, pushing each other away and then falling in love again.

So the Winter Olympics will come out all flying from the traps. There will be wannabe Eddie the Eagle Edwards types who just want to take part in an Olympics because they can still feel the spirit of Baron Pierre De Coubertin just happens to be on their shoulder. It surely is the taking part that counts or perhaps it isn't. Edwards was just a lovable eccentric who just wanted to prove a point. He wanted to be the first British Olympian to win a medal of any description at a Winter Olympics. Nothing wrong with that.

He rode the wave of scepticism from the crusty reactionaries on the British Olympic committee and he flew like that Eagle for mile after mile, high over the snow capped pines and into the history books. The Winter Olympics can never get enough of its underdogs. Edwards knew he could do it and he promptly did. It was the kind of sublime achievement that may never be seen again in any time frame. But De Coubertin would have been rightly proud of this very British hero.