New dog, new season, springtime and joy.

 New dog, new season, springtime and joy.

Suddenly your thoughts turn to lighter evenings, less in the way of darkness, cuckoos on their delicate branches, and a sense of feelgood rejuvenation when everything seems as though those wintry days of recent history have now been consigned to the museum of history. No longer will we have to wake up in the morning and find that everything is somehow daunting, dreary and maybe just a bit mundane. You throw open the curtains or blinds and it may just as well be midnight and yet we know that it's winter just being bleak and forlorn. 

So it is that we begin to celebrate the day as opposed to the season. In fact let's pay a warm homage to every day, second, minute, half hour, hour and every conceivable passage of time. It is spring again and yes the tulips and daffodils are putting on their very special brand of entertainment. They're high kicking, doing the Hokey Cokey and turning around and re-assuring us that this is what it's all about. Spring is doing the salsa, the samba, a picture of peace and tranquillity. The birds are doing what they do best and the dawn chorus is certainly one of the most uplifting sounds Mother Nature can offer. 

Then after swaying, swooping and darting from one end of Manor House to the other you're reminded of a theatrical production. It almost feels as if somebody has given the birds permission to roam free, displaying all of their colourful finery and then awaiting a rapturous round of applause. So you settle back to enjoy the last couple of days in March and wonder what on earth April has got in store. For a couple of weeks now the weather has been joyously pleasant and warm. In fact most of us believe that there's some kind of guessing game going again. Are we being lulled into a false sense of security or will we get another sweltering heatwave this summer? It's hard to tell, really. 

But hold on, it occurs to you that all of these weather references have been mentioned sometimes too frequently over the years. It is the dominant topic of discussion in every British home from London to Glasgow, Cardiff and Belfast while not forgetting Dublin. At the moment it looks as though we may be getting another bucket load of showers and rain sometime today. And then we could be horribly wrong and the sun may come out for ever apart from Wednesday afternoons. Joking aside though let's simply relax and take every day as it comes.

Today though is a pretty exciting day. For quite some time you've been dropping hints about getting a dog. What a perfectly logical idea. So today is the day my lovely family will be welcoming a Poma Poodle into the family with the kind of welcome normally accorded to royalty or an eminent head of state. This Poma Poodle will get the full treatment, pampered and fussed over so much that if our puppy could speak it would have to express fulsome gratitude. 

So here are the facts. Our puppy will be nine weeks old and will be lavished with love, attention and concern should it need to go to the vet for minor or major ailments. But that goes without saying of course. His name is Barney and in case you're wondering why then a brief explanation is in order. The name, it should be pointed out, Barney wasn't prompted by Fred's neighbour and friend in the Flintstones. And Barney's surname will definitely not be Rubble just to clear up any misunderstanding. 

My wife, daughter and yours truly paid a visit to see our infant Poma Poodle and we were not to be disappointed. Barney is adorable, tiny, roughly the size of a human thumb, black, sweet as sugar, and desperate for the kind of compassion and affection that most dogs or any pets simply take for granted. How often do we wander into the living room of family and friends before sighing with wonder at the family dog or dogs? 

Of course dogs have always been man's best friend and the close rapport with our canine friends has almost been handed down the generations. Dogs are therapeutic for those with mental health issues, kindly, non judgmental, boundlessly energetic and always determined to win the battle of wits when their toys are there to be snatched away from them. We engage in the most enchanting, light hearted struggle with them knowing the said dog will always be victorious. 

But our Barney will be stunned at the prodigious amount of preparation work my wife, daughter and yours truly have made in anticipation of its much heralded arrival. Barney's sleeping quarters have been confirmed, the bags of food and harness ready for his considered opinion. It'll be either an outraged bark, a helpless yap or a contented woof of approval. We know he'll be at home since dogs love to be among family and friends. And to that end we've made every effort to make the newest member of our family feel like a king or queen. 

Now for those who have looked after pets for as long as they can remember, this may not come as anything new. You grab the dog's lead early in the morning, pull on a winter coat or not during the summer and then for the nearest parkland, recreation ground or acres of green English fields. Equipped with soggy tennis balls, bones and treats, you stride across marsh and moorland, forever flinging the mud caked tennis ball as far as you can. Then you yell fondly at your dog, calling loudly at him or her with good natured commands and then watching with a caring, solicitous presence that puts both you and your dog completely at ease. 

So here we are literally hours away from picking up our precious puppy. The excitement is mounting and shortly we'll be human parents to our lovely barking friend. Personally you have to admit to a little nervousness since this is uncharted territory. But once he's settled down you feel sure that our Barney will be our faithful friend, tail wagging with unfettered joy and just happy in the knowledge that we'll always be there for him. We'll keep you posted with regular puppy updates and medical bulletins. We can't wait.

Italy miss out on Qatar World Cup at the end of the year.

 Italy miss out on Qatar World Cup at the end of the year.

Football gasped with astonishment. It can't be happening and yet it has already done so. Italy, for the first time since 1958, will not be taking part in the Qatar World Cup at the end of the year. They were beaten by Sweden in a play off and the European Champions will not be gracing the World Cup with their presence. 

Now the fact is that the Azzurri are indeed European Champions and the absence from a World Cup of an international side who have already captured one of the world's biggest trophies must come as a major shock to the system to those who have always loved the Italian's sense of mystique, their cunning plans, their tactical brilliance and their sometimes overly passionate approach to the game. Over 50 years ago Italian football was still regarded with a good deal of reverence but you were never quite sure what you were going to get with them. They had a commendable relationship with the ball and certainly impressed wherever they went.

Last summer Roberto Mancini led his Italian boulevardiers to the Euro Final against England in a Final that ultimately ended in defeat and disappointment for Gareth Southgate's England. In the second half of that game Southgate's men seemed to run out of petrol and Italy re-designed the game to suit the requirements of a Euro Final. By the end of the game England were running on empty, flagging desperately, chasing the proverbial blue shadows and then surrendering to the Italians when most of us would have preferred it to be the other way around. 

But yesterday the empire once presided over by the wise and knowledgeable Enzo Bearzot came crumbling down and the new dynasty found itself in tatters. The likes of Marco Tardelli and Roberto Bettega, Dino Zoff, Gianni Rivera, the majestic Pirlo and many others suggested that the foundations laid down years ago had a firm stability and could never be broken. Then somebody mentioned catenaccio to the Italians and down came the defensive shutters. The perception of Italian football changed dramatically almost overnight and then they were burdened by negative labels and stereotypes. 

Then of course there were the years when the world wanted nothing to do with the Italians descent into villainy, cold calculation, introversion and, it has to be said, the uglier side to their game. Italy were nasty, wicked, spiteful, full of snide schemes, malicious intent and dirty tackling. They were violent, vile, vicious, thuggish, bullish, belligerent, ruthless and just determined to ruin matches. They hacked down their opponents with career threatening tackling, crunching into their opponents, shins and ankles with all the destructive force of a bulldozer on a building site. 

And yet last summer Italy were a joy to behold, lacing together their passes from back to front with a mathematical accuracy and attacking without inhibition. Their football had re-discovered its nobility, its sense of belonging to a brighter and more positive future. Their football had a real credibility about it, a fluent fluidity, a shining clarity of purpose, a genuine reconnection to the Enzo Bearzot era when international managers like Bearzot used to smoke pipes and look ever so slightly agitated when things went wrong.

The image of a 40 year old goalkeeper in Dino Zoff holding the World Cup aloft still fills the mind with a glow of pleasure. Of course the Italians have been rather too excitable for their own good and their sometimes annoying impetuosity has often let them down. But Italy does like to feel that the world is on their side and if there any signs of a persecution complex then that may be something we've come to expect of the country. 

And so it is that Italy will be cast into the wilderness this winter in Qatar and the World Cup will certainly not be the same without them.  Thankfully the world can rest easy in the knowledge that the wonderful Brazilians will be in Qatar. But a World Cup without Italy is rather like a boat without its rudder, a car without an engine and bread without butter. The two are somehow inseparable. 

Some of us can still remember the famous imagery of the Italians in the 1970 World Cup Final against Brazil when the Azzurri puffed and panted around yellow Brazilian shirts rather like dogs chasing a bone. Remarkably they gave a creditable account of themselves that hot day in Mexico but the likes of Rivelino, Carlos Alberto, Gerson, Tostao and that peerless nobleman Pele, gave the Italians a bewildering run around and by the end the Italians were desperate for oxygen.

Fear not though, the Italy we used to know will be back better than ever before. You can remember the sense of disbelief and incredulity when Holland failed to reach a World Cup Finals. At the moment the knowledge is slowly sinking in and this may not be a bad thing. But the irony of Italy's lofty position in European football at the moment is not lost on any of us. Japan will be at the World Cup in Qatar and that in itself sounds quite exotic so anything may be possible. It is to be hoped that the Russians ostracism from both football and the world will not be regretted. Italy, for their part, can only be distant observers. They will have other World Cups though and for that we should be grateful.    

Two years on from Covid 19

 Two years on from Covid 19

It is now two years ago since the deadliest virus of our times succeeded in shutting down the entire globe. Here we are at the latter end of March 2022 and it's hard to believe what appeared to be just an innocent and temporary illness on a cruise vessel could be so destructive and fatal to so many millions. But we all saw it unravel in the most horrific, harrowing, heart-breaking fashion. It has been the most traumatic two years that most of us can ever recall and for some families, it was irrevocably life changing. 

Two years almost to the day, a medical condition known as Covid 19 swept throughout the world like some hellish hurricane that never looked like relenting until now. Now the chances are that some of you still believe that the virus is still with us. There is a huge, cross section of the global population- including Britain- who are adamant that a mask is still compulsory and should be worn at all times. The assurances have been given but they still tell us that you should avoid all crowded areas since the risk of infection is still as great as ever. 

On the London Tube train system, a vast majority of people have now permanently discarded their mask in the hope that the consensus of opinion is that the virus can no longer be as aggressive or painful as it once was. So this is where we stand. The restrictions have been lifted, North London is currently bathed in glorious spring sunshine and all is well. Manor House, it has to be said, has never looked fitter, healthier and happier. The traffic is flowing quite effortlessly although there is an element of confusion in the early morning rush hour. Every so often, things seemed to come to a grinding standstill and that has to be infuriating for the daily commuter who just wants to get to wherever they want to go. 

Here in deepest North London, there is now a wonderful sense of new beginnings, an architectural renaissance that suggests modernity, positive thinking, a sense of powerful change and progression. Most of the new luxurious apartments, flats and ziggurats are reaching into a cobalt, cloudless blue sky. A new road has been opened up to us next door and a brand new generation of families are making their presence felt. 

Across the road the Travelodge Hotel seems to be doing a roaring business although it's hard to tell. You find yourself wondering why they had to build such an enormous hotel in the middle of a North London suburb that doesn't really lend itself to any kind of tourism. But then you realise that the new arrivals here in Manor House will undoubtedly use the hotel as a place to rest their heads overnight before embarking on another business transaction. The people who book bed and breakfast at the Travelodge hotel are probably the kind of people who will get out their laptop, a bundle of papers and documents as well as all the paraphernalia that clinches deals, finishes off major projects or simply keeps them busy.

So late at night your eyes wander across to the kaleidoscope of colours that light up the hotel. Gleaming purple light bulbs are a nightly illumination and if you're an architect, you may be feeling pretty pleased with yourself. This is not Las Vegas or Piccadilly Circus in the middle of London's thriving West End but it is a wondrous sight and quite the most magnificent building. It's an edifice that takes your breath away although there is a part of you that remains convinced that it still looks out of place. 

Anyway since the beginning of spring your mind and body begin to adjust themselves to brighter horizons, something to energise and stimulate you, revitalise and boost you. The cherry blossom on the trees look as spectacular as ever but some of the branches are still missing their comforting foliage. This is not to suggest that they're in desperate need of green because Mother Nature will take care of that. There is an air of gradual recovery in the suburbs accurately reflecting events around the country. 

Later on this year Her Majesty the Queen will be celebrating her Platinum Jubilee with street parties and general jollity across Britain. For the Royal Family, sadly, this has been a difficult and challenging time. Last year Her Majesty lost her husband Prince Philip and it was a death rightly marked with due solemnity and dignity. But for Her Majesty this will be one of the most rewarding years of her life. The Queen of course has seen it all and has served her country with unstinting loyalty and that devotion of duty that continues to leave us all gasping with admiration.

Come June though and we'll all be kicking our legs up into the air, putting out the party bunting and draping Union Jacks from every street and road lamp-post as if it were 1977 and then 2012 again. Springtime though has now revitalised all of us. After an invigorating walk in the park with some good friends you took your lunch, drank tea and sighed gratefully for the gift of life. Sometimes you have to pinch yourself at the magnificence of it all, the early suggestions of tulips and daffodils. But hold on we can see them now and there's no need to wait patiently because they're here now. 

And then in the morning you watch the flocks of geese and most of the bird population doing the samba across the skies, swooping, swaying, diving, flapping frantically in the most orderly of formations. It could be mistaken for a human ballet presentation but then you begin to think that your imagination is running away with you. Spring is wearing its most elegant set of clothes, dressed immaculately as always and ready to give us the Boat Race, the Grand National and those springtime festivals of Pesach and Easter.

So as you sort through your papers or swot intensely for school exams it would be wise to remember that two years ago we were in an altogether different place. It was a deeply distressing period of our lives since none of us knew what was happening to us. Humans are naturally sociable and love to be amongst family and friends. Now we may have taken all of these factors for granted, just part of the daily landscape of our lives. Then the world shut down and we were only allowed to walk in the park and even that came with several caveats. 

Still it's nice to know that we can at least escape this soul destroying confinement and not worry where our next piece of furniture may be coming from. Some of us were briefly concerned about a mass closure of all supermarkets and that would be the end of civilisation as we knew it. But the boxes of eggs and toilet rolls were replenished and we were all told to remain calm. And yet all human contact and communication had to be stopped until further notice. By your own admission that was pretty scary and frightening rather like some emotional journey into the unknown. 

The fact is we're all still here with each other and that's all that mattered. My wife and yours truly are now fairly frequent visitors to the cinema and theatre and it all feels as Covid 19 was some tragic historical aberration in some far off continent. They say a week is a long time in politics but two years of death, suffering and losses as a result of a worldwide virus can also leave you numb, shocked and dumbfounded. Still, April is almost upon us and hopefully the showers from that famous song will simply wash away memories of what used to be and never come back again. Happy Springtime everybody.

The Phantom of the Open

 The Phantom of the Open

Maurice Flitcroft was a middle aged crane driver from Barrow on Furness. He was a respectable member of society, a pillar of his community, looked up to and respected for the man he was and always would be. Flitcroft was a man of simple tastes and clean living. He would clock on in the morning, climb into his vehicle and just earn a decent wage and living for his loving family. He wanted nothing out of life and just strove to be a good husband to his wife and two sons. There could never be anything wrong with that. Surely.

Then one morning he woke up, flung open the curtains and decided he needed something more out of life than the usual domestic routines from life. Our Maurice had harboured a lifelong ambition to take part in the British Open golf tournament. It was now that Flitcroft's expectations became far from realistic. Besides, it isn't every day that you suddenly change your career and just move off into a completely different direction. 

But that's what happened to Maurice Flitcroft. One day he switched on the TV and saw Tom Watson, the legendary American golfer, winning the British Open. How much more of an incentive does one need before picking up a set of golf clubs, woods and irons and striding across the fairways of Britain's finest courses? Flitcroft looked in wonderment at the sheer brilliance of Watson's golf, gasped for a moment or two and then started rolling golf balls into cups strategically situated at the other end of his living room. 

Here the story begins. Flitcroft's sons become passionately interested in disco dancing, entering innumerable championships. His ambitious wife to be amusingly suggests that all she wants from his husband are diamonds, champagne and the luxurious lifestyle of the rich and famous. But then the panama hatted Flitcroft buys the familiar golfing attire of chequered cardigan and gloves. Here began the first leg of Flitcroft's thrilling golfing odyssey. 

Late at night he ventures out into some lonely piece of woodland and proceeds to carve out an illustrious career in contented mediocrity. Flitcroft is determined to take part in the British Open but not before attracting the notoriety of becoming the worst golfer in the world. He digs out his driver before lumping and chipping out of the rough one single golf ball. He does so with an unashamed enthusiasm because he just thinks he isn't that bad. He will become renowned for his perseverance and he won't be deterred. TV comes calling. They can't stop me so he'll just battling away and defying the odds. The opposition from the top will just have to deal with Flitcroft's defiance because he isn't going away.  

Against the better judgment of all concerned, Flitcroft, a humble and unassuming type, remains undeterred. In some of the most hilarious moments of a quite joyous film, the man from Barrow in Furness participates in his first British Open. He then proceeds to plough his way laboriously around the fairways and bunkers with record-breakingly low scores of over 64 for the day. He then lands in the bunker where the ball just becomes a stubborn enemy to our Maurice. Your heart goes out to a man who, by his own admission, thinks there is a conspiracy against him and the world is just mean spirited.  

Flitcroft now becomes a figure of fun to all who come into a contact with him. The blazered members of his golf club and the authoritarian figures who think he's just a fool, combine to reduce the man to a quivering wreck. The two gentlemen who make up the Open organising committee tell our man to go home in no uncertain terms. But then Maurice sticks up two disdainful fingers at those in the know and keeps plugging away in the face of adversity. 

Then after constant rejection Flitcroft wanders sadly back to the shipyard and thinks that perhaps his future does indeed lie in heavy machinery work. His son, now established in senior management,  memorably lectures his father on the embarrassment he may have caused to everybody within the company. Flitcroft, by now battle hardened, then discovers a whole new audience in America. Appearing on TV chat shows, he insists that he quite clearly isn't the worst golfer in the world. Besides, if the likes of Jack Nicklaus or Tom Watson can appear at golf's blue riband tournament then so can he.

So it is that the very accomplished Mark Rylance cuts a brave and heroic figure with that admirable insistence that practice is the road to perfection. Our British commentator continues to pour forth cynicism and ridicule on Flitcroft. There then follow some glorious scenes towards the end of Phantom of the Open. Going under the French pseudonym of Gerard Hoppy and then some very glamorous, blond Jack Nicklaus figure, Flitcroft is rumbled by the Open organisers who, on a spying mission, notice a player out on the course whose amateurishness then betrays him, as he clumps his way out of a bunker.

In a classically funny scene straight out of the Keystone Cops, the local police force are summoned to arrest Flitcroft. Jumping into a golfing buggy with his fellow work mate, our scratch, novice golfer races away from pursuing cops. Once again our determined underdog escapes into the setting sun. It is a film of breath taking quality, a film that will infuse experienced movie goers with yet another slice of feelgood seconds and desserts.

 It is a BBC made film that will have you rolling around with good, old fashioned laughter. In the closing scene, we see original footage of the real Maurice Flitcroft interviewed by both American and British interrogators, still maintaining his natural golfing prowess and telling global TV that he isn't the worst golfer in the world. You found yourself wondering why there aren't any other Maurice Flitcrofts on the horizon. The world certainly needs more of his like. Let's hear it for the Flitcrofts.  

Hammers through to the last eight to play Lyon of France in the Europa League.

 Hammers through to the last eight to play Lyon of France in Europa League quarter finals.

They told us it would never happen. They were quite clearly wrong. They told us to stop living in dreamland. We were just wishful thinkers with our heads in the clouds. In fact they insisted that we'd never get anywhere as remotely close to a Europa League final. And although they may have a point some of us do believe in miracles. It all came true last night and just for a moment or two that was good enough.

Last night West Ham United reached the quarter finals of the Europa League. Now there's a sentence that none of us could have possibly uttered without cracking into a guffawing laugh. In fact if West Ham do overcome Lyon of France in the last eight of the Europa League some of us might have been tempted to believe that Hans Christian Andersen was a real character. The prospect that could await them in the semi final is a potential meeting with the legendary Barcelona and that would be an astonishing achievement given everything West Ham have been through in recent seasons.

But first things first. West Ham were worthy winners over Sevilla despite the 1-0 deficit the East Londoners had to overhaul. In theory West Ham's first leg defeat in Spain was never the end of the world and there was nothing daunting about the challenge West Ham may have faced since the tie was always evenly balanced anyway. 

For much of the game yesterday evening Sevilla may have been the weavers of a thousand, intricate and well stitched passing movements but there came a point when they seemed to drop just a few. West Ham must have known that the Spanish mentality was that of a nation who had once won World Cups and European Championships. So it was that the team from the pretty, orange growing region of Seville gave us an impressive lesson in controlled possession, arty, bohemian football and cultured approach work. 

Of course Seville are no Real or Atletico Madrid and Barcelona may have put them firmly in their place but they did come to East London with a plan which looked as though it might pay off but failed miserably in the final third. They came to dominate and then overwhelm West Ham with their well structured approach work but West Ham had much left in the tank after their exertions in Spain last week. 

And so it is that West Ham go marching ahead into a last eight place. For those who can remember it this morning's Europa League draw pitted the Hammers together in a potential final four meeting with a name from the past. In 1976 West Ham met Eintracht Frankfurt in the semi finals of the European Cup Winners Cup. After losing the first leg in Germany, West Ham returned to London with a renewed confidence. The tie was still intriguingly poised and any positive result would have taken them into the European Cup Winners Cup Final against the mighty Anderlecht, one of Belgium's leading sides. This they did with some comfort. 

In the final, however there was a palpable air of gloom and sombreness as West Ham were eventually outlclassed by an outstanding  Anderlecht team including one Francois Van Der Elst who would later sign for the East London club. After going behind in the Final, West Ham levelled the game before the Belgians regained a slender lead before Pat Holland and Keith Robson scored for the Hammers. Anderlecht though had a Robbie Rensenbrink at his most masterful and Van Der Elst who was just an extremely clever forward. Anderlecht would score a third and fourth. The rest is history. 

Fast forward 45 years and West Ham are two matches away from their first European final since that classic game against Anderlecht. From this view it still feels like one of those impossible dreams that may just fizzle out. Still, West Ham have fond memories of Dutch artists Den Haag in 1976 when everybody must have thought their chances were fairly negligible even then. But then there was Eintracht Frankfurt and to those who trust encouraging omens this could be the one you're looking for. 

On the final whistle last night a vast throng of West Ham fans totalling almost 60,000 fervent and loyal partisans gave full vent to their feelings. The London Stadium last found itself in truly ecstatic voice when Mo Farah kicked beautifully to the front before winning Olympic gold for Team GB. Now though West Ham will be permanent residents at this remarkable piece of architecture. It did feel as if the nervousness of those first, few seasons at the London Stadium had lifted and and an overwhelming anxiety had become replaced by a carefree optimism. It could be the kind of season that may yet go down as one of the most unforgettable of all times for West Ham. Oh for those claret and blue bubbles.

National Shoe the World Day.

 National Shoe the World Day.

So where are you going to be on National Shoe the World? Will you be wearing high heels that make you feel in total charge of your destiny, will you be wearing shoes for rambling or hiking across vast swathes of the countryside, up hills and down hills, plodding your way through ravines, valleys, pathways, through dense forest, over rocks and stones, rock climbing over treacherous terrain or simply running for the bus or train. 

Indeed today is National Shoe the World and be prepared for a mighty trek because your feet are about to get the treat of their lives. They've pounded the pavements and narrow strips of land for so many years now that you'd think they probably deserve some kind of a break. But go ahead. Throw on that jacket or suit and keep walking since it's the finest exercise and you know your body will appreciate it afterwards. 

For hundreds of years men and women have never gone without shoe wear. It could be an urban myth but women just adore shoes. They always have done so. They wander around shoe shops with no other thought than to invest in as many pairs of shoes as they can. They try on those shoes  because they rightly believe that the shoes will give them stature, authority, a sense of power and smartness. Shoes give women elegance, a feeling of equality with men and a sense that they're just as good if not better than men. 

So around the world today men and women will be looking for slip on shoes, shoes with and without laces, sports trainers, plimsolls perhaps or, dare we say it, platform shoes if they still stock them. During the 1970s, platform shoes were de rigueur, highly fashionable in a way that Adidas clothing or Arctic rolls with delicious ice creams used to be so immensely popular in Britain. But shoes have always been a vital part of our character, defining our personality, identifying us from the rest of the crowd. 

As a child you can still remember your mum taking you to the local shoe shop during the school summer holidays and getting all fitted up for a decent and durable pair of shoes for the return to school in September. You would sit down, stick your feet on a measuring device, wiggling and squeezing your feet into a whole variety of the best, the worst and the plain awful. It was almost a standard procedure and you never questioned it for a moment. 

Back in the 1950s Britain seemed to give the world winkle pickers, shoe wear that became synonymous with the Mods and Rockers, a band of men and women who used to hang out quite casually and proudly in the coffee bars of Soho. Then they'd pop a couple of shillings into the juke box, comb their well-quiffed hair and dance to the dulcet tones of Bill Hayley and the Comets and Cliff Richard. Shoes are important to us because we probably think they're our personal statement, a way of attracting attention when the rest of the world may be ignoring us. 

So we get dressed in the morning for work, school or college and go through that familiar rigmarole. We pull on our shirts, trousers, coats, caps and hats since this is the course of action that comes naturally. Then there's a sharp intake of breath as we decide which kind of shoes we should wear. Do we go with the dark shoes with a hint of maroon, the brown shoes that scream modesty or the comfortable ones that just glide into your feet with not a hint of difficulty?

But why have they announced today as National Shoe the World Day? Quite clearly we've got enough shoes to be going on with and it's not as if we're off to the Lake District for the day. Maybe we take shoes for granted and don't really give them the time of day, oblivious to their enduring charms. They've been at the bottom of our feet for so long now that we'd be forgiven for being a bit blase about them. We traipse up and down shopping centres, walking endlessly down supermarket aisles searching for food, drink  and, quite recently, clothes as well. 

And then there are the people who used to polish their shoes religiously before setting out for work. They were the kind of men and women who were desperate to create an impression at a job interview. Then there were those who loved to swagger along the seaside promenade, puffing out their chests and demanding a second look because their shoes were designer shoes and cost a second mortgage. 

Most of us are accustomed to shoes because we've never really been without them. We sit all day in the office in them, marching around in them, running around in them, kicking them off in relief at the end of the day since they are now surplus to requirements. We hope that the shoes we've just bought will serve us properly and last for more than a year or two. We've become very attached to them and are now inseparable from them. 

Then there are boots which could be theoretically called shoes but are bigger than the conventional shoes. Boots are thicker, bulkier, harder wearing and accompany us on football pitches, facilitate long walks over boggy marshland and, in some cases, used to have zips. During the 1960s women used to wear colourful boots that covered most of their legs and office workers would don shiny black shoes that would sparkle in the Summer of Love during the same decade. 

More recently shoes and boots have become essential, eye catching attire, something to be seen in and boast about quite enthusiastically. Shoes are our overlooked friends that take us on long train journeys and never object to another punishing regime of traipsing across roads, over bridges, quaint country lanes and then give us the time to look at the natural wonders of the world. We walk the walk and keep walking without realising or acknowledging the debt we owe to shoes.

But above all shoes keep our feet warm in cold, wintry days when the ice and snow are thick on the ground. Shoes are renowned for their resilience, the way they just seem to make us feel ten feet tall when we might have been demoralised by some minor setback. We look down on them and they're a wonderful morale booster. You may have failed that job interrogation or a school exam but you still feel a million dollars because you've just acquired a magnificent pair of Doc Martens or a stylish pair of Guccis that look positively handsome.

So if you're feeling a sense of war and battle fatigue just stare across at your hallway or wherever you leave those much loved shoes and just admire your taste and discrimination on the subject of shoes. You've saved long and hard for them and, quite frankly, you deserve them. Maybe we've just conveniently forgotten about shoes since for the last two years we haven't really been anywhere as such. Go on. Dig out those hiking boots and set out for the rugged coastlines and those adorable beaches. Shoes make us feel important and, surely there has to be something to be said for that reason alone. Have a great National Shoe the World Day, everybody.   

Hell in Ukraine.

 Hell in Ukraine

We are now almost conditioned to the images, sights and sounds from Ukraine. A country that just wanted to be left alone in peace has been viciously and unforgivably attacked, murdered and blown apart at the seams. It is now in a state of complete devastation, grief, loss, death and utter disarray. Ukraine, a country that cherished its independence from the rest of Russia and its neighbours, is now suffering the penalty for its fundamental right to exist, its proud identity, its sovereignty as a country, its freedom to live together, its fondly protected ideals and ideologies but, above all, its safety and security. 

Yesterday saw the ultimate abomination in just over 17 or 18 days of conflict in Ukraine. A maternity ward in Mariupot hospital was bombed and demolished by a Russian killing machine that had nothing else on its mind but death and destruction. That they succeeded in carrying out their merciless act of heinous savagery and evil on a poor, unsuspecting emergency service beggars belief. We've now seen the horrific images and it hardly seems possible that one nation could behave in so repellent and repulsive a fashion and then just casually move on to their next target.

At the moment the whole of Ukraine is so anguished, severely troubled and broken that it may take years before the country can ever get back on its feet. The country is now trapped in such a tortured state that the rest of the world can only look on in stunned amazement and shock. Hundreds and thousands of families have been forced to leave their homes in a mass exodus and comparisons to the Second World War could quite easily be made. 

Vladimir Putin, quite the most violent and abhorrent human being of all time, is now the Russian tin pot dictator who now seems to be taking a sadistic pleasure in the misfortune and agony of others. Way back when, the likes of Lenin and Stalin would quite happily have embraced the mentality of a man so deranged and disturbed that you can barely bring yourself to mention his name in any context. 

But how did we ever get to this point? How on earth has a grim faced Russian president risen to such political prominence while every global government allows Putin to just wreak havoc? We must have thought we'd seen the back of this horrendous genocide at the end of the Cold War or the Bosnia and Kosovo conflagration at the beginning of the 1990s. Then, men and women were callously starved to death, humiliated in detention camps and then brutally beaten for no other reason that their history, culture and heritage didn't meet with the approval of those who hated them.

Russia does love a battle or war doesn't it? It certainly delights in revolutions and grave moments of crisis. Communism may now be just a dirty word to some but historians tell us that Russia simply adores its military hardware, the rumbling tanks and the marching soldiers in Moscow's Red Square. Ever since the likes of Estonia, Belarus, Latvia, Lithuania went their own way, Russia has been like a bear with a sore head, quite literally. Putin now stomps around his grand palace like a spoilt child who just wants his way all the time. He is a vile, inhumane barbarian who simply wants to take out his frustration on anybody who gets in his way. 

And still they leave in their droves. Millions have now been cruelly driven from their homes, estranged and displaced by a heartless tyranny. Here is a despicable man who should have been either locked up years ago or just killed in cold blood without any hesitation whatsoever. Russia has now been ostracised by most of the Western world and the current sanctions which are now hampering everything Russia tries to do, are now biting with a vengeance. 

We are now several weeks into a war that seems to be deteriorating by the day, week and month. At some point you suspect decisive action will be taken sooner rather than later. But the very infrastructure of Ukrainian society is being torn to shreds in a way that none of us could have possibly imagined. Across Ukraine's towns, villages and cities, the air of desperation, helplessness and despair can be seen on every law abiding Ukranian face. 

Vast numbers of mothers with babies and children are crammed onto packed trains while fathers, uncles and cousins can only look on as helpless by standers. They surge towards train carriages bulging with terrified men and women who scream, cry, sob uncontrollably and wail. They are trains headed to who knows where and there is a sense at the moment that Ukraine has now lost all control. We must hope that things will gradually improve in the goodness of time but a cold pessimism sends a shiver down your spine.

Some of us have observed more recent wars with the same degree of disbelief and incredulity. The wars in Syria, Afghanistan, Iran, Iraq and any country that just doesn't get on with each other, are now embedded in our consciousness. In Syria we witnessed piles of rubble and masonry that used to be schools, shops, cafes, restaurants and residential buildings. We saw wounded men and children with bloodied bandages dug out of the ground, weeping poignantly, some dead, some alive and some sickened beyond belief at what was happening to them.

We've seen charred ruins, twisted metal girders, smashed glass from once secured windows that used to be homes. We've seen hundreds of paramedics climbing through the wreckage, dust flying around them, ambulances screaming and improvised hospitals in small corners of a road or street. It has been indigestible, disgusting and disgraceful. But the horrors of Mariupot will linger in the memory for many months and years to come. They are the images that can never be erased from the human memory because they are not the ones any human would ever have thought conceivable.

Of course there has been outright condemnation and nothing but seething contempt for the dastardly deeds of one man who now thinks that World War Three sounds his only plausible alternative. But the trouble is that maybe Putin has underestimated the intelligence of the rest of the world in as much that a vast majority won't allow the Russian bully to do as he wishes. Ukraine has already established an admirable defensive fortress and the defiance has obviously come as a surprise to Putin and his cronies.

For the rest of Europe and the world these are troubling and worrying times but when hasn't this always been the case? Naturally we look after our families and friends because we simply have to. But for all the oil and gas reserves that Putin believes Ukraine is simply keeping to themselves, some of us know that there is a hidden agenda there. Putin just wants to flatten and burn Ukraine and its inhabitants to the ground. He wants to eliminate the perceived enemy in his sights. But the rest of the world will not have it. We will say once and for all. Enough is enough Mr Putin. Lay down your arms and stop immediately. You will be sentenced to life or a fate worse than death. Now. 

Shane Warne dies.

 Shane Warne dies

When we were told that Shane Warne, one of Australia's most charismatic cricketers, had died when he had so much more to offer the game in retirement, we bowed our heads in deep mourning. We began to think that cricket had also lost one of its most genuine characters, a lovable rascal but nonetheless a man of intelligence and integrity, a man capable of leading the game he so loved into a brighter and more progressive world, a sport heading in the right direction.

Shane Warne was one of Australian's greatest spinners, leg spinners and the man who had once so completely bamboozled the England cricket team that by the end of the day's play most of England had come to dread the arrival of Warne through the old and venerable gates of Lords, Headingley, Trent Bridge, Old Trafford and the Oval. Warne was a cunning, deceitful, unpredictable spinner who could turn the ball every which way and remain unapologetic after the event.

He would trot very deliberately towards the crease, licking the red ball almost incessantly before delivering the lethal ball and then twisting his thumbs and fingers so that by the end of an over, the batsmen he was facing would just grin, smile, tug at their helmet and pretend that they hadn't seen a thing. Warne's engagement with his opposing batsmen was one of the greatest confrontations international cricket had ever seen. There were the eyeball to eyeball contests, that roguish twinkle in his eyes and then bafflement, confusion, subtlety and the most intriguing psychological battle royale ever witnessed on a cricket field. 

During the 1970s English leg spinners such as Ray Illingworth and Derek Underwood would roll up their sleeves, work their way industriously through the opposition and then retire to the pavilion with ravenous appetites and a wonderful sense of personal satisfaction. Underwood, a Kent master spinner, would go through all of the familiar motions. The billowing white shirt would blow in the gentle winds of an English summer before the ball would be tucked surreptitiously under the thumbs and index fingers before flicking the red ball out of the palms of his hands like some experienced magician.

Illingworth, who sadly died recently, was a Yorkshireman who had the kind of leadership qualities that came naturally to him. But once Illingworth had been handed the ball as England captain the nation felt blessed. Illingworth, apart from being a born organiser and game changing catalyst, spun the ball from his fingers and made the ball snap, bite, spit and then cut back off the seam, forcing the batsmen into a whole sequence of unforced errors. 

But Shane Warne belonged to a generation of innovators, creators and improvisers, the MTV era, a pioneering force, somebody who did things his way rather than the way others would have expected. He was a born rebel, iconoclastic to his fingertips, unconventional at times and a nightmare for batsman who weren't expecting a tough, torrid afternoon at the crease. Warne though was a stylist and purist, fully versed in the wiles and guile of the spinners art, a constant torment to batsmen who just fancied the quiet life. 

For decades we'd seen the likes of Dennis Lillee and Jeff Thompson terrorising English batsmen in an act of wild cricketing anarchy. Then there were the Chappell brothers Ian and Greg, destructive batsmen with whole catalogues of centuries in their locker. In more recent years there was Alan Border and Ricky Ponting, Aussies with cricketing mayhem in their bloodstream, always looking to create merry hell with an English batting attack. 

Shane Warne of course ripped up the rule book as soon as he set eyes upon it. Warne was full of kidology, tomfoolery, infectious humour and an inveterate prankster who never obeyed any official law if he thought he could get away with it. His private life was every bit as colourful as his relationship with English actress and film star Elizabeth Hurley demonstrated. Warne was a night owl and party animal, outrageous at times and always prepared to test the patience of the authorities who thought he should have been setting the right example.

The news of Shane Warne's passing admittedly came as a major shock to the system in as much as it was so sudden and so totally unexpected. Warne did take drugs, imbibed far too many alcoholic libations for his own good and smoked perhaps too many cigarettes. But at 52, Warne died tragically young of a heart attack and suddenly the lights went out in Sydney, Melbourne and Brisbane. 

It was no small coincidence that another Australian cricket charmer also died only days earlier. Rod Marsh was one of cricket's most extrovert and gregarious of cricketers. Marsh was a delightful wicketkeeper who simply refused to keep still behind the stumps. He was forever fidgeting, restless, stretching his arms and forever exercising, a marvellous sportsman who had graced the game for so many years. Marsh died at 82 and Warne at 52 and now cricket finds itself at a loss for words. We will remember them well.

Saints knock Hammers out of the FA Cup.

 Saints knock Hammers out of the FA Cup.

In recent decades the FA Cup has not treated West Ham as kindly as it should. Goodness knows the 42- year famine without any semblance of a trophy in the now rusting trophy cabinet at the London Stadium is getting harder to remove by the year. The drought has now set in with a vengeance and anybody who can remember just how good it must have felt in 1980 when Arsenal were vanquished on a memorable early May day, may have to dredge up even older memories of 1975 against Fulham and Preston North End in 1964 when even Harold Wilson must have put down his pipe for a while as the Hammers paraded the Cup around Wembley like all conquering heroes.

Still last night seemed as good a time as any to enhance their credentials as potential FA Cup winners and not for the first time, things didn't go according to plan. With their position in the top six of the Premier League nicely secured, you suspected that West Ham would have thrown everything at Southampton privately hoping that this could be their year. Never in a month of Sundays. Not a chance.

A couple of seasons ago a haggard looking Manuel Pellegrini looked almost haunted as West Ham proceeded to put themselves forward as prime contenders for an appearance at a comedy club. AFC Wimbledon punched a gaping hole in West Ham's defence with a conclusive and highly impressive victory at Plough Lane and this bore no resemblance to the original Crazy Gang. Wimbledon were serious, honest, hard working and embarrassingly convincing winners on a night when even the Hammers were blunt.

And so once again West Ham experienced the trials and tribulations that the game can so often test the best. Last Sunday lunchtime West Ham devoured a pack of Wolves despite the opposition's brave resistance and good, recent form. The London Stadium now witnessed a West Ham that were much more coherent, cohesive and attack- minded than they had been before the game on Sunday. Then Tomas Soucek had poked home a winning with an outstretched leg but last night the Czech had to deal with a bloodied eye wound, an injury that looked, for a minute or so, much worse at first sight but was then stitched up in no time at all. 

But apart from a brief and lively spell of attacking, West Ham drifted into a kind of obscurity and out of the game completely until vanishing into some pale caricature of their former self. For a while Declan Rice strode forward with an almost regal authority, Soucek looked tall, imposing and in total control, Pablo Fornals was full of  neatness, impeccable ball control and mischievous trickery out on the flank. Manuel Lanzini, a lovely manipulator of the ball and clever in his distribution, simply faded from the game. Jarred Bowen, hunting industriously and going close to scoring, then forgot his script.

Then with half an hour gone Southampton became a real and threatening force in the last third of the pitch. Their quick, imaginative one and two touch passing around the periphery of the West Ham defence, began to leave the visitors dizzy and disoriented. There were some excellent attacking movements from the men in red and white, the ball moving in ever- increasing circles and carving open craters in West Ham's slowly deteriorating and ultimately crumbling defence.

With Jan Valery, the superb Jack Stephens, Kyle Walker Peters  and Oriol Romeu guarding the front and back of their back four with careful and shrewd vigilance, Southampton grew into the game. Then the outstanding James Ward Prowse, renowned for his free-kick prowess, provided his team with its most controlling influence, keeping things simple and to the point. Ward Prowse was like a weather vane at times, measuring the temperature of the game and then passing the ball with the mastery of a man much older than his years. Gareth Southgate and England must surely be keeping tabs on Ward Prowse.

Then with half an hour gone Southampton opened the scoring at St Mary's. For a minute you were suddenly transported to those glorious days under the great Lawrie Mcmenemy. Who will ever forget the distinctive windmill, goal- scoring celebration that accompanied one of Mike Channon's goals? But of course most Southampton fans  will never forget where they were when the late Bobby Stokes streaked away from a heavy breathing Manchester United defence to score the winning goal for Southampton in the 1976 FA Cup Final.

And so it was that the old Dell became the new St Mary's all those decades later. Now Southampton worked up another head of steam with some sustained pressure that paid dividends. The Frenchman Romain Perraud, in acres of space on the edge of the West Ham penalty area, took his time almost effortlessly, weighing up his options and then striking like a bolt of lightning. Perraud took aim and drove a spectacular, curling shot that arrowed its way high into West Ham's keeper Areola's net for the opening goal on the night.

By the second half West Ham became slipshod, ragged, attractive on occasions but then sloppy and careless with the ball. Southampton were beginning to look by far the prettier and more incisive of the two teams. But then West Ham hit back with an equaliser that never really looked like coming. A viciously in swinging corner came flying into the depths of the six yard box and after a hectic scramble, Michal Antonio, whose goal scoring form had apparently deserted him, nudged the ball over the line.

Undeterred though Southampton surged forward again. West Ham though began to develop a closer acquaintance with the ball and when they had it, the ball would move among them as if it had always been theirs for the taking. Lanzini would dart, weave, cut in from the wing with supreme know how. Then Declan Rice gave a remarkable impersonation of his West Ham predecessor Bobby Moore with some powerful runs forward that opened up the door of an occasionally creaky Southampton back four.

All though was in vain. West Ham were now being sucked into a trap they could never extricate themselves from. Pushed back into submission, another Southampton attack caught out Craig Dawson who struggled to hold back the forceful, marauding attacker. Leaning into his man, Dawson threw out a leg and hauled over the red and white shirt. After several doses of VAR and a seemingly endless delay, James Ward Prowse, stepped up to take the penalty, thrashing the ball confidently down the centre of the goal and into the net..

 Southampton broke forward with menace, bite and forthright directness while never forsaking their precise passing game. Broja, on as an instantly influential substitute, reduced Issa Diop and Kurt Zouma to bewildered by standers. Dropping the shoulder and then turning both Diop and Zouma brilliantly, he drove into space before drilling a low but firmly struck shot into the net. With the game evenly poised now the neutrals thought the visitors had a second wind. But that blew it almost immediately.

The Southampton manager Ralph Hasenhuttl, now as fully bearded as Jurgen Klopp, felt that his side were worthy winners of this absorbing FA Cup tie. For some this might have been regarded as a statement of the obvious. Southampton were quicker of thought and deed, always searching, accurate and utterly assured in possession. 

For David Moyes, the losing West Ham manager, this could be construed as a missed opportunity. The Scotsman now finds himself in a thankless position. When Sir Alex Ferguson tells you that you're the best modern-day manager that he's ever seen, then you have to take notice. But Fergie had only commented on Moyes burgeoning managerial prowess before he arrived at Old Trafford.

 At West Ham though Moyes is keeping West Ham on an even keel. They are still in the Europa League and that should certainly count for something. But this is rather like that scene in the Pink Panther where Peter Sellers walks into a shop with a bomb in his hand. Sevilla may well prove to be the ultimate explosive. Besides, Inspector Clouseau was never a West Ham fan and you suspect that West Ham will not be making any further, concrete progress in the tournament although stranger things have been known to happen. Sevilla have won the Europa League or UEFA Cup six times but West Ham may have to dream on.

After the game last night West Ham will resume their quest for a place at Europe's top table next season. They are still outside the top four and a place in the Champions League may be a romantic thought. The realists though believes that the claret and blue will run out of steam well before the Easter holidays. The bubbles could still be seen on a mild night on the South Coast but visions of a Wembley FA Cup Final have now been consigned to the back of the cupboard. Liverpool at Anfield suddenly sounds even more daunting than is usually the case.