National Poetry Reading Day

 National Poetry Reading Day.

For those of us who have just ventured into the delightful world of both football and non football poetry the arrival of National Poetry Day was something to look forward to with enormous anticipation. For years you regarded with some scepticism the whole notion and concept of poetry of any description. It all seemed rather cheesy, kitsch and distinctly unappealing. 

What's the point in writing in a genre where the number of words in any written composition had to be restricted to a minimum and you had to discipline yourself since this was certainly not an essay, novel or a feature piece of writing and words had to be used sparingly. But the temptation to write in poetic-cum verse form became a very  real reality as a result of a Zoom meeting under the auspices of Jami, the Jewish Mental Health organisation which has served the community so admirably over the years. 

Jami provides an essential and vitally important link to Jewish people from every class, social status and background. It provides those with mental health issues, regardless of the severity of the disability a platform to express themselves. Poetry would now come into life without so much as single prompt from anybody in particular. Writing is something you've found yourself doing quite prolifically over the years but poetry sat in some remote corner of your mind, well out of reach and never ever addressed or acknowledged. Poetry, they kept telling us, would never sell in the online bookshops or the live physical bookshops because it just wasn't relevant or accessible. It wasn't fashionable nor was it mainstream. 

So up until a couple of years ago you were blithely content to keep writing lengthy blogs and descriptive prose pieces ranging from Covid 19, Donald Trump to the bizarre idiosyncrasies of the British Prime Minister Boris Johnson. It was personally the best fun you could ever have had with writing. To this day blogs have preoccupied my mind and stimulated the grey cells so much that you finally feel obliged to write on any given subject without worrying that you might be upsetting anybody. Of course you hold back from impassioned rants but then discover the amusing potential of such topical events. 

Midway through last year, a weekly Jewish creative writing group suddenly sparked off quite accidentally a sequence of thoughts that would lead joyfully into poetry. There was something inside my head that had to be expressed. Suddenly, you were surrounded with very vividly lyrical imagery. The words that dropped from you became like a natural emotion, an instinctive flowering of words and images that made me sit up and take notice. 

Today is National Poetry Reading Day which may well be overlooked by a vast majority of readers across the world because it's corny, childish, soppy and sentimental. But when did they become stereotypes associated with a vast literate world. Does poetry have to rhyme and are there any hard and fast rules? Not necessarily but you were still labouring under the misconception that poetry simply won't make any money in the publishing world. 

From that early part of summer 2021 the words and images flowed like a waterfall. But then come autumn time it suddenly occurred to me that you could also combine the poetry you'd already written with my pursuit of the Beautiful Game football. So you stumbled on a website called Football Poets and immediately transferred all of your football poetry onto the said site. Now the poems came thick and fast with a whole multitude of subjects ranging from the FA Cup, Euro 2020, my wonderful dad, Ilford Football club, my football team West Ham and many more. 

But here we are on National Poetry Day when the distant memories of those literary lions who summoned up so many vivid images and enduring reminders of nature, life and humanity are once again at the forefront of our minds if only for the day. Of course there is a place for poetry in any setting or time however hard the sceptics may think otherwise. It is a genre of writing that may never be given the kind of recognition that it undoubtedly deserves.

Across the globe there are performance poets who think nothing of stepping onto a stage whether it be a pub or club and demonstrating an expertise in the field of this somewhat underrated literary discipline. Poetry reading will be delivered in village halls, major concert venues, big festivals and atmospheric clubs around the world. The words of Keats, Wordsworth, Yeats, Wilde and Shakespeare will always have a warm place in the hearts of those who still see beauty in language and real depth in the meaning of verse. 

All across the world poetry will be celebrated and eulogised, presented and illustrated in rich detail through the medium of TV, radio, online communication and shared among millions of lifelong lovers. We will always remember the greats and legends, the ones who gave a real platform to sweet lullabies, word paintings, and children's poetry, quite possibly the most important of all poetic forms. We love poetry because it's exciting, profound, tender and sensitive. Stop for a while and think about those who breathe a genuine vibrancy and energy into our world. Poetry in motion, indeed. 

Tyson Fury retains WBC heavyweight world title.

 Tyson Fury retains WBC world heavyweight title.

What a way to hang up your boxing gloves? In front of one of the most internationally renowned national stadiums, the man from Wythenshawe delivered one of the most destructive right upper cuts and boxing's vast global community recognised class when they saw it. The Wembley Arch may still be learning to accept boxing's more bloodthirsty of narratives but the new stadium perfectly understood where Tyson Fury was coming from. 

But for Fury this was, regrettably, his last ever fight on the big stage anywhere. Shortly afterwards, the man with Irish gypsy blood announced his retirement and the world of boxing sighed ruefully and moved onto their next pugilistic hero.  For Tyson Fury this represented the end game, a line under the sand. He had nothing to prove and he displayed all of the subtle arts of ring craftsmanship that we might have come to expect of him.

British boxing has rarely known a better or more auspicious time. The procession of British prize fighters has lavished us with charm, charisma and abundant showmanship. They've cut lips, mouths and eyes, bleeding bruises oozing from every part of their besieged and battered bodies. In 1963 Henry Cooper, who would become the most instantly identifiable British boxing institution, sent a clubbing punch into the face of Cassius Clay and every household across the nation fell deeply in love with Cooper, who would go into the history books and create a legendary place in British affections.

The likes of Frank Bruno, Lennox Lewis, Joe Bugner have all in their very different ways tried to re-establish that special moment, that instant and lasting rapport with adoring boxing fans the world over. Poor Frank Bruno suffered terribly for his art and the mental health issues which have now haunted him will not be the way we'd like to remember him. He lashed out at Mike Tyson but then discovered that Tyson only had brutality and barbarism on his mind. Tyson once tried to bite off the ears of his helpless opponent and Bruno must have felt Tyson's lethal fists coming from a different continent. 

Lennox Lewis was the brave, honourable and heroic Canadian who was brought up in East London and did his utmost to challenge for the impossible dream. Lewis succeeded but never really achieved the level of consistency required to hold onto titles and win decisively on a regular basis. Bugner was, by his own admission, overweight, had rather too many tyres around his waist and the flabby waistline may have been too much of a hindrance. But Bugner could talk a good fight, sling painful shots to the head and body quite skilfully and once got the better of Henry Cooper. Then the man from Hungary faded from view and never really asserted himself at the highest level of the fight game.

On Saturday, Wembley Stadium was full to bursting point, bristling with anticipation, rocking with enthusiasm and waiting for Fury to unleash his artillery. Both Fury and Dillian White, his opponent, were fully revved up for this momentous meeting of boxing minds. Fury was galvanised, almost a man possessed with mad, staring eyes, looking to flatten White in no time at all. There was a ruthless evil in Fury just waiting to flood out and take out all of his frustration on his opponent. But White was never likely to upset the equilibrium of the boxing world. Nobody had fancied White's chances and all of the focus was concentrated on Fury. 

And so the bell rung for the first round. Fury and White cautiously inched their way out of their respective corners and what we were treated to was an exhibition of cool, calculating strategy. Both men spent most of the fight spitting out tentative jabs. Fury kept manoeuvring White around the ring like a man searching patiently for the right moment. Every so often the Fury wrists would reach out for the vulnerable White chin. The arms would prod and probe, arms swinging, dragging his man around tormentedly, pushing his man thoughtfully into the right spot and the right moment.

All of his life Fury had planned for this night. The aura of seeming invincibility around Fury would hover over him for ages. But this was his last, rousing, stirring finale and how the British boxing cognoscenti loved Fury. By rounds, two, three, four and five, White was under attack with a whole succession of fierce jabs to the head, fending off the Fury barrage and bombardment with a feeble protective screen. By now Fury was measuring the fight, dictating its pace, testing the temperature and finding that lasting fame would be assured by the sixth round. 

White could never deal with the telescope that was the reach that Fury had now found in his locker. Wembley was on its feet, the traditionalists now baying for blood. In the sixth round White had lost his way, never really finding his feet or building up any kind of counter offensive to the Fury jab and counter jab. His positioning left too much to desire and there was never any way that White would provide any kind of credible opposition on the night.

Suddenly Fury let loose his frightening bombs that thudded into the side of the White head. From nowhere a deadly uppercut toppled White to the canvas and the lights went out. White was poleaxed and emphatically out for the count. Before the referee had had time to call an end to the fight, White could barely lift himself up again. Dazed and bewildered, he got to his feet and then found that his mind and body were on a different wavelength. Fight over, Fury world champion again and then retirement. It was as simple and clinical as that. Tyson Fury establishes his place in boxing folklore. 

Ah the cricket season again.

 Ah, the cricket season again.

Let us pause for breath. It's all becoming very hectic, frantic and frenetic. The Premier League season is approaching its natural end, the closing stages of another magnificent football season about to reach another thrilling conclusion. Liverpool and Manchester City are locked in combat, striving to land the knockout blow and it couldn't be closer.

These two giants of the game will have to be prised apart at this rate, so closely contested is the battle. Liverpool currently edge City and it looks as if this one could go to the last game of the season. How refreshing is that? City are being pushed all the way to the Premier League title and what a welcome change that will be since most of us had assumed they did have it wrapped up, signed, sealed and delivered, in the bag. But the unassailable 12 point lead has now been whittled away and the Premier League will either turn a bright red shade or light blue complexion. 

Meanwhile here we are heading towards the end of April and guess what? The cricket season in England has already begun in those enchanting counties where the corporate tents and lily white marquees are slowly bursting into commercial life. Then, respectable looking umpires in white coats will step down elegantly from pavilions all across the country. They'll have on around their waists thick bunches of cricket pullovers, wrapped securely around them and then in their coat pockets, a whole selection of paraphernalia such as coins, cards, quite possibly their car keys and, above all, a red cricket ball will be produced. 

For decades and centuries this has become the perennial ritual that has accompanied the start of the cricket season. Both Oxford and Cambridge university will be ready and waiting, raring to go. For as long as anybody can remember the universities have always taken precedence in cricket's pecking order and the hierarchies have always been evident in the sport's  class ridden structure. Not that it's always been this way but when two universities meet on a cricket pitch in April you know the season has begun.

Cricket for most of us was always rooted in the village green game where two local teams gather together in front of imposing cathedrals, impressive church steeples and where the wisteria garlanded thatched cottages nestle away in an idyllic corner. Cricket is about gentle sedateness, cream teas with scones, jam, butter and those tiny sandwiches with egg and cress or cheese and pickle. It is about the rich tapestry of the English summer, the trickle of applause which can be heard every time a batsman prods a run to mid wicket and the richly gratifying crack of ball against willow. 

In the old days schoolchildren would gather enthusiastically by the boundaries of our noble cricket clubs and run towards the ball before picking it up excitedly and then writing a whole spreadsheet of figures and details that were so essential to the occasion. At lunch they would once again produce their tupperware box for a bottle of pop, while adding leg before wicket for the umpteenth time. It was a timeless procedure that was somehow synonymous with both the club and England national Test side. 

Cricket was always that therapeutic activity so desperately needed when football became all too much for cricket aficionados. It was a game designed for both young and old, a means of slowing down the reflexes and soothing fevered brows. Many of the county grounds were so laid back and relaxed that the rows of deckchairs and, quite possibly sun loungers, were never in short supply. You opened up your Daily Telegraph or Times, scribbling away at the crosswords before looking up at the game and blinking in the sunlight with that very contented air. The sun glasses would be briefly lifted and, quite nostalgically, the great Don Bradman would be lofting a handsome drive into the Lords tavern.

The wonderful John Arlott, who had painted the game's manifold colours so decoratively and decorously for so many decades just after the Second World War, was the man who breathed grammatical life into the game. For Arlott, cricket was indeed poetry in motion, a game of simplicity and purity, untouched by the gaudy baggage of sponsorship, where purple and green shirts would offset orange and blue trousers.

And that's where the traditionalists would look at you in sheer horror. Where on earth did the precious, beloved summer game go? Who had the effrontery to hijack the game, selling it down the river, ruining the structure of the game as a spectacle, disfiguring the game and pretending that cricket was somehow a child's colouring book rather than sport? Was it Kerry Packer, that rather dogmatic and opinionated Australian businessman who had simply wanted to transform the whole landscape of the game? Or was it the equally as brash Rupert Murdoch who continues to treat cricket as if it had been let loose in a children's nursery art lesson, all fetching reds, blues, greens, oranges, yellows and browns?

But here we are at the start of another county Championship cricket season. Middlesex will be proudly possessive of English cricket's headquarters Lords, Essex, Surrey, Sussex and Hampshire will have a certain South East panache about them, Nottinghamshire, Worcestershire and Gloucestershire and Leicestershire will display their Middle England sensibilities and Durham, Lancashire and Yorkshire will all be competing in a hotbed of  Northern England rivalries.

The wickets, at the moment, are green as the apples in an England orchard but shortly June and July will arrive like the yearly fairground. If a sweltering heatwave should find its way onto British shores, then dusty wickets will look brown and the ball will fly off the seam, cutting into a batsman's pads too sharply for words. We will be wagging our fingers by way of acknowledgement of a four to the leg side boundary and then indulging in a couple of Mexican waves should the game become bogged down in a brief period of tedium which only lasts for perhaps a couple of minutes or so. 

So cricket will be bounding down the pavilion steps, batsman will wave their bats respectfully, swinging their arms before reaching the crease, digging holes worthy of an archaeological project and then patting the ground with all the due deference of a keen gardener tending their roses and shrubs. Then they'll prepare to face the fiery hostility of a quickie bowler who just wants to take wicket after wicket. The crowd will become animated, the blazered members at Lords will take off their hats, clap raucously and then go back to the last remnants of their brandy. It is all very British and quintessentially so.

The gentlemen in the BBC Test Match special radio commentary box including the hilarious Brian Johnson, who formed a deeply emotional attachment to the cakes that he was frequently sent by avid listeners to Radio Three. Then there was the eloquent Christopher Martin Jenkins, a mine of information and statistics and then Arlott himself. Arlott would create poetic word pictures that would drift beautifully across the airwaves.

 Arlott was also a wine connoisseur without peer with an impressive wine cellar at his Alderley home but cricket for Arlott was one of his precious prints and souvenirs, a work of art to be cherished for ever. Cricket still holds a lifelong appeal to those who just want the game to remain as it is rather than tampered by those who know nothing about it. You can hardly say any fairer than that.

    

Muhammad Ali- The American sporting dream.

 Muhammad Ali - The American sporting dream.

He was by far the greatest showman of them all. He also transcended all class and race boundaries. At the height of his career nobody could touch him with the proverbial barge pole. He was the one of the most outstanding heavyweight boxers ever seen in a boxing ring. He was a stylist, a purist, ultimately religious and one of the boldest sportsmen of the 20th century. He fought off all comers quite convincingly and, by his own admission, beautifully. He did indeed float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Nobody could lay a proper glove on him- or if they did it was simply a figment of your imagination. He was a man of his times and ideally suited to the big occasion. 

His name was Muhammad Ali and in a recent BBC Two documentary about the legend that was Ali all of the poses, the mannerisms, the affectations, the ludicrous boasts, the braggadocio, the grandiose claims, the strutting and that powerful voice, were genuine reminders that he would always be around. Nobody would ever forget or fail to recognise that all encompassing aura, that animal magnetism, the charm offensive, the posturing and preening, that declaration of intent. Of course he was the greatest boxer and, in his estimation, this could never be argued or questioned. 

Ali of course was, as all of us know, Cassius Clay, the Louisville Lip, the epitome of manliness and muscularity, full of raging testosterone, full blooded, masculine, a giant of a man, shoulders the size of boulders, a well defined body, rippling with remarkable strength and athleticism. Ali commanded the attention when he stepped into the ring. You knew you were in the presence of a momentous era in the making. The stomach was superbly honed and muscled with a chest that reminded you of an ironing board. 

Ali always knew he wanted to be a boxer and from an early age Cassius Clay knew exactly where his destiny lay. Of course there were the innumerable moments of childhood basketball, the national game of baseball and American football. But Clay was a scrapper, those serious fighting bouts in the playground and the troublemaking days when his mother must have known that her son had to channel all of that pent up aggression in the right environment. 

By the time he was 18, Clay would step up to the mark and throw those first tentative punches in all the amateur bouts. In due course he would meet and beat the hitherto formidable likes of Doug Jones in March 1963, Archie Moore in November 1962  and the one and only Henry Cooper in June 1963. Ali locked horns with Cooper in what turned into one of the bloodiest, most dramatic and controversial prizefights of all time.

At a packed and expectant old Wembley Stadium on a warm night in June 1963, Our 'Enery Cooper dared to pack the most devastating punch at Clay and the rest is well documented history. Clay fell like a tree, staggering at first before crumpling in a helpless heap on the ropes. Before the referee had time to make any kind of logical decision, the bell went for the end of the round and Ali found the most improbable salvation. The intervention of fate had come at exactly the right moment and Ali was reprieved.

We all know that Clay or Ali as he was to become, would win this gruelling and gruesome battle of pugilistic wits. From that point onwards nobody was going to stop this irrepressible force of nature, a gutsy, blustering tornado of a fighter who blew his opponents down quite remorselessly. It all became ridiculously easy for Clay so much so that he could still afford the luxury of changing his name and still look, in his words, pretty.

Clay's conversion to Islam is another story that can never be forgotten. After life changing meetings with Malcolm X and that spiritual discovery of another religion, a professional career beckoned. Ali would sweep aside the illustrious legend who was Floyd Patterson and then there was Sonny Liston, the man who would become Ali's most dangerous adversary who was then battered into submission. Liston was a street fighter, a belligerent bruiser who would work his way to your midriff and waist before finding the stomach, ribs and then the head. Ali would upper cut with bloodthirsty ferocity, then sling more punches with right and left hooks that now left Liston sinking onto the canvas, dazed and stunned. 

Then in the mid 1970s Ali, after that toxic political battles that saw him refused the Vietnam draft, Ali came face to face with the incomparable George Foreman, Joe Frazier and Ken Norton. All three men were like battering rams for Ali and proved more than a match for the experienced warrior Ali had become. Ali would go through the whole calisthenic routine; theatrical skipping, dancing around the ring as if it were some late hour in a local nightclub; taunting and teasing, jumping up and down briskly, beckoning his opponent into some cunning trap, arm windmilling and then dragging his opponent around like a ragdoll. 

Of course Ali was a master story teller, a passionate advocate of Islam, ferociously defensive about black sportsmen and women and there could be very few who felt as if they'd won any argument with him on any issue. He was outrageous, flamboyant, vocal, talkative, gregarious, a classic actor in any allotted role and spokesman for the underdog, those who were misunderstood in society. He would talk the good talk at great and detailed length and never hold back when asked for his considered reaction to a topical point.

During the 1970s Michael Parkinson, the legendary chat show host, would take Ali to task with deeply probing questions designed to unsettle the man's pumped up ego and the cocky narcissism that drove him on before and during every fight. He would look at the bathroom mirror and find an image of a man who was not only good looking and, to his female admirers, handsome but also somebody they could trust and believe in. Ali always delivered the right message at the right time. 

In later years the Ali we used to know became a tragic parody of the man who would be sadly diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. The last time we would see him at a public event would be the Olympic Games of Atlanta in 1996. Some of us could barely to watch a shell of a man, his arms and hands now trembling violently, the body hunched as the flame was lit and a world emotionally wept. It was all too much to take in. 

Then at the beginning of the 21st century there was Ali at a BBC Sports Personality of the Year awards ceremony, voice now a husk and barely audible. The Parkinson's disease was now advanced and his years were numbered. He fought on bravely but now into his early 70s, the life had vanished from his eyes and the spirit diminished to a heartbreaking nadir. Ali would die peacefully and inevitably several years ago and the millions of fans who had so fervently idolised him were broken and bereft. 

Some of us though can still see the vibrant and poetic Ali, the blissfully confident and the outspoken Ali, the opinionated world heavyweight boxing champion of the world. There was a tenderly young Cassius Clay winning gold at the 1960 Olympics in Rome, still wet behind the ears and yet vociferously barking out his aspirations and intentions. The fights with Frazer and Foreman would go down into folklore as the most aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Ali spent most of the rounds masquerading as a clown, a frustrated comedian and the mischievous kid who kept chucking paper aeroplanes at the teacher. Muhammad was indeed the black Superman who floated like a butterfly and stung like a bee. Cassius Clay, you'll always be remembered and for all the right reasons. A champion indeed.     

It's the Jewish Passover and Pesach.

 It's the Jewish Passover and Pesach.

We are now back in the land of physical interaction and communication, gesturing and gesticulating, smiling and laughing, drinking and eating outside restaurants and inside restaurants, catching up with all the latest Hollywood blockbusters on the silver screen and just getting back to the usual business of going to work, retiring perhaps or simply improving ourselves at either college or university. These are exciting times and nothing can stop us from marching forward positively and revelling in our renewed freedoms.

For some of us the absence of any kind of Passover or Pesach seder night has truly been frustrating. Last year there were simply the three of us- my wife, father in law and our daughter- and, truth to be told it was a bit of a wet weekend which it certainly and metaphorically is not this year. As we look out of our windows here in North London, spring is in full blossom mode and everything is flourishing. The old narratives have been resumed and even Boris Johnson looks a lot happier if somewhat relieved. 

But for some of us Pesach meant family, the closely knit intimacy of the family unit when mums, dads, brothers and sisters, brothers in law and sisters in law, cousins, aunties and nieces with their baby, gather together for the two seder nights which somehow define the arrival of spring. On Monday it's Easter and all the religious connotations that come with it. The Jewish community tend to overlook the Hot Cross Buns and chocolate eggs and yours truly with family, indulge themselves in the matza- eating tradition.

How though we've missed both of the iconic Springtime festivals when the tulips and daffodils emerge from winter hibernation and we all feel ever so slightly more optimistic than otherwise might have been the case. The days are now lighter and brighter and the cold shivers of January and February are consigned to the cupboards and attics of cosy wintry afternoons and early evenings. Now we can get out and about, venturing into bracing, invigorating walks in the park with your dogs and for us an adorable 11 week old puppy named Barney. Barney is still waiting for all the appropriate vaccinations and shots. The day when we are allowed to walk the cute little canine can't come quickly enough.

But Pesach is still the joyous celebration that it's always been for as long as anybody can remember. Last night you joined the whole of your wonderfully loving and supportive family at your brother in law and sister in law. There were dogs, more dogs and an abundance of dogs. It bore an uncanny resemblance to Crufts, such was the vivid and loud presence of dogs. The three we met last night were just delightfully playful, scampering and scurrying across the floor, hiding under different types of furniture and play fighting with a vengeance but amiably.

Then we read from our Haggadahs, illustrating the whole ancient story of Pesach. There were the bitter herbs, the burnt egg and orange on the seder table, the impressive collection of Rakusen matzas and egg matzas and wine by the cellar load. Well, not quite that has to be a wild exaggeration. My brilliant brother in law Jon accompanied by his lovely wife Jo-ann proceeded to explain the tales of sacrifice, freedom, the trials and tribulations of the Jews eternal quest to escape persecution and why we had to lean on this night of nights.

Your nostalgic mind wandered back to the misty yesteryears. Back in my youthful adolescence, the two seder nights were observed magically by both my wonderful and, sadly late, parents and my grandparents. For my grandparents this was the happiest and most rewarding night of the year. After being traumatised quite horrifically by the Holocaust over 30 years before, Pesach was a time for salvation, redemption, positivity, looking forwards rather than backwards. It was time to acknowledge what we already had rather than striving for something that might have taken ages to find.

My dear grandparents were simply magnificent hosts. My grandfather was an inspirational and learned Hebrew scholar. He was, quite amusingly in retrospect, impossible to follow or understood. You sat there patiently hoping against hope that you'd discover why he was chanting and muttering through the service. He would look at me adoringly and yours truly would return the emotion. You would listen most attentively before the meal itself would be presented, my dear and lovely grandma serving a piping hot chicken soup, chopped liver and then chicken or lamb with roasted potatoes and vegetables. 

And finally there was the Cup of Elijah containing wine which had to be drunk by some invisible and spiritual presence. Your grandma would tell you to watch as the said goblet of wine would await the yearly visitor, marvelling at its arrival. Your mum and grandparents would insist that wine had been drunk while you weren't watching. There was a gentle ripple on the wine itself but then nothing followed stunned amazement. Pesach is all about renewal and regeneration, rebirth, lush greenery and the rich foliage that nature has now provided us with. To everybody, wherever you may be, have a fantastic Pesach or Passover and don't forget to eat as many chocolate Easter eggs as possible. And of course we should never forget Ramadan. Let the festival festivities begin. Enjoy. 

Boris, what on earth are you doing?

 Boris, what on earth are you doing?

So it was that political accountability took another nosedive into some deep and shameful corner of society. It is the place where all the politicians look for when they're in the middle of a pickle. Sometimes life at Westminster just defies any kind of description. Maybe we'll get to the heart of the matter since some of us do require a very lucid and detailed explanation into the minds of those who make all the most important decisions because, quite frankly, we're just mystified. 

Yesterday Boris Johnson the Prime Minister of the UK, meekly apologised for the severest of misdemeanours and didn't quite know where to put his face. Johnson was just a picture of remorse and contrition, a man who knew that he was committing the ultimate offence but could never really find any peace of mind since both his colleagues and the much wider public were attacking him from all angles without any mercy and, quite frankly, and not in the mood to hold back any of their feelings. 

The blond one who delivers from the front in the House of Commons once again looked like a guilty criminal who seemed painfully reluctant to admit to either murder, fraud or embezzlement. He stood before the nation, sheepish, self conscious, awkward, quite obviously repentant but unwilling to face the music. He told us he was sorry but found it impossible to accept that he might have done something that had completely broken the law of the land. 

So dear old Boris, blond hair still pleading for a holiday in the Bahamas, understandably felt as though he'd betrayed his country quite openly and rather hoped that we could all move onto the next episode of his Prime Ministerial tenure. Besides, on a much more significant scale, there was quite the most horrendous war in Ukraine to be going on with and he had to think of something that would pacify Britain to keep us warm and healthy in the immediate future. The point is, he might have added, there were climate change narratives to be dealing with, fuel and gas charges to be addressed immediately. Our PM insists that  Britain has to get its priorities right.

Out in the big world, protestors are gluing themselves to our major motorways and the impassioned majority are just livid at the lackadaisical nature of the British Government. The environment warriors are believe Boris Johnson have sold the country completely short. The Westminster gang of Tory backbenchers are desperate to see a clearing in the forest of controversy relating to Party Gate but would love nothing better than to ensure that the eco-sphere can just clean up its image for ever more. 

Yesterday Britain became gripped and consumed by anger, bitterness, barely concealed fury and utter contempt for a Tory government they quite rightly felt would follow the manifesto that they were elected shortly before the announcement of the coronavirus lockdown. But then dear Boris got side tracked, almost wholly distracted from the task he should have faced rather than the one that was unfortunately foisted upon him.

So rather than concentrating on the more pressing issues and the enforcement of the urgent policies in front of him. Suddenly the country fell silent and inert for the next two years, everything came to a grinding halt, quite literally and the globe would fall into almost permanent mourning. The next two years would find Johnson desperately answering the questions of those in his Downing Street press conferences who wanted to know what exactly the Prime Minister was doing. Covid 19 just seemed to strangle all of Johnson's clear eyed vision, the idealism, the high hopes, roses around the English cottage. It wasn't his fault and yet there were some who thought it was and just lambasted him.

But here we are on the day after the fixed fine notice was issued to both Boris Johnson and Rishi Sunak, the Chancellor of the Exchequer. Both were heavily fined for misleading the nation, an act of such rank duplicity that it had to be seen to be believed. While the rest of Britain were confined to their hearth and home and banned from any kind of connection with each other, Johnson and Sunak were reneging on their promises and eating birthday cakes when such gastronomic activity was strictly forbidden.

And here is the point at which poor old Boris and Rishi lose the argument quite comprehensively and ludicrously. Boris claims in his defence, which seems to get flimsier by the minute, that the said party or birthday cake shindig only lasted 10 minutes. Now here we have to be given the benefit of the doubt because when were the great British public allowed one, two, three, four or five minutes to go anywhere near anybody for a minute let alone 10. It was strictly off limits but here's a word to the wise to our great British Prime Minister. Rules are rules and not implemented for your own personal convenience. Or maybe we've misheard you. 

The law, in essence has been broken and therefore a financial fine isn't the kind of draconian punishment you should have been given. But it's time to forget all about all of these banal allegations and just carry on Mr Johnson. There are outstanding issues to discuss and we should just engage in far more noteworthy matters. Do have a pleasant evening Prime Minister. You are to be applauded richly for your overwhelming honesty. Or perhaps not depending on your point of view. Keep going Boris. Your country has now told how they feel. Keep calm and drink coffee.  

Noble Yeats wins the Grand National 2022

 Noble Yeats wins the Grand National 2022

It is, without a doubt, one of the more endearing sights on the British sporting calendar. It's been with us for a couple of centuries now so we're more or less used to it as one of the most revered horse races anywhere in the world. It normally comes into view every spring just as the first yellow daffodils make their yearly appearance in England's finest parklands and gardens. We do look forward to it because it's part of our heritage, part of the furniture, rather like the old armchair sitting in the corner of your living room.

The running of the Grand National 2022 this year welcomed back to those hyper enthusiastic racing fans who had so painfully missed the last two years of the fiercely competitive jump season because of the coronavirus and things that just got in the way. Even those reliable bookmakers have had to shut up shop as well but there can be nothing more thrilling than a good, old fashioned punt or bet on the Grand National. We do it regularly as clockwork and somehow it reminds the British of their Britishness. 

So you wander off to the bookies, slip in hand, money to spare and confidence at its highest. You pencil in the names of your horses, sticking a pin quite avidly into a copy of the Racing Post Grand National list of runners and riders and just hope for the best. It is one of those ritualistically satisfying practices that most of us take for granted and almost as synonymous with Saturday afternoons as washing the car on a Sunday morning. 

Then we scan the names, jockeys, trainers and owners for any further indication of the skills and personalities of the horses. We know that for three successive years during the 1970 one of the most charming horses of all time galloped home to victory and Aintree just fell in love with him. His name was Red Rum and Red Rum was one of those exceptional horses who, apart from being one of the greatest athletes on four feet, also once appeared on the BBC Sports Personality of the Year show which is pretty good going considering that only humans should be laying claim to such an exalted accolade. 

Tragically though back in 1956 a horse by the name of Devon Loch was literally within a stirrup's distance of charging home towards the winning post in the Grand National when fate intervened. With the Queen Mother willing home her equine friend to victory, Devon Loch stumbled and wobbled, legs buckling and then tipping his jockey ignominiously off the horses back. The poor, helpless jockey would become one of English horse racing's most distinguished novelists writing goodness knows how many books. His name was Dick Francis and even now it seems like one of those horrendous moments in sport when everything you'd planned and trained for suddenly go up in smoke. 

But late Saturday tea time as most of us were probably digesting the final stages of the Premier League football season, the Grand National provided us with another welcome distraction. For some of us, horse racing is very much a personal choice but there can be no doubt that the industry is now picking up and achieving a much deserved resurgence. It would be a day like no other for one Sam Waley Cohen, one of sports more admirable amateurs and now enjoying his last race before retirement. 

In what was very much a family affair Waley Cohen approached the final fences with all the self assurance of a man who knew that this would be the most significant achievement of his career. He'd worked away with selfless dedication, waking up every morning at the crack of dawn and clambering onto Noble Yeats. After some gentle motivational exercises with Noble Yeats, Waley Cohen would head for the gallops in much the way that most of his predecessors had done throughout the decades and centuries. 

And so they lined up in the Liverpool spring winds, man, woman and horse in perfect harmony, gingerly moving towards the starting tape at Aintree, circling around each other and then finding just the right place to get a good start. Horse racing has missed horse racing, the boisterous tic tac men and women who now take bets electronically rather than a simple blackboard. How they've longed to see  the serene trotting of geldings and steeds around orderly parade grounds and then the preparation for the big race. 

Horse racing aficionados have missed the earthiness of the jump and flat season, the insider knowledge on renowned jockeys, the trainers with their flat caps and panama hats and the riders themselves, fit and strapping figures whose horses belong to Arab sheikhs or enterprising Irish businessmen or women who do their utmost to look after their lovely animals. 

On Saturday the father of Waley Cohen, Robert, orange scarf wrapped comfortingly around his neck, grinned radiantly as he accompanied his precious horse away from the cheering Aintree hordes. The most remarkable steeplechase in the world had done it again. We learnt later that the Waley Cohen family had given generously to charities with substantial amounts of money. Sometimes sport gets it so right that you begin to think that other sports should invariably follow in its esteemed footsteps. Saturday meant so much to those who love the sound of thundering hooves sprinting over the always forbidding Becher's Brook and the Chair and those gruelling stampedes towards the last fences. For Noble Yeats this almost sounded like a celebration of Irish poetry. The Grand National was certainly poetry in motion.  

And still they fight on in Ukraine.

 And still they fight on in Ukraine.

And still the bombardment is relentless. Amid the cold blooded murder, the red blooded brutality, the senseless killings, mutilations, violations, the vile hostilities, the cruel tortures and the endless, wailing sirens over this delightful city, nothing will ever be quite the same again. Ukraine is under fearsome attack. The gushing waterfalls of tears and the helpless sobbing among despairing families are the constant backdrop to this war torn zone that may never be able to repair the psychological and human damage done to their Ukraine. The good, honest, law abiding citizens of Ukraine are trying to hold everything together, a dignified face to the rest of the world but they are inconsolable and distraught. 

Meanwhile in the noble cities of Kyiv, Lviv, Sloyvarsk and Zaporizhzia, the battles rage on unabated, loud, thunderous cacophonies that now threaten complete destruction of a country that just wants to be left alone. Never again do they want to be bothered again by quarrelsome and obnoxious neighbours who just want to wipe them off the face of the Earth. To describe Putin and his cronies as anything than other as a despicable piece of rubbish would be the grossest understatement. The problem that faces the Ukraine is that. power crazed and demented as he is, Putin will probably not stop until he gets exactly what he is looking for. 

This morning Ukraine awoke to find that one of its vital means of transport had been blown up and burnt to the ground. The city of Kramastorsk had probably never seen anything like this. Suddenly, a hail of rockets crashed mercilessly into a railway station with a mighty and devastating blow. For a minute or two Ukraine held its breath yet again. By the time it had taken in the sheer and terrifying magnitude of what had happened, any within the immediate vicinity must have feared the worst. It had been too late. Were there deaths and casualties? Maybe it was the most stupid of questions. Of course there were or so one presumes. It would have been a miracle if anybody had survived.

But the smoking ruins of a city in flames, the charred wreckage of old, rusty tanks, the skeletal remains of what used to be building girders and twisted metal were all the poor people of Ukraine could see. We at home have been subjected to the familiar sights, the tormented faces, the agonised expressions, the weeping women, the helpless mothers and grandmothers, the suffering, the heartrending homelessness of hundreds and thousands of families. You still found it almost impossible to believe that one country could inflict such life changing and brutal punishment on another neighbouring country. You tried to absorb what was going on but for the life of you, words just seemed totally inadequate. 

Women, wives, husbands, grandmothers and grandfathers staggered around desolate, haunted streets, looking piteously towards the heavens, crying profusely over and over again. One grandfather looked as though his world had quite literally fallen apart in a matter of minutes. He spoke to a TV war correspondent who was simply there to convey all the misery and anguish we could already see. His eyes were red and dripping with yet more tears. Why, oh why had it come to this? Would Ukraine ever recover again? Will the Russians ever be able to look the rest of the world in the eyes and admit to their shame, their guilt, their responsibility and their unforgivable complicity in this terrible act of genocide?

Last night, BBC reports would suggest that peace had been restored, that an eerie silence was still temporarily hanging over Ukraine. But then you looked at the worst hit areas of Kyiv and Lviv which were still fighting the great fight, driving back their evil antagonists defiantly and then celebrating with several bottles of vodka in a distant bunker. It is all unbearable to watch but that's what war does and always all. Of course we bow our heads in disgust because that's the obvious and most human of reactions when somebody attacks you without any semblance of provocation. 

None of this will ever know when a definitive conclusion will be reached in this horrific conflagration. The hearts of millions across the world are of course with the Ukranian people. Of course they are victims of circumstances and must be dreading that things may get worse before they get any better. The middle aged men on the streets of Ukraine are utterly shell shocked and dumbfounded. They try to understand but, here we are in what seems like an interminable war on the ground and there are no sentences or explanations because nobody can get their heads around this horror show. At some point the lovely country of Ukraine may finally be released from its never ending cycle of pain, its traumatic mortification, the sense that here is a war that may never end. Let us be in their thoughts forevermore.

June Brown- Dot Cotton East Enders legend dies

 June Brown- Dot Cotton, - East Enders legend dies

Dot Cotton walked into the laundry that would become a British TV soap institution. It would become her permanent place of employment from February 1985 until her sad death yesterday. For this generation East Enders represented much more than a multi cultural, racially diverse and heterogenous society. It spoke to us, identified with our hopes, ambitions, fears, dreams, our petty arguments and then amicable agreements after one stonking bust up in the Queen Vic. 

Yesterday the much admired actress June Brown, the lovable matriarchal figure who always seemed to be available for a saucy remark or a gossipy comment about the community, died and a nation grieved. In retrospect we may come to regard Dot Cotton, Brown's character in the long running soap, as an interfering busybody, chatting away almost incessantly, dealing admirably with her nasty, miscreant son Nick and then stubbing out her eighteenth cigarette of the day onto the pavement. But Dot Cotton was our heroine, our spokeswoman of the day, always caring, always mediating, always pacifying and just plain argumentative when the mood suited her. 

After a distinguished career as a budding TV actress, she trod the provincial boards at regional theatres up and down the country. When the call came though to appear as a dear, downtrodden, proudly working class laundry worker in a TV soap opera there would be no need for any persuasion. With anguished face and exhausted by the demands made on her by a rebellious son, Dot Cotton brought an enormous smile to our faces. 

Then Dot Cotton would become an iconic figure, perhaps the East End equivalent of Hilda Ogden(aka) Jean Alexander in Coronation Street. Dot would rush in and out of the laundry, constantly at loggerheads with the world but rejoicing in the people around her who would warm to her almost immediately. She would agonise and worry, scurrying up and down the market outside the East Enders pub the Queen Vic, bustling and groaning, moaning and then celebrating their achievements when the occasion merited it. She was their sounding board, their punch bag when life had become too hectic for words. 

In one of the more emotional episodes of East Enders our June or Dot would sit by the bedside of her closest friend and companion Ethel as she lay dying. Handbag in hand, cigarette clenched tightly in her fingers, Dot Cotton comforted her best friend with old reminiscences, happier days and sadder days when the world was much younger and everything seemed so irredeemably hopeless. She held Ethel's hands and the nation sighed with compassion. 

The death of Dot Cotton was perhaps an accurate reminder of the role  TV soap opera characters have come to play in our lives. When Martha Longhurst collapsed in the Snug in the Coronation Street Rovers Return pub and Hilda Ogden tenderly clutched the glasses of her late husband Stan, Britain mourned plaintively. It was a microcosm of a world where tears are shed when our loved ones pass and the barometer of our every day lives when things get slightly awkward before turning out happily ever after.  

But Dot Cotton or June Brown, the very polished actress, was essentially a national treasure who entered our consciousness when things seemed half finished or were somehow beyond resolution. There were always lights at the end of Dot's tunnel, a redemptive word of comfort or consolation, an endearing reference to the Bible and words of meaningful pungency. 

Yesterday Britain lost not only one of its most relatable of agony aunts but a woman who spoke the language of truth. Sadly most, if not all, of the original East Enders cast are no longer with us. There was Pauline( the Wendy Richard character) mother and wife of always doting children Michelle and Mark but hampered by the emotional burdens that came with looking after her family. There was Pauline's mum played so stoically by Anna Wing who would sit in her armchair with a critical eye on everybody. 

When all was said and done Dot Cotton was always the personal friend who would always knock on your front door, put the kettle on for a cup of tea and commiserate with whomsoever. June Brown was a gentle, sympathetic woman, a giant among soap opera figures. They broke the mould with our Dot, never at a loss for the memorable intervention when things got too heated and never fazed by a seemingly daunting challenge. Thankyou June Brown. You were our East Ender, a lady with a heart of gold and never to be forgotten.  

World Cup draw 2022 but not a desert storm.

 World Cup draw 2022 but not a desert storm.

So it is that the World Cup of 2022 in Qatar will take place in the most unusual of circumstances. FIFA, in their infinite wisdom- or not if that is your considered opinion- gets underway. We've all heard about Saudi Arabia's disgraceful human rights records, its intolerance of anything that should be considered as the norm and, above all its opposition to alcohol. Now what international football tournament of any note would ever consider a wholesale ban on booze, alcohol and the liquid refreshments that have sustained so many generations of football fans throughout the ages. 

Yesterday the draw was made for the pre-Christmas world football shindig and of course we're all invited quite cordially. All of the pomp and ceremony was observed but then we were treated to singers and musicians of varying qualities. It all felt very modern, cool and mainstream, a funky preamble to the real thing which kicks off just as most of us have wrapped most of  our festive presents and trinkets. It could be a cracking World Cup and the potential is there for some of the most memorable football ever played. 

And so it was that amid the sandy deserts and sultanate of Saudi Arabia, football was the main topic of discussion, a top priority, a summit of footballing excellence where the movers and shakers at the top table mix it quite happily with football's court jesters, fire eaters and celebrated jugglers. It would never be a proper World Cup without the extraordinary presence of a Brazil and once again they will provide this World Cup with its lavish expressionists, its vastly gifted players and its astonishing, record breaking, five times winning record. 

In Brazil's group are Serbia, Switzerland and Cameroon, eminently winnable games and surely undemanding to the outsider. But world football has now achieved a much more impressive globalisation and accessibility than any of us could have imagined, say 50 or 60 years ago. Then football was restricted to a much more confined space, smaller, claustrophobic areas of interest and fascination. The numbers were considerably smaller and most of Europe, certainly, was cut off from the bigger, outside world. But now almost everybody has got a Tablet, I-Pad, Smartphone and the Internet. The world is open to everybody at every conceivable hour of the day. 

West Germany, Germany, Italy, Brazil, Argentina and most recently both Spain and France have dominated recent editions of the Jules Rimet World Cup. World Cup memories and images are now indelibly graven onto our minds for no other reason that some of us would love nothing better than to see dear old England back in the driving seat of world football. 1966 is now turning into a major source of historical humiliation and after last year's Euro 2020 Final defeat by Italy, surely the time is right, the mood is right and the sight of obscenely wealthy Arab sheikhs handing over the trophy to Harry Kane would leave us permanently enthralled. 

Four years ago in Russia England produced by far some of their best and most sublime football since Sir Bobby Robson's England turned heads quite magically in 1990. When Paul Gascoigne was booked in the semi final against Germany, most of the nation knew in its heart of hearts that the game was up. England's finest and most glorious natural talent would have missed out on a World Cup Final that they would not participate in because Stuart Pearce and Chris Waddle sadly mistook football for rugby union, wildly missing their penalties. But we forgave them, didn't we?

Qatar, the host nation have Ecuador, Senegal and the Dutch in their group, perhaps an impossible dream for the Saudis but your football heart would long to see the Dutch to go through if only because Holland were the unluckiest team to lose two consecutive World Cup Final showpieces during the 1970s. And we know what the Dutch can do if the mood takes them. Their football has an almost honeyed delicacy and the first touch is exquisite as we all know.

Portugal should make comfortable progress from their group with Ghana, the leading African representatives, Uruguay and South Korea. Ghana are a considerable force to be reckoned with but Portugal and Uruguay should be heavily backed in their group. Uruguay once provoked fury when Scotland were almost driven off the pitch with irrational tackling and thuggish tactics. This could be much closer than some of us might think. 

Belgium, Canada, Morocco and Croatia comprise another group. Belgium, of course, have always been the gallant losers rather than the successful international side with World Cup pretensions. You would have to see the Belgians as straightforward winners of this group if only because they should have too much for both Canada and Morocco. Belgium are one of football's leading classicists, clearly its melodious woodwind and percussion section rather than the spoons and wash boards.

Argentina, Saudi Arabia, Mexico and Poland are bunched together in their group. For all the political interference and warlike stance of recent years, Argentina are still painters and illustrators of the perfect South American game. Argentina had sorcerers and wizards in their country back in 1978 when Buenos Aires was showered with ticker tape, Mario Kempes, Leopoldo Luque, Ossie Ardilles and Ricky Villa endeared themselves to the Latin mindset and the whole of Argentina was besotted. It should be Argentina in the next round while Mexico will surely get very excitable and animated.

The current World Champions France should have too much strength and depth to emerge from a group including either Peru, Australia, the United Arab Emirates and Tunisia. The reinvention of France as one of the most powerful footballing nations was one of the most heartening sights in Russia four years ago. For years and years France were shy, retiring wallflowers at World Cups or European Championships. But in 1998 the likes of Emmanuel Petit and Thierry Henry coaxed the French out of their introspective shell and France won the World Cup quite handsomely in Paris. Four years ago France once again re-discovered their Montparnasse and their Monet.  

Then there's Spain, Costa Rica or New Zealand, the never knowingly underestimated Germany who always seem to turn up for all blue riband international football tournaments and finally Japan whose football seems to have grown in stature in recent years. Spain and Germany, without any shadow of a doubt, have to be at the forefront of our minds and it's hard to see them either struggling or panicking at any point in their group matches.

So there we are Ladies and Gentlemen. The World Cup draw Qatar has been made, the runners and riders will be limbering up for the rest of the year and for those whose body clock may have to get used to World Cup Finals being held just before the first winter gusts and, quite possibly snowfalls, then this could be the time for making adequate preparations. England we await again. Gareth Southgate, the stage will be yours.