Platinum Jubilee

 Platinum Jubilee

It was the week leading up to that extraordinary anniversary we've all been looking forward to. Of course the rabid anti monarchists will always quibble or complain about the event because they may have no sense of the glorious magnitude of the occasion. After three years of closure, denial, suppression, at times frightening bewilderment, Britain can finally throw away its cares, woes, travails, traumas and confusing anxieties. 

On Thursday evening through to Friday and the rest of the weekend Her Majesty the Queen will be celebrating her Platinum Jubilee, the 70th anniversary of her accession to the throne. In 1952 Her Majesty the Queen received quite the most dreadful piece of news that any young woman could possibly get. Her father, King George the Sixth, had died peacefully in his sleep. A nation mourned its King and Her Majesty would quite suddenly been handed the most thankless responsibility of any future monarch. A year later Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth the Second would become Queen of the United Kingdom and Head of the Commonwealth. The Coronation would be a year later.

In 1953, with Britain still recovering from the pain and horrific suffering of the Second World War, Britain would welcome into their homes a young Queen. Coronation Day in London would become one of the most resplendent and momentous occasions the nation would ever see. For a vast majority of the population, rationing and austerity were still biting deep into the nation's welfare. The country was still dependent on food coupons and everybody had to economise on a monumental scale while the luxuries the British had taken for granted before the War would now be cut back dramatically. 

But from those early days of the 1950s the country could still find comfort in the very regal presence of a very young Queen who had to learn fairly rapidly all of the etiquette and protocol expected of royalty. From the moment the crown was placed on her head, Her Majesty declared quite magisterially that whether her life be long or short, duty and service would take precedence to every other consideration. And so it came to pass 70 years later that Her Majesty will continue to be a shining beacon of devotion to her country and Commonwealth regardless of setbacks, disasters and family upheavals. 

Over the weekend Britain will throw away all of its inhibitions, modesty and reserve to make way for the most remarkable party of all time, a knees up in the old fashioned way, a stunning celebration that may never be matched for quite a while. We'll be singing at the tops of our voices, eating and drinking to the point of unashamed excess and the children will be having the time of their lives. Jubilees very rarely make their carbon footprint on the nation's pavements and parks. Now though blow the expense and let's go stir crazy. Three cheers for Her Majesty.

In 2012 the Queen marked her Diamond Jubilee and in 1977 her Silver Jubilee so these shindigs come along only intermittently. But the principle will remain the same. All around the country, streets and roads, tightly knit communities, recreation grounds, village halls and all manner of salubrious environments will be hosting their very own tribute to Her Majesty, an expression of gratitude that may be extremely touching.

They'll be digging out the bunting, the washing lines of Union Jacks, trestle tables by the million, chairs for young and old, more flags, thousands of sandwiches, crisps, cakes, biscuits and confectionery to keep all appetites satisfied for ages. They'll be dusting off those old Coronation cups, plates, crockery and cutlery, the familiar party records from many moons ago and a glorious smattering of old, wartime vinyl recorded by Dame Vera Lynn, the Glen Miller Orchestra and the British national treasures who lifted everybody's morale when everything looked so bleak and forlorn.

The weekend schedule is gradually beginning to unfold before our eyes. Buckingham Palace has now been transformed into a huge pop concert venue. It is hard to imagine what exactly has been planned but it could be very uplifting and joyous. Maybe Queen's Brian May will climb onto the roof of Buckingham Palace and give us a stirring twang on one of his many electric guitars. But music of course will have to be regarded as a centrepiece of the celebrations.

You would find it hard to believe that Her Majesty has got copies of a Night at the Opera and Day at the Races in her record collection but it's a lovely thought. After all Bohemian Rhapsody has a stamp of royalty about it and the Queen may well have appreciated the classical nature of this rock opera masterpiece.

So here we 70 years after Her Majesty came to the throne and still she smiles, still she remains a model of politeness, propriety, courtesy and refinement. Wherever she travels- and you can be sure she's circumnavigated the globe several times over the decades - she has carried out her duties with an astonishing poise and sangfroid that always amaze and leave you breathless with admiration.

Sadly Her Majesty will be without the one man she's always referred to as her strength and stay. When Prince Philip, the Duke of Edinburgh, the Queen's husband of 73 years died last spring, the Queen lost not only her closest friend and lovingly supportive influence, she also lost the man who always preferred to keep out of the limelight. Then we discovered he didn't really mind the publicity. We marvelled at the Duke's Polo playing, the endearing carriage driving, the perhaps forgivably tactless comments and all of his opinionated comments about everything from the environment to modern architecture. 

And then on Friday the festivities will begin with some haste. The gold carriages will be readied, the horses groomed immaculately and then the procession will wend its way down the Mall before heading to their right royal banquet. We'll remember where we were there in early June 1953 for Her Majesty's Coronation, how as a teenager we unfortunately missed the Queen's Silver Jubilee in 1977 and the recent Diamond Jubilee. We'll watch the whole grandeur and spectacle with deeply respectful eyes before acknowledging the deep and lasting impact Her Majesty has had on us for the last 70 years. Your Royal Highness we have nothing but unwavering admiration for you. Let's celebrate everybody. 

Real Madrid win the Champions League or the European Cup for record breaking 14th time.

Real Madrid win the Champions League or the European Cup for record breaking 14th time.

In the end it was all about one team and one team only. On reflection this should have been a celebration of both Liverpool and Real Madrid. But when the referee blew the final whistle last night in Paris there was only one reason to do the tango. Real Madrid, surely one of the greatest club sides in both Europe and quite possibly the world, won their record breaking 14th European Cup or in its new currency the Champions League.

They did so at the expense of a Liverpool side who themselves were striving to win the same competition a record seven times and British football would have acclaimed this remarkable achievement over and over again for many years. But this was perhaps a game too far for the relentless goal scoring machine that Liverpool have now become. Still, Bill Shankly and Bob Paisley must have been somewhere in the palatial decor of the Stade De France stadium in Paris, red and white scarves around their necks. 

It has now been 41 years since Liverpool last beat Real Madrid in Paris and the coincidence could not have been lost on any of the vast gathering of English and Spanish supporters. That evening full back Alan Kennedy had broken forward into the attack, overlapping admirably on the inside of the Madrid defence before firing low past the Madrid keeper. Both teams since then have  won honours galore on both domestic and international fronts and it's a testament to both side's attacking prowess that even last night they still had it in them to deliver the goods on the night. 

Of course it's been well documented by now that Real Madrid have more or less bluffed and blagged their way to this season's Champions League Final. In their semi final with new Premier League champions Manchester City they rode their luck, coming desperately close to going out of the competition. Chelsea did much the same in many ways and still came unstuck to the much decorated and lauded team from the Bernabeu.

There are those who still treasure the night in 1960 when Real Madrid produced perhaps the purest exhibition of attacking football ever seen in any major football Final anywhere. In a mesmeric 10 goal thriller against Eintracht Frankfurt, Alfredo Di Stefano and company, Real Madrid literally ridiculed and lampooned their German opponents with goals of the most wondrous quality. The 7-3 victory for Madrid in Glasgow was more or less the benchmark, a lasting template in how the game should be played.

Since then fortunes have waned and waxed for both Liverpool and Madrid. In 1977 Liverpool, with Steve Heighway in pulverising, explosive form on the wing, Terry Mcdermott and Ray Kennedy all shining translucently for the Anfield side, Liverpool won their first ever European Cup in Rome. At the old Wembley a year later Kenny Dalglish squeezed behind a backtracking Bruges side and angled his shot past the Belgian goalkeeper. He also leapt over the advertising hoardings, a model of athleticism. Liverpool win the European Cup again.

In 1984 Liverpool once again featured in a moderately satisfying European Cup Final against Roma of Italy. A closely contested final fizzled out anti climactically. The game went to penalties and was notable for the eccentric antics of Liverpool goalkeeper Bruce Grobbelaar. Grobbelaar, standing on his goal line started wobbling his legs in the most blatant and obviously illegal pieces of gamesmanship. But concessions were made and Liverpool went on to win the penalty shoot out. 

In more recent years Liverpool staged an astonishing comeback against Inter Milan in the 2005 Final when they found themselves three goals behind and, seemingly, out for the count at half time. In the second half they stormed back into the match with three goals of their own. Liverpool were victorious on penalties. 

Last night though with the spectacular bicycle kick winner from Gareth Bale for Madrid still fresh on everybody's minds, the neutral observers were looking for something pretty special again. Liverpool were still licking their wounds after narrowly missing out on the Premier League title to Manchester City although they could still seek solace in an FA Cup Final victory over Chelsea. Sometimes football can indeed work in many mysterious ways even if Cup Finals can still be decided on penalties.

But although there were neither favourites or underdogs in last night's contest, you had to fancy a Liverpool team who have overcome all manner of psychological obstacles in their way. Their football has been almost poetically compelling, a fusion of sublime subtlety, tactical brilliance and exquisitely spontaneous one touch football from back to front. The form of Mo Salah, Sadio Mane and the recent delicacies offered by Luis Diaz have given Liverpool that familiar air of impassable invincibility.

It used to be the case that Liverpool could go through a season wearing blinkers and still remain unbeatable in their formidable Anfield fortress. Bill Shankly once scared the life out of West Ham in the Anfield tunnel when he convinced his Liverpool players that Bobby Moore was trembling with fear at the prospect of meeting Liverpool at the height of their powers. But Shanks always did know a thing or two about kidology and besides nobody argued with the memorable Bill Shankly. 

And yet yesterday evening Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool's amusingly enthusiastic German manager, stared somewhat mournfully and sadly at the end of this scintillating Champions League Final. Essentially Liverpool hadn't disgraced themselves at all since Champions League Finals don't come along that frequently for those who can only long to emulate Liverpool's glorious European victories. Klopp referred to his team as the heavy metal monsters and, on any other night Liverpool would have frightened the life out of lesser mortals.

Liverpool started positively and adventurously. The back four of Ibrahima Konate, splendid captain Virgil Van Djik, Andy Robertson and Trent Alexander Arnold were firing on all cylinders. They kept the ball jealously for long periods of the first half hour without really threatening the Madrid goal. Sane hit the post for Liverpool, a salutary warning to Real Madrid that traditions can be broken and even Madrid are flawed and vulnerable. There were spells of handsome football from the Premier League side but somehow they'd forgotten their lines completely and there was an incoherence about the team in red. 

As the match progressed and the longer the game went on the more inclined you were to think that Madrid would inch their way back into the game, thus nullifying Liverpool's supremacy. And to think Real Madrid were perhaps the luckiest team in the world to get as far as this Champions League Final. The utterly dominant likes of David Alaba, Toni Kroos and the always sophisticated Luka Modric gave the Spanish a secure platform from which to launch their superbly constructed attacking movements.

At the back Daniel Carvajal, Eder Militao and the magnificent Thibaut Courtois in goal for Real Madrid cancelled out the intelligent promptings of Jordan Henderson and Fabinho. There were some entertaining moments from Andy Robertson and at times Thiago looked irresistible for Liverpool. Then Diaz and Sadio Mane began to run out of steam for the Liverpool attacking battalions. Liverpool were now burnt out and ready to hit the cliched beach. 

Then during an intriguing battle of wits, Madrid began to find their bearings and the second half seemed to turn against Liverpool. After a lightning quick break from the Spanish side, the ball came out to Federico Valeverde. Valeverde, always a threat and troublesome, drove a sumptuous low ball to the feet of Brazilian wonderkid Vinicius Junior who took the ball in his stride and Junior tapped the ball into the Liverpool net simply as if he'd performed the same act a thousand times.

Real Madrid, who thought they might have opened the scoring before half time when Karim Benzema trapped a high diagonal ball onto his feet quite stunningly, switched feet instantly before clipping the ball across the Liverpool six yard box. Then there were a series of defensive comedy of errors where Liverpool simply lost the ball and Benzema thrashed the ball into the net for Madrid. Fortunately for Liverpool, Benzema was eventually deemed offside after much cinema watching from the referee. VAR did come to Klopp's side temporary rescue but the joy was short lived. 

And so it was that Real Madrid waltzed elegantly into a Parisian night of champagne quaffing and the finest bottle of rouge from the vineyards. It was hard to know what was going through the mind of Carlo Ancelotti who still looked slightly dumbfounded and shocked at the proceedings. Italians are traditionally demonstrative but Ancelotti still gave you the impression of a man for whom even a gentle joke wouldn't have cracked his impassive face.  Liverpool, for their part, can still feel immensely proud of their contributions and Cups even though the Champions League had slipped from their grasp. To Jurgen Klopp, many thank yous. Liverpool have been a credit to the Premier League. May this never be forgotten. 

 

Summer holiday season

 Summer holiday season.

The subject of summer holidays always takes you back to last year when my wife, yours truly and our daughter bravely descended on the Greek islands against all the most well informed advice. It was a Greek odyssey like no other, a journey into the unknown and a voyage of discovery that ended up in a damp squib. We were told that the consideration of any holiday abroad was distinctly inadvisable. In fact our travel agency and holiday company TUI  just left us with the painful memory of that infuriating piece of music on their phoneline as a legacy of our heroic efforts to board a plane. 

To put it at its simplest the global coronavirus was still spreading its toxic influence across the globe and nobody was going anywhere let alone Greece. So against all advice we did indeed go and found it to be one of the most bizarre holidays in the sun you could possibly have imagined. We were on our own and there was, quite literally, nobody in the hotel to talk to and the only human contact was the manager at the reception desk and a poor lady who looked as though she hadn't a clue what to do with herself so devoid of the human race had the hotel become. 

So she paced around the bar outside the hotel, twiddled her thumbs for the best part of eight or nine hours and pretended that everything was fine in her world. But she was quite clearly unhappy. That much was patently obvious and apparent. There was nobody to serve exotic cocktails or drinks throughout the day and only her good self to serve my wife, yours truly and our daughter. Breakfast would prove the only part of the day when she would have been gainfully employed. This should have been the best time for the holiday industry but Covid 19 disrupted everybody's plans.

In any other year the hotel poolside would have been heaving with vast numbers of sun loungers, families and children laughing and chucking themselves uninhibitedly into the swimming pool without a care in the world. But although we were at the beginning of the holiday season there was still an air of desolation and painful abandonment. This time the sun loungers were out on their own with nobody to occupy them. Eventually we were joined by a jolly lady from Spain and a couple from Burnley but the holiday had become something that almost happened but didn't. Of course we had a great time but the need for improvisation had become a vital one. 

Now though we've all been given permission to get on a plane, sample the unique airport experience that requires so much stamina and energy that by the time you take off, you feel as though you've just completed a gruelling marathon around hot cities. Once the perfume and drinks shops have been negotiated you find yourself marooned in a complex maze of officialdom. There's the almost bewildering ordeal of checking in while your suitcases are assessed.

That's followed by customs, the agonising passport obstacle where everything has been reduced to computer swiping and much frustration. And then the hellish security check while trouser belts, socks, keys, money and your blood group are carefully monitored. We may just as well be stripped naked and exposed to every other holiday maker in the immediate environment. This is not an image any of us would care to preserve in our minds.

For some of us this is a truly degrading experience where every traveller that passes through the airport is more or less considered to be a nasty, nefarious criminal who's stolen millions from banks around the world. So you remove very specific parts of your clothing and wonder how much more humiliation you can take. Of course we are now reminded that this is the one procedure that has to be carried because you never know how many members of the public may be potentially terrorist suicide bombers. You can never be sure, can you?

So you squeeze into your claustrophobic plane seat, pick apart the headphones for the music channels, weigh up the on flight movies and then endeavour to prise open a hot meal in a plastic container that looks as if it may have come straight out of the microwave. But summer holidays are enormous fun once you actually get to your intended hotel, it's all very enjoyable. Most of us plonk ourselves by the pool every day and then avail ourselves of the popular coach trips that take you directly into that country's innermost culture. There are trips to caves, lagoons, historic ruins, buildings of some antiquity and general areas of interest.

And this is where my lovely wife and yours truly came in. For the first time in years we enjoyed a relaxing five days in Torquay. When our children were indeed toddlers we'd exhausted most of the Pontins and Haven holiday camps and this year it was the South West English Riviera. We'd taken our kids to Cornwall years ago now but Torquay was much as we expected it to be. 

Now there are those who would have sniffed jokily and disdainfully at the prospect of visiting a hotel that had once featured prominently in what turned into a sadly short lived TV sitcom. Back in the 1970s the former Footlights Cambridge student and then comedian John Cleese had parodied a seaside hotel setting with the liberal use of very physical comedy, knockabout humour and controversial jokes about the Germans.

The hotel was hilariously called Fawlty Towers, a hellhole of a seaside hotel where everything that could have gone wrong most certainly did. Basil Fawlty, with long suffering wife Sybil aka Prunella Scales and Connie Booth were joined by the bumbling Spanish waiter Manuel aka Andrew Sachs who would become the butt of all gags from a helpless Fawlty. Then after a temporary hold on the nation's affections Fawlty Towers was scrapped after 12 episodes. 

The point is though that Torquay was flawless with no complaining, dissatisfied guests, no hotel managers struggling desperately to hold everything together and no sense of panic or mayhem. For my wife and yours truly the hospitality was genuine, the people were nice as pie and there was friendliness personified. The food was excellent, the entertainment beautifully English and the weather seemed utterly irrelevant. It was England and who cared about a couple of tropical monsoons followed by sporadic bursts of early summer sunshine? Life is indeed sweet.  

We had some wonderfully exhilarating days in Brixham yesterday in Devon, Paignton the day and a general sweep of Torquay's finest scenery. We walked for miles, up and down streets, along picturesque fishing harbours that could have been painted by Constable or Turner, darting in and out of cafes and then sheltering from the heavy skies that eventually opened with torrents of rain that may never be seen again. We laughed with the locals who had now become besotted with our darling five month old Poma Poo, a Pomeranian Poodle who is just too adorable for his own good. Barney was our dog and almost immediately he became quite emphatically the most popular dog in the world. 

Not to put too fine a point on it but Barney was approached by almost the entire population of Torquay and was hugged so tenderly that you wondered if Crufts would consider him for inclusion in next year's competition. Yesterday Brixham looked like the dog capital of England. Wherever we went in Brixham in Devon there were dogs on every street corner. There were dogs near ice cream parlours, hotels, cafes, restaurants, post offices, supermarkets, dog bowls with water outside every shop and every conceivable emporium. 

Then we ventured all the way up to Torre Abbey, a medieval abbey that looked as though it hadn't aged at all.  We then went back along the meandering sea front with hundreds of bobbing boats, trawlers and rusting trawlers that looked slightly neglected but nonetheless charming. And then there were our hotel guests all now seemingly happily retired and just delighted to see us. You took one lingering look at the tiny clusters of bed and breakfast hotels that still look as though they've been there since 1949, still in pristine condition but now pumping out digital radio rather than the Family Favourites that joyfully blared out at Sunday lunchtimes many decades ago. You felt honoured to be among such timeless beauty.

Multi million Lottery winners.

 Multi million Lottery winners.

It couldn't have happened to a nicer couple. He looked very easy going, friendly and relaxed. She was so overjoyed that she could hardly believe what had happened to both of them. It was a moment in time that could never be replicated because, quite frankly, this is the one event in their lives that could ever be equalled or surpassed. It was a unique and life changing day in the lives of Britain's latest multi million pound Lottery winners. The couple seemed very grounded and modest considering that yesterday they became overnight stars, winners of quite the most astronomical and mind blowing sum of money.

Joe and Jess Thwaite from Gloucester had done what they'd always done ever since the beginning of the British National Lottery during the 1990s. They'd popped into their local shop or supermarket and picked their customary sequence of numbers in the hope that it might be their turn to become overnight millionaires. Not for a minute did they seriously consider that they could be the family or friends of family who would snap up such a criminally obscene amount of money in one fell swoop. And yet it did happen.

Now in the general scheme of things, the general reaction to such a story would have been one of wonderment and incredulity. Besides, you don't come into possession of £184 million every day of the week so this may have been the most highly appropriate celebration. We should be delighted for the couple, thrilled to have heard that fate had intervened in their lives and made them remarkably richer if only because all they had to do was think of the dates of birthdays, lucky numbers or special anniversaries just to be in with a chance of hitting the bumper jackpot. 

But yesterday Joe and Jess Thwaite from the sleepy rural heartlands of the Cotswolds awoke to the news they must have thought beyond their wildest dreams. The Thwaites had come into astonishing, breathtaking wealth, the kind of wealth that even some of our most outrageous celebrities and City stockbrokers would have been hard pressed to come anywhere even remotely close to receiving in a month. Still we're all deliriously happy for the Thwaites because some of us have just yearned for a break in the tragic bulletins from Ukraine and Covid 19, the three year global virus that finally looks as though it may have vanished from the public consciousness.

So how did the Thwaites respond to their amazing financial windfall? Did they shout it out from the rooftops, present themselves to a blinding flash of Press cameras, microphones under their noses and the inquisitive eyes of the world? Or perhaps they should have been advised to preserve their anonymity and not tell a soul. There are conflicting schools of thoughts on this latest story. Of course they wanted to share their joy and pleasure with the rest of the nation and that has to be their personal choice and prerogative but you find yourself wondering why?

The cynical in you though insists that this may not have been the right decision the Thwaites will ever make. Yesterday on millions of TVs, radios, online platforms, Smart Phones, I Pads and every other imaginable news feed across the world, Joe and Jess revealed their identities, their social media narratives, the colour of their hair, instantly recognisable faces and quite probably their entire neighbourhood. The Thwaites may be able to discover vast communities of friends and requests for charitable donations from every corner of  society. 

The truth is that life could change quite dramatically and not quite as favourably as they might have hoped it would like it. The Thwaites are now public property, potential chat show guests in abundance, reality TV participants and hounded by hangers on consumed by rampant jealousy. Yesterday the Thwaites made a bold declaration of their monumental millions and millions, walking and talking advertisements of preposterous affluence and more money than they'd ever have thought possible in their lifetime.

There are times when you do begin to question the judgments of individuals who may unwittingly find themselves the centre of attention when maybe any attention should have been most unwelcome. The intrusion though took place yesterday and by now most of the global population will know about Joe and Jess Thwaite. They're stinking rich, absolutely loaded, swimming in millions of pounds, planning for the future and not caring a jot who knows about it. 

You get the impression though that the Thwaites won't be profligate with their multi millions. They'll be exemplary models of prudence, sensible housekeeping, considerate to those they love and care for and the milk of human kindness. But amid a blizzard of exploding champagne bottles, a couple from Gloucester who just thought their lives would continue in much the way as the rest of us, suddenly had more money at their disposal than any of us could ever imagine. 

Meanwhile, the rest of the nation will go about their daily working duties and then deliver that famous mantra about money not being a guarantee of happiness. We may wish the Thwaites well but privately dismiss them from our minds because we probably wouldn't have a clue what to do with £184 million anyway. Put it in the bricks and mortar of ever desirable properties, spend a vast majority of a million or so on world cruises, live life in the constant limelight of the national newspapers and every gossip, glossy magazine you can think of? Sounds like a cracking idea and yet you fear not.  

So there goes your privacy in a puff of smoke. After years of being hidden behind the suburban hedgerows of your quiet road, now your mode of travel consists of several limousines, a showroom of Rolls Royces and Jaguars, and a gravelled driveway of hugely impressive vintage cars at the top of the range. There can be no point in holding it back any longer. We are multi millionaires and you're not. It's as simple as that. Has anybody got a Pools coupon? On second thoughts a night in a Bingo hall may seem an infinitely more appealing proposition. Happy Friday everybody.   

Liverpool beat Chelsea in the FA Cup Final on penalties

 Liverpool beat Chelsea in the FA Cup Final on penalties.

And so it came to pass that Liverpool, once one of the most defensively impenetrable of top flight teams, lifted the FA Cup for the first time in 16 years. This may be hard to believe since Liverpool teams throughout the years have always rubbed shoulders among the wealthy elite of the Premier League. Older supporters will always dine out on the remarkable exploits of their predecessors. Under both Bill Shankly, Bob Paisley and Joe Fagan, Liverpool were one of the most durable, consistent and brilliantly cohesive of sides capable of ransacking defences rather like ancient pirates looking for vast stores of booty at sea or treasure hunters in search of gold.

Yesterday, 16 years after their last FA Cup Final victory in Cardiff against a plucky and spirited West Ham, who led twice in the game, Liverpool narrowly edged their way past a Chelsea still reeling after their owner Roman Abramovich decided to up sticks and move onto his next vanity project. That the game itself went to a penalty shoot out was almost predictable given the abundant attacking gifts of both teams. But Liverpool, on the balance of play just about deserved their victory since Chelsea were probably haunted by last year's Cup Final defeat to Leicester City and Arsenal the year before.

On the day red had the upper hand over the strangely bizarre yellow shirts of Chelsea. Once again an FA Cup Final day had been consigned to a late tea time spot once occupied by Dixon of Dock Green. In fact owing to the ridiculous scheduling of this match somebody at the BBC had decided that they didn't want the game to overlap with last night's Eurovision Song Contest. This is the kind of prioritising that somehow defies belief. A case of from the sublime to the ridiculous.

But here we were once again for the game's prettiest hardy perennial and much as expected the two leading players in the Premier League's marathon race were on hand to put the daintiest touches to another Wembley FA Cup Final. In fact this was the 150th anniversary so maybe the victorious should have been presented with just a slice of birthday cake. If only the Old Etonians and Royal Engineers had known what would happen all of those decades and centuries later, they may have decided that Liverpool were the worthiest of recipients in this year's FA Cup Final.

Now though 30 years since losing to Manchester United in the FA Cup Final wearing their famous designer white shirts and jackets, Liverpool were once again pure as the driven snow. The sight of Robbie Fowler and Steve Mcmanaman parading their sartorially elegant attire around the old Wembley almost feels like the most terrible fashion statement of the time. And then there was John Barnes and Jamie Redknapp, surely one of the most inventive players of the time. This time there would be a happy ever refrain for Liverpool. 

As for the game itself Liverpool would fly out of the starting blocks with adventurous, beautifully constructive football, attacking freely and fluently through the middle without any of the inhibitions that may have impeded them against United all those years ago. Both Mo Salah and Sadio Mane were stretching and pulling open the seams and cracks in Chelsea's brittle defensive backbone. Liverpool were at their most swashbuckling, inspirational and aesthetically pleasing to the eye with their quick, impulsive passing that twirled and twisted its way around the back of the West London side.

But with every passing minute you somehow knew that this would prove an entertaining and diverting goal-less stalemate. Both Chelsea and Liverpool had done extensive research on each other and besides they've played each other so often that perhaps they knew each other's leg measurements. In the Carabao Cup Final both of these sides had run themselves to a standstill. Here again they were still deciphering each other's code and in the end coming up with nothing they didn't know before. In the old League Cup Final penalties were the decisive factors and once again they would prove the undoing of one over the other.

For muchs of the game Reece James, Marcos Alonso, the ageless Thiago Silva and the ever eye catching Antonio Rudiger found themselves running around in ever increasing circles, chasing red shadows and occasionally seeing red mists. N'Golo Kante is still one of the most creative attacking players in the game but alongside the impeccable Mason Mount and always skilful Jorginho, Chelsea flickered rather than exploded .

 Liverpool had their anchor of stability in the always mightily impressive Jordan Henderson, now approaching the twilight of his career but still outstandingly influential. Henderson held his position in the centre of Liverpool's midfield with that controlling presence that has always distinguished him throughout the years. With Diogo Joata, James Milner and the marvellously effective Thiago Alcantara linking and jinking, passing among themselves and then improvising with consummate ease, Liverpool finished the 90 minutes marginally stronger.

In extra time cramp had set in with a vengeance and legs were turning to the proverbial jelly. Nowadays footballers do like to pride themselves on being fitter than ever before. But yesterday Liverpool seemed to have an extra litre of petrol in their tanks. Still, the game petered out much to the satisfaction and relief of both teams. If this game had lasted another year neither team will have figured out how to break each other down.

And there was the penalty shoot out, now an almost prominent feature in any Cup Final of recent times. Liverpool went through the motions with successful spot kicks and finally Chelsea lost their nerve. With the advantage firmly in Liverpool's favour, Kostas Tsimikas from Greece, confidently stepped up to take the game's deciding penalty and scored with comfortable and effortless ease. Cue wild Liverpool celebrations. Jurgen Klopp, their hirsute and very bearded manager just trotted around Wembley with a series of almost self conscious fist pumps. Chelsea, for their part, must be hoping that we don't get to this stage of the FA Cup with yet more repeat editions. It would almost become too unbearable for words. 

FA Cup Final eve.

 FA Cup Final eve

So it was the day before the FA Cup Final and all is well. Liverpool and Chelsea are ready to go again. They've been prepared for so long that tomorrow may well turn into a depressing anti climax. This will be a repeat of the FA Cup Final of ten years ago, a rerun of the Carabao Cup Final and a repetition of the same scenario of the same play and the same stage performance, the same production and an adaptation of previous instalments of two teams who may well be thinking that familiarity could breed contempt. Well, not quite contempt.

Replicas of previous FA Cup Finals are beginning to follow a recurring pattern. Just when you thought it was safe and nobody was looking another Cup Final throws up that predictable combination of something you may have seen a million times before. For instance Arsenal and Liverpool have now met each other in Cup Finals so many times now that you're almost inclined to think that they should make prior booking arrangements for catering, hospitality and the dressing room of their choice.

In 1950 the Compton brothers Leslie and Denis guided Arsenal to victory against Liverpool and war time rationing was still prevalent. 21 years later at the old Wembley, Charlie George and George Graham scored the vital goals that clinched the FA Cup for Arsenal and accidentally set off a chain of events that would lead to yet more epic confrontations between North and South. In 2001 in Cardiff, Michael Owen snapped up the winner for Liverpool against Arsenal, steering the ball wide of Arsenal keeper David Seaman in a typically dramatic conclusion to another FA Cup after Liverpool had fallen behind. 

But tomorrow will offer up yet more intriguing variations on a theme. Can Liverpool achieve the impossible dream of winning all four of the trophies that have proved so elusive down the years to so many of the great and good? Your mind tells us that this could be wishful thinking, a fantasy that can never be fulfilled since emotions will be running high and besides something may give somewhere along the line. 

Back in the good, old days of FA Cup Finals the day was somehow designed for the neutral outsiders who just relished the game itself. Somehow it meant much more to the protagonists themselves who had reached the Final. But they were just delighted to be there anyway. Some of us have actually seen their team triumph on the day but regrettably that was 42 years ago and some of us are almost completely grey haired and can no longer recall anything of any substance and significance since then. 

In the historic sense FA Cup Final day was always played out on your parents TV when FA Cup Final morning became a ritualistic formality. It was all about fun and games, frothy frivolity, the customary sights and sounds. There were the humorous coach journeys before the game where both teams on the day would be interviewed by both BBC1 and ITV. There was the banter, the knockabout joking, the good natured bonhomie, there were the rivalries and a fleeting analysis of how the teams had got to the Final called 'The Road to Wembley'. It all seemed so innocent and firmly rooted in tradition.

Essentially the FA Cup Final represented the one day in the football calendar when the fans and the players became the central characters in the plot of the day. Nobody had anything to advertise on their shirts, sponsorship had yet to be invented and the occasion was blissfully free of any hint of materialism. It was a day for the family, children, teenagers, elderly folk and even mum could join in with the festivities. 

For somebody whose recollection of the big day is now so vivid that you can remember it as if it were yesterday, the FA Cup Final is still a big deal. You somehow felt emotionally involved in the game itself, a deep and lasting connection with the mythical importance of the occasion. In 1972 you struck gold with Leeds United against Arsenal in the Cup Final, the year of the FA Cup's 100th birthday. Still, you can see the valiant Mick Jones charging towards the by line for Leeds and then crossing precisely for Alan Clarke to send an aerodynamically perfect, diving header past Arsenal keeper Jeff Barnett. It was the start of a passionate rapport with everything that was so special about FA Cup Final day.

A year later Second Division Sunderland, the underdogs on the day, seized the day against Don Revie's high flying and irrepressible Leeds United and beat the Elland Road team 1-0. It was probably the first time any of us had ever seen an orange ball used in a Cup Final. The late Ian Porterfield trapped the ball intelligently on his thigh from a Bobby Kerr corner and smashed the ball high into the net past against a helpless Leeds keeper in David Harvey. On the final whistle Bob Stokoe, dressed rather like somebody chasing a bus in the rush hour, galloped onto the Wembley pitch, hat on head and beige coat almost beside itself with joy. 

Then there was the priceless magnificence of the 1981 FA Cup Final. When Spurs manager Keith Burkenshaw took what must have seemed the calculated gamble of buying two players from World Cup winning Argentina the previous year some sniffed disdainfully. It'll never work they said with a very dismissive air and yet it did resoundingly and impressively, even memorably. Ossie Ardilles and Ricky Villa came to England and fitted into the Spurs side almost seamlessly. 

After a dull and mundane first game, Spurs and Manchester City would give us a replay to remember, a compelling battle of wits and an exhibition that none of us could have predicted. The FA Cup was alive and well, up and running and hadn't forgotten where it had come from. After a hypnotic end to end contest, Ricky Villa picked up the ball on the edge of City's penalty area and proceeded to do the tango with the City defence. Villa started dribbling the ball beautifully with a run that slalomed first one way and then the other. It would prove the decisive winning goal for Spurs.

For older supporters the FA Cup was always illuminated in quite the most dazzling fashion by the players we always wanted to see lift the famous trophy. Up until 1953 Sir Stanley Matthews as he would become known had never won the FA Cup. Then in 1953, the year of Her Majesty the Queen's coronation, Matthews would go throughout all of the game's pretty calisthenics. There was the distinctive shuffle with the ball at his feet, the shoulder drops, then the teasing, coaxing, caressing routine with the ball at his feet rapidly followed by mocking, ridiculing and humiliating just for good measure. Matthews would be chaired victoriously by his Blackpool team mates in the Wembley Final and an FA Cup medal was his for keeps.

And so it came to pass that Liverpool will meet Chelsea in tomorrow's Wembley showpiece. For those of a nostalgic nature, the FA Cup Final will never be quite the same as it used to be. But then we must never stop the inexorable march of progress and evolution. For instance the FA Cup Final now kicks off at tea time and some of us believe this is sacrilege. Whoever came up with the bright idea of starting the Cup Final at 5.30 in the evening, a time when most of us would be contemplating a fish and chip supper and taking the dog for a walk in the park?

Even the National Anthem before the Cup Final doesn't seem to have the romance and sentimentality of old. True, it's still sung with much gusto and observed with the reverence it so thoroughly deserves. Abide With Me was also belted out with the kind of rousing conviction of the Last Night at the Proms. A patriotic gentleman would stand on a podium and conduct us with a rendition of a very old song. It was the most idyllic preamble to one of football's most recognisable of spectacles. Now Katherine Jenkins leads us all in the National Anthem and Abide With Me, still features on the day but somehow it all seems so different.

But when the final whistle goes tomorrow and either red or blue is pinned to the famous trophy, we'll remember those coach journeys, the rosettes and those glorious banners with their hilarious message, the swirling flags and scarves, the family unities and harmonies. FA Cup Final was meant for the people, the classless, a vast democracy that will never discriminate and an occasion and a day to savour. For those who love its stunning colour, its pomp and ceremony and the uncertainty which leads to its triumphant certainty, this is your day in the middle of May no matter who you are or where you are. Are you ready Chelsea and Liverpool because we are? Wembley, Wembley.     

Denis Waterman dies and memories of TV cops

 Denis Waterman dies and memories of TV cops.

It wasn't all that long ago since we were singing the praises of those intrepid TV cops, the goodies chasing the baddies, the villains reluctantly admitting to their guilt before being pinned down by those heroic men and women in blue with a helmet on their heads and authority in their hands. These were the good, old days of British and American TV when police shows on TV were invariably accompanied by the wailing twos and blues, flashing lights on their Panda cars, furious coppers running full pelt down back streets and the comforting sound of the whistle as PC plod caught up with the criminal offenders, administered justice and then tightened handcuffs around those nefarious bad boys and girls. 

Yesterday that unmistakable TV cop Denis Waterman died at the age of 74 and Britain mourned the passing of a man whose sole purpose in life was to maintain law and order in the fictional world of TV cops. Waterman was a chirpy, cheeky, no nonsense and ruthless police officer. Back in the 1970s, Waterman represented everything we've come to associate with the British police. Alongside the equally as talented John Thaw, Waterman was the jokey, humorous but sternly unforgiving cop who just wanted to nab those nasty reprobates and lock them in prison for the rest of their lives.

In more recent times, although never the desk bound cop in the BBC's New Tricks with Amanda Redman, Alan Armstrong and James Bolan, Waterman still wandered over towards it. Working from a small office, Waterman was the hard bitten detective, the one who growled discontentedly if the case just happened to be moving too slowly for him. Then there was Alan Armstrong, the man who came to work on his bike and supported Wimbledon football club. Amanda Redman, was the calming, emollient influence, practical, dedicated and hard working. 

But then you remember Waterman's days as the loyal sidekick to John Thaw's Carter in the enthrallingly breathless The Sweeney, where the opening credits would prove to be just as memorable as the cops and robbers sketches. Thaw was hard, uncompromising, physically intimidating when he had to be and then shoving those snarling convicts into the back of a police van. Thaw never smiled in the Sweeney whereas Waterman was the jack the lad type always flirting with women, drinking real ale in the pubs and smoking one to the dozen when the pressure was on.

Almost ten years later he would reprise the role that had confirmed his place in TV folklore. Minder, starring Waterman as the devoted assistant to the sheep skin coated, cigar smoking Arthur Daley, aka George Cole, was the unintentionally funniest and yet accurate portrayal of a spiv partnering another spiv. Arthur Daley always had hugely ambitious if illegal plans for Waterman aka Terry McCann and never the twain shall meet, as they say. Daley was a wheeler dealer and manipulative while McCann just went along with everything his mate told him to do.

Memories of Denis Waterman inevitably take you back to your childhood when you could certainly leave your back door open and invite your lovely neighbours in for a cup of tea and biscuit or two. Then the stereotyped image of the copper as a Mr or Mrs Plod who would patrol your roads and streets somehow became the norm. It could be true that if they saw you were behaving in the most appalling fashion, you'd probably deserve a clip around the ear and told to either go home or stop being such a mischievous scoundrel.

For those of a certain age, it had to be Dixon of Dock Green during the 1960s. On Saturday evenings Dixon and Dock Green would follow the magical sports programme Grandstand. Jack Warner had already starred in the film version of the same TV programme in the Blue Lamp. Warner was a stern but at times quite sympathetic disciplinarian, explaining quite clearly and politely the reasons why he'd nicked you but then sending you away with stinging words in your ears. 

During the 1970 we witnessed what can now be regarded in retrospect as the golden age of British cop shows on the box. There was a A Man Called Ironside, a hard hitting, powerful American show where the legendary Raymond Burr would be wheelchair bound but still strong willed, direct and fiercely punitive when he had to be. A Man Called Ironside always seemed to be on a Saturday, appropriate enough it seems now given that Saturday night was perhaps the busiest night of all for police officers wherever you were in the world. 

Then there was Cannon, another fast talking, energetic, athletic and hardnosed American cop who always got his man or gangs of hoodlums. Frank Cannon dealt with all types, the drug takers, the pimps, the prostitutes, the drunks, the tramps and the plainly objectionable who were just asking for trouble. Cannon was down with the kids, a charmer, a gentleman, wise in the ways of the world and out to catch the thuggish element who didn't know when to stop.

In recent years we've been treated to some of the most unforgettable characters on British TV. Inspector Morse starring John Thaw, was a studious, frustrated academic, always listening to classical music in the privacy of his home and then slopping down the finest of wines when off duty. Policemen in recent times were depicted as figures with different hobbies. Morse was a voracious reader, a baffling enigma at times but just happy to know that those who broke the law would never be allowed to walk the streets as free people ever again.

When Sir David Jason became Inspector Frost you knew that here was the typical policeman doing his job properly and competently. Frost was a rumpled,  crumpled cop, permanently attached to his coat and always eating sandwiches on duty. Frost, rather like Denis Waterman in New Tricks, was never afraid to sit down at his desk and get his hands dirty. But Frost, by his own admission, was very much an eccentric, his own man, an individualist, a hunter of facts to substantiate the case he was making and tireless in his pursuit of those naughty miscreants.

And finally there was Starsky and Hutch, an American TV favourite during the 1970s that captured the imagination from the off. Starring Paul Michael Glaser and David Soul, Starsky and Hutch were those fearless, all action, sprinting American cops who always seemed to jump over cars and flying cardboard boxes in the opening credits. But Starsky and Hutch were hardened cops, experienced in the world of nabbing the baddies and making sure that crime never paid. 

Yesterday a quintessential London actor-cum- copper went to the police station in heaven. Denis Waterman, the precocious child star who once appeared as Just William and would later become more widely renowned as Terry McCann in Minder, passed away and the world of British TV cop programmes bowed their heads in respect. It was indeed a fair cop.     

 

West Ham exit Europa League at the final hurdle.

 West Ham exit Europa League at the final hurdle.

How close did they come? You could almost reach out and touch that indefinable moment when it almost came to be but didn't quite work out due to unforeseen circumstances. Yet nobody knew that West Ham would ever find their way to a Europa League Final. You sniffed at the prospect sceptically. Last September you believed that the journey would only last five minutes. You believed- and with some justification- that the men in claret and blue couldn't possibly win anything ever again. Sure there was the FA Cup, the Carabao Cup but certainly not the Europa League trophy. That was some ridiculous pipe dream and would never materialise. 

So you monitored West Ham's painstaking progress through the Europa League and you still thought the club were living in cloud cuckoo land. Never in a million years. But you had to hold up your hands in shame but not guilt since last night the men from the East London who play their football at the London Stadium were literally 90 minutes away from a Europa League Final. 

The fact they failed to negotiate the final hurdle against Eintracht Frankfurt in the semi final of the Europa League says much more about the calibre and quality of the team than would otherwise have been the case. It is testament to their doughty fighting spirit and their stubborn defiance against the odds that a club of West Ham's status should find a treasure trove of miracles at the end of the rainbow. From Zagreb through to Rapid Vienna in the early group stages to the superlative achievements of wins in both Sevilla and Lyon, West Ham have exceeded all expectations. 

Last night West Ham were in Germany for a semi final against Eintracht Frankfurt which didn't stick to any pre-conceived script because that one had been torn up and chucked in the bin at the London Stadium last Thursday. After all, West Ham were 2-1 down after the first leg and the psychological damage had already been done. In a sense West Ham had run out of petrol and needed to fill up the tank. Their navigational powers had successfully taken them this far but the satnav had run out of road.

In the end Frankfurt were full value for their victory and maybe West Ham felt that the task was too daunting anyway given the ridiculous length of their Europa League season. But excuses are indeed feeble. The truth is that this has to be one of the best domestic seasons for quite a while for the East Londoners. True, they finished sixth in the Premier League season last year but the cynics would probably insist that nobody saw them play in the first place so what did that mean in the longer term? 

When all is said and done the likes of Declan Rice, a magnificent force of versatility and splendid adaptability will surely be an established fixture in any future England team. His positional sense and willingness to lope forward cleverly into the opposition half make him the kind of defender or libero who can play anywhere. Last night Rice was all immense assurance, extraordinary awareness on the ball and never frightened to run forward into acres of space to create gaps in the opposition defence.

Once again the ageing but intelligent Craig Dawson always looked likely to storm into the penalty area for corners and set pieces, a player with a geographical command of where the ball is. Dawson's last ditch tackles and interceptions were something to behold. Aaron Cresswell, despite another reckless piece of defending which led to his sending off again, galloped and scurried up and down the flank with admirable intent and purpose.

Tomas Soucek looked just a little withdrawn and reserved last night and subsequently discovered that perhaps that this match had been one too far. The Czech Republic international is an excellent technician on the ball and is economical in his passing. There was a steadiness and tidiness about Soucek with his sharp tackling and intelligent, simple passes to colleagues around him. 

But yesterday evening everything seemed to grind to a halt for West Ham. Their longevity and stamina in this competition had to be admired. Sadly, this was not to be a replica of West Ham's conquest of Eintracht Frankfurt 46 years ago when Sir Trevor Brooking and Keith Robson had put the Germans to the sword in the now obsolete European Cup Winners Cup. Besides, Frankfurt's pitch had much more grass than the Upton Park mud bath of 1976.

Still, there has been a heartening vibrancy and vim about this particular adventure for West Ham. Nobody had really fancied their chances of ever winning anything again in the foreseeable future. The unfairly ridiculed and lampooned East London club have spent recent seasons struggling to keep themselves buoyant at the bottom of the Premier League so you had to reserve judgment.  

And yet the post industrial age of Sam Allardyce, when everything was about practicality and pragmatism, has now gone. Allardyce, for all of his honourable intentions, remained a dinosaur in the eyes of most West Ham fans but to his credit, did prevent them from being relegated to the Championship. But those days have now been consigned to history.

For West Ham the startling emergence of Jarrod Bowen from bit part roles at Hull, can only be regarded as substantial progress for the team in claret and blue. Bowen is quick, lively, eager and determined, a positive influence on a blossoming team. His goals in the Premier League have been largely responsible for the club's stunning resurgence and a place in the top half of the Premier League. For Bowen though this was not to be his kind of night. 

In fact when Frankfurt scored their only and winning goal in the night to take the semi final beyond West Ham, the side's discipline was severely disturbed to their detriment. Aaron Cresswell was once again sent off after seeming to hold back his defender. In the cold light of the day perhaps the former Tranmere defender should have learnt his lesson after being sent off in a previous round of this competition. But a lingering naivete gripped Cresswell and off he went. 

By the second half West Ham looked all burnt out, frazzled, misshapen and almost static at times. There were times when it looked as though West Ham were just trying to play from memory. The second half could have been more profitable but then just fizzled out like a firework. The energy and enthusiasm hadn't deserted them but the carpet had metaphorically been pulled from them. There was nowhere to go with only German cul de sacs to run into.

And so it was that the Germans held out for victory and for some of us the result, although acceptable, in the wider picture, still felt like a mini disappointment. For well over 40 years you have endured through gritted teeth the bad days, the awful days and the downright dreadful days but this must have felt like another missed opportunity. 

Towards the end, the whole occasion did seem to overwhelm West Ham. Firstly the gallant and tireless Michal Antonio saw a red card and then received his marching orders. And then West Ham manager David Moyes, who must have been fantasising about a potential Europa League Final against Glasgow Rangers, grabbed  hold of the ball from a ball boy and seemed to lose his temper. The former Celtic centre half would have loved the chance to beat his Auld Firm rivals but only saw red as well. Off you go Mr Moyes and don't do that again. 

There was a very petty petulance hovering over the game for the last 25 minutes. For what seemed an age there was a bitterness in the air that should have been unnecessary. The Germans seemed to fall over injured at every opportune moment and there was a gamesmanship about the home team that was perhaps understandable given the Germans appetite for the big occasion. One goal was though good enough for them and that was all that mattered. 

So a huge contingent of West Ham fans slowly trooped despondently towards the stadium exits, recognising reality but privately wishing that the game had travelled in a different direction. Still, with three Premier League matches left, West Ham can reflect on a season of notable highs and regrettable lows. They meet already relegated Norwich at Carrow Road on Sunday and follow this encounter with a quick trip to the Brighton seaside before playing out their final match of the season against a Manchester City side who could well be Premier League winners by next Sunday tea time. If only more seasons could pan out like this for the all conquering Hammers.

  

Lovely family day out on the London Eye.

 Lovely family day out on the London Eye.

We've been waiting for this day to arrive for just over three years now and how it was worth it. On Sunday afternoon my precious family and friends gathered together in front of one of the most stunning London sights, a remarkable piece of modernist architecture that you could hardly fail to notice even if you were slightly hung over from the night before in the local watering hole. 

On Sunday afternoon family and friends and friends of families all converged on the London Eye in London's slowly recovering West End. We're not quite there yet but the streets looked considerably healthier than they were during the whole of 2020 and most of 2021. The weird isolation, dislocation, estrangement and that ever present sense of haunting alienation was positively frightening at times. You were somehow denied the simple pleasures of a reflective lunch, a cup of coffee and a mouth watering piece of chocolate cake because a global virus had shut everything down. How frustrating. 

In fact truth be we were back together en masse. There was my wonderful wife Bev, brother in law Jon and sister in law Jo, extended members of your family, a cousin of Bev's family, Sally and her partner Michael and a whole mixture of friends and more families. It almost seemed too good to be true. But this was happening in front of us, before our very eyes. We queued patiently but knew that all those months of awkwardness, indecision and procrastination would be rewarded three years later with a good, old fashioned get together. 

But the central theme of the day would be the London Eye, a breath taking white wheel so enormous and it has to be said, impressive that you could hardly believe that any building could be quite so dominant. And yet there were the conflicting opinions about the London Eye. Some have wrongly dismissed it as a complete waste of money, the reason being its lack of mobility, the slowness of the ride once it gets going and just a sense of profound disappointment. Why bother to pay all that money when you can simply jump onto a train to the West End, wander along the Embankment, through the delightful parks that London has always had to offer and just enjoy the bustling streets of Regent and Oxford Streets? But why not?

It was a glorious afternoon to be among the people you care for and love to be with and some you've never seen before but were just thrilled to meet. We even noticed an ice cream van on our travels and that was the most pleasant of surprises. Tourists love to gloat about their West End pilgrimages, the shopping, the hundreds of eye catching department stores. the souvenir shops, Buckingham Palace, the Tower of London, the secretive alleyways, the back streets, the beautiful arcades, the buzzing cafes and restaurants. It was a moment and day to treasure. 

But this was certainly my first time on the London Eye and in a way it was both satisfying and hugely enjoyable. Any perspective of London has to be afforded the respect it deserves. Where would be without the old and the new London, the mysteries, the clandestine nature of the capital city when the West End goes to sleep? Or does it ever go to sleep? When there's nobody around in the wee small hours of the morning, you can probably drink as many brandies, whiskies and gins without feeling like an impostor. You'd probably be approached by a friendly copper to behave in the most impeccable fashion should the evening result in wayward behaviour but London loves you, embracing you with a warm hug. 

Here we were on the London Eye though. The ride itself seemed to take roughly an hour or so and it did feel as though we were simply floating on thin air. There was little movement as such and you were just suspended high up in the London sky without knowing quite where to look and what to look at first. You couldn't help but spot the refurbished and radically revitalised Big Ben. Big Ben hasn't been very well for ages now and looked like the ailing hospital patient who looked in desperate need of a visitor with a bunch of grapes. There were a couple of dodgy mechanism issues that seem to take an age to repair and fix but apart from that Big Ben was just the way we remembered it.. 

The face of Big Ben looked as if it had been thoroughly washed and brushed up about a million times. There is a clean looking, brown coloured facade that made you glad to see the old clock again. Somebody pointed out that the bottom of this most majestic of clocks was still covered in what looked like a thick white bandage at the base of the time piece. Slowly but surely the afternoon progressed as the familiar tourists skyscrapers stretched across the River Thames. 

In recent years of course the London landscape has dramatically changed out of all recognition. For well over 40 or 50 years the river looked rather dull and functional, grey and bland, dark and murky on a winter's day. All you could see was Big Ben and the House of Commons which had always been there throughout your childhood and nobody had bothered to add to the collection. My parents had driven through the City of London, which reminded you of a solemn graveyard. The Bank of England and all the surrounding financial powerhouses looked sad, neglected, sorry for themselves, alone in the world with nobody to cheer them up on a Sunday afternoon.

But now London is very much a 24/7 society, a huge concentration of multi culturalism, fast, non stop, always on the move, cosmopolitan, walking, talking, muttering, running after buses and trains. Now that we can all get back to doing what we were doing before the coronavirus, it's time for the adoring Americans to get out their maps, camera phones, selfies and their gently inquisitive mannerisms. The Japanese, South Americans, South Africans and Europeans will be, as usual, their charming selves.

What did stand out though were the modern structures. There was the Shard, the Walkie Talkie, the famous Gherkin and the Cheese Grater and then there were distant pleasure boats on the water, small clusters of timeless buildings which have withstood the ravages of everything Hitler could throw at it. There was the MI 5 building, the strangely constructed London Assembly building, the Festival Hall on the South Bank and the wealthy riverside apartments liberally sprinkled around it.

And at its leisurely pace the London Eye inched its way around in a complete circle. You glanced around at the contrasting images of the London skyline, the odd assortment of smaller towers combining neatly with its Victorian neighbours. At the end of this uplifting experience you smiled beamingly at each other and were grateful to be among such stimulating company, your lovely family and the people who mean the world to you. 

So it was that we all retired on this Bank Holiday weekend Sunday to the nearest available pub where once again lively conversations were resumed. We drank wine, we drank beer, we nibbled at savouries, chips and generally revelled in the moment of gleeful conviviality. It was an unforgettable day and one we thought we wouldn't be able to experience again for some time. But we did and unashamedly so. London looked great, brilliant and a joy to behold. Of course it's expensive, extortionately dear and you'd better be amply equipped with shedloads of money in your pockets because it's the capital city and it costs a second mortgage. But we're Londoners and proud of it. Go back to it as soon as possible because it misses you and you've missed it.